Freedom isn't free.

~~Wednesday, March 3, 2010~~

Part IV of TWCBC. Set in the Ia Drang Valley during the Vietnam War. Bet you have no idea what I just said.

***

Goal

That Which Cannot Be Changed

Part IV

It was routine, they said. Nothing special. Just plugging the gap, they said. There will only be three or four snipers, they said. None very experienced, they said. Nothing would happen, they said.

Just routine.

Whoever they were, they were liars.

***

And the ironic thing was that T/3 Specialist Jack Smith used to love Vietnam.

He used to love the vibrant landscape, the colorful sights and sounds of people taking their wares to the market. He used to love the food, the people, the place. He used to love all this, but no longer did. Because now, Vietnam was nothing like the Vietnam of old.

Now, Vietnam was nothing but a wasted, barren piece of land. The villagers shut themselves indoors, not daring to come out. No one wanted to go to the market anymore, for fear of the V.C. It was like a real life version of chess’s ‘stalemate’.

It was empty. Desolate. There just wasn’t any life anymore.

The first time Jack went to Vietnam was when he was five. His father had had a business meeting there and the entire family had gone along. It had been Jack’s very first trip outside the United States of America. In Vietnam, while his dad talked about ‘adult’ things, ‘foreign’, ‘alien’ things, little Jack ran around with the Vietnam urchins, kicking a football around, getting muddy, trying to score goals. He had scored one goal and his teammates cheered him.

The second time he had gone there was on a school trip. Jack had been twelve then. The landscape had changed a bit. There were still urchins on the street, but they were subdued and quiet, and there was no football.

The third time he came over he was sixteen, on another business trip. He was going to his dad’s meeting and had to sit through the entire talk, but there was a window in the room and every chance Jack got, he looked out. There was nobody on the streets and there was no sign of life, save the big pro-government posters which flapped in the wind.

And now he was eighteen, in the U.S. Army, killing the boys he had played football with thirteen years ago. They told him that his company would just be disposing of a few snipers. The younger, newer recruits looked forward to slaughtering a few Cong. The older, grizzled veterans knew that there was something up, because the Cong never worked in numbers less than ten. Jack was somewhere in between, thinking that there would be more than three or four snipers but they would be easy enough to kill. He was not quite a veteran and not quite a rookie either, and didn’t fit in well with either camp.

They walked deeper and deeper into the jungle, the only sound their boots on the ground, crunching the leaves and broken twigs under their feet. Over the few months he had been here, Jack had learnt to tolerate the jungle – not to like it, he had never liked the jungle, but to tolerate it. The jungle could be your enemy, but it could also be your friend. It could sustain life and kill it.

This time, the life it sustained was not good news for Jack and his buddies.

With an ear shattering crack! The trees around them came alive. Private Richards, carrying the radio, gave a little whimper and keeled over dead, a small neat hole in the middle of his forehead. Captain Sheldon screamed for the men to take cover and Jack did, diving to the ground, for that was the only sort of cover he had. They couldn’t hide behind the trees, for that was the problem – the snipers were in the trees themselves, and the Americans had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

They couldn’t fire back because they couldn’t see the enemy. They were spread out over such a great distance they could barely see their own men. They couldn’t do anything but sit there and be slaughtered. Cries, unearthly cries that made Jack cringe with fear and morbid fascination filled the air, pleading for help, pleading for the medics, pleading for their mothers, pleading for anyone, anyone in the last moments of their lives. Jack looked around at the carnage the Cong was wrecking, not because he wanted to, but because something had possessed him to. A man’s belly had been cut right into half, and he was trying to keep his guts inside while he screamed his voice hoarse for a medic. Ten men lay on the ground in a circle, mutilated by the bullets that had killed them. Men were crawling through their friends’ blood, their own blood, searching for an arm of a leg that the mortar shells had cut off.

And the scary thing was that from the time Private Richards got killed to the time the mortars started coming in, only a minute or two had elapsed. They were pinned down and getting massacred right and proper. Jack’s X.O. dropped down, dead, his head gone, his neck just a mass of flesh.

Captain Sheldon had gotten hold of the radio Richards had been carrying. Doing his best to wipe the blood off, he yelled that they were pinned down and they needed support. The operator very kindly replied, “You are not authorized to be on this frequency!” and cut off.

Sheldon called back. “Don’t tell me what I can do and what I can’t do, you nut. We’re being massacred! If I ever get out of this I’ll see to it you won’t even get to sweep the floors of the barracks, you nobhob nitpicking nimcompoop Nazi!”

Jack allowed himself a hint of a smile. Even under fire, Sheldon still used the most unconventional swear words.

Finally the operator came to his senses and said something about a helicopter.

Firing at two hundred feet over the ground in the dark is rarely accurate. You shoot anything that moves and you don’t stop to see what you hit, or if you hit at all. That was what happened in the Ia Drang Valley that day. The heli wounded a lot of American boys, almost as many as the Viet Cong had. How futile, Jack thought bitterly, to die of an American bullet when you’d survived this far! They were falling all around him, American boys and Cong boys alike.

And then suddenly, almost inexplicably, they were gone, and the cries of Medic were the only ones that could be heard.

Jack was surrounded by dead and dying men. One of them was Sergeant Moore. He was still alive, but in a terrible state – his lower body had been virtually ripped apart, and he was bleeding heavily. Jack told him he would make it, told him that he would see his family again, but he knew he was lying, he knew that Sgt. Moore wouldn’t survive the night. Jack had seen his family – a young wife and a two year old daughter – and he knew Moor e had gone through World War Two, the Korean War, all those big conflicts, and now he had been killed by this little war, a war that wasn’t even supposed to be America’s.

Jack still wasn’t injured. He marveled at the fact that all the blood on him wasn’t his. The C.O., propped up besides Sgt. Moore, was going now. His wife’s name was Cathy, he told Jack. His own name wasn’t really Radar, it was Ben. He had kids three and five years old. Their names were Jonathan and James. He had wanted another son, he had wanted to call him Jack, after that quiet, helpful T/3 Smith whom he thought was one of the best men in the unit. He wondered where Jack Smith was now. Was he dead? He wished he could talk to Smith now. To tell him that he had been chosen by top brass to…

The C.O.’s head rolled forward and he was gone. Jack wondered what he had been about to say. Poor Jonathan, poor James. Poor Cathy.

The air was heavy with the smell of blood. And then the mortars started again.

They screamed over Jack’s head, whether American or Vietnamese Jack wasn’t sure. He was beyond the point of caring anyway. One thing he was sure of, though, was that mortars hurt. One such mortar landed in front of Jack, and Jack would have died if Sgt. Moore hadn’t taken the shrapnel. As it was, he felt shrapnel enter the side of his face and his legs, and the fiery, burning, white hot sensation shooting through his body was almost unbearable. All his coherent thoughts stopped coming and it was just screaming, screaming, he didn’t know what he was screaming but he was just doing it. It could have been “My legs, my legs” or “Dear God, Dear God” or “Mom, Mom” over and over again, just lying there and screaming his heart out. Then he stopped screaming because he knew there wasn’t any use screaming, he wasn’t sure how he knew that but he just did, and he also knew somehow that the worst thing he could do was to lose his head. So he crawled, trying to find the mortar squad, trying to find someone, anyone who could help, because he didn’t want to see dead and dying bodies all around him anymore, he didn’t want to see his friends with their heads bloodied or gone anymore, he just wanted someone to talk to, he didn’t want to be alone anymore, he didn’t care if it was American or Cong, he just needed someone, needed…

Someone stuck a gun into his face and he threw himself on the gun. “Thank you, thank you,” he said over and over again, and somewhere along it became “talk to me, talk to me” and he was so glad to be able to hear Sgt. Baker’s rough voice “It’s going to be okay, Smitty, it’s going to be okay” as he cradled Jack’s head in his arms and tried to wrap a bandage around.

Somebody screamed. The Cong were moving around, and each time they found a wounded G.I. they would shout for their mates, and they would cluster around the man who was screaming for help, a scream of “Medic” which would turn to one of “No, no, please, no, please, no, no – ” and then the man would fall silent, and Jack knew what had happened and shivered uncontrollably. He didn’t want them, the Cong, to come here because he knew what would happen if they found him. “Make them go away,” he whimpered, whispered to Baker. “Make ‘em, please, tell ‘em to go away an’ leave me alone, an’ don’ come back.”

At first they thought the worst was over. Jack could hear a bit of a firefight a few miles off, and he thought that his friends, his comrades were here at last, that they were here to save him, to save everybody, to get them out of this place.

But then the sounds of gunfire died off and the foreboding jungle was silent again.

It was thanks to the silence that Jack began to think properly once more. He was ashamed at having acted like a little boy and said so to Baker, who waved a hand and said gruffly, “Don’t let it bother you, Smitty. War can do strange things to a man.” This comforted Jack, and he tried to go to sleep, trying not to remember the faces of the boys he had played soccer with. For those boys would have grown up by now, would have gotten into the Cong, and he might have killed some of them.

All through the night it was a repeating sequence of a scream, desperate and pleading, before a rat-a-tat-tat and more silence. Jack couldn’t sleep, so he crawled over to where the wounded lay. What was left of his company. Nobody spoke. Neither did Jack. He just lay there, eyes wide open, not able to tell who was beside him or in front of him.

It was as if the soldiers knew when they were about to die. One fellow had been hit in the stomach, rather like the guy who Jack saw with his guts spilling out, and that fellow suddenly pulled himself over Jack, splattering him proper with blood, and crawled far, far away. A few minutes later Jack heard a gurgle, and the poor boy struggled for a while before there was no more noise.

Somewhere in the night there was another firefight, and mortar shells began to land around them, some falling short and killing the Americans, sometimes getting a Cong. None of the Americans could care anymore, except for Captain Sheldon, who was yelling into the radio, and when the radio line got cut he continued shouting until a mortar fragment caught him and he slumped over what was left of the radio, unconscious.

Sergeant Baker pulled up next to Jack – at least Jack thought it was Sergeant Baker – and they sat together, watching as a few bullets lit up the night every now and then.

In the wee hours of the morning Sergeant Gale was hit and started screaming for his mother, like Jack had been doing a while ago. He would do this every now and then, screaming. Jack thought he must have lain there for six hours before he died. Perhaps he could have been saved, but nobody could call a heli, nobody could move anyway, nobody could care anyway. Everyone was dying.

In the morning Jack could hear the American boys’ voices, perhaps not 100 feet away from them. Captain Sheldon had recovered from his mortar fragment and was telling them exactly what they could do to themselves and where they could put their rifles, but you could tell that he was pleased to see them all the same. They could only take the walking wounded and the four most terribly wounded men with them, because they only had four stretches. Jack wanted to get out of there so desperately, he didn’t want to stay amongst the naked and the dead, so he said he could walk, but when Sgt. Baker helped him up he could barely stand, let alone move. Still, he was determined to get out, to run away from this hell that he refused point blank to stay, and after a shouting match between him and Sergeant Baker they had no choice but to take him along.

They passed the nearest village and there was a wooden football net with a football just in front of it. It was the village where Jack had had that business meeting a long time ago. A firefight was going on just a few feet away, and a stray bullet, Cong or American he didn’t know, struck Jack.

Like a dream, oblivious to Baker’s shouting, oblivious to everything, Jack wondered over to the ball. All the pain in his legs was gone. He kicked the ball, but he didn’t see if he scored a goal, for he collapsed at that very moment, dead.

Seconds later, the ball rolled gently into the back of the net.

Finis

12:54 AM

~~Tuesday, October 13, 2009~~

Part Three of TWCBC.

Tick

That Which Cannot Be Changed

Part III

For decades, Dirk Callahan’s family had had something to do with time.

His great-great-great-great-ancestor, Dirk was told, had been an avid collector of sundials. He had been obsessed with time, adding up all the hours until he died.

His other great-great-great-ancestor had devised the world’s earliest working model of the mechanical clock and his grandfather had been one of the most successful clock makers around until he died. Dirk’s father had taken over the family business and now Dirk, at age ten, was already mending watches and helping his father at the shop.

Dirk was a nice, quiet lad, a typical boy next door who minded his own business and didn’t speak to anybody unless spoken to. He got good grades in school and was a fast boy on the track. But the thing that Dirk loved the most? Clocks and watches. Every day after school Dirk would rush back to his father’s clock and watch shop and learnt everything he could digest. He learnt how to fix clocks when they broke, learnt why they broke down, learnt how to take care of them; he soon became as proficient a clock and watch mender as his father.

Watch mending and clock making were just becoming hobbies for Dirk’s father, however. Slowly, as he taught Dirk everything he knew about his art he was also handing the business over to his son. He himself was preparing for a career in the Navy. Europe was bristling with rivalry and tension and America was sure to join the war – after all, Americans loved a good old bloody armed conflict, and they had never lost one – and Dirk’s father, being a true blue American, wanted to make sure he was in the thick of it when it started.

At 41 years old, Jed Callahan was no spring chicken. But he was in remarkable physical shape. Basic training was no match for a man who had spent his life splitting firewood and bending metal. Jed was accepted and became Lieutenant Callahan. Soon he became Captain.

To this very day, if you are old enough, people still ask what you were doing and where you were on the First of September 1939. Dirk Callahan was working on a gold pocket watch with intricate designs and a “J.B.C.” engraved on the back in his father’s workshop. The watch had stopped ticking. When he heard the announcement over the radio he dropped the watch onto the workbench and rushed to the house, right behind the shop. His mother had been doing the dishes, which now lay on the floor in pieces.

His father, however, had an entirely different reaction. When the news crackled over the radio he jumped out of his bunk and yelled in his best drill Sergeant voice that it was here, it was here, it’s here, and we’re going to be joining them any moment now! His Lieutenant groaned and turned over in his bunk, and his aide did not move at all. Nevertheless, it had been what Jed was waiting for. Excitedly he threw on his uniform and rushed off to inform his commander.

The last leave that Jed Callahan ever took was on the 7th of November 1941.

Every time he came home he had the most amazing stories to tell. Dirk and his mother heard what they could on the radio, but Jed got the real thing from his Lieutenant, whose brother was a Briton and fighting in Europe. Dirk and his mother heard story after story – breathtaking escapes, heart-stopping battles, remarkable raids. Jed Callahan had a knack for storytelling; sometimes it was nigh impossible to tell if the tales were real or not. If he didn’t join the navy he could have become a professional storyteller.

There were stories of the Battle of France, of Britain, of North Africa. Jed left on the 11th of November, promising his wife and son that he would be back soon with another story.

He didn’t keep his promise.

***

9 December 1941

Mrs Diana Callahan

The secretary of war desires me to express his deep regret that your husband, Jedadiah B. Callahan, has…

***

She was inconsolable.

Dirk tried all he could to help her, even taking a few days off work which had since consumed him as he tried to drown his sorrow. But his mother refused to be consoled. She locked herself in her room and it was Dirk who had to attend the funeral and be given the American flag by the solemn Navy Lieutenant after the casket was lowered into the ground along with dozens of others. The Navy men who had served under his father shook Dirk’s hand, muttered their condolences and marched off with stiff, straight backs, trying not to betray their emotions.

Jed Callahan had been visiting the U.S.S. Arizona on the 7th of December 1941. It had been an informal visit, Jed wanting to present one of his protégés who had been posted to the Arizona with one of his most beautiful watches. Legend had it that a few moments before the ship was bombed, the watch suddenly stopped ticking.

Jed left the shop to Dirk along with the second love of his life – his golden, wondrously designed pocket watch. It was the best watch Jed had ever made. And through its five year life, it had never once stopped working.

Dirk brought it along to the recruitment station. He brought it along to Fort Bragg, carried it in his pocket at all times, and it was still in his pocket on his very first jump. It was with him when he received his jump wings, when he made his first visit back home after a year, when he prepared to go into his first combat jump. The date was July 9, 1943.

Dirk was now affectionately known to his platoon as “The Little Sergeant”, because Sergeants at fifteen were not at all usual. He had won respect from many of the men for his quiet, undemanding manner. He never expected from the men things he couldn’t do. Plus, he was a great watch mender and never hesitated to repair any watch for a dollar.

The Little Sergeant and his Pocket Watch were inseparable. Peter Sanders, who bore the proud label of Company Scrounger, remarked that stealing Colonel Gavin’s helmet was easier than Stealing Dirk’s Pocket Watch. To prove his point he broke into Regimental HQ, stole Gavin’s helmet, and wore it through the rest of the war.

The Little Sergeant was jump master for his plane on the 9th of July. The winds that night were something terrible and the little plane was blown about everywhere. Dirk struggled up as the red light came on. He opened his mouth to ask them to hook up, but just then the plane bucked and he was thrown out into the darkness. The men watched silently.

“The poor young chap,” they whispered among themselves before standing up, hooking up, checking their equipment and jumping out of the plane into the darkness, just as the plane’s engine caught fire.

Quite amazingly, The Little Sergeant was still alive. He had managed to pull his chute just in time and landed in a tree, which cushioned his fall. Dirk Callahan’s clock was still ticking. The first thing he did was to check his pocket watch. It was still working. Relieved, he proceeded to get himself out of the chute, hacking it off with his jump knife.

Someone stepped on a twig. He spun around and said “George!” softly, warily.

“Marshall.” A shadowy figure stepped into the sliver of moonlight. Corporal Sanders, wearing Jumpin’ Jim Gavin’s helmet, allowed himself a bit of a smile – it looked like his Sergeant’s lucky star was still shining brightly. Dirk grinned, took a step towards him and

Rat a tat a tat a tat! Bang, bang, bang!

Dirk collapsed, unconscious. Sanders had been hit too, but he could still walk. Or at least, he forced himself to believe he could still walk. He had to walk. He picked his Sergeant, heaved him over a shoulder and began to jog until they were safely away from the machine gunner.

Sanders waited until a medic came along before going off to rejoin the fight.

***

The Little Sergeant had been badly wounded, but amazingly enough, he was not dead. It was a miracle. The bullets had missed most of his major organs and the one bullet that had headed for the heart had been deflected – by his precious, favourite golden pocket watch. And the most amazing thing was that the watch was of such good quality and placed at such an angle that it hadn’t been dented at all. It hadn’t stopped ticking. The doctors began to call it the Miracle of the Golden Watch.

Even though the bullets had missed his heart, Dirk was still in a terrible shape. He was evacuated, and was still unconscious when his unit got back from Italy, having done extremely well. He was unconscious when James Gavin was promoted to assistant division commander and Brigadier General and the 505th got a new C.O. He was unconscious when Operation Overlord training began, and he was still sleeping on D-Day.

When Dirk woke up on the 7th of July 1944 only a few original men in his platoon remained. The rest had been killed – their bodies littering the battlefields of Italy and Normandy – or transferred. Dirk himself found a home in his new outfit, the Third Battalion of the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment. He was immediately put back into training, using his legs which had grown week over the months in bed. The pocket watch was given back to him, and he cradled it dearly before putting it back in his front pocket, barely stopping himself from kissing it.

The original soldiers, having also been transferred, were delighted that the Little Sergeant was well and alive again. Not that he was a little Sergeant anymore, however. Recruits now referred to him as ‘sir’ – his old friends called him the Little Big Lieutenant.

Corporal Sanders too was no longer Corporal Sanders. In Sicily he had won the DSC for bravery, in Normandy he had received a battlefield commission and he was now Captain Sanders, in charge of the Company. And he still wore Colonel – now Major General and commander of the 82nd – Gavin’s helmet.

The 17th of September was a beautiful day. The jump and the landings were perfect. The 82nd assembled in an instant, just like during practice. They attacked Grave Bridge and advanced all the way to Nijmegen, just like it was supposed to be. And that was when the trouble started. Nijmegen was defended, it seemed, by the whole German army. Time after time they attacked. Time after time they were repulsed. As Captain Sanders remarked to Lieutenant Callahan, “I’ll separate that watch from you before we ever take Nijmegen”, to which Dirk replied, “That you will,” took out the watch and gave it to Peter for a few seconds.

On the 20th of September they tried out General Gavin’s most audacious plan yet – cross the Waal River in boats in broad daylight. Everybody thought that Gavin was going crazy. Gavin knew a lot of men would die, but he also knew it was the only way to do it.

Before the battle, the Little Big Lieutenant amazed everybody by pulling out his golden pocket watch, fingering it lovingly for a few seconds before tossing it onto the muddy bank. “I won’t be needing this anymore,” he said quietly, sadly.

Peter Sanders shook him, hard. “You’ll survive,” he said, almost angrily. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t give up hope. You’ll live.”

But Dirk didn’t say anything, he merely jumped into the boat and started to paddle.

It was a terrible battle. Peter had to watch, helplessly, as his men were mowed down, one by one, falling like puppets whose strings had been cut. Their lives had certainly been cut – cut short. None of the men deserved to die. Peter could only cursed and continue to paddle. They scrambled up the opposite bank, their numbers greatly diminished, but they took the bridge. They took it.

But the Little Big Lieutenant was not there.

They found him on the bank, eyes wide open, mouth set in a crooked smile. The bullet had hit him in the heart, where his golden pocket watch, had it been there, could have saved him, like it had done last time. The watch was found on the other side of the bank, its face in the mud, dirty for the first time in its eight year life.

When they picked it up, they found that it had stopped ticking.

2:00 AM

This is part two of the newly named series "That which cannot be changed". I think it's dumb.

***

Windows

That Which Cannot Be Changed

Part II

Windows. He had always been fascinated by them. The way they made was exciting enough, but windows didn’t just mean a pane of glass with a plastic frame. Windows were openings, portals to the world as you never saw it before. As a small boy Jackson P. Hartwell had seen a window, and he had looked through it to see a picture, so horrific at first that he had thought it was a painting, rather than the real thing. Outside his home two boys were beating up a smaller boy, viciously, so viciously you would have thought they were trying to kill him, which they were. The small boy was but Jackson’s age, and the two older boys were but half a year older. And what was this? A crowd of schoolchildren was gathering. Jackson watched in horror as they started to applaud, terrible, evil grins plastered on their faces. Jackson had run from the window, trembling. It was his first introduction to the real world, and he never forgot it.

The next window Jackson encountered was his father. His father was a philosopher, an avid reader who had a library in his study larger than the town library. Jackson had learnt how to read from an early age and was fascinated by books. His father had been overjoyed, and father and son often spent the evenings together reading in the study, reading their own ‘book of the week’. And every week it would be a new book.

The third window in his life was the mirror. When Jackson walked by a mirror he would never look at it. His mother had forbidden him to, saying that it would induce pride and pride came before a fall. She cleaned Jackson up in the mornings so he always looked presentable. But one day his mother wasn’t home and Jackson, curious like all small children are, peeked into a mirror and saw himself for the very first time.

Staring back at him was bright, green eyed little boy of five and a half, with tousled and unkempt dark hair. He smiled, and the person in the mirror smiled too. And the reflection looked so happy that whenever Jackson was scared, or angry, or frightened, he would go back to the mirror and smile. But then the smile would look fake and strained and abnormal and soon Jackson learnt that in life things were not always what they seemed.

Jackson P. Hartwell was not a normal boy. He had grown up highly intelligent and often talked philosophy to his fellow schoolmates, who didn’t understand a word of what he said. Everything had a deep meaning and this was what Jackson saw, not the mere superficial meaning. He was, in other words, quite incapable of calling a spade a spade. He was a devout Catholic – his mother’s idea and his mother’s choice – and recited the Glory Be at twelve noon, the Hail Mary whenever his mother instructed him to and the Lord’s Prayer when he woke up and when he went to bed, which was a punctual nine o’clock sharp.

There were no games in the Hartwell household, no fun, no color, no liveliness. Just a dull, boring, big 18th Century mansion with a huge library. Every day Jackson was dressed by his own “gentlemen-in-waiting” and paraded in front of his mother, who would frown and adjust his clothes. On Saturdays and Sundays he would be served breakfast in bed.

Despite all this Jackson was not a happy child. He did not want this life. It was like living in a golden cage. No matter how golden it was it was still a cage. And Jackson yearned to break free.

So eighteen years passed in this manner and Jackson’s fourth window, one of opportunity, came in the form of a recruitment poster. England had declared war on Germany and desperately needed to beef up her Army. Jackson had signed up immediately and at dinner he told his parents. His father had not been happy, saying that philosophers observed from the sidelines, not from the front. His mother had been hysterical, sobbing that her darling little boy was about to go off to war and be killed. Jackson explained, as politely as possible, that he was no longer a little boy but a man, and he had to fight for his country and for his friends and for his family. And so he went.

But the truth of it all was different. Jackson did not want to fight. Jackson had absolutely no intention of pulling the trigger of a gun and killing a fellow man. He joined up because he wanted to see what it was like. He wanted to know why war was hell, why war was such a terrible thing. He wanted to know why wars were waged. And most of all, he wanted to know about the men; why men died willingly for their friends or family or country, why men killed their own brothers, why men could turn into monsters in war. He wanted to know why men fought.

***

The first person Jackson met in the barracks was a tall, slight, lean youth of twenty who spoke with an American accent. James H. Petersen had been born in Bingham, New York and it was only because his parents were British that he had joined the British Army. The lad’s dark brown hair was perpetually messed up and a few stray strands fell into his blue-grey eyes. He walked around in a devil may care way that had many ladies flocking to him when they had their passes to London. His uniform was rumpled and a red beret was perched precariously on his head. After being around him for a few days, Jackson learnt to keep his hand on his wallet at all times when around Petersen.

Practically everything Petersen owned was stolen. The only thing he didn’t steal was his Sergeant rank and a Victoria Cross, earned in the deserts of North Africa in 1941 for recklessly charging a bunker, killing everyone inside, before single handedly clearing the way for his unit to advance. He was moved back to England and to a different unit after he was wounded severely in a fight.

The training began and Jackson, though older than most, found it much more taxing and complicated because he was a philosopher, a thinker, he wasn’t used to extensive physical training. Through the entire course Petersen and Jackson developed an odd friendship. Petersen was three inches taller than Jackson; on the physical course Petersen would finish first and Jackson last; Jackson was pious and a “good little church boy” while Petersen swore and drank; Jackson was honest and never broken a rule before (save his mother’s strange rule about the mirror) while Petersen stole everything he could get his hands on (including the drill Sergeant’s handkerchief which he then tacked up for everyone to see). But they were inseparable.

They fought in many scenarios – marsh, jungles, street-to-street, desert, even in the water. To their surprise – or rather, to Jackson’s surprise – both men were offered commissions. Jackson took it; Petersen didn’t. Petersen’s only, rather strange reason was that he would allow him to nick more things because there were more soldiers than officers, although Jackson pointed out that officers had a lot more things to steal from. Whatever the case, Jackson now commanded first platoon and didn’t know what to do with it, so Petersen helped him run it as the Platoon Sergeant.

One rainy day in London while on a pass Jackson walked into his father, who took one look at Jackson’s uniform and clucked disapprovingly, although you could still see a sparkle of pride in his eyes. When he saw Petersen in his (stolen) red beret and crumpled uniform, however, his eyes narrowed, and it was only because the man was Jackson’s father that Petersen refrained from punching him. Jackson and his father exchanged a few half hearted words before his father left. When he did, Petersen said through gritted teeth, “Doesn’t think much of us lower class folks, does he?”

Jackson was saved from having to reply by noticing a slight bulge in Petersen’s pocket. He ordered sternly, “hand it over.”

Petersen gave him a sheepish grin before pulling out Jackson’s father’s wallet. “You’re not going to give it back to him, are you?” he asked as Jackson pulled out the money from the wallet.

“No,” Jackson grinned. “We’re spending it. Didn’t I tell you? Tonight’s our last trip to London. We’re going to France pretty soon.”

***

Sitting in the LCVP, Jackson felt sick. Looking over at the other men, he realized that they were all looking liable to vomit anytime, except for the Navy coxswain, hollering cheerfully, “Why the green faces, lads?”

A couple of soldiers were vomiting into the sea, unable to keep it together any longer. The coxswain in another boat not too far from them was also taunting his charges, but then the whizz of a shell came and his face paled and the next second the boat had disappeared, leaving nothing but small splinters of metal and a pool of red liquid mixing with the blue sea until there was nothing.

The coxswain in their own Higgins boat wisely shut up after seeing that.

BLAM! The ramp slammed down and the men swarmed out. The Germans raked the LCVP with agonizingly accurate machine gun fire, killing many with their first bursts. Jackson waddled over to a huge metal structure, hiding behind it, shivering – he had thrown off his jacket and equipment in the water so as to lose weight and be able to climb out. He couldn’t see Petersen anywhere. The beach was littered with the bodies of the dead and the dying, and barely five minutes had passed. Knowing that the tank traps were as good as a bright red “HIT ME” target, Jackson scrambled on, dodging the bullets as best as he could, stopping only to pick up another jacket along the way from a man who lay face down in the sand.

The men who witnessed him on that day later said that he was a miracle. The moment he ran from one tank trap, a shell landed there, a shell that would have killed him had he still been there. He huddled with a group of soldiers at the next tank trap, and a shell landed, injuring three, killing six, and yet he was unscathed. And Jackson P. Hartwell ran on.

He made it to the foot of one bunker, where the machine guns couldn’t get him and neither could the shells. A medic and two others soldiers were already there, one with a familiar red beret on top of his bandaged and bleeding head.

“James H. Petersen,” Jackson said sternly, ruining the effect with a relieved smile. “Been dodging your duty again?”

Petersen looked up and grinned. “I would say the same of you, Major.”

Major? Jackson was still a Lieutenant as far as he knew. He looked down at his jacket and groaned. On the jacket’s epaulettes was the insignia of a Major.

***

His platoon had lost seven men killed and twelve more severely wounded. Out of the remaining men at least three quarters were walking wounded, Petersen included. The assault had taken a huge toll on the platoon, on the company and pretty much the entire Third Infantry Division.

Over the next few weeks of battle, which was mainly an attempt to take Caen, Jackson’s lucky star never failed to shine. Once, on the outskirts of the city, friendly aircraft had plastered Jackson’s position with bombs, killing some soldiers and wounding many others, but amazingly Jackson had walked into cover a split second before and was unharmed. In another instance, Petersen had procured a jeep (as always, Jackson didn’t dare ask how) and he and Jackson were ferrying the wounded out of the Germans’ reach. Petersen pressed his horn loudly while Jackson picked the last wounded man up. They made it out of the shelling area just as the German shells started to land. And an hour after that, when they went back out in the jeep, a shell landed directly on them, killing the soldier in the back, throwing Petersen out headfirst, turning the vehicle over. But Jackson had gotten out a moment before that and was safe, without a scratch anywhere on his body.

Unknowingly, subconsciously, Jackson began to take more risks with his life, each time believing that his luck would protect him. When volunteers were needed for a patrol, Jackson raised his hand and insisted on going with his men. He said that it was to protect his soldiers, that if anybody was going on a patrol it should be him. But this was not entirely the truth. The reason why Jackson volunteered was because he knew that he would not be killed. And so life opened up his fifth window – the window of delusion.

People noticed this, but now Jackson was a Major and nobody dared to tell him so. Nobody except Petersen, that was. At every opportunity Petersen would remind him that his lucky star couldn’t and wouldn’t shine forever. Jackson never listened to him, even threatening him once to court martial him for “harassing an officer”. But Petersen, old for his years and knowing what Jackson was getting himself into, persisted. Slowly, they drifted apart.

At the news that volunteers were needed to go up in a reconnaissance plane and take photographs of enemy positions, Jackson’s well-practiced arm shot up. The plane flew straight into Flak Alley and was hit critically. The pilot, bleeding form his head, managed a perfect belly landing before slumping over, unconscious. Once again, Jackson’s luck had saved both him and the pilot. He picked the unconscious men up and trekked two miles in the direction of HQ before a recon jeep found them and brought them back. That night, Jackson and his friends (Petersen excluded) drank to the now-famous, much admired, so-called Jackson’s Luck.

Now Jackson was confident that he would survive the war, and wrote his mother to tell her not to worry. He was also aware that he was turning into a hardened, grizzled veteran, no longer that rich, soft kid who couldn’t call a spade a spade and had everything done for him. In the battlefield, with bullets screaming around you, artillery shells landing, people dying, there wasn’t time to think, let alone think deeply about abstract things that people didn’t care about anyway.

Slowly but surely, the war drew to a close. Jackson couldn’t wait. He longed to be there at the end of the war, to cheer when they announced it, to feel damn proud of himself for playing a part in bringing about an end to the horrific conflict, to prove to Petersen that he wasn’t going to get killed. They walked down the street, no longer looking for Krauts, but rather for things to take home as souvenirs. The day was May 8, 1945.

All of a sudden, with no warning, a stray bullet – American, from fighting a few streets down – struck Jackson’s head. He fell, a wondrous look on his face. Petersen was by his side in an instant, but it was much too late. His final window – the window of enlightenment – had opened for Jackson. He realized that throughout all this time, he’d only survived because Death wanted to show him that luck couldn’t last forever. He realized that he was finally free of the chains that had bound him since childhood. He realized that Petersen had been right all along, and after all he had done or tried to do for Jackson, Jackson had rejected him. “I’m sorry,” Jackson whispered. Sorry to Death, to his parents, to Petersen. His eyes closed and he stopped moving. Nobody spoke a word.

A few moments later, the radio broadcaster announced with unashamed glee that the war was over.

12:36 AM

~~Tuesday, July 21, 2009~~

This story is weird, but I think it's okay.

The Son

November 11, 1942
Camp Toacca

Well, I've done it. I've signed up for the paratroopers and there's no going back now.

It seemed so long ago when I was standing in front of the house, on the porch, saying goodbye to my parents. That porch is brand new, you know. Installed a week before I left. I wonder if it will live longer than I will.

Okay, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be so morbid. I just got into camp, after all. No telling what I'm going to do, where I'm going to go. For all I know they could be sending me to the rear where I sit behind the desk all day, typing reports.

But anyway, when I left Mom was crying her heart out. Why wouldn't she? Jim, he signed up before me, he's going to be a paratrooper too. They'll probably send him to some dangerous spot like Africa or Italy. Paul, he's already gone. He was on the USS Arizona when she got hit. And Harlon's off too, set on becoming a Marine.

Mom already saw three sons off to war. She didn't want me to go too. But I had to. I have a duty to this country. This is my home, this is my life. I could've just stayed at home, I guess. Go to work producing Shermans or something. But what if everyone thought the same way? Then no one would be fighting, everyone would be cooped up at home, and by the time we realize our mistake, and go off to fight, there won't be anything left to fight for.

Dad was expressionless, as usual. He just grabbed my hand, shook it, wished me luck and that’s all there was to it. No tearful farewells, no hugs, nothing. But I know he loves me all the same.

Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, risking my life, playing with it so dangerously. But it's my home, it's my country, and I'll do whatever it takes to save it.

***

Dear mom

Thanks for your letter. I hope that Uncle Roy is feeling better now. Sorry to hear about Timmy. Please send my condolences. You may ask why I'm being so offhanded, indifferent about his passing, but this is war, you know. People, millions of them, die in war. You live or you die and the difference is a very thin line. Soldiers who come back from the war are just as scarred – emotionally – as their dead friends are physically. Don't tell dad, but just look at him. He fought in the Great War, that's what you always say. You always told me that before the war, he had been cheerful, happy, talkative. How he could not keep still or keep quiet for a moment. Well, now he isn't like that. Now he just sits there, silent, still, stoic, not saying anything, not doing anything. Something has obviously happened to him.

Please don't tell me I'm going to come back like this. I'll try my best not to, but please don't say that. I know I'll come back, eventually. One day. No matter what happens I'll come home.

***

1943
Fort Benning

We're in Fort Benning now, the Airborne school where we're going to do what we came here to do. We've already passed Stage A, the physical toughening-up. The N.C.O.s supposed to instruct us were a joke. We were much fitter than them, thanks to Colonel Sink and Major Strayer. Company A arrived first, outran the N.C.O.s, and that's why we're all skipping Stage A.

Then it's Stage B. Jumping down this mock tower, practicing how to land, packing parachutes, all that sort of thing. Stage C is the same. All practice, doing it over and over again.

Stage D is the real thing. The actual jump. I've never been on a plane before, and neither have a lot of my pals. But it's just this thing flying through the air. How bad can it be?

***

Dear mom

I don't know whether you're like me, but if you are and if somebody ever asks you to go on a plane, bring a long a lot of paper bags. I went on my first jump today. It was terrible. The plane rolled and bounced and I couldn’t take it and threw up. And then the guy in front of me looked at me and lost his lunch, and so it went. And to think I was right at the back, the last man out! But when I was out, and the parachute jerked and opened, the feeling was awesome. It's not describable to a person who's never done it. You're in the air, with other high spirited soldiers, waving, laughing, free. Now I know how birds feel and why they go flying so often. There aren't any restrictions up there. You can do whatever you want.

***

1943
Somewhere in the Atlantic

I'm on my way to jolly old England now, a country I've never seen before. (Then again, I've never seen any country save good old United States of America before.) I hate this ship we're on. It stinks, the grub is foul ( do the chefs wash at all?) and everybody is seasick. I've been sleeping on the floor three days straight now. Not very comfortable, sleeping on the floor. If you can afford a proper bunk, use it. Don't ever try sleeping on the floor.

Every day is spent playing, gambling. Craps, poker, gin, hearts. Better than doing nothing, I guess. Keeps your mind off from the seasickness too.

This ship wasn't meant to take so many people at once. It's cramp and overcrowded. That's why I've been sleeping on the floor. Joe McIntyre - funny chap, his Scottish accent is hardly understandable but he's good fun to have around - he's been sleeping on the bunk for three days now, and we're supposed to be sharing. Tonight, no matter what, I will sleep in a bunk. Even if it means sleeping in a bunk with a Scotsman whose idea of a joke is sliding a frog down your trousers.

***

1943
Aldbourne, England

They sure aren't going to give us anymore passes to London. Some of the boys got a pass to London, went there, got into a fight, broke some of the local boys' noses and started what we now call "The Great London Bust Up".

***

Dear mom

You wouldn't guessed what happened today. I jumped out of the plane for the fifth time and didn't wreck it! Today was the proudest moment of my life, when my wings were finally pinned on me. I earned them, mom. All my hard work's been worth it.

***

1943
Aldbourne, England

Awesome! The 82nd airborne has been used! Finally, the first Airborne Division to go into action. They jumped into Sicily on the 9th of July. Worst friendly fire disaster, too. A heck of a lot of planes were shot down by our own ships. But never mind, we're back in business now. Jim jumped with the 82nd. He's a real paratrooper now. Sure, I earned my wings, but I've never jumped into combat before. Those are two different things, training and combat. I hope Jim's okay. It wouldn't do for my mom to lose another son.

***

Dear Jim

Glad to hear from you. You're alright now, then? You sure did give mom a scare with your Prisoner of War status. How did you escape? You have to tell me, it could be useful for when I'm captured. Anyway, good luck for the invasion.

***

5 June 1944
England

Well, this is it. I'm about to jump into France in the largest invasion ever mounted. We're all overloaded - carrying our body weight in guns, ammunition and equipment. Wish me good luck.

***

Dear mom

What a battle! On that plane I was frightened out of my wits. Especially when we ran into Flak Alley and our plane's wing got hit and started to burn. We were out of there mighty fast. Joe McIntyre and I met up on the ground. We hiked to our HQ at [censored] and met up with the rest. Mind you, we were dropped so far away that we took two days to get there.

I killed my first man. He jumped out of nowhere and I just shot him. I hated it. It's not right to kill your fellow man, especially if he's just another guy forced into the army by Hitler. I didn't want to squeeze the trigger. But I had to, because it's war. In war you kill or be killed. But that's no excuse, and I don't feel much more than a murderer now.

***

1944
Aldbourne, England

We're back in England! Celebration. But honestly, these Generals aren't very smart. They gave us one week passes to London of all things! Well, we went to all the pubs in town. Everyone wanted to buy us a drink. But the real trouble started at one of the pubs when we met some blokes from the 82nd. It was "The Great London Bust Up II". Simply put? No more London passes.

***

Dear mom

I can’t say much - it's top secret, but by the time you get this I'll probably be in [censored]. Yep, you got it - we’re jumping again! It's going to be a combat jump. No guarantee the censor won't spot this but anyway, can't blame me for not trying, the date's [censored]. Wish I could tell you more, but the damn [censored] will probably [censored] this. The [censored] has a real sense of humor, let me tell you that. One of my pal's letters got [censored] all the way through! Anyway, Jim should be jumping too. Wish us good luck, mom.

***

1944
Eindhoven, Holland

There's nothing to complain about, really. The jump was perfect. No flak, no Germans, just blue skies and white clouds and thousands of parachutes in the air. My heart swelled in pride at the sight of all the men - my division, you know, mine - so happy and carefree although they're on the road to yet another battle. We'll show them what we're made of.

The moment we landed everything went like clockwork. Up in a flash, assembling our weapons while running to the "finish line", the assembly point. Then we set off.

Eindhoven was full of happy, happy people, happy like only liberated people can be, waving orange flags and holding beer bottles, literally pushing fresh bread and wine into our faces. The Dutch are a great people.

One man came up to me and said, "Do you know what freedom is?"”

I looked at him and I shrugged, because I didn't know what to say. What he said next I'll always remember.

"No you don't",” he said. "Because you don’t know what freedom is until it’s been taken away from you."”

***

Dear mom

We're back in France and licking our wounds. The Jerries beat us back. I pity the boys at Arnhem. They fought like the good, brave men they were. I only wish XXX Corps had gotten there in time.

***

1944
France

Well, they've done it again. Trust the Krauts to come up with something stupid like this. They've broken through the Ardennes and now because the Generals have no one else they're sending us to plug the gap. Who's "us"? Paratroopers.

The 82nd is being sent somewhere else. We 101st Airborne troops are going to go to this little town called Bastogne. I guess we'll have to defend it.

***

1944
Belgium

Every day it's shelling, more shelling. We just sit and try to take whatever the Krauts throw at us. We try to advance? They beat us back. They try to advance? We beat them back. So we just sit in our foxholes, waiting for a shell or a tree to kill us. And if that doesn't kill us then the cold will. It's freezing here. Our butts are probably frozen to the foxholes. I hate this. It's cold and we don't have ammo or food. Merry Christmas.

***

Dear mom

Hurrah! The Germans are being pushed back. They’ve surrendered! The war is over! I’m in Berchtesgaden now. Hitler’s old hideout! It’s the life here. They have wine, girls, everything over here. By the way, the girls are all very nice, but don’t worry, they’re only interested in my friends.

I wonder how Jim’s doing. I haven’t heard from him for a long time, not since Holland. I hope he’s not dead. Not to crush your hopes, but there’s a pretty good chance. The 82nd’s been in the thick of the action for a long time.

***

Dear mom

I hope you haven’t heard, but then again I’m sorry. I don’t know how to break the news.

My brother’s dead, mom. He’s dead. Your son’s dead.

I’m sorry for being so direct. My brother, the little paratrooper! Gone! He survived everything and now he’s dead. He was a paratrooper. The best of the best. But now he’s dead. It’s not fair.

They say it was a drunken G.I. driving the jeep. They say that the G.I. crashed into the truck, that it’s not his fault. They even gave him a silver star. But that’s immaterial, isn’t it? I’d rather have him back than have a damn silver star. As if that silver star could solve everything.

He’s gone. I’m sorry, mom, but he’s gone.

Your son
Jim

12:17 AM

~~Wednesday, May 27, 2009~~

First descriptive essay ever!
This is part of a brand new series I'm working on. All consist of one word titles and not all are related to WWII. Welcome the change? They'll all be about war though. Hopes falling yet?
***

Because

That Which Cannot Be Changed

Part I

Boom. BOOM. The distant, continuous roll of the artillery barrages seemed out of place in the quiet, peaceful countryside; the bright, huge ball of fire that was the sun blazing down on the lush green grass that hadn’t yet been ravaged by the horrors of the war. Animals – rabbits, squirrels, mice and various other creatures of all sizes – scurried around in an intricate maze of tunnels dug through the rich, healthy earth. A couple of cows mooed and chewed their cud thoughtfully, staring at the two figures strolling down the hard, cobbled road that was usually used by horse drawn carts. The two men were out of place in the countryside. They carried guns and helmets, and numerous belts of ammunition were wrapped around their shoulders. The two were decked out in uniforms, the British flag proudly displayed on the younger man’s uniform.

The younger man looked blissfully unaware of the war raging on the other side of the country. He had the very obvious look of a greenhorn, a rookie who was itching to fight and probably hadn’t seen battle before, let alone killed a man. Bits of curly, sun streaked blond hair peeked out from under his helmet and his light blue eyes were wide with wonder as looked around the tranquil field, probably wondering how such a place could exist with a war going on at the same time. He was but a baby to the veterans, barely seventeen, with round ruddy cheeks and a sprinkling of freckles across his cheery, perpetually smiling face.

The older soldier, nearly half a head taller than the boy, was this year twenty one – young, perhaps, but he had seen the battles. He had seen the bloodshed, the terror and the fear in the men’s faces, the plain stupidity of the charges across no-man’s land, the doggedness with which the men did their jobs, the cold bloodedness with which they killed. Before he had gone to battle he had been exactly like the boy next to him; bubbling, happy, lively. Now he was cold, silent, withdrawn, solitary like an oyster. He had no friends – all had perished in the battles that he had fought in before. His grey eyes, set in a tired, gaunt face, looked like fighter fish, darting around rapidly, nervously, waiting for something to happen. His helmet was stowed in his heavy rucksack, and his black hair was ruffled by the wind and unkempt. It was apparent that this man was missing a razor, for his square jaw was covered in short stubble.

The two men walked on in silence for a while more, oblivious to the farm animals which were looking at them imperiously from the safety of their own fields. Presently the younger one spoke.

“I say, Charlie, when do you think we’re going to meet some of those awful Huns and get a chance to take a pot shot at them?”

Corporal Charlie Richardson regarded him solemnly. When he spoke it was with none of the enthusiasm and cheeriness with which the lad had uttered the taboo words. It was dull, flat, hollow, and quite dead. “Don’t ask me that, Tommy. I’ve told you before. Don’t you go hungering for a fight and get yourself killed needlessly. Battle is not a pretty sight. Once you’ve been in a battle you won’t want it back. You’ll see what I mean.”

Tommy Atkins, still a Private and proud of it, snorted. “I don’t believe you, Charlie,” he said. “Battle can’t possibly be that bad. Glorious charges, brave heroes, victory is ours, hurrah!” he punched his hand into the air, startling a nearby chicken who squawked and waddled away as fast as it could.

Charlie was silent. “There’s nothing like that in this war, boy,” he said quietly, with a steely edge to his voice, his eyes glinting dangerously. “This war is all about attrition. You sit in the trenches, facing no-man’s-land, facing the enemy. You wait for them to move and when they do you shoot them. Or sometimes it’s your turn to move and they shoot you. It’s just waiting, waiting, not making the first move. And the gas, oh, the gas!” his face contorted at the memory, and for a moment he looked quite frightening. “Mustard gas, chlorine gas. Doesn’t paint a pretty picture, lad. Can you believe I was once like you? I was. Happy and cheerful. When I got into my first battle…” he let the words hang and sighed. “You’ll see.”

Tommy didn’t talk after that until they got back to the camp. Then he walked stiffly towards his good friend, fellow Private George Roberts, and sat down slowly. You could almost hear the bones creaking as he did. George looked at him. He was a young lad too, just a year older than Tommy, with startlingly green eyes that twinkled with laughter and merriment, and an oval chubby face with a mop of red hair on his head, falling into his eyes in a devil-may-care way. Unlike Tommy, born in one of those large Victorian estates in Britain’s countryside and fed with a silver spoon, George had been born in London’s east end, and was used to the hardships of trench warfare.

“Oh dear,” George said, for Tommy’s face was rather pale, “Something gone wrong?”

“Charlie’s been telling me stories again,” Tommy sulked, sounding like a spoilt child throwing a tantrum. Before he could say anything else, though, the order came from the Sergeant Major. “MOVE OUT!”

They didn’t know where they were going, as usual. No one ever told the mere foot soldiers anything. Sometimes even the Sergeant Major only found out the destination halfway there. All they knew and all they ever did was fight and march, fight and march, fight and die even. But most of the time it was huddling in the cold, muddy trenches, living in perpetual fear of a German charge or a gas attack.

Charlie was one of the first into their new trenches. “At least their any rats here,” he said approvingly, surveying the gloomy place. “Not yet, anyway. Mark my words, when they find us here they’re going to migrate in hordes.”

George looked at him and grinned, amused. “Now I know why they call you ‘Mister Pessimist’,” he said.

The three soldiers – Charlie, George and Tommy, busied themselves, setting up their guns, supposedly facing the German side. Tommy embarrassed all three of them by being over-vigilant and pulling the trigger on a dark figure who turned out to be the Sergeant Major, who had been coming to tell them that Tommy’s gun was pointed the wrong way. George laughed, Charlie looked sympathetic, Tommy flushed and the Sergeant Major was furious and gave Tommy a good telling off.

When the Sergeant Major left Tommy scowled, black faced. “What are we doing here, anyway?” he asked.

Charlie looked at him, a look of amazement on his face, before smiling for the first time in a very long time, and his smile was not unlike that of a proud father to his child. “You’ve hit the nail right on the head, lad,” he said. “Why do we fight? I’m not doing it for Jolly Old England, they’re the ones that got us into this accursed war in the first place. I’m not doing it for my family seeing as I got no family left. I’m certainly not doing it for my duty because as far as I’m concerned, I don’t have any duty to fulfill. So why am I here?”

***

Four days on the front line and the Germans hadn’t attacked, and neither had they. The two sides were just staring at each other over machine guns, barbed wire and a whole lot of mud. Then one day the Sergeant Major came down to their trench, his face uncharacteristically pale, like he was not in control over anything anymore. The Germans look like they are preparing to break through, he said, and we must all be prepared. Then he scampered off to the next trench. No sooner had he left then a cry of “GAS!” went up, and Charlie had his mask on in a flash as the can of yellow gas erupted, and Tommy rapidly pulled on his, but George was still fumbling with his mask as the smell of chlorine hit him. And Tommy yelled “NO!” and made to put on George’s mask, which had dropped from his fingers, but he stopped, paralyzed in shock and a certain amount of morbid fascination – how could you do this to a man and how could the Huns be so barbaric? – as George’s eyeballs rolled until you couldn’t see his pupils, and he started to choke out blood and his skin turned a sickly yellow color and Charlie knew that at that moment his lungs were shriveling up inside. His face was covered in blood and as he turned his head slowly to look at Tommy, Tommy squeaked and jumped back. George’s hands flailed about and he fell over quite suddenly, dead.

The chlorine gas came and went and Tommy removed his mask with trembling fingers, not able to tear his eyes off his friend’s body. Charlie was still wearing his mask, but Tommy no longer saw the need to call him paranoid because he now saw that Charlie had a very good reason to keep his mask on. Would anyone complain “I don’t want to lug this big, sweaty, smelly, stupid gas mask around” after they saw what chlorine gas could do to them?

Two minutes passed before Charlie unstrapped his mask. “You see, lad?” he growled hoarsely, looking at Tommy whose eyes were still riveted on George’s dead body. “You see? War isn’t like your glorious charges and whatever rot you came up with. War is hell, lad. It’s hell. And you can’t do anything about it. Just remember that in this war we’re as good as dead already. Don’t expect to go home, and that way you’ll pull through it. You’ll see.”

***

Gone was the terrible year of George’s death and in came the year of the new starts. Tommy had grown up a good deal now, finally believing all the stories that Charlie had told him. He had seen a man die, but he hadn’t killed a man yet. Charlie had, of course, and every time he did he grimly carved another notch into the wooden stock of his Lee Enfield rifle. One day Tommy saw him notching yet another one – he now had nine – and asked, “I say Charlie, what are you doing that for?”

Charlie paused for a while before replying, “It’s so that I’ll know how many murders I’ve committed.”

Tommy looked at him. Charlie’s face had become dirtier, haggard, and he unconsciously reached out a hand to touch his own face. It felt different, foreign to him. He didn’t look like a baby anymore. Slowly but surely, what with all the replacements and all the fighting, Tommy was becoming one of the ‘vets’.

“Oh, I see,” Tommy said, not really seeing. “So that you can tell the Lord when you die?”

Charlie stopped carving. Some of the men in the trench stopped doing whatever they were doing. Others continued to dig or talk, although you could tell that they were straining to listen. Tommy had the feeling that he had jumped into the ‘atheists’ foxhole” and had said something very wrong.

“Nobody talks abou’ the’ Lord ‘ere, kid,” the Sergeant Major, a non-believer himself, said. “They may go on abou’ th’ Lord bein’ on our side an’ all, but if th’ Lord wus so kind, he wouldn’t ‘ave dragged us into this blasted war in th’ first bloody place.” A couple of men nodded in agreement.

The argument would have had continued if not for the Lieutenant who chose at that moment to jump into the trench suddenly and yell, “They’re advancing! We’re advancing! Get out, out, and charge! We’ll win this war yet!” and he jumped out again, losing his helmet in the process.

No one had understood him really; he had been incoherent and gabbling non-stop. But enough knew what he meant to grab their rifles and jump over the trench walls. Tommy was among them. “Come on, Charlie!” he hollered at the last soldier still huddled in the trench. Charlie snorted. “Nothing good’ll come out of this, lad. I’ll be dead by the time you get into that trench.” But obediently he forced himself out of the trench because, after all, what good was a soldier if he didn’t fight?

The soldiers struggled across the marshy, muddy ground as German machine gun fire raked their ranks. They couldn’t stop because if they did then the machine guns would get them for sure. So they slogged on, never hesitating, never halting, pressing on like the well oiled machines they were. Tommy saw a German helmet bobbing in the first trench that they were nearing. The German, he saw, was just a young boy of eighteen and looked positively frightened out of his wits. Tommy raised the rifle, but hesitated, and that gave the German enough time to fire a single shot which hit a man behind him, and the man fell over, a single shot to the forehead. Only then did Tommy fire his first shot and kill the German, killing his first man. And then he pressed onwards and they took the trench. But Charlie wasn’t with them.

The found him later, a few metres from the trench, dead, a single shot to the forehead. And Tommy knew with a sickening feeling in his gut that Charlie had been killed by a certain eighteen year old that was in that trench, and who Tommy could claim as his first man killed.

In Charlie’s pocket was a letter addressed to Tommy. Tommy took it slowly, and opened it. A mere five words were scrawled on the letter:

We’re here because we’re here.

As Tommy read it, a tear dripped down his cheek and landed on the words. They began to dissolve, finally rendering the last words of Charlie Richardson illegible. But Tommy kept the note.

***

The next day the replacements arrived. One was called Richard Cooper, and Tommy took him under his wing, just like Charlie had taken Tommy under his wing. Tommy was the veteran now, and he taught Richard everything he could. Both of them survived the war. When he got home to England Tommy settled down, married, had a kid called Charlie. And he never threw away the note.

Finis

1:31 AM

~~Sunday, April 26, 2009~~

This is another of those woefully historically inaccurate pieces. By the way, it isn't General Horrocks who said the thing at the end, but Lt. Gen. Miles Dempsey of the Brit 2nd Army. I just used Horrocks 'cause he's more famous.
**

The Greatest Division in the World

It was, to say the least, the most difficult, crazy, suicidal mission ever proposed.

And I had to do it.

Personally, I thought the General – the youngest General since George Custer’s days at 37 – was going crazy. I mean, everyone goes senile, but he was going mad at an unusually tender age.

He came over looking for me one evening on the 19th of September with an unusually annoyed look on his face. We had jumped into this blasted country two days before. Two days of hard fighting. Two days of no rest. Two days trying to take the bridge. Two days and we hadn’t accomplished anything.

“What’s the best way to take a bridge?” the General asked me.

“Both ends at once,” I paused a while before replying. Oh, no. We both knew what this conversation would end with. Why me? I smiled.

“I’m sending a battalion across the river. I need a man with certain qualities to lead.” At the General’s words my grin got wider. Great. Was he trying to comfort me by injecting humor?

“He’s got to be brave enough to do it. He’s got to be tough enough to do it,” my commander continued. Was he trying to eulogize me before I even died?

“And one more thing.” I waited expectantly.

“He’s got to be dumb enough to do it.”

Ha, ha, ha.

The General looked at me with sympathy in his eyes. I nodded resignedly. Only one man in the entire division fit that bill.

Me.

“Start getting ready.” The General gave me a pat on the back and hurried off. I sighed and shook my head. An aide came up to me after the General left. “What was that all about, Major?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head. “Oh, someone’s just come up with a real nightmare.”

***

We’ve been at it for ages. The Grave Bridge, boy that was a lark. That was the easy one. The moment we got to Nijmegen, slap bang – stiff Kraut resistance peppering us from every side. Somehow they had regrouped and they were fighting back. All the worse for us. And now the most audacious plan yet.

We’re paratroopers. We’re not the Navy. We’re not the Infantry. Paratroopers. America’s elite. We jump out of planes, not of ships. We can fight. But we don’t use boats. And for this mission boats are exactly what we’re going to use. No one’s ever thought of sending paratroopers across the river in boats. No one except the General. But the man is smart. If this plan works it’s the answer to all our problems.

I call my men together. One whole battalion. Four hundred men. Just us, rowing across the wide Waal river in the face of God knows how many German machine guns and 88s.

Wonder how many will survive.

“We’re being sent across the river, I tell them, to groans. Poor blokes. They’ve been through Sicily, Normandy, everything and now they’re stuck with a suicidal mission. But hell, they have to do it or the bridge will never be taken.

“Boats haven’t arrived yet. Just think of it as on the job training,” I try to cheer the men up.

On the job training? Hah. More like on the job dying.

Well, at least we’ll have the cover of night to help us. With any luck, the Krauts won’t even know we’re coming.

***

What the hell? The boats haven’t arrived yet. And it’s the middle of the damn morning already. The General looks agitated. Apparently the boats can’t get through here fast enough because vehicles of all shapes and sizes belonging to Thirty Corps have clogged the whole damn road from here to Son. Damn the British.

“You’ll have to go immediately when the boats come,” he tells me.

“And when will that be?”

“Around three o’clock.”

What is this? Pure madness? I blanch. Three o’clock is right smack in the middle of the damn afternoon. Broad daylight!

“They can’t do that!” I sputter with rage. “My men are going to be massacred!” emphasis on the ‘my’ and the ‘massacred’.

“I’m sorry,” The General says, looking at me gravely, saying it like he means it. I know he does. “I’m really sorry but you have to. The Brits have very good naturedly decided to give us a smoke screen.” He says the words ‘very good naturedly’ like it’s anything but. I know what he means.

We Americans, we’re doing our best, all we can do to save their troops at Arnhem. And there the Brits are, refusing to send any men across the river with us, refusing to save their own boys themselves, just throwing up a damn smokescreen. Of course I don’t say all this to the General, but I know he’s feeling the same.

I call my men together again. They groan in anticipation of bad news. I grin mirthlessly. “We’re going to make the assault in broad daylight.” Oh boy. The men start protesting.

“Other than that I just wanted to tell you I intend to be standing on the prow, crossing the river like George Washington.” I attempt to lighten the mood. All I get are a few quiet chuckles. No one is feeling happy. Obviously. They were going for a suicide mission and thought it couldn’t get any worse. And now it has.

I look at my watch again. Come on. It’s nearing three o’clock already. Let’s go! Where are those damn boats?

***

The boats are here! I grab my helmet, jam it onto my head and rush off to the truck, bellowing at the boys. The boats are here! The boats are –

Wait a minute. Those are boats?!

Yes, if you consider flimsy collapsible wooden things with absolutely no paddles boats.

I stare dumbly at the boats which look liable to sink any moment. The men look in horror at the so-called boats. We can’t go in that, their faces tell me. This entire scheme has already been crazy. We’re already acting like army men. And now we have to go in these? We’ll be killed for sure!

I look at my watch. No time. “Assemble the damn things!” I yell. “Ten odd to a boa-erm, you know what I mean!” I can’t bear to call these things ‘boats’.

The things are assembled but they still look flimsy. Ah well. We’ll have to make do.

BAM! BOOM! POW! This is it, boys, this is it. We’re about to die. I wonder what for.

“Go! Go! Use anything, rifle butts, hands, anything for the paddles!” I grab one of the boats and we run charging to the water’s edge, the shells still whizzing overhead. I can see the General at the CP. I hope he knows what he’s doing and he hasn’t gone mad. His harebrained plan had better work or I’ll personally haunt him for the rest of his unfortunate life.

The boats are in the water. I jump into the lead one. A battalion commander shouldn’t be there, but the General always leads his men into battle and hell, I was brought up by him.

You know, I got thirteen men in my boat. Thirteen men that I need to protect. Thirteen men relying on me to lead them into battle and win. Thirteen families depending on me to bring their sons or brothers or fathers back home safely. Thirteen.

Thirteen is not a very lucky number.

***

Smokescreen is gone. The Krauts have to be stupid if they have no idea what’s going on. They’re not stupid. The commander has obviously figured out what is going on because artillery is raining down upon our heads. Just like rain, only much, much deadlier. Men blown up into the air everywhere. But my boys keep on going. They can’t stop. Withering machine gun fire rakes the boats on the river. One man in my boat gets hit.

One down. Twelve to go.

Got to keep rowing. Hail Mary, full of grace, I tell myself with each stroke. No time for ‘the lord is with you’. Doesn’t fit in anyway. Just keep going. An artillery blast almost overturns our dingy little boat but we manage.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Men getting killed left and right. Another one in my boat down. Men with limbs missing. Men with blood all over their faces, floundering helplessly in the water.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

The end is in sight but it’s a hell of a long way off from where we are. Men are dying with every stroke of my rifle. Young Private Dyke has his brains blown out, some of it splattering onto my shirt. Men screaming before shrapnel tears them apart.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Come on…that’s already five men down. Eight men left for the Germans to pick off in this godforsaken turkey shoot for the Germans. As we near the bank that means that the German machine guns will be even more accurate.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Someone falls over the side of the boat. Don’t know where he went, don’t know if he’s alive or dead, don’t know if it’s just a ploy to get out of this impossible invasion, and there’s no time to care. We can’t afford to stop and pull him up. We have to keep moving.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Shrapnel ricochets off my helmet. I’m still alive. So are five of my men. The boat behind us is blown to bits. Pieces of soldiers rain everywhere, bloody and bleeding, blending in with the shrapnel filling the air.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

A few more yards and we’re there. A few more yards and we’ll be off this river. A few more yards and we’ll be on the opposite shore. A few more yards isn’t that long. But then, in a few more yards I could be dead…

‘A few more yards’ suddenly seems very long.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

The boat stops suddenly and I barely stop from falling over. I jump off the boat and immediately crawl to cover. I’ve done it! We’ve done it! The Krauts are falling back now, knowing that there’s no chance to contain us at the river, intent on defending the bridge and driving us back across the watery stretch. But still, we’re on the other side. We’ve done it.

***

But the battle isn’t over yet. Crossing the river was just the first part. And it was a costly first part. Half of my battalion is gone. And now we have to take the bridge.

There are bunkers here, there, everywhere. Accurate machine gun fire kills more of my men as they climb onto the banks of this side of the river. I throw a grenade into one of the bunkers and its gun falls silent.

We crawl through dirt and soil, using the bushes and foliage for cover. Finally I make it to the foot of the bridge. Someone has to run out and find where the snipers are, where the Krauts are hiding. A young boy comes to my side.

“You ready to die?” I ask him, grinning awkwardly, crookedly.

His face is pale and drawn, but he has to do it. He nods.

“Then go.” He takes off sprinting to the other side, running for his life. I hope he’ll make it. He’s almost there…

BANG!

Oh no. The young boy falls. Oh, no. I raise my rifle and shoot the Kraut.

That young boy didn’t have to die. He was just what, seventeen? Eighteen? God. I should have gone myself. Who cares if I was battalion commander? I deserve to die. He didn’t.

I run.

Feet pounding, helmet bobbing, gun firing, I make my way across the bridge. Krauts fire at me but I dodge the bullets and continue, firing back at the Krauts. BANG. Dead. BANG. Dead.

Along the way I pick up the boy and throw him over my shoulder. Damn. Just a few feet more and he would have made it. Why did that had to happen? It was an unnecessary death. I curse myself. I should have gone instead.

This charge is turning into a rout. The Krauts are retreating and running slap bang into Thirty Corps, who’s on the other side. The first British tank gets onto the bridge. Yes. Almost there.

Wait.

There’s another German on the bridge. He seems to be fiddling around with something. I don’t know what it is, but a Kraut is a Kraut to me. The only things they’re good for is massacring innocent civilians and being used for target practice by the Allies. I shoot him. He falls. Wires dangle from his body. Wires.

Suddenly I realize something. That’s it. The wires. They were probably connected to some explosives to blow the bridge. I just shot the chaps. The wires are gone. The bridge can’t be blown.

I wait. If the Germans are going to blow the bridge, they’ll have to do it now because the Brit tank is almost across already. I hold my breath.

Nothing.

I almost forget to exhale. I’ve done it. We’ve done it.

***

There’s a rumor going around. Apparently on the day we took Nijmegen, General Horrocks, commander of the Thirty Corps, walked up to our General. The best General a man could ever wish for. Smart, brave, a man’s man. And General Horrocks walked up to him and shook his hand.

He said, “I am proud to meet the commander of the greatest division in the world.”

The General comes down to see me again. The British tanks are refusing to move. We spent half my entire battalion to take a bridge just so that they can cross it and what, drink tea? I don’t think so. The General knows what I’m thinking but he can’t do anything about it either. The troops have to wait for the infantry, or whatever excuse they’re coming up with. But it’s irrelevant.

“Good job,” The General says. That’s all he says. Two words. But those two words mean a lot to me.

He’s saying that we did it. Not the Brits. Us. Paratroopers in boats that weren’t even fit to be called boats. Paratroopers. The second Omaha Beach landing. The Greatest Division in the world. Us. Brave souls every single one of them, from the young Private to the General, and everyone in between.

Heroes.

Finis

12:59 AM

~~Saturday, April 25, 2009~~

What happens when your best friend dies? Set in Bastogne.
***

Life and Death

He’s gone.

My hands are numb from the cold. The dog tags, his dog tags, twirl around and around in my hands aimlessly, absently. A photo is propped up on the edge of the foxhole. Me and him. Him and me. Two best friends, laughing away, looking as if they had not a care in the world, as if they were the happiest friends on earth. We thought the good times would never stop, that we’d be together again, playing baseball in the park after the war.

Yet, now…

Now he’s gone. And he’s never coming back.

Someone slides into my foxhole. I barely glance at him. From the way he moves, and from the red cross on his arm, I know without a doubt it’s our medic, Eugene Roe.

“Hey, cap’n, y’alright?” he asks in his Cajun accent, carefully, cautiously. I guess he knows, from bearing the brunt of my multiple outbursts, that I’m rather volatile, especially in this state. I look at him again, properly now. There are black rings under his eyes and blood on his uniform. He looks dead tired, yet still manages to grin crookedly at me.

“Do I look like I’m alright?” I snap back brusquely. I guess I shouldn’t have shouted at him. He took time off just to see me, to see if I was alright. As it is, he looks a little hurt.

“Hey, I was jus’ askin’,” he shrugs. “I mean…” his voice trails off as he realizes his folly.

Enraged, I turn on him. “You don’t need to goddamn remind me.” I spit every word out. “I don’t ever want to hear another damn word about him. I…” I realize I’m rambling, taking it all out of him. Ashamed, I fall silent.

He stares at me, undaunted, unblinking, un-intimidated. (is there such a word? I can’t remember anything anymore.) “Go on,” he says gently, quietly. “Go on and let it all out. Take it all out on me.” He looks into my troubled eyes and smiles encouragingly.

I try to, but I can’t. Eugene’s just not bad enough, horrid enough for me to yell at him. What I need is Dyke. I need Dyke so that I can yell at him, so that I can unleash all my pent up anger on him, so that I can kill him. Eugene’s just too nice to pretend be someone like Dyke.

“That goddamn Dyke,” I curse him bitterly. “Just had to be so goddamn stupid and lead the goddamn patrol straight into the goddamn Krauts. And then he just has to go and…and…” it is just too much. I look away, my eyes suddenly feeling rather watery. Eugene looks at me strangely, almost amusedly.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going, then,” he says at last, as if he thinks I’m upset because he’s there. He slaps me on the shoulder in a friendly manner, grabs his medic pack, and clambers up the side of the foxhole. Suddenly I realize how lonely I’ve been after his death. “Wait!” I call, but he’s already gone, disappearing into the darkness.

A metallic cling. I look down. The dog tags have slipped from my numb hand and fallen to the ground. I pick it up again and run a finger over the protruding letters. How could he have died? How could he have left me here alone, in this cold, godforsaken place, a place with no happiness, just misery?

How could he have left me here alone?

All I have left is the dog tags and his watch. Which is broken, anyway. And I’ve got that photo. Of him and me, in happier times. I stare at the photo. He was such a great guy, so reliable, so intelligent, always there for you…but now, it’s all gone to waste. He’s gone forever and he’s never coming back.

I have a sudden urge to tear the picture up. All those memories, those happy memories rushing back are just too much for me to bear. I pick up the snapshot and stuff it into my pocket. I can’t look at it anymore. It’s just too…painful, I guess. Too painful for me to stare at his handsome, happy face anymore, too painful to think about it anymore, to think how close I could have been to saving him.

Why couldn’t it have been me instead? Why, God? Why couldn’t you have taken both of us and not just him? Why?

***

The Captain peers into the snowy white slush in disgust. “Dyke’s gone and done it again,” he comments to his friend, standing beside him. “Goddamn idiot went and lost his patrol in the snow. Damn if I know where they are.”

If his friend is surprised at his uncharacteristic swearing, he shows no sign of it. Instead he asks, “So should I send out another patrol, then? Get them to look for the rest?”

The Captain turns to look at him. “Yeah –” he begins to say, but pauses and changes his mind. “No,” he says decisively. “This time he’s gone too far. I’ve got to look for him personally, give him a hiding he’ll never forget. Get Malarkey, Guarnere, Lipton, Martin, and Roe over here.”

His friend nods and leaves the observation post. In a few minutes the men the Captain wanted are assembled. The Captain looks them squarely in the eye and says, “Right, boys. I know you’re not going to like this, but…” he trails off, hesitates, then starts again. “We’re going to rescue Dyke.”

The men look at him, stunned. Bill Guarnere, the most outspoken, blurts, “But sir! Ain’t it better t’ let th’ idiot alone?” the moment he says it, he bites his lip and shrinks back, preparing to face the wrath of his commander.

The Captain, however, just inclines his head, a half amused, half exasperated expression on his face. “Actually Sergeant, I quite agree with you.” He gives a small smile as he surveys the shocked expressions on the men’s faces. No one says anything.

“However,” the Captain continues briskly after a long pause. “He’s still one of our men. Plus, he led some of our good boys out and we’ve got to get ‘em back. I’ll be taking the lead. C’mon, then. Let’s do this.”

Silently they move out, creeping through the snow as quietly as possible. The Krauts are somewhere ahead and they have to keep a look out. They trek on for half an hour before Eugene Roe, lagging behind and moving a short way away from the main group, utters an exclamation and bends down.

“What is it, Roe?” asks the Captain cautiously. Eugene Roe looks at him dolefully. “The question should be ‘who is it’, really, sir,” he replies. He holds up a couple of dog tags. “Joe Toye’s,” he says. The words hit Bill Guarnere like a kick in the gut. “Wha-?” he mumbles disbelievingly, yanking the dog tags from the medic’s hands. “That’s not possible,” he says hollowly. “Just…” he stares unseeingly at the dog tags and trails off.

The Captain’s friend sympathizes with him. Joe Toye was Guarnere’s best friend and it was understandable. He can’t imagine what life would be like without the Captain. Thankfully the Captain was one of those men who seemed like they could never be killed.

“Well, at least we’re on the right track,” the Captain says grimly, his voice jolting his friend out of his reverie. “Guarnere, you alright? You need to go back?”

Guarnere shakes his head. “No, sir,” he says, his voice barely audible. “Never given up before, never will. I’ll keep on goin’.” There’s a fire in his eyes, not unlike the one he had when he found out that his brother had died in Monte Carlo. The Captain’s friend looks worried. When Bill Guarnere goes wild, he goes wild. That’s why they call him Wild Bill.

The Captain himself looks anxious. “Maybe you better go back,” he says. Wild Bill’s eyes flash. “No,” he snarls, then adds, as if it was an afterthought, “sir”. There is really nothing they can do about it. The Captain signals and they continue walking.

Roe, who’s now up front, finds a pool of dried blood. There are two pairs of dog tags next to the pool. There were only four soldiers that went out on the patrol. Now three of them are down. Only Dyke is left.

And then suddenly, all hell breaks loose. “It’s an ambush!” yells Martin, before copping a couple in his head and pitching headfirst into the ground. Everyone ducks quickly, instinctively, and fire back into the shadows flitting in the snow. One or two Germans keel over, dead. But there are still a dozen more. Desperately they fight back, but they are outnumbered.

Slowly, miraculously, the German soldiers falter, and the Americans press on. All of a sudden there is silence and everyone stops, unbelieving, looking around. The Captain wipes his bleeding hand on his uniform. “Well, that’s it, then,” he says.

It’s anything but over, unfortunately. As they prepare to set off again, a German, thought to be dead, suddenly raises his rifle and summoning every last bit of strength he has squeezes the trigger.

BANG! The shot echoes, clear and loud, across the field. The Captain clutches at his throat, gasping. A small scarlet fountain of blood spurts out and the Captain, choking, falls to his knees. “NO!” roars his friend in anguish, drawing his pistol and shooting the Kraut squarely between the eyes. Roe, the medic, is already at the Captain’s side, trying to stem the flow of blood. The rest look on helplessly, unsure of what to do.

The friend sprints to the Captain, his eyes brimming with tears, swearing repeatedly as Eugene tries to save the Captain. Finally Eugene looks up and shakes his head sadly. The friend looks at him, gaping, a million thoughts whirling around in his jumbled mind. Eugene doesn’t have to say anything but he still does.

“He’s gone, sir.”

***

I realize I’ve been sleeping for a long time, with the gruesome details of his last moments on earth playing again and again in my mind. Now it’s morning and some runner has come to find me, to call me to Colonel Sink’s headquarters. I sit in the back of the jeep and stare dazedly into space, lost in my thoughts.

The jeep lurches to a stop and jolts me out of my thoughts. Colonel Sink greets me outside. “G’morning, Captain,” he greets me.

“Nothing good about it,” I mumble, staring at the floor, suddenly finding it rather interesting. Somehow, not even Sink, the funniest man I know, can cheer me up.

He sighs. “Captain, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Or rather, re-meet.” He says it cautiously, his tone making me look up. Someone steps into the room. My eyes narrow.

Dyke.

The idiot who got him killed. The idiot who just had to go missing and make us search for him. The idiot responsible for his death. Four soldiers went out on that doomed patrol. Four. Why must he, of those four, be the only one to make it back? Suddenly I’m fighting a mad urge to break his neck and tear him from limb to limb.

“Hello, sir,” he says nervously, as if he knows what I’m thinking. When his greeting isn’t acknowledged, he ploughs on. “Well, look, sir, I know I was stupid and all, but I didn’t…really…”

I snap. “DAMN RIGHT YOU WERE STUPID!” I roar, lunging forward and smashing my fist into Dyke’s nose, hearing the satisfying snap. “You goddamn fool!” I punctuate each word with a blow to his ugly face. “Captain, no!” yells Sink, he and Eugene Roe (who had since come in) rushing forward to restrain me. I get a couple of good blows in before they succeed in dragging me out of the room. While Gene rushes back in to take care of Dyke, Sink looks at me and says seriously, “Y’know, Captain, you can get court-martialed for that sort of thing.”

Something wet and hot slides down my face. Am I crying? Perhaps. Or maybe it’s blood. I don’t care anymore. “I could have saved him,” I choke, trying to hold back my emotions, to hold my temper in check. “I was this close…! I could have gotten to him in time, but I didn’t. I let him down. All these years he’s never let me down and yet I let him down.”

“Calm down,” Sink says firmly. “You couldn’t help him, Captain. There was no way you could. He’s gone, he can’t come back.” He sighs. “I’m going to overlook this, since normally you wouldn’t do something so extreme.” He pauses, hesitating. “I just wanted you to know that we all miss him. Not just you. People’ve been coming to me, asking me to help them get over his death, to help them come to terms with it. He was a great man, a great friend, a great commander. We all miss him terribly.” He claps me on the shoulder and walks off.

Later, I hear that Dyke was brought to hospital, with a broken nose and a gunshot wound in the hand. The nose was supposedly from some accident (the walk into the door kind), although I know better. The gunshot wound was supposed to be self inflicted.

My guess is that he met Wild Bill Guarnere.

The war will be over soon, I hope. I don’t think I can bear any of my close friends, any of these men, dying anymore. I have to write a letter to his relatives, since I’m now C.O. of Easy now, to inform them of his…passing, but I don’t know what to write. How can you write a letter informing people of your best friend’s death?

To whomever it may concern,

I sincerely regret to inform you that Captain Richard D. Winters was killed in action on the nineteenth of December 1944. He was a great man, a great friend, and a great hero to all who knew him. He died a heroic death, while trying to save his comrades from a German ambush. He will be sorely missed.

It sounds really clichéd, but I can’t write anything better. The person who reads it will probably think I’m not emotionally affected by his death whatsoever, that I’m just doing it as a necessity, a chore, but I’m not. I mean each and every single word of it.

I fold the letter and pocket it, planning to get it back to his family as soon as possible. On my way to visit his crude grave on the field where we were ambushed, marked by his M1 and his helmet, a single question, one that has been bugging me for so long, pops up again in my mind.

Why?

Finis

2:40 AM

For the Record

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