Junket

On the way to meet the correspondents, Smith thought about the mission. Barker wanted a nice clean war, sanitized. Nothing wrong with keeping some of the grim reality from the home folks but the mission was different.

The Army wanted to boost the morale of the infantry troops and get them some good publicity. Face it, for glamor, the Army Air Force and the Navy had it all over the ground troops. It was easy to write stories about them, film exciting sequences for the newsreels that would be shown back home. Planes limping back to base, shot full of holes, naval guns firing salvo after salvo, bombs exploding on enemy targets, fountains of water erupting as depth charges detonated. These were thrilling and action-packed, guaranteed to attract attention and publicity. Romantic, even. Casualties were hidden; the chewed up plane or a sinking ship, were enough to evoke the injuries to flesh and bone.

Not so with the infantry. Nothing terribly exciting about seeing a man shoot a Garand or machine gun downrange. Worse, casualties were right there. In the open. Men falling to the ground, wounds not hiding behind anything except clothing or bandages. Death was plain for all to see. It was hard to write about the infantry in any other way.

The infantryman slogged it out in mud, dirt, rain, heat or snow. There wasn't anything glamorous about that existence. They lived in foxholes, went weeks without a proper bath or shower, or good sleep, and suffered high casualties. It was hazardous work and morale suffered. Work that only their families and the men involved seemed to understand.

At least, through the efforts of Ernie Pyle and supporters in Congress, combat infantry troops finally got some recognition of the hazards. First a special badge only awarded to those in the Infantry. The Combat Infantry Badge. And just this June, now any infantryman who earned the CIB would get a little extra in their pay envelopes. He earned that badge, though not the extra pay, being an officer.

Some called it combat pay or hazard pay, but to Smith's way of thinking all the ground troops, armor, artillery, engineers, Signal Corps, all deserved the hazard pay. However, it was the infantry that the Army was trying to bolster. Their morale was lower than all the other groups. Perhaps it was because the infantry had younger troops, less well-educated, or more draftees. He didn't know, but the Army had decided the infantry needed better PR, better home support, and it was his job to help get it.

He didn't know if the War Bonds weren't selling like they used to, or if support for the troops was waning now that the enemy was on the run, as some ill-informed editorial writer had opined. On the run? Hell, they might be in retreat but neither Hitler and his claque or the Empire of Japan had shown any sign of running, far less surrendering. It was still a long hard slog to Berlin and Tokyo.

Now, it was up to correspondents like his charges to show how the infantry was winning the war, and deserved all the positive recognition the country could give them.

Smith already visualized the trio as a team. The men could write stories; the photographer take pictures. Together they could tell a good story with the infantryman as the focal point. War was a messy business. He hoped Eleanora Hunt wasn't too squeamish; that the men still had the stomach for it. He wondered if he did.

His job was to make sure his correspondents had that opportunity.

Reality slapped him right in the face.

So much for a team.

The correspondents mixed like oil and water. Smith felt like a parent trying to keep peace among three restive children cooped up in a hot car on a cross-country trip in a rattletrap old jalopy. The two men settled into an alliance against Miss Hunt. The sniping drove him crazy.

That day had been uneventful. He brought them to the front, except the Germans weren't cooperating. Not a single shot the entire day. Elenora Hunt spent part of the day under the watchful eye of a lieutenant. He took her from foxhole to foxhole. She took photographs of men digging in, or dining on rations, but as far as combat went, the day had been a bust. Barker would have approved. The men interviewed several soldiers, but spend most of the day being bored. Even Smith was bored.

After dinner that evening, his charges separated to do work. The men remained in the mess tent and hauled in their typewriters. One of them produced a bottle and a couple of glasses. They sat down to write, pounding away on the typewriter keys. They bounced words off each other. In between bouts of typing they worked on decreasing the level of liquid in the shared bottle.

Smith left for several minutes. When he returned, the correspondents obviously felt their work for the day was done because no paper or typewriters remained. They must have gone back and dumped the stuff off in their tent and returned.

Smith plotted potential places to visit the following day. The two silently watched him work. When the captain looked up, finally finished, they invited him over to share a slug straight from the bottle. Smith declined but took them up on the offer to sit next to them. Pretty soon, the two started reminiscing about some of the things they'd seen in the Pacific. The stories were not pretty. If the title of "war correspondent" had ever sounded glamorous, the job romantic, the shine was long gone, the romance faded.

One of them asked, "Smith, you see action over there? In the Pacific?"

"No. Italy. Anzio, then up that damned peninsula." He stopped, remembering. Then, "came ashore on D-Day." That's all Smith volunteered. No, war was not pretty, and he had his scars, mental and physical.

The two men nodded at him. "So you know." one said. "Miss Hunt doesn't have a clue."

Abruptly, one, then the other rose, and bidding the captain good evening, they wandered back towards their quarters.

Smith went off in search of Miss Hunt. She had been eager to find a dark room and develop the film she'd shot. He saw her in the distance headed towards the nurses' quarters. They'd found space for her there. The VIP tent had been claimed by the two men because there were two, to her one. He increased his stride and pace to catch up to her.

He could hear her mutter about "No action. Not enough dirt, no mud." Obviously, she was not particularly pleased about what she'd seen or not seen that day.

"Miss Hunt?" he called softly.

She turned, spotted him and stopped. She waited for him to come abreast. "Captain Smith. Good evening."

"Good evening, Miss Hunt."

"Got a minute, Captain?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She started walking slowly towards her quarters. "Come on, Captain. Walk me to my tent? Please."

It was a lot easier to talk and walk, than just to stand there. She was one of those people that was always on the go. She'd been teased mercilessly about her nonstop restlessness. Been in trouble for it all through school, too. And when it was important talk, it was definitely easier to be moving than standing still.

"I have to tell you, Captain, that today's pictures just won't do. I must have some real action. Bullets, grenades, mortars. Oh, I don't know the terms exactly, but there should be lead flying through the air. Dirt and stuff." "I didn't come here just to shoot men just sitting in foxholes, even if they are looking a bit worse for wear."

"Ma'am. The Germans aren't in the habit of telling us where they are going to be. At least not mere captains such as myself."

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that."

Oh, yes you did, thought Walter, but he didn't say it.

"I mean, I was sent here to take those kinds of pictures. Get a real picture of what the infantryman goes through. Something to justify that extra pay. And to stiffen the resolve of people back home."

"Yes, Miss Hunt."

"You may not be aware, but there is quite the black market back home. People are getting things like tires and gasoline, food, all those rationed things. And that is part of my job, I guess. Make people feel guilty about getting things on the black market, things that should be going for the war effort." She paused. "Most people aren't that way, but there are some."

"Well, Miss Hunt, I understand your problem. We'll just have to see what tomorrow brings."

Smith had already decided that tomorrow would be the day where he would fulfill some of Barker's wishes. He'd plotted a Cook's tour of the not-so-active front. He was busy after the correspondents had retired to their quarters and contacted several units to make sure he had their latest location.

The next day, they packed up. They would not be coming back to Love Company. They were headed to Jig, on a rather circuitous route. Their stuff would be waiting there for them. He'd arranged for it to be delivered there, and for someone to try and get them better quarters than canvas tents. The radioman would see what he could do, but made no promises. The weather forecast was looking like rain by evening. Once they were packed and had breakfast, they were on their way.

He drove. His male passengers were mostly silent. They nursed hangovers or slept. She entertained him with tales of some of her trips. Once she learned he'd wanted to fly on the Clippers, she told him of several small adventures that had never made it into her published travelogues. Blissfully, there wasn't the constant bickering of the day before, although there was an occasional murmured "oh be quiet" from one or the other of the men.

The countryside was torn up, small fields pockmarked with shell craters. They passed a few fields marked off with danger signs. Mined, one of the correspondents said. She perked up in anticipation of action, but none was forthcoming.

Their first destination was a platoon in reserve. The men had taken up residence in a deserted farmhouse.

Scrawny chickens pecked around the hard-packed dirt of the yard, scratching for bugs or seed. They warily eyed the tall, two-legged featherless intruders. A few of the flock, less alert or swift than their mates, were missing.

The missing flock mates were to be guests of honor at dinner. They now simmered away in a pot, carefully tended by a soldier. Others of the platoon busied themselves washing and mending clothes, writing letters, cleaning guns, repacking gear, and sleeping, mostly sleeping.

The men crowded around the visitors, jostling to introduce themselves to Miss Hunt. She graciously met all of them and took several photographs.

"Captain, do you want to stay for dinner?" asked the private who was tending the chicken stew.

"Thank you. We'll stay, but you save the chicken for yourselves. Even two or three chickens won't stretch too far. We brought rations for ours, but we'll borrow your fire to warm things up a bit."

He looked at his watch. "We'll have to leave within the hour, though. We have another stop or two before we get to our final destination."

The meal provided another opportunity for the correspondents to interview soldiers and for Miss Hunt to take pictures.

Finally Smith announced, "Saddle up. We have to get on our way." The correspondents looked as if they would be just as happy to stay right there in that abandoned farm as to go on driving around the countryside, but Smith reminded them their personal things were waiting for them at J Company.

Thanks and good lucks were exchanged. The captain and charges headed on their way. They made a few more stops. At each stop, there were more interviews and photographs, but nothing unusual or exciting, to anyone's way of thinking. The last stop was a small Signal Corps unit and a mobile pigeon loft. Miss Hunt was intrigued by the whole operation. She'd not seen anything like that before.

She charmed the pigeon handlers, even their crusty old sergeant, with her interest. She coaxed them to fly the birds so she could get pictures of them in flight. She did not neglect the handlers either, taking several shots of them with the birds. She interviewed the men at length before deciding she had enough material for a story.

They made it to J Company with time to spare before night, but not by much. The day had turned overcast, and chilly. They were all happy to get under cover and get something hot to eat. Mess was in a building so all of them stayed in there to work. More comfortable than in a tent which would be, at best, chilly.

It had started to rain. If the Army had wanted the correspondents to experience a little of the misery of an infantryman, the weather was doing its best to cooperate.

Miss Hunt came over to shoot the breeze, he thought, but noticed she had an oilskin clutched in her hands. "What have you got there, Miss Hunt?"

She replied, "Contact prints. There's a lot more, but I thought you'd like to see a few of them."

"These were from that first day," she declared as she laid some out. Men in foxholes staring off into the distance. Some were attempting to sleep, helmets tilted down to cover their eyes. Another soldier using his helmet as a makeshift basin. The lieutenant and a sergeant looking at a map.

"My tentmates that evening," she said as she laid down more pictures. A nurse sitting exhausted on her cot, drained after a long shift at the hospital, dark spots on her jumpsuit, blood perhaps. Another nurse, pinning up her hair and putting on a touch of lipstick. "For the boys," Eleanora said. "That's what she'd said when I asked why the lipstick."

She drew a few more pictures out from the oilskin. "Here's today's crop." Tired soldiers sitting around, cleaning guns and washing socks. Two soldiers, smiling, as they pulled on a wishbone.

Pigeons, gorgeous in flight, each feather beautifully detailed. Darned if they weren't pretty. Their handlers, tucking them back into the loft. "The Signal Corps would love those," he said. "You ought to figure out how to get those to that unit."

He looked through the photographs again. Beautiful, candid shots of Americans in service to the country. She had a gift, the captain thought. The ability to capture small slices of a day and make them significant. "These are very nice. What are you going to do with them?"

"I got everyone's name and hometown. I'll send them along with a brief story to local newspapers. For the Joe Blow biographies that they all publish. It'll take a while for me to track down every paper, but I'll do it. Every man and woman out there deserves their own story. They're all important and necessary to the war effort. It's more, though." She thought for a couple of minutes.

"It is history. That's really what I do. What all of us do." she gestured at the other correspondents, "We capture the now for the future."

She went on. "We won't be around forever." "Somebody has to tell their stories." "You know that no company, battalion, or division diary can ever come close to telling each person's story like we can. Those are really boring, barely more than just a brief description of what happened. Company A moved from this point to that point. They engaged the enemy and won. Maybe a list of casualties, no names, unless some big brass was killed." "Oh, they might include a date or time, if you're really lucky, there's a remark about the weather, but nothing more. For the most part."

Hunt changed focus, "Some of the other photographs can be feature spreads in Life or National Geographic. We'll see. The Army wants that, good PR and all that. Still, I need the real war, the shooting war to tell the story the Army expects me to. Americans triumphant.

"Soldiers dining on chickens, cleaning equipment, checking a foxhole. The nurses, getting ready to go on shift or coming back from duty. Pigeons carrying messages to the rear in a tiny capsule." "Those are interesting and important. But." Her voice lingered on that word for what seemed to Smith, a very long while, "not what I was sent here to do.

"How about something at the front, with potential for real action. Normandy is a hotbed of action, contested every step of the way. This bocage country," she said, "is deadly. My stories ought to reflect that. We've yet to even hear a shot fired in anger. Or even a shot."

She went on for a bit more. At least see men who looked like they'd fought against something more dangerous than a leaky canvas tent.

"If you'll excuse me, Captain. I have work to do. Stories to write." With that, she gathered up her photographs, tucked them back into the oilskin, and headed out of the building and off to her tent (which, by the way, was leaking).

It stormed all night and into the next day. Smith decided not to go anywhere. The roads were liable to be muddy and really, what was one day more or less. He briefed the three. According to the latest weather forecasts, tomorrow, though cold, should be mostly dry. It would be a good day to catch up on their reports from the front. Mail would be picked up early the next morning, have it ready in time for morning mess. "Meet here," indicating the mess area, "tomorrow morning, the usual time."

Off they went on that fateful day, out in the early morning chill and drizzle. The sector was calm currently, but they would be close to a recently active front. A company of Germans had been reported, not too far away. They might just get a glimpse of some krauts. The Resistance was nipping at the heels of a retreating Wehrmacht. So, anything could happen. Miss Hunt perked up at those words.

They arrived at the platoon's bivouac. The sun had made no impact on the miserable morning. Smith expected another dull day. He'd do introductions, there'd be a brief or two and then the correspondents would wander around doing their jobs. He would wait wherever he was told to wait, perhaps talking to the officer in charge or maybe just twiddling his thumbs, drinking down whatever hot liquid he could find.

It hadn't worked out that way.

Miss Hunt ranged far afield within minutes of arriving at the bivouac. She hopped out of the vehicle and started taking pictures and asking questions of anyone she could. She stopped more than one soldier on his way to the field kitchen truck.

"Miss Hunt," Smith called. She reluctantly joined the small group in the tent. Smith made introductions and they listened to a brief. Smith released the trio. They could stay in the area, interview soldiers or visit an observation post. He'd actually placed a hand on Miss Hunt's shoulder as she immediately turned to go, and said sternly "With escort. Only with escort."

He cautioned, "Lieutenant, Sergeant, Miss Hunt is a bit of a free-lancer." To their questioning looks, he elaborated. "She likes to wander far afield. She's a restless sort. Driven.

"The brass want her here. Good PR and positive war news." "You know, support at home, sell those war bonds, boost morale. That stuff. She can do us a lot of good."

He passed on Barker's one rumor he thought worth mentioning. "Supposedly, the Navy caught her sneaking aboard a submarine." In response to the sergeant's statement that there were no submarines here, he replied, "Well, you know what I mean. Don't let her go signing any peace treaties on her own."

The sergeant agreed to take her to an observation post and off the two of them went. And started the ball rolling that led to the disaster at Trois Anges.

The captain thought, Trois Anges, no separate peace treaty there. If anything Miss Hunt stirred up a hornet's nest.

Her work was daring and bold. He just hadn't realized how closely she resembled her photographs.

He glanced at his watch. They were sure taking their sweet time getting out of Trois Anges.

Author notes:

Junket – a promotional trip paid for at government expense. In my story, although the expense of the trip is borne by the government and the Army was hoping for some stories that would boost the morale of the Infantry troops and bolster the home support, the luxurious implication is missing.

Combat Infantry Badge and hazard pay. Rather than have a lengthy discourse about the CIB and Infantry morale in the author notes, I let Walter do all the thinking about it. If interested, you can read about it in various Army publications, public law, or even in Wikipedia.

Cook's tour – a rapid tour of an area, hitting the "highlights" only. Thomas Cook & Son was a well-known British travel agency that specialized in guided tours. These tours, though well-organized, rushed their customers from sight to sight, (or maybe site to site), so people could see lots of things in a very short time. Sadly, the company went "belly-up" in 2019, stranding hundreds of thousands of their customers far from home.

Dinner – dinner is the big meal of the day where I'm from. It could be served as the mid-day meal (Lunch) or in the evening (supper). Supper was always the last meal of the day. So for this chicken dinner, it was served in the mid-day.