FUGAZI - Fucked Up, Got Ambushed, Zipped In
Smoke drifted around his fingers and he enjoyed the burn of ash as it fell onto his exposed arm. Spot Conlon was like that. He was known to be fond of pain, but only from time to time. The iron railing dug into the bone of his forearm and he turned his head to look sideways at his companion. Racetrack struck a similar pose, his back a little more rigid, the line of his mouth a little more stern. The gentle rocking of the troop ship was easing Spot's stomach as much as it was upsetting those of other more unfortunate soldiers, and he was content to watch his friend as they drifted farther out into New York Harbor. Race was watching the Statue of Liberty go by, but Spot was otherwise occupied.
"Europe, huh?" Race said before pulling a long drag off of his cigarette. "You know who's in Europe?"
"Hitler?" Spot asked. Race shoved him and Spot snorted, sticking his own cigarette back between his lips and letting it hang there.
"No, asshole, Montenegro. Remember him? Fifth grade, kind of a dick."
"Yeah, I remember." Spot straightened and scraped his hand through his hair, shaved into a Mohawk for esprit de corps. "I thought he was in the Pacific. Wasn't he a marine?"
"No. Paratrooper. He jumped on D-day."
Spot was quiet for a long time after this, remembering the picture on the front cover of Life magazine. The face of the soldier crawling through the waves had been distorted, shaky. He and Race had been at the training camp when American, British and Canadian forces stormed the beaches at Normandy. They'd talked about how badly they wished they could have been there, but now Spot wasn't so sure. The man in that picture, rifle in hand and surrounded by flotsam, hadn't looked human.
The deck of the ship was packed with still-waving soldiers. They annoyed Spot...but then again, most things annoyed Spot. It was something Race was actually quite fond of. Spot spent most of his time being cranky; it made Race smile. That too annoyed Spot.
"What're you thinkin' about?" Race asked, straightening as well and flicking the butt of his cigarette over the side of the boat.
"Normandy," Spot said, not really wanting to explain more than that. He was fairly sure Race would get it anyway. He was like that.
"Yeah." Race nodded once and scratched a spot under his chin. "I was thinkin' about that last night. Fucked up."
They didn't talk after that, not until they went down below with the rest of the soldiers and started up a rousing game of cards. Instead they stood and watched as everything they'd ever known faded beyond view. Neither knew whether they should be scared or excited or even sad; neither was really willing to talk about it. Instead they concentrated on the thrum of the ship's engines; rhythmic, thundering vibrations they could feel through the deck. They thought about how to unload, clean and reload their M1 rifles. They thought about how to dig a foxhole and how to strap on their parachutes. Army training came in handy when one was too anxious to think about the mess they were about to land in.
The sun was hot on the top of their heads even though the wind coming off the water was chilly. Across the Atlantic it wasn't just their company who was waiting for them. Germans were waiting for them, bullets were waiting for them, tank rounds were waiting for them... but the boys didn't think about that as they each started another cigarette. The imminence of their mortality had yet to dawn on them. It was hard to think about death when death had never come near before. It was a distant concept; one that they weren't even sure was real. Sure, they had known people who had died, but they couldn't die, could they? They were too young and brave. Death happened to the elderly and the unfortunate few who had drawn the short straw.
Spot thought about the picture his had mother slipped into his pocket before hugging him goodbye. He hadn't discovered it until his fourth day of training at Camp Toccoa, Georgia. Spot and his little sister sat on the front steps of their building, his mother and father standing behind them. His knees were on his elbows and a reluctant grin was on his face. He'd had much better things to do when they'd asked him to sit for that picture. It was taken almost a year before he'd joined. He pressed his hand over where the picture now rested, in the breast pocket of his fatigues, but didn't hold the gesture. There were many things he was willing to share with Racetrack Higgins, but the fact that he already missed his family was not one of them.
A group of four or five men from their company at Toccoa passed behind them; one slapped Racetrack on the shoulder, a gesture of invitation. Spot and Race glanced at each other before pushing off the railing and turning to join their friends. They would go below decks and gamble. The sun would set. The troop ship would cross the Atlantic and then they would be in Europe. Then they would be at war.