Behavior Report 3

For Loved Ones Left Behind

By Matthew Karge

Dearest Love,

There will be letters I write that you should not read to Junior. I will warn you, like this. No matter how hard he pushes you, please don’t read him this letter. Maybe when he’s much older. You may not want to read it as well.

My last letter left off with strange flashes and a “Thwunk” sound. Continuing that moment, hundreds of flashes begin from three distinct spots. They are constant. The grasses all around me flicker and click. There’s a sound like, “Fwip,” followed by a snap every time a bullet passes. “Fwip. Snap. Fwip. Snap.”

Everyone in my squad on my left drops to the ground and the second and third squads remain standing to my right. Confusion contorts their faces. I don’t make eye contact with any of them, but I hear a “Thwunk” from time to time and see a puffy red cloud remain where a soldier once stood. Flashes continue to flicker ahead of us. Then, I hear a flurry of bullets snap around me and draw away toward the others. I see the grass bend as if a small direct breeze passes through in a visibly distinct line. That line sweeps across the field and through the rest of the soldiers. I hear “Thwunk, Thwunk, Thwunk, Thwunk,” and see red puffs and helmets and hands thrown into the air.

Time stops. Every soldier remaining from the second and third squad is hit. Every single one. I see it happen. I hear it. My body squeezes and I can’t breathe. The calm I felt only moments earlier is wiped away by a machine gun.

In this moment, standing alone, watching flashes burst from the muzzles of Kraut machine guns, I think, ‘Why am I here? What is my purpose? Why continue to push on when there are others who take all of this so much more seriously?’

A void forms in the center of my being when I see people I know, die. Many of them found purpose in this war. Many of them seemed to enjoy it. I hate it. I hate everything about it. Yet, I push forward. I keep moving.

The small black slugs turn back at me. They “Fwip Snap” left and right. Earl grabs my arm and yanks me down.

“Get down!” He yells in my ear, but I barely hear him.

The world is a blur. Above me, the grass takes on a barrage of “Fwip Snaps.” Earl begins to drag me, somewhere. I follow. I push forward. The void enters my mind. I cannot understand what is happening. I’m left in some sort of haze. Anxiety is missing. I can feel my limbs move. I crawl against the sweet-smelling earth and between thousands of strands of grass. Yet the red puffs of the soldiers I once knew are the only things I can see. They are burned into my vision.

Then all the noise stops.

Earl breathes heavily and grunts every time he pulls at my shirt.

The void in my being manifests itself into a hole in my chest, not from a bullet, but a circular space where nothing exists. The emptiness consumes me and prevents me from helping Earl or myself. Everything I see appears to be spattered in red, a deep red, burgundy, like the sky of a sunset just moments before night takes hold.

We meet up with Lieutenant Talbott and the others from our squad. Everyone is accounted for and laying on their stomachs or kneeling beneath the tips of the grass. Lieutenant Talbott is yelling at our heavy rifle team that includes Bob, Walt, and Emil. Bob and Walt are as close to one another as Earl and me, practically brothers, who come from different worlds.

Bob is your typical boy from Brooklyn who stands over six feet tall and is about two-hundred pounds of pure Italian. His heritage gave him thick, black hair that grows from all sides of his body including two eyebrows, the size of battleships, which can be seen from miles away. He complains and compares every meal to his mother’s cooking in an accent that sounds as if he’s always ready to start a fight.

Walt’s life is the opposite of Bob. Walt is a farmer from Iowa who lives in his parents’ house at the end of a mile-long gravel driveway. Electricity found its way to their house only a few years ago and the nearest neighbor is a thirty-minute horse or car ride away. Walt grew up on corn and potatoes and never complains about chow.

Bob and Walt are inseparable and can usually be found talking and comparing the city life to the country. Each one wishing they lived in the other’s shoes.

Rounding out the team is Emil Obermeier who is also big, but in a more of a lunk sort of way. Bob’s and Walt’s bodies show off muscles and tones and Emil has the kind of body that will always have a little weight around the stomach and chin no matter how hard the service tries to work it out of him. He’s a quiet man, usually left behind in most conversations.

The three of them make up a team that carry a Browning Automatic Rifle or BAR. It’s a big gun that makes a big noise and does a great job in clearing out the bad guys.

When Lieutenant Talbott finishes yelling and pointing, he taps Bob’s helmet, which seems to be a sign that sends the big three off into the grass. He then turns to the rest of us.

“They are setting up a position on the left flank to provide cover. George,” Lieutenant Talbott pauses to search our faces for George and continues when he finds him. “I’ll take these three with me.” He points to Earl, Russell, and me. “You take the rest and go as close to the shore as you can. When you hear the BAR, move up as close as you can to those Krauts. We’ll go up the gut and do the same.”

George nods and crawls off with his team.

Earl, Russell, and I remain. If I am known as the letter writer in our squad, Russell Krause is the reader. When everyone else went out to drink, Russell stayed behind to read while I wrote. We never talked much. I always felt that he needed to read to forget about everything just as I needed to write. Our mutual respect of each other’s space led to the quietest friendship in the entire United States fighting force.

He had a civilian job as a “Cub” reporter for a paper in Casper, Wyoming. One could make the argument that he’s also a “Cub” soldier with a cherub face that can’t grow facial hair and a voice that still squeaks from time to time.

The four of us take a knee under the cover of the grass with Lieutenant Talbott in front. We remain silent. Waves crash against the shore. A small breeze fans through the tips of the grass. I feel as if I cannot catch my breath or see straight. My body jumps when I hear a massive “Thud.” I wait for a mortar explosion, but nothing happens. I listen more closely and hear the “Thud” over and over again. I look up for something flying in the air. I look around for flashes or debris. There’s nothing. My body scrunches together in anticipation of something and then I feel the “Thud.” It’s my heart, beating violently within my chest.

I am not the only one in our group to suffer from Anxiety as we wait. Russell huddles next to me and the metal hook that connects the strap to his rifle rattles almost louder than the flashes from the Krauts.

Lieutenant Talbott turns to us and says, “As soon as we hear the BAR, we are runni—”

Gunfire erupts. The sound is lower, heavier, more menacing than what flew earlier. It is Bob, Walt, and Emil. When they start shooting, everyone knows. Each trigger pull is like a sledgehammer sweeping through the field.

“Follow me,” Lieutenant Talbott says moments before he gets up and runs off into the grass.

Earl and Russell take off too, their rifles floating in front of them like the keel of battleship cutting through the grass. I try to replicate their smoothness, but their wake is hard to combat. The grass snaps back to attention and into my face as soon as they pass through. The BAR keeps the Krauts busy. I don’t hear any “Fwip Snaps” overhead. There’s no tapping from the Krauts’ machine gun. Earl and Russell’s bodies, their olive-green clothes blend into the grasses. I struggle to keep up.

I think of you. I think about Junior. I think about how I want nothing to do with this skirmish. Each spindle of grass brushes past me like hands attempting to hold me back. I run. I carry my rifle. I stay low. I do everything I’ve been told. But none of this matters. The pride the others feel about fighting the Krauts does nothing for me. I feel alone. Even Earl pushes on. Same with Russell. I simply follow. I feel no purpose.

I run into the others who have stumbled onto the start of a trench where shovels and canteens are carelessly left on top of freshly dug dirt. Lieutenant Talbott jumps in and continues moving forward. Earl and Russell do the same. Before they run off again, Earl turns and waits for me to get in. Lines crease around his eyes from determination and fear. We can’t talk. There’s no time. I want to ask him about what he’s thinking. The trench swallows any attempt.

Lieutenant Talbott takes off down the trench with the command of a river moving forcefully, yet with a grace that doesn’t disturbs the sides. Earl and Russell follow suit. I tumble through the dirt walls like a rock dropping down a mountain. Roots pull onto my shirt and pants. Twice, I drop my rifle because a stick or root or something snags and hangs on.

I am the rear of our small squad which means that I must keep attention to the front and back. The trench plays a sick joke by bending this way and that every few feet. Each bend sends my heart into a flurry of frantic fearful beats because it seems as if the trench is collapsing onto me like an enormous wound healing itself.

We come up to a fork in the trench and before I even understand what happens, Lieutenant Talbott sends Earl and Russell down one path and pulls me to the other. Earl grabs my sleeve before he leaves and says, “Head on straight.”

Lieutenant Talbott tugs at my other sleeve and yells, “Let’s go.”

He takes off again and I barely keep up. Dirt and dust fly everywhere. I feel a growing crust form between my neck and shirt collar. The dirt clings to my sweaty hands. The Kraut machine guns start tapping again and they are close, almost overhead. None of their attention is directed toward us. Our BAR responds along with other small rifle fire from George’s squad.

Our trench ends into another that breaks both left and right. The Kraut gunfire is noticeably to our right causing Lieutenant Talbott to stop and slowly peek around the corner. He quickly returns, holds up four fingers and then proceeds to use hand signals to describe that there are two nests roughly ten yards away with two Krauts each.

My body goes completely numb.

All the training and exercising and classes worked to prepare me for this moment. The drill sergeants and trainers and President and propaganda all expressed how this was my moment of glory.

Triumph. Patriotism. Glory. Pride.

I hold my rifle tight to my chest. I’m frozen. Stuck. I try to breathe and think of Earl or you, yet no manner of “Keeping my head straight” works. I try to push forward, to move. My body simply refuses to act.

Lieutenant Talbott leans against the dirt wall. His eyes search me for support, and he appears to instantly understand what’s wrong. My Love, there’s a reason Lieutenant Talbott is a hero. He doesn’t yell at me. He doesn’t shake his head. He doesn’t grab me and say, “Snap out of it,” or anything. He makes sure that our eyes meet and then nods his head as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” He slings his Thompson machine gun over his shoulder and produces a grenade in each hand and holds them as if he’s going to juggle. “Just be ready, just in case,” he says through the Kraut firing.

I somehow manage to nod and watch him move his hands together and loop his index fingers into the safety pin on the opposite grenade. As if he were ripping apart something, Lieutenant Talbott forcefully pulls his arms apart, the safety pins pull from the grenades and fall to the ground. His hands then turn and release the safety lever. We have seconds before the fuses ignite the explosives, but Lieutenant Talbott waits. Each grenade stands ready to blow at any moment. My heart throbs at each second he waits. I can’t move to yell or push the grenades away. I can only assume that he knows what he’s doing and pray that I don’t die from friendly fire.

But within all those seconds where my thoughts rage with confusion and fear and faux action, I catch Lieutenant Talbott’s mouth moving. The shape his lips form seems to say, “Five. Four. Three.” Before he mouths, “Two,” he stands and throws each grenade towards the Krauts.

There is no pause. Lieutenant Talbott drops to the ground. Two massive “Pops” hit the Krauts; their machine guns stop firing. Silence drapes over the trench like an eerie fog. We sit quietly, unbelieving that the calm is real.

“I think we got ‘em, Frank.” Lieutenant Talbott says with a smile.

Without the gunfire, my numbness subsides enough for a weak smile to form in reply.

Lieutenant Talbott leans around the corner to spy on the Krauts. He waits briefly before he stands and turns back to where we left Russell and Earl. I remain pinned against the trench wall, not ready to move just yet.

“All clear?” Lieutenant Talbott yells.

“All clear,” George responds from afar.

“All clear,” Earl yells.

“All clear,” Bob or Walt yells from their position.

Lieutenant Talbott signals everyone to gather and then takes a knee next to me. “It’s all clear, Frank. Are you okay?” He uses his hand to search my chest for any wounds.

“Yeah.” The words come out of me somehow.

“Good. I want you to go over to those Krauts and make sure they are good and dead. Okay? You need to see them. You need to see what they had and how they wanted to kill you. Okay?” He pulls me up to my feet and says, “You need to see them. That is the only way you will be able to fight back the next time. Okay?”

My legs hold me upright even though I can’t feel my feet. “Okay,” I mutter.

Lieutenant Talbott crawls out of the trench and taps my helmet. “This’ll help. Trust me.”

‘This will help?’ I wonder. ‘How?’

The others begin to gather on the surface while I still stand alone in the trench. I can’t help but feel like I am buried in my fear. My head barely rises above the surface. My hands ache from gripping my rifle. “This will help,” I whisper. “This will help.” I turn to the corner and look around. The trench moves toward the shore and splits into two positions where a Kraut machine gun barrel points to the sky. A faint ribbon of smoke rises from each.

I inhale as much as I can, hoping to take in any of the courage that Lieutenant Talbott once exhaled. I step forward. My feet are still numb, but I press on. I stay low. I don’t know why. My rifle remains ready, but I know deep down that I would just freeze again if any of the Krauts were to stand back up. I get to the split in the trench and look left, then right. Whatever Lieutenant Talbott wants me to see, to experience, is lost in a mess that is not worth writing down.

Only one Kraut remains intact. He’s larger, with a square jaw that gathers into a deep dimple in the center of his chin. I see his hand twitch and then move to his chest. I stand over him. He’s covered in red splatters. Small wounds pepper his entire body, the result of one of our grenades. He sees me, raises his head, and stares directly into my eyes. I step back.

“Wa…” He begins to say and struggles. “Wat…” He points to a canteen just out of his reach.

I search him for a knife or a pistol or anything he can use to attack me if I move near him to pick up the canteen. His hands shake like mine did when I froze in the trench. The more I study him, the more I realize he is in shock. I wonder what Lieutenant Talbott would do in such a moment. Would he shoot the man or walk away? Would he give the man one last ounce of dignity before his death and hand him the water? I think about this for some time. The Kraut machine guns “Ting” and Click” as they cool. I look back to see my squad gather and talk. No one is paying attention to me. I can’t shoot the man. I reach down and pick up the canteen.

While bent over, I see that the Kraut’s boots are marked with small Roman numerals cut into the leather. Some of the lines are larger than others. The marks cover the toes and go back about halfway to the heel. They are too perfect to be accidental. He’s carved them into his boots. For what reason, I don’t care. Nothing matters for him much longer.

I hand him the canteen and he immediately drops it onto his chest. Some water spills out and bubbles up and starts to foam the moment it touches patches of his exposed skin. He picks it up again, struggles to bring the canteen to his lips. Water splashes over his mouth and jaw and he starts to choke. As quickly as he starts to cough, he stops. His head falls back.

I leave him to join the others in my squad. Everyone looks tired. No one smiles. Earl holds a blank stare towards the ground.

“Looks like everyone made it,” Lieutenant Talbott says to George. “We should go back and see if there are any survivors from the other squa—”

“It’s real,” George interrupts. He counts out everyone in the squad and then covers his mouth in shock. “It’s really real.”

The others stand quietly, confused.

Lieutenant Talbott shakes his head and says, “What are you talking about?”