Measure of a Coward
Disclaimer: Same as before.
We sit in our foxholes at the front line when on duty at the observation posts and reside in temporary bunkers when not on duty. I read a letter from Andi I received a week ago, thanking me for having sent her a card on her birthday, reassuring me that it arrived from the North African desert on time. November 19, 2141 is today's date. I see several new recruits stepping of a five ton truck. They have the same appearance of all our green replacements, freshly issued desert uniforms that haven't bleached to a whitish yellow that the old hands of North Africa wear, web gear that hasn't faded to a dull green shade, fresh tan desert boots that haven't faded to a darker yellowish-white than our uniforms.
We get two replacements in our squad, one of them; Specialist Walter J. Pierce was a medic in Dyson City, wounded, and sent to our front after his recovery. The other is Private Michael Morerro. I speak with them briefly and point them off to where Sergeant McCron is.
I turn my attention back to my letter, one of three I received. The second is from my family, the third is from the Department of the Army. The third contains my promotion from Private First Class to Specialist which means little more than I draw more back pay in my account than I usually do as a PFC.
Andi's letter is telling of how she was down by the harbor, waiting for her parent's cruise ship to arrive with her brother Gavin and how they saw a hospital ship bringing hundreds of wounded from both Dyson City ashore. Many were on gurneys or wheelchairs; the lesser wounded were on crutches or walked to the convoy of ambulances and trucks that were their transportation to the convalescent hospitals in her area. I can only imagine the sight she witnessed, but it doesn't compare to the sight of what I witnessed in the aid stations, when men like them were being treated, seeing doctors and medics in bloodstained fatigues running about, trying to cope with the flow of casualties.
I notice that one of our replacements left his forage cap by the fuel drum I was sitting on. I go to where the squad bunker is and find him. "Morerro, you left this." I say.
He turns and faces me, a slight, Spanish looking youth of eighteen at the oldest. "You're a lifesaver man."
"You're welcome." I reply.
A few days pass; the first days always are edgy days for newbies. With doubled guard duties, due to recent nuisance attacks, there are now two of us at every guard post. Morerro is manning the infrared spotter scope where I man the machinegun poking out of the firing slit of our bunker.
In those few days, the kid has gotten himself a reputation as a coward. Sergeant McCron is always on his case. One fire fight the kid cowered against a wall, not firing his weapon and getting a kick in the behind, literally, from Sergeant McCron afterward.
"Where are you from?" I ask my fellow sentry at the machine gun.
"Manhattan, New York." Morerro says.
"Look, I see you've been having some problems around here. I know what you're going through." I say.
"That damn Sergeant McCron won't leave me alone; he's always getting on my case." Morerro says, "He then starts giving me this shit about being a part of a team, doing my job for the squad."
"Morerro, the only reason he gets on your case is because you aren't doing your job. Just kind of shut off your personality and go forward, take what he's saying, get the useful stuff out of it and filter out the expletives." I reply.
"I don't like shutting off my personality." Morerro says.
"I didn't say to do it all the time." I reply, patiently, "You're supposed to only do that when we're in combat. Then you can switch it back on again."
The rest of the night passes in silence, and the next morning at breakfast, Pilgrim takes a seat beside me and Wiersbowski. "That Morerro kid's a wimp, don't you think?"
"What makes you say that Pilgrim? He's not the first kid to get scared in battle." I reply.
"The kid's a fucking whiny little spineless crybaby." Wiersbowski says.
"That's harsh." I reply.
"You should see him on patrol; I don't want him anywhere near me. Because he doesn't have a problem with dying for me, he's just afraid to." Wiersbowski says, contemptuous of the same words Morerro has once told me.
"He's not that bad." I reply. Apparently Andi's diplomatic side has rubbed off on me, somewhat.
"His brother's a war hero in the 82nd Airborne. I know if I were Lieutenant Morerro I'd feel ashamed to have a coward for a brother." Wiersbowski continues.
"Wiersbowski, this kid didn't want to be here, he was probably drafted. He didn't enlist like we did." I reply, spooning down another gulp of chicken noodle soup. Wiersbowski can be a tad abrasive about people he thinks are cowards, but it's easy to be that way if you carry a big gun that blows most anything to hell in a hail of 20mm explosive tip rounds.
I hear footsteps walking away behind me. Morerro must've heard every word we said. I do not know whether to be angry or sympathetic because I find his statement, "I don't want to die for someone else because my home isn't threatened."
For the first time I realized how difficult it was for Andi, being the diplomatic one out of her family. It must've been hard when she agreed somewhat with both of the arguing parties. I am so lost in thought that I do not see Kat until he bumps into me, "Hey, I've scrounged some very good cakes for a bargain price from two old Bedouin crones, want to share some."
"Sure." I reply. Kat hands me one and I have the perfect solution.
"Don't tell me you've befriended that Morerro kid." Kat says.
"Yes, I have, somewhat." I reply.
"Piece of advice, he's a coward, leave him to rot." Kat says.
For one of the few times in the army I disregard Kat's advice and go off to find Morerro. I split the cinnamon flavored cake with him and let him sputter out what has been getting to him.
To me, parts of his character seem somewhat repugnant, the fact that he doesn't want to fight because he doesn't believe a crisis in North Africa or Europe doesn't affect him or that he doesn't want to just stick it out and do his job. But I can't just turn coldly away from him the way my friends have, it's not part of who I am. I can't believe Pilgrim, Fressan, and Wiersbowski could be so callous as to brand the kid a coward.
As we talk, he sees Andi's picture in my helmet and looks at it saying, "She's beautiful."
"See, Morerro, that's what keeps me buoyed," I say, "I look at this photo or think of her in my mind as we march forward and it takes me back to a peaceful time, that's what you need to do, find whatever gets you to a peaceful time and you'll make it through."
"Why are you being nice to me? All the others like that asshole Wiersbowski or that weirdo Pilgrim hate me." Morerro says.
"Let's just say that's not in my nature to be that way to someone because they're scared. And I'll talk to Pilgrim and Wiersbowski about their treatment of you." I say and leave the kid. He is a pitiable figure, a slight little boy in a uniform that is at least a size too large who looks like I must've looked when I first became one of "the Africans" of the barracks. Still, I keep my word out of sympathy and Pilgrim and Wiersbowski at least agree in words that they'll try to be more considerate in the future.
The enemy is relying on stay behind groups in mini fortresses, and this is why many small towns in our route to Gazala fall quickly to our advance. Our new medic, Pierce says they must be stalling to build a fierce defense at Tobruk.
Another patrol has been sent across the no man's land to determine enemy strength as we prepare to take Gazala. We travel in a looser grouping with Wiersbowski on point, McCron and Bronsky behind him, Fressan, Pierce, myself and Morerro in the middle and Kat and Pilgrim at the very end.
We encounter an enemy patrol two dunes over that must have an energy orb projector because we see two fist sized orbs hurtle towards us. We all duck for cover and Kat sets up his machinegun and starts to return fire. Morerro is separated from us in the crossfire.
"Morerro get over here!" someone shouts.
The kid runs, ducking low as bullets zip over his head and an orb explodes near him. He ducks, cowering and weeping on the ground. Somehow he makes it to our position. The kid is panic stricken, he wants to run back to our lines, if that is possible.
"Damn it! Stay down!" Sergeant McCron yells, in between firing his laser carbine and shouting over the radio for some fire support.
"Stay down!" Pilgrim says, grabbing Morerro by the shoulder blades. The boy wriggles free and runs. Pilgrim chases him.
"Pilgrim, God damn it! Stay where you are!" Wiersbowski shouts.
Pilgrim doesn't hear us for he pushes the kid down as he sees something we do not, a Gollum sniper has been stalking our squad. Pilgrim sees the creature at almost the same instant the Gollum shoots Pilgrim in the head. Pilgrim squeezes the trigger as well and his bullet pierces the Gollum's head. Walter J. Pierce knows his trade because he scrambles from the foxhole as Morerro shouts, "Medic! Medic!"
He returns, dragging Pilgrim behind him as well as Morerro. A humvee with a fifty-caliber machinegun mounted atop it pulls up. We get into the vehicle, piling inside, Pilgrim is lain across our laps.
Pilgrim's face is swollen and pinched at the same time to an extent that it no longer resembles my good friend from ACME. I jump on the fifty caliber and start squeezing off bursts as Kat and Wiersbowski add their fire as the humvee speeds across the dunes.
When we reach our lines, we confirm what we already know, Pilgrim is dead. I remove his dog tag and place it beside Rhett Garland's in my pocket. Two of my friends dead in six months, words cannot express how I feel. I feel anger towards the cowardly youth who got Pilgrim killed, as do the rest of us.
Morerro looks stricken as later in the bunker I go through Pilgrim's belongings. The rest of us split his uniforms between us. Fressan gets two out of four of his fatigue blouses and I get the remaining two as well as two pairs of fatigue trousers. Fressan also scores an extra forage cap and set of web gear as well as a good knife out of Pilgrim's gear. We will send to his family his more personal effects. What really boils my blood is how a friend I went through everything from ACME selection and training through boot camp and six months in Africa with was killed by the cowardice of another. Fressan is just as, if not more so, angered, he has known Pilgrim for most of his life since they grew up in Stuttgart, Germany, together.
When I see a picture of Wiersbowski, Fressan, myself and the now deceased Pilgrim before we shipped off to boot camp my blood really boils. Why did I befriend the little coward at all, I should have just left him to rot instead, then maybe Pilgrim wouldn't have run out to save him like he did because I had talked to him about being considerate toward Morerro.
I mull this as I lie awake in the bunker. Our attack on Gazala is in two days and we are to be rested before our assault, says our division commander. Fressan awakens me from a light doze, "Hey, Gallatin, we're gonna teach the cowardly little bastard a lesson for getting Pilgrim killed. Are you in?"
I feel mixed emotions at first as I get off my cot. "Give me a blanket, if you want no part in this, go back to sleep." Fressan says.
"I do want a part in this." I reply. Wiersbowski and Fressan take one of my two blankets and we wait for Morerro to walk in, hiding at the entranceway of the bunker. As he does Fressan throws the blanket over his head and Wiersbowski pins him with his solid arms. Fressan starts pummeling Morerro and under the blankets I can hear pleas and a muffled, "Stop! What are you doing?"
Then Fressan holds on and Wiersbowski has a go at it. Afterward, Wiersbowski and Fressan trade off, hitting and holding alternately. Then Fressan motions me over, "Do it."
I suddenly regret my words and do not want to carry out the action. "C'mon, do it."
Then I remember that I've known Pilgrim for nearly five years and this little coward for less than a week and I join in with blows of my own. "Remember this was just a bad dream crybaby." Fressan hisses in his ear.
As I lie in my cot, I hear Morerro's muffled sobbing and a betrayed, "Why?" under his breath.
What have I done? Just because I was angry at the death of a friend I took part in an attack on a kid who couldn't protect himself. What would my family think if they saw me do this, the same lad who stood up to an older youth bullying his brother, the same man who had stood up against a female gang member that was bothering Andi. What would they say if they learned I was as bad a bully as they were? I cup my hands over my ears as I attempt to sleep. I cannot sleep. Who am I to judge a coward much less beat someone I suspect as a coward?
The next day doesn't bring any more solace, even mail call doesn't. I get a letter, two actually, one from Zack and the other from Ivy. Both of them are saying my old job back at the Agency is waiting for me and also for Fressan, Wiersbowski, and Pilgrim. Their field assignments await them at their old offices. They do not know Pilgrim won't ever return to the Stuttgart Field Office ever again, at least not yet. They say to hang in there and that I'm a good person. Hah! A man who beats another who can't defend himself is not a good person at all. I let my anger and just a few persuasive words from Fressan and Wiersbowski to beat up an innocent victim.
And as if the offer of my old job means anything in this situation I've found myself in. I overheard Sergeant McCron and Lieutenant Parma talking about how we're expecting at least sixty percent casualties fighting for the area around Tobruk and Gazala. I remember this as I look up and down our line, looking at the man in front and the man in back of me. From these statistics one out of every three of us will be dead by the time we have pacified Tobruk.
The mini fortresses around Tobruk were only a delaying tactic, designed to keep us busy while the city was fortified. The column comes under fire from several batteries inside Tobruk.
Bronsky's swiftly on the radio and two Predator gunships come up and fire rockets into the city. We suddenly are jumped again, by a mixed group of zombies and crimson heads. There must be at least one Gollum or ogre with them for several fist sized energy orbs explode around us.
I work to help Kat get his machinegun up to return fire from behind a burned out wall. Another blast disintegrates part of the wall. And over it I head screams,
"Mama! Mama! AAAGGGHH!" Morerro is screaming, he's been hit or is being attacked.
I see a crimson head standing over him with bloodied claws as it rips at his midsection lacerating viscera. I shoulder my rifle, take aim and fire several shots. Immediately I find Pierce who looks at Morerro, seeing his insides lying about the ground, it doesn't look good, the kid is almost certain to die. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I grab Pierce's arm and take him over to Morrero.
"God! God! Fuck you! I'm dying! I'm dying Gallatin!" Morerro shouts as I reach him. I try to drag him back to where Kat is currently firing his machinegun with Wiersbowski's fire accompanying. He shrieks again, inhuman agony a thousand times more frightening than anything I've heard from these creatures we fight. I grab several morphine syringes off of Pierce who grabs my arm and says, "You'll kill him with too much!"
"He's already dead!" I shout back, giving Morerro two of them.
"More. Give me more." Morerro says.
Pierce gives me four more and I place them on the ground next to Morerro.
The only thing I can think to say is, "Bye kid."
"Bye Gallatin." Morerro says between sobs as he takes a syringe and injects. I drop to one knee, I am behind decent cover, and fire my rifle, killing three zombies coming towards a fresh corpse. Several creatures are already lying dead around me. Pierce is already somewhere else and the flying energy orbs show I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I reload a new clip with one hand, firing my pistol with the other, killing an ogre and two zombies that approached the dying kid.
He is still barely conscious as he looks up at me, watching me fighting off creatures that are coming for his dying flesh. I see in his eyes he is making his peace with me. "Mama." Morerro whispers, and starts to weep, "Mama. I wanna go home. I wanna go home. Mama. Mama."
It's more than I can stand. A boy who didn't want to be here, one who was labeled a coward and a misfit by his fellow soldiers, even one whom he thought he could turn to is now dying. By the time the creatures are beaten back, Morerro is dead. I remove one of his dog tags and stick it in my pocket.
I look at the pinkish glow of Tobruk, burning brightly from our bombardments from both air and artillery. I look at the recently deceased Private Morerro, eighteen years old and afraid, a boy labeled a coward by other soldiers not much older than he. My emotions are a jumble as the answer to this question is way beyond my comprehension. Is this boy the measure of a coward? I do not know, but though I tried to reach out to him, I let my anger towards his perceived fault in Pilgrim's death cloud it. It is only through a war that I met this youth, and it is also through a war that I had to say goodbye almost a week after I met him.
The day after the battle I am awarded the Silver Star by my company commander. But such an award, though it is greatly esteemed, means little to me for the experience I had gone through to receive it. A hollow victory earned only through the fact that a young boy is dead and I am alive. I feel like a low life, yes, but I am alive and that's all that matters.
Disclaimer: Same as before.
We sit in our foxholes at the front line when on duty at the observation posts and reside in temporary bunkers when not on duty. I read a letter from Andi I received a week ago, thanking me for having sent her a card on her birthday, reassuring me that it arrived from the North African desert on time. November 19, 2141 is today's date. I see several new recruits stepping of a five ton truck. They have the same appearance of all our green replacements, freshly issued desert uniforms that haven't bleached to a whitish yellow that the old hands of North Africa wear, web gear that hasn't faded to a dull green shade, fresh tan desert boots that haven't faded to a darker yellowish-white than our uniforms.
We get two replacements in our squad, one of them; Specialist Walter J. Pierce was a medic in Dyson City, wounded, and sent to our front after his recovery. The other is Private Michael Morerro. I speak with them briefly and point them off to where Sergeant McCron is.
I turn my attention back to my letter, one of three I received. The second is from my family, the third is from the Department of the Army. The third contains my promotion from Private First Class to Specialist which means little more than I draw more back pay in my account than I usually do as a PFC.
Andi's letter is telling of how she was down by the harbor, waiting for her parent's cruise ship to arrive with her brother Gavin and how they saw a hospital ship bringing hundreds of wounded from both Dyson City ashore. Many were on gurneys or wheelchairs; the lesser wounded were on crutches or walked to the convoy of ambulances and trucks that were their transportation to the convalescent hospitals in her area. I can only imagine the sight she witnessed, but it doesn't compare to the sight of what I witnessed in the aid stations, when men like them were being treated, seeing doctors and medics in bloodstained fatigues running about, trying to cope with the flow of casualties.
I notice that one of our replacements left his forage cap by the fuel drum I was sitting on. I go to where the squad bunker is and find him. "Morerro, you left this." I say.
He turns and faces me, a slight, Spanish looking youth of eighteen at the oldest. "You're a lifesaver man."
"You're welcome." I reply.
A few days pass; the first days always are edgy days for newbies. With doubled guard duties, due to recent nuisance attacks, there are now two of us at every guard post. Morerro is manning the infrared spotter scope where I man the machinegun poking out of the firing slit of our bunker.
In those few days, the kid has gotten himself a reputation as a coward. Sergeant McCron is always on his case. One fire fight the kid cowered against a wall, not firing his weapon and getting a kick in the behind, literally, from Sergeant McCron afterward.
"Where are you from?" I ask my fellow sentry at the machine gun.
"Manhattan, New York." Morerro says.
"Look, I see you've been having some problems around here. I know what you're going through." I say.
"That damn Sergeant McCron won't leave me alone; he's always getting on my case." Morerro says, "He then starts giving me this shit about being a part of a team, doing my job for the squad."
"Morerro, the only reason he gets on your case is because you aren't doing your job. Just kind of shut off your personality and go forward, take what he's saying, get the useful stuff out of it and filter out the expletives." I reply.
"I don't like shutting off my personality." Morerro says.
"I didn't say to do it all the time." I reply, patiently, "You're supposed to only do that when we're in combat. Then you can switch it back on again."
The rest of the night passes in silence, and the next morning at breakfast, Pilgrim takes a seat beside me and Wiersbowski. "That Morerro kid's a wimp, don't you think?"
"What makes you say that Pilgrim? He's not the first kid to get scared in battle." I reply.
"The kid's a fucking whiny little spineless crybaby." Wiersbowski says.
"That's harsh." I reply.
"You should see him on patrol; I don't want him anywhere near me. Because he doesn't have a problem with dying for me, he's just afraid to." Wiersbowski says, contemptuous of the same words Morerro has once told me.
"He's not that bad." I reply. Apparently Andi's diplomatic side has rubbed off on me, somewhat.
"His brother's a war hero in the 82nd Airborne. I know if I were Lieutenant Morerro I'd feel ashamed to have a coward for a brother." Wiersbowski continues.
"Wiersbowski, this kid didn't want to be here, he was probably drafted. He didn't enlist like we did." I reply, spooning down another gulp of chicken noodle soup. Wiersbowski can be a tad abrasive about people he thinks are cowards, but it's easy to be that way if you carry a big gun that blows most anything to hell in a hail of 20mm explosive tip rounds.
I hear footsteps walking away behind me. Morerro must've heard every word we said. I do not know whether to be angry or sympathetic because I find his statement, "I don't want to die for someone else because my home isn't threatened."
For the first time I realized how difficult it was for Andi, being the diplomatic one out of her family. It must've been hard when she agreed somewhat with both of the arguing parties. I am so lost in thought that I do not see Kat until he bumps into me, "Hey, I've scrounged some very good cakes for a bargain price from two old Bedouin crones, want to share some."
"Sure." I reply. Kat hands me one and I have the perfect solution.
"Don't tell me you've befriended that Morerro kid." Kat says.
"Yes, I have, somewhat." I reply.
"Piece of advice, he's a coward, leave him to rot." Kat says.
For one of the few times in the army I disregard Kat's advice and go off to find Morerro. I split the cinnamon flavored cake with him and let him sputter out what has been getting to him.
To me, parts of his character seem somewhat repugnant, the fact that he doesn't want to fight because he doesn't believe a crisis in North Africa or Europe doesn't affect him or that he doesn't want to just stick it out and do his job. But I can't just turn coldly away from him the way my friends have, it's not part of who I am. I can't believe Pilgrim, Fressan, and Wiersbowski could be so callous as to brand the kid a coward.
As we talk, he sees Andi's picture in my helmet and looks at it saying, "She's beautiful."
"See, Morerro, that's what keeps me buoyed," I say, "I look at this photo or think of her in my mind as we march forward and it takes me back to a peaceful time, that's what you need to do, find whatever gets you to a peaceful time and you'll make it through."
"Why are you being nice to me? All the others like that asshole Wiersbowski or that weirdo Pilgrim hate me." Morerro says.
"Let's just say that's not in my nature to be that way to someone because they're scared. And I'll talk to Pilgrim and Wiersbowski about their treatment of you." I say and leave the kid. He is a pitiable figure, a slight little boy in a uniform that is at least a size too large who looks like I must've looked when I first became one of "the Africans" of the barracks. Still, I keep my word out of sympathy and Pilgrim and Wiersbowski at least agree in words that they'll try to be more considerate in the future.
The enemy is relying on stay behind groups in mini fortresses, and this is why many small towns in our route to Gazala fall quickly to our advance. Our new medic, Pierce says they must be stalling to build a fierce defense at Tobruk.
Another patrol has been sent across the no man's land to determine enemy strength as we prepare to take Gazala. We travel in a looser grouping with Wiersbowski on point, McCron and Bronsky behind him, Fressan, Pierce, myself and Morerro in the middle and Kat and Pilgrim at the very end.
We encounter an enemy patrol two dunes over that must have an energy orb projector because we see two fist sized orbs hurtle towards us. We all duck for cover and Kat sets up his machinegun and starts to return fire. Morerro is separated from us in the crossfire.
"Morerro get over here!" someone shouts.
The kid runs, ducking low as bullets zip over his head and an orb explodes near him. He ducks, cowering and weeping on the ground. Somehow he makes it to our position. The kid is panic stricken, he wants to run back to our lines, if that is possible.
"Damn it! Stay down!" Sergeant McCron yells, in between firing his laser carbine and shouting over the radio for some fire support.
"Stay down!" Pilgrim says, grabbing Morerro by the shoulder blades. The boy wriggles free and runs. Pilgrim chases him.
"Pilgrim, God damn it! Stay where you are!" Wiersbowski shouts.
Pilgrim doesn't hear us for he pushes the kid down as he sees something we do not, a Gollum sniper has been stalking our squad. Pilgrim sees the creature at almost the same instant the Gollum shoots Pilgrim in the head. Pilgrim squeezes the trigger as well and his bullet pierces the Gollum's head. Walter J. Pierce knows his trade because he scrambles from the foxhole as Morerro shouts, "Medic! Medic!"
He returns, dragging Pilgrim behind him as well as Morerro. A humvee with a fifty-caliber machinegun mounted atop it pulls up. We get into the vehicle, piling inside, Pilgrim is lain across our laps.
Pilgrim's face is swollen and pinched at the same time to an extent that it no longer resembles my good friend from ACME. I jump on the fifty caliber and start squeezing off bursts as Kat and Wiersbowski add their fire as the humvee speeds across the dunes.
When we reach our lines, we confirm what we already know, Pilgrim is dead. I remove his dog tag and place it beside Rhett Garland's in my pocket. Two of my friends dead in six months, words cannot express how I feel. I feel anger towards the cowardly youth who got Pilgrim killed, as do the rest of us.
Morerro looks stricken as later in the bunker I go through Pilgrim's belongings. The rest of us split his uniforms between us. Fressan gets two out of four of his fatigue blouses and I get the remaining two as well as two pairs of fatigue trousers. Fressan also scores an extra forage cap and set of web gear as well as a good knife out of Pilgrim's gear. We will send to his family his more personal effects. What really boils my blood is how a friend I went through everything from ACME selection and training through boot camp and six months in Africa with was killed by the cowardice of another. Fressan is just as, if not more so, angered, he has known Pilgrim for most of his life since they grew up in Stuttgart, Germany, together.
When I see a picture of Wiersbowski, Fressan, myself and the now deceased Pilgrim before we shipped off to boot camp my blood really boils. Why did I befriend the little coward at all, I should have just left him to rot instead, then maybe Pilgrim wouldn't have run out to save him like he did because I had talked to him about being considerate toward Morerro.
I mull this as I lie awake in the bunker. Our attack on Gazala is in two days and we are to be rested before our assault, says our division commander. Fressan awakens me from a light doze, "Hey, Gallatin, we're gonna teach the cowardly little bastard a lesson for getting Pilgrim killed. Are you in?"
I feel mixed emotions at first as I get off my cot. "Give me a blanket, if you want no part in this, go back to sleep." Fressan says.
"I do want a part in this." I reply. Wiersbowski and Fressan take one of my two blankets and we wait for Morerro to walk in, hiding at the entranceway of the bunker. As he does Fressan throws the blanket over his head and Wiersbowski pins him with his solid arms. Fressan starts pummeling Morerro and under the blankets I can hear pleas and a muffled, "Stop! What are you doing?"
Then Fressan holds on and Wiersbowski has a go at it. Afterward, Wiersbowski and Fressan trade off, hitting and holding alternately. Then Fressan motions me over, "Do it."
I suddenly regret my words and do not want to carry out the action. "C'mon, do it."
Then I remember that I've known Pilgrim for nearly five years and this little coward for less than a week and I join in with blows of my own. "Remember this was just a bad dream crybaby." Fressan hisses in his ear.
As I lie in my cot, I hear Morerro's muffled sobbing and a betrayed, "Why?" under his breath.
What have I done? Just because I was angry at the death of a friend I took part in an attack on a kid who couldn't protect himself. What would my family think if they saw me do this, the same lad who stood up to an older youth bullying his brother, the same man who had stood up against a female gang member that was bothering Andi. What would they say if they learned I was as bad a bully as they were? I cup my hands over my ears as I attempt to sleep. I cannot sleep. Who am I to judge a coward much less beat someone I suspect as a coward?
The next day doesn't bring any more solace, even mail call doesn't. I get a letter, two actually, one from Zack and the other from Ivy. Both of them are saying my old job back at the Agency is waiting for me and also for Fressan, Wiersbowski, and Pilgrim. Their field assignments await them at their old offices. They do not know Pilgrim won't ever return to the Stuttgart Field Office ever again, at least not yet. They say to hang in there and that I'm a good person. Hah! A man who beats another who can't defend himself is not a good person at all. I let my anger and just a few persuasive words from Fressan and Wiersbowski to beat up an innocent victim.
And as if the offer of my old job means anything in this situation I've found myself in. I overheard Sergeant McCron and Lieutenant Parma talking about how we're expecting at least sixty percent casualties fighting for the area around Tobruk and Gazala. I remember this as I look up and down our line, looking at the man in front and the man in back of me. From these statistics one out of every three of us will be dead by the time we have pacified Tobruk.
The mini fortresses around Tobruk were only a delaying tactic, designed to keep us busy while the city was fortified. The column comes under fire from several batteries inside Tobruk.
Bronsky's swiftly on the radio and two Predator gunships come up and fire rockets into the city. We suddenly are jumped again, by a mixed group of zombies and crimson heads. There must be at least one Gollum or ogre with them for several fist sized energy orbs explode around us.
I work to help Kat get his machinegun up to return fire from behind a burned out wall. Another blast disintegrates part of the wall. And over it I head screams,
"Mama! Mama! AAAGGGHH!" Morerro is screaming, he's been hit or is being attacked.
I see a crimson head standing over him with bloodied claws as it rips at his midsection lacerating viscera. I shoulder my rifle, take aim and fire several shots. Immediately I find Pierce who looks at Morerro, seeing his insides lying about the ground, it doesn't look good, the kid is almost certain to die. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I grab Pierce's arm and take him over to Morrero.
"God! God! Fuck you! I'm dying! I'm dying Gallatin!" Morerro shouts as I reach him. I try to drag him back to where Kat is currently firing his machinegun with Wiersbowski's fire accompanying. He shrieks again, inhuman agony a thousand times more frightening than anything I've heard from these creatures we fight. I grab several morphine syringes off of Pierce who grabs my arm and says, "You'll kill him with too much!"
"He's already dead!" I shout back, giving Morerro two of them.
"More. Give me more." Morerro says.
Pierce gives me four more and I place them on the ground next to Morerro.
The only thing I can think to say is, "Bye kid."
"Bye Gallatin." Morerro says between sobs as he takes a syringe and injects. I drop to one knee, I am behind decent cover, and fire my rifle, killing three zombies coming towards a fresh corpse. Several creatures are already lying dead around me. Pierce is already somewhere else and the flying energy orbs show I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I reload a new clip with one hand, firing my pistol with the other, killing an ogre and two zombies that approached the dying kid.
He is still barely conscious as he looks up at me, watching me fighting off creatures that are coming for his dying flesh. I see in his eyes he is making his peace with me. "Mama." Morerro whispers, and starts to weep, "Mama. I wanna go home. I wanna go home. Mama. Mama."
It's more than I can stand. A boy who didn't want to be here, one who was labeled a coward and a misfit by his fellow soldiers, even one whom he thought he could turn to is now dying. By the time the creatures are beaten back, Morerro is dead. I remove one of his dog tags and stick it in my pocket.
I look at the pinkish glow of Tobruk, burning brightly from our bombardments from both air and artillery. I look at the recently deceased Private Morerro, eighteen years old and afraid, a boy labeled a coward by other soldiers not much older than he. My emotions are a jumble as the answer to this question is way beyond my comprehension. Is this boy the measure of a coward? I do not know, but though I tried to reach out to him, I let my anger towards his perceived fault in Pilgrim's death cloud it. It is only through a war that I met this youth, and it is also through a war that I had to say goodbye almost a week after I met him.
The day after the battle I am awarded the Silver Star by my company commander. But such an award, though it is greatly esteemed, means little to me for the experience I had gone through to receive it. A hollow victory earned only through the fact that a young boy is dead and I am alive. I feel like a low life, yes, but I am alive and that's all that matters.