Behavior Report 1

Dearest Love,

I think I’m finally getting used to this…normalcy…if that’s what we should call it. What is normal? Everything is all shook up like a big snow globe with all the pieces slowly falling back down, but nothing is in the right place. I shudder to think what normal was six-months ago. How about two-years ago? Living at home. Playing with my boy. Talking to people I liked. Oh, the novelty of it all.

I’m sorry.

I’m blue.

I’m frustrated, too.

I don’t know what to think anymore. I miss you. I miss Junior. I thank God that I have both of you to write to when times get low. You are my corner piece to this puzzle called life. I cannot wait to have you back in my life, to make me whole.

There is some good news worth writing. We made it to France. Finally. No more seasick soldiers running for the deck. No more cramped quarters filled with suffocating cigarette smoke and ridiculous stories. Fresh air all around, on the house! Depending on the direction you face, you either smell this weird aroma like rotten oversalted fish that hovers along the shore or a pungent sulfur smell that is, apparently, a leftover from the Navy’s bombardment. No one said that the service was responsible for offering good smells to soldiers.

Everyone is exhausted. Talk is down to a minimum with our anxiety up to the maximum. We carried our things up the shore to a small cliff with a grassy spot that hadn’t been destroyed by the invasion. Half of the boys dropped to the ground for sleeping and the other half are picking at their fingernails or mindlessly tapping their feet. I found a comfortable little spot to write this letter. Even with most of my body touching the ground, I still feel like everything is rolling around like waves on the sea.

We’re waiting for our orders. Some believe we will move to the frontlines. Others believe we’ll stick around a while until reinforcements are needed. No one knows for sure. As far as I’m concerned, no news is good news. That’s a lie. No news grows like a lead weight inside my stomach as if I’m growing a baby named Anxiety.

There’s nothing we can really do other than wonder or wander around until someone decides what to do for us. We only need to keep out of the way from all that’s happening. While we rest and wait, there is a constant stream of trucks and Jeeps and other vehicles hauling men or supplies up and down the shoreline. The operation is nothing like I’ve ever seen. There must be thousands of ships anchored in the water and just as many vehicles on the land. I cannot fathom the amount of planning and management employed to keep things moving.

Our squad leaders huddle near a pillbox, which is a large concrete structure where the Krauts kept their big guns to fight off the invasion. The walls are thick with tiny windows. Dark smokey stains mark the tops of the windows, most likely from our boys burning out the Krauts. God bless the brass. They made a headquarters out of the place to stay safe from any errant Kraut rebuttal. The rest of us will have to fend for ourselves.

Now that we own the place, lieutenants and sergeants and runners fly in and out of the place like bees swarming their hive. Their constant movement is driving the boys in my squad crazy because they want to know our fate. Whenever someone exits, there’s a build up like a soon-to-be-father, smoking in the waiting room and looking for the doctor to come out. Everyone exhales when the soldier leaving isn’t one of ours.

Thank goodness I have Earl to keep me sane. Being the two oldest men in our platoon may have pushed us together, but our bond was cemented when we found that our lives mirrored one another. I am convinced that you would make fast friends with Earl’s wife. We thank God that Virginia and Wisconsin are far enough apart to keep you two from getting into a lot of trouble!

He’s laying in a nearby spot, within reach, his helmet covering his face. All I have to do is nudge him and say, “We stick together,” and he’ll instinctively respond with, “And keep our heads on straight.” That’s our motto. Motto? Is that the right word? Promise? Whatever it is, that’s what we say whenever something gets tough. Officially, it started just as “We stick together” as our way to stand out from the rest of the boys. Then, when we found ourselves in increasingly tougher situations, Earl added, “We keep our heads on straight.” That was his polite way of reminding me to keep calm. You know darn well why he added that with my tendencies.

I watched him resting for a minute before continuing with this letter. The moment of clarity helped. I know that I can get through this damned war if Earl is nearby. I also know that I can stay sane if I can continue to write to you. God knows what’ll happen if I were to lose Earl or the ability to write.

Another soldier exits the pillbox, and we all look to see if it’s our platoon leader, Lieutenant Talbott. We have an easy time picking out our guy from the others because Lieutenant Talbott stands a head taller than most. He has this presence, like a superhero, but I don’t mean like all muscles, he’s different. His smile turns the most pessimistic man to an optimist. A furrowed brow moves the seas. Women cannot deny his charm. Men want to be him. Children look up to him. Good decisions come as naturally to him as the sun rising in the east.

Writing this letter is my method of “Keeping my head on straight” because, if I didn’t, I would lose my mind waiting for what is to happen to us. The problem with waiting is that we don’t get to hear the orders until after Lieutenant Talbott explains everything to our squad leaders. Then they huddle their squads and relay the message. Each step in that process is excruciatingly long. Lieutenant Talbott takes his time walking and then more time talking with the squad leaders. Then those guys take their time asking questions and then walking to us and waiting for everyone to huddle and on and on. Minutes feel like hours.

My squad has twelve men including Earl and me. I’ve likely hinted at some of the boys in past letters. Most of them are good kids. Yes. Kids. Lieutenant Talbott is the oldest of the bunch after Earl and me and he’s twenty-two. The average age of everyone is nineteen and barely able to grow facial hair. They come from big cities and small farms. Some are believers, some not. For as much as we all make fun of each other, I am certain that we have each other’s back. Earl and I may “Stick together” because of our like mindedness, but the rest of the boys have created bonds during nights on the town whenever we received passes.

The man who leads my squad is Staff Sergeant George Marcuccilli. Quite the name, huh? I bet you could never guess his heritage with a name like Marcuccilli. No one in our squad would say that George is on the same level as Lieutenant Talbott in terms of leadership, presence, and poise, but George seems to think so. I suppose that is a good trait for a leader. Right? You want leaders who believe in themselves, who have confidence. This probably is why I’ll never get past the rank of Private.

George is from a town in Pennsylvania where they mine coal, which seems fitting because his jawline and nose and ears all have sharp edges as if they were cut from stone. He’s also not a tall man, he’s the shortest in our squad. That short stature is well compensated by a lack of fear against anyone or anything. I am fully convinced that George was promoted to squad leader because he can look disaster in the eye and not blink.

While the rest of us either chew our fingernails or try to catch some shuteye while waiting for the orders to come in, George stands with a big smile next to the other squad leaders in our platoon. Between the Jeeps and trucks and other noises, I hear him say things like, “Beautiful weather,” and “Can’t wait,” and “You should get your troops in line better,” and I can’t help but wonder if he says these things to hide his fear or if he believes them. The others don’t respond or maybe they do, and I can’t hear them. The fact that they all stand, huddled, with their hands on their hips, chests puffed out, is strange because it is completely opposite to the men in their respective squads.

When Lieutenant Talbott does come out of the pillbox, his blonde hair reflects the sun like a search light signaling his presence until he puts his helmet back on. We all rise like a congregation when the priest goes up to read the Gospel. We’re hungry for the word. Will we receive salvation for another day or be banished to the hell of war? None of us know.

Our watches tick the time away as Lieutenant Talbott stops to talk to a passing soldier he recognizes. Voices behind me say “What’s he doing?” Another says, “C’mon, stop talking and keep moving.” The longer Lieutenant Talbott holds his conversation, my heart beats a little heavier, a little faster. George and the other squad leaders turn to face Lieutenant Talbott to allow him into their huddle to share the news. My Love, that space is off limits to a private like me, but what I wouldn’t give to be there to hear the news before anyone else. When Lieutenant Talbott does finally make his way to the huddle, he’s met with all smiles.

“I’ll never understand that,” Earl says. “Look at them, smiling. You’d think they were planning a picnic after church.”

“If I was there, I wouldn’t be smiling. That’s for sure,” I respond.

“So, what do you say? Are we headed for the front, or do you think we get stuck doing something else?”

 The squad leaders stop smiling. George takes off his helmet to scratch his head. Lieutenant Talbott points down along the shore and then signals a left turn followed by a right and another left. The hand gestures mean absolutely nothing to our wandering eyes, but each movement has an effect on George and the others. Their shoulders, once poised and proud, begin to drop. Toothy smiles turn to clenched jaws.

“It’s not good,” I say. “This isn’t good. We’re going to the front.” My stomach sinks and the Anxiety growing inside kicks at my intestines.

“You filled out all of your life insurance paperwork, right?” Earl laughs as he speaks. “That type of coin can go a long way for a widow. Maybe get her a new car or help pay off the house. She can—”

“Not funny.”

Earl taps me on the shoulder and shakes me a bit. “Don’t you worry. We’ll stick together and get through this.”

The leaders break their huddle, and the boys congregate into their respective squads. George was the last to leave Lieutenant Talbott, so our squad must wait longer than the others. Some try to listen into what’s being said in the other squads, but we can’t make any sense of it. Finally, George breaks from Lieutenant Talbott and walks over to us.

“Well, we’re not going to the front,” George says preemptively. “You all can take it easy. I see you all holding your breath.”

A collective sigh releases from the squad. I feel Anxiety lift off my bowels. No frontline action is good. But there is something about George’s demeanor that doesn’t jive with the news. He has something more to say.

“There was a general call for a platoon to take on something special, something unique, and Lieutenant Talbott volunteered us,” George says.

I look around to take in the boys’ reactions. From my perspective, every mission was bad. Everything in my mind ended in death. I waited for George to say the orders so I could see how the others accepted the news. If they all smile, then maybe the orders aren’t bad? If there’s a mix of smiles and grimaces, then maybe our orders are just, okay? If everyone frowns …  

George continues by saying, “Talbott says that he told the brass that we are the bravest bunch of S.O.B’s he’s ever known and feels like we are perfect for the job. You’ll need to go through your packs and take only what’s needed. Maybe keep a second pair of socks and that’s it. We’ll need all the room you can give in your packs.” He steps over to me and says quietly, “You’ll need to leave all your letter writing paper behind. Uncle Sam needs the space more.”

Several of the boys laugh, uncomfortably.

“Put the things in your barracks bags and pile them all over there. Then we’ll pick up our supplies and get a move on. We’re all meeting up in five.”

Earl chimes in before George can leave. “Sir? What are we doing? What’s the order?” The rest of the boys greet his question with nods.

“Oh. Sorry.” George laughs, nervously. “Yeah. You all probably want to know that don’t you?” He looks to the ground as if to collect his thoughts on how to break the news to us.

We’ve never seen George appear this way, nervous, or maybe the correct way to say it is unconvinced. Normally, he’s Johnny on the spot with our orders, telling us what to do and where to go. He approaches the role with gusto. His words come out strong. He never gives us any idea of his thoughts about the orders and carries on. But on the shore, with us all surrounding him and the noise of the vehicles rushing back and forth, and the ships lined up in the sea to supply the war effort, George almost flinches.

I think to myself, ‘What could we do that makes him worry if we aren’t going to the front?’ And if I’m thinking that, then the others must be as well.

George raises his head, smiles unconvincingly, and says, “We get the honor of liberating the first village in all of France.”