Behavior Report 2

Dearest Love,

The shock of the news hangs over our heads, heavy and messy, like petroleum jelly. No one reacts. Most seem to wonder what the news may mean to our lives. I don’t know how to react. One side of me exhales a sigh of relief because the front is not in my future. But there is the other side, the ever-present side, that is fearful of any conflict. I know that there is no way to liberate a village without fighting those who occupy it.

 George watches us, calmly. I turn my eyes away, hoping he doesn’t ask for my opinion. Not that he would ever ask for my opinion, but I didn’t want to give him the opportunity. The instant before I look away, I catch something, almost like a grin, start to grow. I see it for only a fraction of a second, but I know what it means. He likes the idea of saving a village. The heroics. The recognition. Everything is there in the orders to give George exactly what he wants out of the service.

A purpose.

Several others share the same grin. Somehow, without my knowledge, Pride found its way into our squad and infected the boys. The virus straightens their backs and puffs up their chests like little boys playing drill sergeant.

“Permission to speak?”

Private Quinten Magee, the bane of our squad, steps forward. My Love, there is no way to describe him without seeming like a jerk. He has a face only a mother can love with dark sunken eyes and an overgrown nose. No one likes Quinten, not even his mother…well…his mother likes him, but I can positively say that our squad finds him the most annoying of everyone. Quinten is a human radio, always narrating everything that goes on in our lives. Unfortunately, he is missing one key piece that all radios have…an ‘off’ switch.

“Permission granted,” George says. “But don’t make me regret it.”

Quinten clears his throat, which is his way of letting us know that something he deems important is coming. It’s like the bell tolls before a breaking news announcement on the radio. “So, if we liberate the village from the evil grasp of the Krauts, we get to keep whatever we find, right? The spoils of war?” He laughs and continues. “Like, for instance, French women?”

The whole squad groans.

George speaks over everyone until they quiet down. “That may be true for some of the guys here, but French women have taste. Unfortunately for you, Quinten, you will have a hard time convincing them that you are a catch.” He taps his lip as if he’s thinking and adds, “But then again, there may be some farm animals penned up for you? They’re easier to catch and have much lower standards.”

Laughter erupts.

Quinten laughs mockingly towards everyone and says, “Just you all wait and see. By the time we’re done with everything, I’ll be—”

“Clearing out your packs to load up supplies,” George interrupts. “We’re talking too much. Empty everything you got and then head over to the supply dump. As you can see, the other squads are already there.”

Everyone begins opening their packs and removing whatever they find extraneous like extra socks and books and playing cards. I do the same, but only because everyone is. My pack is full of paper and pens and pencils. I don’t want to get rid of any of it. I always try to keep enough paper within reach to write to you two. That is the only thing that gives me purpose in this war. Some guys smoke. Others drink. I write. It’s what keeps me sane. Yet, I keep moving. I push forward.

I won’t lie and say that the process of emptying my pack was not nerve wracking. Quinten made a joke of the orders and several of the other boys didn’t seem to mind a thing. And then there was me, feeling sick with Anxiety as I pull out everything from my pack except the paper and pens. Socks? Who needs them? Shirts? Waste of space. Pens? Those fit nicely on the sides and bottom. Paper? Can never have too much.

Before I can figure out a plan on how to keep my paper without George and the others knowing, everyone stands and begins moving toward the supply dump. It’s a strange sight. Wooden crates, stacked three high, form walls that wrap around an area where the boys in our platoon gather to collect things.

Guarding the dump is a skinny, freckle-faced kid whose helmet dangles on his head like an oversized water bucket. He holds a clipboard filled with stacks of wrinkled paper and wields a pen as if it were a conductor’s baton.

We stop at the end of the line to wait our turn. Many of the boys try peeking over the next man’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of what’s to come, but there’s too many people and shadows and movement to see. I give up trying. ‘You’re going to make yourself crazy,’ I reason.

I’m not the only one who appears to be growing apprehensive while waiting again. Several go back to chewing their nails or nervously tapping their hands. Why is it that waiting brings out our nerves?

I am fortunate enough to stand in line next to our squad’s second in command, Buck Sergeant Lafe Perry. He’s a handsome singer with a velvety smooth voice that earns him lettuce as the opening act at the Chihuahuan Desert Club in New Mexico. I love that name. Unlike Quinten, Lafe is asked to sing all the time for our entertainment. If we pick an upbeat song, Lafe has a little dance he does as he sings. If the song is slow, then he tenderly holds whatever is nearby, as if he is leaning in to kiss a dame. The act is as important as the singing.

The reason why I am fortunate to stand near him is because he knows the orders in detail. George gave him all the information to help spread across the squad. Earl and some of the others pepper Lafe with questions like, “What’s the name of the village?” and “How many people?” and “Are there a lot of Krauts?”

“I don’t know,” Lafe responds to most of the questions. “As far as I know, there’s maybe a hundred people, if that. It’s a small little place that’s unfortunately along a road that the Krauts use to get to the shoreline. There’s not a major strategic advantage to occupy the place as far as I know.”

“Then why spend the effort of taking the place?” Earl asks. “Seems like all risk and little reward.”

“Morale.” Lafe says, immediately. “It’s all about morale. Think about it this way. The Allies land in France and within a week or two begin pushing back the Krauts so fast that villages and towns and cities are liberated. Think of how that sounds to the people back home. Think about how that sounds to the people in France. Think about how it sounds to the Krauts who’ve been occupying this country for years for it only to be freed in weeks.”

“How far away is the village?” I ask.

“A few days hike. We’ll go along the shore for a bit until we find the road and then go inland.”

“Any idea if there’ll be a lot of Krauts along the way?” Earl adds.

“I don’t believe so.” Lafe looks away for a moment to think and then says, “The biggest concern is on the shore. We might come up to some pockets that are part of Hitler’s wall.”

By the time Lafe finishes, Earl and I are next in line to speak with the freckled kid holding the clipboard.

“Are you a rifleman?” The kid says.

“Yeah,” I respond.

The kid’s pencil slides down the clipboard and scratches a checkmark. He steps aside and says, “Stay on the left.”

I move forward to the back of another line inside the wall of boxes. Everyone inside is quiet and moving forward to a steady beat. Step. Wait. Step. Wait. We stand in the shadows of the boxes where it is cool and damp. Without a breeze, all I smell is the sulfur left from the invasion.

Earl moves in behind me and says, “Friendly little guy.”

I smile.

“Don’t know why he’s so short with everyone. He’s pushing a pencil while we’re lugging around rifles.” He looks up ahead. “Any idea of what we’re picking up?”

I don’t respond because I don’t know. We continue stepping and waiting and stepping and waiting until we come to the front where two other pencil pushers are handing numerous clips of ammunition to each soldier. When I arrive at the front, one soldier hands me thirty clips of ammunition one by one, counting them for the other to hear.

My Love, thirty clips of ammunition is insane! Each clip holds eight rounds and, when we trained, we normally were given ten clips. That is enough to fill up all the pockets and spots on our bandoliers or belts.

“Next,” is all the pencil pusher says.

I struggle to carry all the ammunition and eventually fall to a knee like the others to begin filling every available space on my belt and pockets. Once we finish, we hop into the next line where we see the soldiers ahead of us taking off their packs.

There is an equal cadence to our movement and before I know it, I’m at the front being handed box after box of rations. We receive ten boxes of K-rations, each includes three meals in a single box.

“Either they expect us to eat like kings and put on weight or we’re expected to hand these out to the people we liberate,” Earl says.

We both kneel to stuff the boxes in our packs.

“Good luck getting everything in your pack with all that paper still inside,” Earl says.

“I’ll make it work.”

“Well, there’s one more line, so we’ll see about that.” He laughs.

“What are we going to do with all of this.”

Earl reaches out and holds my shoulder in a fatherly-like manner. In a mocking voice, he says, “We do whatever Uncle Sam asks.”

The final supply line moves much faster as many of the men in line walk away with nothing. I line up behind Al Troha, another private rifleman in my squad who’s from Allenhurst, Georgia. His gravely southern drawl mashes his words all together, which makes understanding him about as easy as stirring a wooden spoon through thick mashed potatoes. He also is one of those people who is always squinting as if the sun is in his eyes, day or night. Between the voice and squint, some may mistake him for being a little slow. But once you get to understanding him, you realize he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t have to say much to say a lot. Al smiles and tips the brim of his helmet when I join him.

“Any idea what’s at the end of this line?” I say.

“Nope.”

“Get all your stuff packed up from the first two lines?”

“Yep.”

We move quickly toward the pencil pushers.

Earl asks, “So, what are your thoughts about all that ammunition they gave us?”

Al looks down to his feet as if to collect his thoughts, spits, and then looks back up at us. “Can only mean one thing.”

“What’s that?” I say.

“They don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Earl says.

“When you go on a trip, you always pack an extra pair of underwear, right?”

“Yeah.”

Al adjusts the rifle strap on his shoulder and then says, “Why?”

“Because you might get stuck some—” I stop before I finish because I understand his thinking. An explosion of Anxiety wraps around my body like a tingling sensation.

Al taps his helmet in a “Now yer thinkin’” gesture and turns to the pencil pushers who come to meet up with us. The boy with the clipboard points at Al, which makes the other soldier toss a small bundle to him. We examine the bag and collectively see the red cross.

“Medic bag?” Earl says.

My Love, I wish you could have seen Al’s face when he realized what he held.

“Yeah, keep moving,” the boy with the clipboard answers.

Al’s face scrunches into a fist of confusion. He doesn’t say anything, but his face says, “What am I supposed to do with this?” He turns over the bag and opens the flap to find all the items a medic carries like morphine syrettes and sulfa powder packets and wraps. His face relaxes from the original confusion but his lips pucker as if he’s sucked on a lemon. “I’m not a medic,” Al says to the man with the clipboard.

“And I’m not General Eisenhower. I don’t make up the orders. Every third man is to get a bag of medical supplies.”

“What am I supposed to do with—”

Lafe slides up behind Al and wraps an arm over his shoulder to keep us moving forward. “You’re just carrying it. They want us to bring medical supplies in case we need to help anyone in the village.”

Lafe leads us to the meet up with the rest of our squad that is gathering with everyone else. Lieutenant Talbott is standing in a spot that’s elevated for all to see him. As soon as we join, he raises his hand for attention.

“We have ourselves a challenge ahead of us, but one that will make your families proud.” Lieutenant Talbott smiles. “In a few days, we will be greeted as heroes.”

Everyone cheers except me. I feel like I’m the only one who is thinking about all the possible bad things that could happen. Even Earl raises his hand in pride. We are on the precipice of doing something extraordinary and all I can think about is what bad could happen. Does that make me bad?

“George, your squad is on point. Spread out. I want to comb the shore as we head to the road. We’ll get every Kraut leftover.” Lieutenant Talbott jumps down from his perch and runs to the front of platoon. “I feel like it’s going to be a great day gentlemen!”

We slowly begin to fan out, clicks and clacks crackle along the ranks as each man readies his rifle as he moves. I watch closely to see if anyone affixes their bayonets, but none do. My legs tingle as if they’ve fallen asleep. My hands are numb. My heart pounds inside my ribcage like Lafe’s drummer at the Chihuahuan Desert Club. I move like everyone else, but I can’t feel my legs.

Our line passes through columns of vehicles and tents and wooden crates and other soldiers who watch us. I can’t tell if they pity us or wish us luck. Some wave. Some look briefly and go back to whatever they’re doing. If I was in their place, I’d probably say a little prayer for them and then carry on with whatever I needed to do. Maybe I wouldn’t.

After some time, we reach the end of the Allied occupation and step into tall wispy grasses that reach up to our waists. Lieutenant Talbott stops and guides each soldier to follow his squad and fan out. Eventually, we create a line, perpendicular to the water’s edge, like teeth on a comb that pulls through the grasses. Every man is silent. Our rifles are ready. We walk calmly. Maybe I should write, they walk calmly. I simply walk because I must. I don’t have a choice. I push forward, keep moving.

An hour passes. I feel better, less anxious. Then another. The longer we continue to walk, the sense that I am being forced to face my doom subsides. No one talks. Earl is on my left and keeps his eyes to the front. The soldier to my right is from the second squad. I know of him, but I don’t know him well, and that gets me thinking. He doesn’t know me that well. Does he care if I live or does he only care that I protect him? I look further down the line on either side. The boys in my squad are what I guess I could call friends; however, the boys in the second and third squads are just recognizable faces.  

My life is entrusted by them. I’ve never thought of this. I’m no hero. I’m just a father, husband. Why would any of these boys consider me a protector? I push on, hoping that I’m not tested to prove my worth.

I sigh and look ahead just in time to see three bright flashes burst just above the tips of the grass in front of us. Several more flashes follow and then the sound of a loud bumble bee flying past as fast as a fighter plane whips by my head. Then, I hear this strange “Thwunk” and the man to my right is gone.