Behavior Report 4

Dearest Love,

I need to take you back to when we were crossing the Atlantic to explain George’s excitement. Being on the ship was not all fun and games like the newsreels show. We were stuck mostly below deck with no sunlight, no fresh air. The cots we slept on were constructed to take up every possible square inch of space inside the ship. Everyone was on top of everyone else. Some slept. Some played cards. The annoying ones talked incessantly. The quiet ones read or laid on their cot and thought. Apprehension was thicker than the cigarette smoke that collected on the ceiling.

It was the third or fourth day when George came up to the squad with a big smile spread across his face and a folded newspaper in his hand. He wouldn’t say why until we all agreed to huddle up close so he could whisper. Through some coaxing, everyone in our squad obliged George and joined the huddle.

“I got an idea about a surefire way to live through this mess.” George said quietly. “Hear me out on this, okay?”

Some began to groan. George waved the newspaper as if to fan away their disbelief.  

“Stop! Hear me out.” He excitedly pointed to the paper. “I’m reading this story about something that happened back in the Great War. There was a squad in the war that saw combat on every possible front. They were first to everything. They fought the Hun at all the major battles, but nobody died!” He smiled and took the time to look everyone in the eye. “Nobody died. None. Zero. All the squads around them died. Their replacements died. Everyone except them. They didn’t lose a single soldier the whole war.”

His story piqued my interest and I asked, “What did they do?”

“When they got home, all their local papers reported on their stories and the medals they received. Every paper had the same story individually and no one put it all together until the reporter of this story somehow found it.” He pointed to the newspaper again.

Russell turned his head to try to read the byline.

“What did they do?” I asked again.

George held everyone’s attention. We all leaned in.

“In every paper, each soldier said that they believed the reason why they lived was because they wrote a letter back home that they didn’t send.”

Quinten, Bob, and Walt made sour faces. They appeared to be disappointed as if they were hoodwinked.

“Frank and Russell are all set then,” Earl said laughing.

“But listen, it wasn’t any letter,” George added. “It was what was inside the letter.”

“What was inside the letter?” I asked.

“Each letter contained a promise that the soldier made.”

“What kind of promise?”

“Well,” George thought a moment, “they were all different.”

“How much of this are you making up?” Quinten questioned.

“None of it!”

“So, the promise is what kept them alive,” I said. “Did it matter what the promise was?”

“No…I mean, yes!” George said. “The promises had to mean something to the soldier. They were all different.” He looked at the story and scanned through the paragraphs until he found what he wanted. “One promised to bring home a gun for his dad and another promised to bring home something for his mother. There are many others, they list them all out. But the idea of promising to bring something home was the thing that got them back safe. They kept their letters inside their shirt pockets and carried them everywhere. Because they didn’t send them, they had a reason to not die. They had to hand deliver the letter along with whatever they promised back home.”

My Love, I was immediately hooked. I loved the idea. I loved that it worked. I loved that there was something that could give me hope when nothing else would. I loved that the solution was something that I already did.

“Think about it. A letter can be held. You can read it whenever you need to. It can serve as a reminder to each of you about your family or friends or girlfriends or wives. You are writing something to the loved ones left behind and sealing it with a promise that will keep you alive for the next few months.” George paused for a moment to let everything sink in. He then added, “What if we all agree to write a letter back home to someone and include a promise? We would all have something to keep us motivated as a group.”

“As if living wasn’t enough?” Quinten said to some of the others.

“Quinten. Do me a favor and don’t write a letter.” George responded angrily. “If the letters work, you’d be doing the world a favor by not living.”

“Okay. Okay.” Earl said.

“So,” George said. “What do you say?”

Everyone agreed.

“Great!” George had a large smile. He continued, “Everyone grab a piece of paper from Frank.”

“Hey!” I said, disappointedly.

“Oh, c’mon, Frank. You’ve got plenty,” Earl said.

“Let’s all plan on having our letters completed by the time we dock. That should give you all enough time to think. And keep this to yourselves. This can be our thing,” George said.

So, there you have it.

That’s why George was so excited on the shore after we lost several men in our platoon.

Strange, isn’t it?

I can’t sit here and write that I wasn’t affected by George’s epiphany. But for the most part, my mind in that moment was still stuck on the dying Kraut with the marked boots and the puffs of red from the second and thirds squads. Trying to adjust my thoughts to think of something positive was about as quick as tree sap.

George explains the idea of the letters to Lieutenant Talbott while the others watch for a positive reaction to legitimize their faith in the promises. They want him to believe because his belief empowers theirs.

Once George finishes, Lieutenant Talbot thinks a little. Several of the boys begin to jump around excitedly while a few others begin to talk about their heroics during the battle we just finished. From what I can tell, those who seem the most excited are the ones who didn’t enter the trench or see anyone die near them. Earl doesn’t smile. He remains lost in a stare. Russell still can’t control his shaking.

“Everyone, calm down,” Lieutenant Talbott says with a strained voice. “It sounds like an interesting story, but none of you should be happy about anything.”

Those celebrating stop immediately.

“What is there to be happy about?” He waits as if looking for a response. “Nothing. There’s nothing to be happy about. We just lost two squads. Over sixty percent of our platoon is gone and you all want to celebrate because you didn’t die?”

George lowers his head.

“We need to send a message back to headquarters to let them know what happened. Who’re the scouts?”

Quinten and Russell raise their hands.

Lieutenant Talbott points at Quinten and says, “Run back and tell them that we were ambushed and that two squads are down.”

“Anything else?” Quinten says.

“No. Just hurry.”

As everyone watches Quinten sling his rifle over his shoulder, I stay focused on Lieutenant Talbott. Something about him is different. He’s filthy. The golden hue that he always seems to bask in is gone. There’s no smile, no puffed-up chest, nothing. Maybe it’s sheer coincidence or maybe it’s his power, but a thunderous wave crashes on the shore when Lieutenant Talbott clenches his jaw.

“What should we do?” Someone asks.

George steps up and says, “We should take care of our squad mates. Lafe and Russell, grab their shelter halves. Then, start spreading them out along the ground over there.” He points to a spot along the trenches where there is an opening in the grass. “As soon as they spread a few out, I want the rest of you to bring everyone over and lay them down on top of the canvases. Yell if you come across any survivors. Keep enough of the shelter halves to cover them too.”

“We should have a couple of you gather the supplies as well,” Lieutenant Talbott adds.

“Frank and Surplis,” George says. “You two gather up the rations and ammunition and divide them up between the rest of us.”

Everyone’s posture exhibits an aversion to moving and who could blame them. Why would anyone enjoy the prospect of carrying a dead soldier or going through his things? For once, I feel like everyone simply pushes forward like me.

The effort is not simple. We sit the fallen up so that Lafe or Russell can reach at the base of the pack to pull the shelter half. Then Surplis or I slide the shoulder straps off the soldier and unbuckle their belts for the supplies. When that is done, the others pick up and carry the fallen over to the shelter halves that Lafe and Russell have laid out. We work in silence. Reverence assures us of our silence.

My task is the least gruesome, thankfully. I don’t know if I could pick up and carry someone I once knew. My companion doesn’t seem to care as much as me or at least he doesn’t show it. Dave Surplis, or just Surplis, is a private from the lower west side of Chicago. He is of an average height but built as solid as a bull with a comically square face like a newspaper comic detective. He works in a railyard, unloading everything and anything from railcars, which is likely why he doesn’t seem to mind the job at hand. I don’t have any strong opinions about the guy nor are we great friends. He’s eighteen which puts him in the crowd that think I am too old.

We create our own supply dump of sorts by stacking up the boxes of ration and medic bags. We try to put all the ammunition into bandoliers or belt pockets to keep from making a big pile of loose clips and out of the sandy soil.

“How are we going to carry all of this extra stuff?” Surplis half whispers and half gasps. “I don’t have any room for what I already have.”

“Maybe we’ll make a couple trips,” I say. “Or maybe Quinten will bring replacements with him.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Surplis mumbles and throws a medic bag onto the ground. “No sense.”

“It’s going to be—”

He walks away before I can finish and doesn’t look back. ‘How rude,’ I think, but then hear him carry on with a conversation by himself. He continues to say things like, “What’s wrong with this picture?” and “Is anyone in charge of this mess?” and I begin to realize that he was never talking to me in the first place. This is Surplis’ way of letting off some steam. I can try to talk to him, but it would make no difference. He wouldn’t hear me anyways. Every man has a unique way of dealing with pain. I hide it as best I can while others let it out. Surplis is the latter and continues to talk and talk while walking around our small supply dump.

When we finish, I stand up to find Lieutenant Talbott or George to help us figure out what to do next. I see all the boys moving about. Some are carrying bodies. Others are spreading out shelter halves. Still others are searching for the remaining fallen. Amidst all this movement is Earl, standing still, looking pale and sullen. I am maybe twenty feet from him, but I feel like we are miles apart. He stares at the ground, and I don’t know why.

I know that I need to go to him, to hug him, to comfort him, to “stick together.” My steps toward him are met with thoughts on what to say. Do I try humor? Do I ask him what’s wrong? Nothing seems appropriate. Instead, when I get within arm’s reach, Earl looks up and start to cry. His mouth clenches. He tries to hold everything back as best he can, but he breaks down.

I hug him, tightly.

Earl doesn’t move.

He keeps his arms to his side.

He barely breathes.

“We stick together,” I whisper. “We stick together.” I squeeze him tighter.

No one in our squad makes light of our embrace. They continue working, carrying.

Earl mumbles something and I ask him to repeat himself.

“I killed a man.”

My heart drops.

I struggle to find the words on how to respond. Instead, I hug him tighter.

“I killed a man,” Earl says again. “I killed—”

He’s interrupted by two more arms that wrap around us. I find Emil with his eyes closed. Two more arms wrap around from Surplis. Then more. Soon, we are in the center of an embrace that includes everyone from our squad.

I hear a few voices say things like, “It’s going to be okay,” and “Don’t worry about it.”

I whisper, “We stick together, my friend. All of us stick together.”

Shortly thereafter, we break our hug and finish our work. Every soldier in the second and third squads is dead and properly taken care of by our efforts. We decide to rest until Quinten returns with support.

Several hours later, we hear the low rumbling of an engine coming and eventually see Quinten standing on a Jeep to keep an eye out for our position. Once he sees us, he yells something toward the driver and then begins waving. We begin to stand and gather.

The driver shuts off the Jeep and immediately finds Lieutenant Talbott. Quinten meets up with the rest of us.

“Is it just you two?” George asks to Quinten.

“Yes.”

We can’t hear anything that Lieutenant Talbott or the driver is saying.

“What’s the plan then?” George continues.

“I think we keep moving. I don’t really know.”

The driver steps back into the Jeep and drives away.

Lieutenant Talbott walks back to us and says, “Get your things together. We’re to move on and get to the village.”

“What’s going to happen to…” Surplis asks but can’t finish.

“They will be taken care of,” Lieutenant Talbott says. “See about taking on more supplies. If you can’t fit anything into your pack, grab an unused one and wear it on your chest. We need to bring as much as we can. Any questions?”

No one speaks up.

“All right. We need to go now. Get your stuff and let’s move.”

We gather our things and then all move to the small supply dump Surplis and I created. Everyone grabs several more boxes of rations and even more ammunition and tries to find places to store it all.

And after that, we begin our march again.