The Company

June 5, 1944, D-Day -1, 2230 hours

"The need for devotion to something outside ourselves is even more profound than the need for companionship. If we are not to go to pieces or wither away, we must have some purpose in life; for no man can live for himself alone."

"The Great Crusade" was on. Or so the Supreme Commander of the Allies, Dwight D. Eisenhower, announced for the Allied troops in preparation for what was the largest invasion force in history. They were to free France from the grip of "Nazi tyranny" and be a symbol of freedom and liberty to those in the world that suffered from oppression. Eisenhower reminded them, "The eyes of the world are upon you." What a crock of shit, Conti thought. The world wasn't looking at them; the only ones looking at them were themselves.

There they were, 180 men of Able Company under the command of Captain John MacKay, stuck in a cramp compartment in a large amphibious assault troop transport ship, preparing to gain some much needed rest before the would be sent to liberate France. The putrid stench from the farts, breath, feet and sweaty bodies of over a hundred men that ran rampant on the turbulent sea voyage would have been enough for the men to shoot themselves had not their nostrils mercifully deadened themselves to the odor.

Within the dimly lighted steel hellhole of excess moisture, whose metal walls resounded everything, was First Sergeant Joe Conti, resting on his cot drowning out the din of conversations that bounced off the metal walls. Nerves had shot through the men like jugs of espresso, murdering the sleep of most. Half of the men sat quietly to themselves, contemplating their inevitable fates; while the other half spoke with one another with rowdy volume. Two soldiers giggling like school children, bumped into Conti's cot, jolting him up.

Conti roared awake, "What the hell!"

His fiery eyes fell on the two soldiers, who cowered from the fuming Sergeant. Just my luck, Privates Johnson and Fuller. The two were inseparable. "Can't you idiots watch where ya goin?"

"Sorry Sarge, we didn't mean to," Johnson apologized, his nasal thin voice squeaked from his wide mouth. The kid was eighteen, just broke the milestone about four months ago.

"Yeah, it ain't our fault it's more crowded than a supermarket before Thanksgiving," Fuller added. He was the cooler of the two, always ready to give a smartass comment or a dry analogy.

Conti sighed, "Can't a guy get some peace and quiet in this tin can? You two, vamoose! Now. I don't wanna see you schmucks until the landin."

"You got it, Sarge." Fuller nodded. "C'mon Johnson, let's leave the old man to his beauty rest."

"This 'old man' is going to kick your ass if ya don't amscray."

"Yeah, we're leaving Top."

Conti watched as the two men vanished within the crowd of soldiers. He shook his head. This is what the Army had reduced itself to, kids and smartasses.

Conti himself was "Old Army". He was 37 years old and had enlisted back in 1934 following a messy divorce in the latter stages of the Depression. Ten goddamn years in the army and nothing had changed. Same bullshit officers who ran the show and the same bitching wet-noses of new boots who lacked spines.

These were the men of Able Company, 1st Battalion, 116th Regiment, of the 29th Division. "The Blue and Grey" Division, so named for the division patch, a swirl of blue and grey from the respective uniforms of the American Civil War. The Division's National Guard comprised of Border States back in the Civil War, Maryland & Virginia. That's where most of these boys were from, Maryland, Virginia, and DC. Not Conti, he was from Brooklyn. Hell, he never left Brooklyn, even during the Depression.

The men in his company had endured many hardships in their life, and they made sure to translate their struggle into their actions. They bitched and they groused, but they never shirked a command given to them. That was where the true spit of soldiers comes from. The more they bitch, the harder they fought. Well, in theory anyway. These bitchy boots were still untested in the rigors of combat. Out of the 180 men in Able Company, only twelve had actual combat experience, including Conti.

He fought in North Africa with the Big Red One—the 1st Infantry Division. He landed on the beaches as a Staff Sergeant and fought all the way to Kasserine Pass. His side ached at the mere thought of "The Pass." He remembered it well; his unit was tasked to hold their ground against an onslaught of tanks and infantry. Their position was shot to pieces, men began running, he stayed his ground; yet he didn't remember why. German mortars rang down and got him in the shoulder, he tried getting out of his foxhole but a rifle round found its mark in his side. He was carried back to the aid station and evacuated.

While recovering and listening to the success of the North African campaign, he received notification he had been promoted for First Sergeant. Why? How the hell should he know, the only significant thing he did for two months was sit in a hospital bed. After recovering, he was reassigned to the 29th Division that had just landed in England. He was happy to be leaving Africa; he never wanted to see another patch of sand again. Upon reaching the 29th he was given the assignment of company First Sergeant for Item Company, until he learned that John MacKay was the Commanding Officer of Able, and better yet, Able had a vacancy for a First Sergeant. He instantly requested a transfer and never looked back.

"Um, h-hey Sergeant Conti?" a meek voice came behind the First Sergeant.

There was Private Kenny Goldman, a scrawny Jewish kid from Waldorf, Maryland, trembling as if he was about to piss himself. Just by studying his face, Conti knew he was going spill his guts about the upcoming landings.

"What is it, Goldman?" Conti yawned, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Well y-y-you see I-I-I want to know a-a-about what is-is…what I'm tryin-trying to say is…uh, I'm not—"

"Ya puttin me to sleep, Private. Get on with it," Conti said dryly.

"What I'm trying to say is…" it looked as if he was going to cry, "I think I'm going to die tomorrow!"

"Ya do?"

"Yeah, I-I-I just feel it. In my bones, Top. I feel it in my bones I'm going to die."

"So why come to me?"

Kenny gulped, seemingly unware that Conti would ask him that. "Cause I figure you tell me the secret to surviving and all, I mean you fought before, s-s-so come on and help me, this is t-t-tearing me apart!"

"I say again, why me? Why not talk to other veterans like Blackwell?"

"You nuts! I'm not talking to that maniac! I-I-I just want to know from you, you're experienced and all? What's the secret to surviving?"

The secret? Conti shook his head. This sad, naïve kid is going to die. There was no secret to surviving a battle. You can prolong your survival by not being a dumbass, but there is no guarantee that you will survive in the end. At the end of the day, Lady Luck determines whether you live or die. She can be your virginal High Queen or the Bitch that gives you the Itch, it's all up to her to decide whether you bite the bullet or not.

If the men wanted to survive, then they had to accept their life was meaningless in the grand scheme in the war. If one cherished his life, he couldn't go beyond the call of the duty that was required of him. The great ol' contradiction of soldiering. Kenny was on the verge of that discovery. But at the same time, you weren't supposed to be trembling so hard you'd soil yourself, it puts the rest of the men on edge.

"I-I-I just know I'm not going to make it outta here, Top," he continued to stammer, "I just know it."

"Yeah, you're not going to survive."

Kenny's eyes widened in shock, his jaw trembled. "If you continue to act like that," Conti finished. "I know you're scared, hell you ain't the only one. But you better stop that cryin' right now. I'm not going to have your fear infect everyone here. If you want to survive, then you better accept that you can die any moment now. Trust me; you'll feel a hell of a lot better. Now go talk to Private Merrill, let him keep you company."

Kenny blinked at him, his trembling ceased, but the fear in his eyes was still there. Conti raised an eyebrow and shooed Kenny away. He reclined back on his cot, feeling good that he helped the young man. Or at least he hoped he thought that way. Conti wasn't the man who would emotionally comfort you, he spoke hard and bluntly. Maybe that was why his first wife left him. He didn't know why some men came to him as the shoulder to cry on. Maybe it was because of his rank? A grizzled man like him wasn't one for pep talks. He just knew the hard truth. And if you couldn't accept it? Tough shit.

Conti sat up on his bunk, his tired eyes observing the men killing the time around them until the invasion. Many of them were gambling, Conti didn't see the point; would they keep it on them as they invaded a hostile beach? Or were they hoping to spend it on Paris once they liberated it? Well, whatever, as long as it kept their feeble minds occupied. There were several men locked in prayer, like the scrawny Private Desmond Deering from Annapolis, Maryland, the choir boy Catholic who surprisingly could sing in a bass-baritone that could rival Bing Crosby. Conti could see his lips moving a mile a minute in prayer, while his thumbs were kneading his rosary beads. Many of the soldiers kept to themselves, sleeping, or lying on their cots, anxious about going into battle, anxious about killing, terrified of the thoughts of them dying.

And then the last group was the ones who seemed unfazed by the thought of going into battle. These were the ones who would be the hardened soldiers after the invasion was over. These men were talking to one another about everything under the sun, including the invasion with relative smiles on their faces. Across the compartment, Conti spotted Able Company's resident sniper, Private First Class Jeremy Troy, from Roanoke, Virginia. Troy had seen action on North Africa and was sought after by Captain MacKay, a wise decision on the Captain's part. Troy was an enigma to some, but a true soldier to Conti. Troy was gregarious, witty, and approachable to everyone, but once he's on the firing range, his personality did a 180. He was calm, stoic, even seemingly demented; Conti remembered he talked to himself when he looked down his sights—even calling himself "The Boogeyman". But once he was done, he could revert back to his outgoing self; it wasn't an instant switch-back, it would take time to readjust but he'd change to his fun-loving self. For a man to be able to utilize his primordial bloodlust without emotion to kill the enemy and at the same time be able to revert back to his humane, moral nature; that is what made a perfect soldier.

Conti chuckled at the thought of Troy calling himself, "The Boogeyman." Nicknames were rampant within the company. Over by the large gambling crowd was the young ringleader, the forward scout for Able, Private "Dice". Conti heard he hailed from Atlantic City and was the luckiest bastard in this company, always winning fortunes with his pair of dice. Gambling alongside "Dice" was a chump nicknamed "Ruby" for his bright red hair. The men were prone to calling him, "Red" at first, but the name was so generic that Ruby scrapped it, ultimately leading to "Ruby" after the Wizard of Oz. Conti thought it was a queer nickname, but whatever the men wanted to call themselves. Then there was Corporal Derek "Duck" Hudson, got the name "Duck" because no matter what he did, constructing, shooting, map reading, first aid, hand-to-hand fighting; it all came natural to him like he was a duck on water. Not to mention the other bizarre names were, "Spuds" Williams for the size of the soldier's head, "Babe" for the soldier who could've been the bastard of Babe Ruth, "Badmouth" was the man who couldn't finish a sentence without having at least three curses in it, "Caveman" Pearson because the soldier lacked appropriate hygiene, and "Hummingbird" for a soldier who was short and kept humming to himself—God, that was a stupid nickname.

Then there was MacKay's personal radioman, T/4 Gabriel Middlebrook, aka "Fats", whose name spoke for itself. The man was as round as a barrel and as pleasing to look at as a bunion. How the hell he became a soldier, Conti would never know. Just another walking example that the quality of the Army had dropped in this war. Fats walked by Conti's bunk, snacking on chips.

"Hey Fats, you gain any more weight and you're gonna sink our landing craft tomorrow," Conti said to him.

"Hey Top, I'm getting a call, hold on." Fats motioned his hand like a phone, "Ring-Ring, Ring-Ring, it's for you Top. It's from Mr. Kiss-my-fat-ass!"

Fats walked away chuckling. Conti chuckled as well. Well…Fats was one of the alright ones. A man who knew his shortcomings, but didn't take shit from anyone. That's always a man Conti could respect.

"Oh God, I-I-I'm s-sorry there Blackwell, I ain't mean to done spill on ya!" Private Merrill stammered in horror.

Conti shook his head with a smirk at the nearby commotion. Merrill had gone and spilled some water on the scariest man in the company, Private Walter Blackwell. The whole compartment fell quiet so fast you'd think everyone suffered a heart attack.

Blackwell looked down at his soggy jacket and smiled at Merrill with an unhinged expression, "It don't matter, Merrill. In a few hours we're all going to be drenched, be it water or blood."

Merrill trembled in his boots and scurried off, Blackwell chuckled.

Wherever Blackwell went, the men would eye him curiously for a while, getting out of his path if he walked by, treating him like a pariah. Not out of spite, but out of an innate fear. Blackwell was insane, a sociopath, it was clear as day to see derangement in his eyes and hear death in his voice. But Blackwell did not possess the physique of a monster, per say. He had a dark complexion and black hair, with wild black eyes; but stood exactly at six feet and had an ever so slight muscular build. It must have been the swagger that Blackwell carried that made soldiers shiver. His gait was always composed, tempting anything that approached him to strike him down if it could.

Conti had seen plenty of killers in the Army, but none to the same degree as Blackwell. The man was rotting away in a stockade and was up for a court martial before he was sent to Able Company.

As Company First Sergeant, Conti read the report on what got Blackwell on the Army's shit-list, the rest of the company found out eventually through the puzzling power of rumors. Before he arrived at Able, he was with the 3rd Infantry Division; he fought in North Africa and in Sicily. On Sicily, he was a Sergeant under the command of a newly minted 2nd Lieutenant, a favorite of someone from Division apparently. Blackwell's unit was sent to attack a heavily fortified position, and it became the same story of infantry attacks mixing with bad leaders. Leaders falter, men die. His platoon was nearly obliterated, and instead of leading his men, the new lieutenant freaked out, abandoned his men, and started fleeing from the battle, in clear sight of the General and his staff watching the attack.

Something must have snapped in Blackwell. With the higher echelon of officers watching, Blackwell gunned down the deserting lieutenant and took command of the attack and captured the objective, but the officers watching never forgot what they witnessed.

A firestorm grew from his actions which led to a lengthy investigation. Blackwell help seized the objective, but he murdered an officer. The officer was clearly deserting his post which was punishable by firing squad, the remnants of the platoon testified that the lieutenant just up and ran in hysteria, even dropping his weapon. But it was not Blackwell's right to shoot him on the battlefield, there was a process for a court martial that could have been made. And back and forth the argument went.

Blackwell was immediately stripped of his rank and sent to the stockade awaiting trial, where he rotted for months. On his court martial, Blackwell defended himself, stating the officer was incompetent and deserted which led to unnecessary deaths in his unit. Some of the judges had their own opinion. But the Invasion of Normandy was looming, and Conti guessed that the Army needed every available body they could get for the invasion, even convicts. Blackwell was somehow reassigned to Able Company out of all the outfits participating in the Invasion, the generals even ran Blackwell's history to Captain MacKay, who signed off on him. Why? MacKay wouldn't tell him. And here was Blackwell, joining two months before the invasion, but on his first day here, his presence was already known, and feared.

Truthfully, Conti got along with Blackwell quite well. The two weren't friends by any standards of meaning, more on the line of two raging stags eyeing each other warily across the forest. Conti knew Blackwell did his job and did it well, but he also wouldn't hesitate to shoot a soldier if they failed their job—a great motivator for any slacking GIs—so Conti left him alone.

"Blackwell," Conti called the man over. "I don't need you to scare these kids shitless so soon before we land."

Blackwell took out a strand of gum and chewed voraciously, "Why not, Conti? Need to make sure they're more scared of us than the Germans."

"I don't want them to be so scared they can't shoot straight."

"Ah, guess you're right." Blackwell turned his head, taking notice of the men staring at him, "You think they're warming up to me?"

"As much as one warms up to a pebble in their shoe. The question is, are ya warmin up to 'em?"

The corner of his mouth rose sharply, his teeth seemed to resemble fangs, "To hell with 'em, if they don't need me, then I don't need 'em."

"Drop the shit, Blackwell. You know what it's like being part of a company, we're together. None of your lone wolf shit, you hear?"

Blackwell chuckled deeply, "Shit, Conti, you sound like MacKay…where is the skipper anyway?"

Blackwell followed Conti's eyes to the corner of the compartment, where Captain MacKay was squatting with the other officers of Able Company; their heads were together going over a map of their designated beachhead, Dog White. Conti's eyes sat on the composed Company Commander, wondering how he would handle under the strain of battle that would come within hours. Conti had battle experience, MacKay didn't.

Conti remembered as if it was yesterday, ten years ago. Fort Riley. Boot camp. The twenty year old John MacKay was a fresh face recruit like the twenty-seven year old Joe Conti, both men green as the morning dew grass. The men were from the opposite end of the social spectrum. Conti grew up in the hard knocks of Brooklyn; MacKay was from the upper middle class of Washington, D.C. Conti never left Brooklyn; MacKay had traveled all across the country. Conti was in a fight once a month; MacKay was never struck with anger. Conti had several messy relationships with women; MacKay married his high school sweetheart. But what gave them something to relate to was the Hand of the Depression, rupturing MacKay's family wealth and giving Conti another dose of unfortunate reality that shit happens.

In the first day of basic, at 27, Conti was the old man of the new recruits, and the drill sergeants made sure to let Conti know it. They started out with calisthenics, pushing the men to their limits, but the drill sergeants hounded the "old man" until Conti collapsed. They spat and swore and told the rest of the group to watch Conti perform pushups by his lonesome. Halfway finished, Conti could feel the muscles in his arms straining under his weight, begging him to stop this fruitless effort; screaming for him to give up, like the world had told him so many times.

It was MacKay that intervened; he hopped to the ground beside Conti in the pushup position and said to him, "C'mon, you can do this! Show these chumps what an "old man" can do!"

Conti was speechless. This guy who he had just met today got down with him to help him out. And soon after, the other recruits followed suit and they too did their pushups. MacKay had the power to inspire; Conti recognized it in that moment, MacKay would be going places. And sure as shit, Conti finished his pushups.

That day forward, Conti and MacKay had been inseparable. They endured the hardships of boot camp, confided into each other, and emerged as soldiers of the U.S. Army as great friends. They stayed in the same outfit for six continuous years, until MacKay—at the rank of Sergeant—received an Officer's Commission. He left and made himself a Second Lieutenant in 1941, but the two wouldn't reunite until 1944 when MacKay was a newly promoted Captain in charge of his own infantry company.

Sometimes it takes a lifetime for an officer to ever win another man's respect; MacKay had it on day one.

Blackwell smacked on his gum, "He seems sharp and cool and all now. But when the metal meets the meat, he better not freeze up or get us killed."

"He won't. He's different."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He won't."

Blackwell shrugged, "If you say so." The gum had lost its taste, he spat it out. "All we got to do is get off that beach quick as a hare. I keep telling these chumps that. They say they got it, but I don't think they'll remember when shells are exploding."

"I don't think it matters. We're all dead men walking."

Blackwell gave the Sergeant an insane grin. "I don't think these sorry bastards caught on yet. Wonder if the Cap will?"

"A good leader can't act like that."

"What?" Blackwell chuckled, "Ya got a hard-on for him?"

Conti smirked and faced the grinning man, "Ya ain't all that faithful in officers ain't ya?"

"You show me one good officer and I show you twenty dead ones and forty dead enlisted men."

"Just worry 'bout the men beside you, and MacKay will worry 'bout us. I have faith in him, you should too."

Blackwell locked eyes with Conti, "Don't disappoint me, Conti. You know damn well faith and war don't mix. I had faith the war would end years ago, but that's not happening now is it?"

"Well I have faith that my fist is going to meet your teeth if you don't knock that off."

Blackwell stared for a while long, his grin slowly growing in intensity, his voice ever soft, "There it is."

"There it is," Conti echoed coolly as he reclined back in his cot.

Blackwell nodded as he left, "See you on the beach, Top. Try not to get killed."

"Same to you, Blackwell."

"Try?"…that's funny. Anyone could try not to get killed. But it was going to happen eventually, they're just fake words to inspire hope in others. Conti closed his eyes, and in a strange spiritual side of him that he long believed had died, he…he felt them. He felt the men around him; he felt their fear, their fatigue, and their impending courage when the time would call upon them to act. These men have trained together for this exact moment, within hours they would enter the gates of hell and many of them would not live to see the day. The eyes of the world are upon you…would the world see them bleed like hogs on the beach, or torn to shreds from bombs, no. Only they themselves will see the pain that they will have to endure with their comrades, what would the world know of their pain? In war, it was only the soldiers who could understand; in war, they would be ones the ones alone. And when they are bleeding to death in an unnamed ditch or strip of beach, will the eyes of the world be on them then?

Conti shuddered at the thought. No, if his men are to die, he shall be by their side, and witness their misfortune and suffering, something the world will never truly see. He owed the men that, as they owed him. From the terrified Goldman to the insane Blackwell, all the men in Able Company deserved someone to witness their sacrifice. They will fight in this Crusade of War together, and so be it… they will die together.