Random Intensity: continued

Sgt. Matt Baker stormed into the Command Post, looking his regimental officer right in the eye and demanded that his men be cycled through into Bastogne, and given time to get off the front. The deaths of Hartsock and McCreavy had thrown him into a state of rage. He was done, mentally and physically, and so was the rest of his squad, he could tell. Leggett, with his usual bags under the eyes, now looked as though those bags had suddenly become suitcases, his face ashen and only half shaven. Baker could tell that if this young man saw one more dead GI, he would snap like a balsa wood plank under a pounding sledgehammer.

Major Kravitz gave Baker a stern look down his overly large nose, made a face as though he was disgusted, then nodded his head, with a gruff, "Alright, ill send in Charlie Company to slot into your positions around 1530. You and your men keep your eyes out for any more Krauts, you hear me? You may be getting reposted in six hours, but that doesn't mean you let down the watch, got it, Sergeant?" he waved his finger at him, as though he were some naughty school child being told not to do something bad.

The sergeant sighed, giving a crisp salute and a "sir, yes sir!" then about faced, and ran off to his squad, bearing the great news.

When he returned to his company's series of foxholes, he stopped as he saw the bodies of Hartsock and McCreavy were placed in shallow depressions in the ground and covered with a light dusting of dirt and a field blanket, the best they could do for a field burial in these conditions. He did not remove his steel pot, but walked forward, and placed a hand on each of the men's chest, as though trying to console their souls and help them rest easy.

After a few seconds he rose, looking meditative, before Coriell came scrambling up the hill, a German Walther P38 in his hand. "Hey guys! Look at this! It's a fucking Luger!" He said, waving it joyously over his head.

Pvt. Haverson raised his eyebrow as he examined the weapon from a fair distance. "Hey moron, why don't you let me take a look at that really quick?" he asked, his facial expression radiating smugness.

Looking quite happy with himself, Coriell handed the weapon to Haverson, who took the barrel of the weapon, pulled, feeling Coriell getting pulled toward him, then brought his fist down hard on the man's steel helmet, making him yelp loudly in surprise and pain. "This is a Walther P38 you dumb ass!" Haverson yelled, getting a good slap across the top of the helmet in for good measure.

Coriell looked totally deflated, "You… you mean its not a Luger?" he asked, looking up as though he were a child ready to cry after breaking a window while playing baseball in their local sandlot.

Haverson just laughed, "Look at this! I can't believe you can't tell the difference! When you confuse a P38 for a Luger, you should just say that a Grease gun is a Thompson!" He chuckled, slapping his knee for good measure, just to show how funny the situation was.

Coriell blushed, said he had to do more digging for his foxhole, and then flitted, ghostlike, to his hole, feverishly digging, as though trying to bury his embarrassment in the frozen earth.

Baker sighed, looking over his small five man squad. "Well I'll be damned…" he murmured to himself, "the best in the Army, huh? Half of us dead, and were the best in the Army…" He chuckled softly, looking back on the fateful night that he had dropped straight into this hellish war, with nothing but his bare hands to defend himself with. He could remember that night, standing in the door of the C-47 Transport, watching as the batteries of anti-aircraft guns and the blinding light of searchlights suddenly flickered out in front of him, then the shell hit the craft, jostling him hard enough to send him out the door and on his way down. He thanked god that he was already hooked up when that had happened. If he had failed to do so, he would have been the consistency of toothpaste, he knew that.

Baker looked down at the cigarette he had dropped on the ground before tending to Hartsock. He reached down and picked it up with his forefinger and thumb, then brought it up to his eyes as he dropped to a knee. He studied it carefully, rolling it meditatively in his fingers, just staring at it, thinking about how when he died in this war, he wanted to die with a cigarette between his lips, just letting that last puff go before saying goodbye. He smiled at himself, that kind of death would be truly romantic, one to be put in books, in the movies, even. He shook his head, looking up and out over the field of dead young men. He raised an eyebrow as he saw one body move, one in white, he looked like he was going for his rifle, but a sharp crack told him that one of his riflemen had spotted him first, and when he looked back, he saw more red where the man's head had been, now just a bloody stump of a neck, really… not much left to say he still had a head.

He had been chewing on the end of the cig for a few seconds, before he began to taste copper. He plucked the cigarette from his lips and examined the butt of it, seeing that it was stained deep red. He shuddered, realizing that he had just tasted his own squad mate's blood. He smiled suddenly, even in the midst of his horror and got up, walking over to Hartsock's partially covered corpse, smiling down at the staring brown eyes. "Here bud… it's all yours" he smiled as he popped the cigarette into the dead man's mouth, reaching up to his eyes and closing them with his index and middle finger in the "victory" sign, and closed his eyelids, following tradition to the book. "Farewell, good soldier… farewell…" he whispered, replacing the dark green cover over the dead man's face. He looked up once more at the sky, and then let his head return to the business of dealing out death for the next four hours.

"Alright, gents! Fall in!" He yelled, as his five man squad turned and converged on his foxhole, gathered around their squad leader with rapt attention. "Leggett," he continued, "has informed me that the fighters in England and France are grounded, the fog is just too thick for them to hit their targets. We are going without air support until this fog clears, is that understood?" He looked in each of the tired, worn faces, as he smiled. "You boys are damn good men, you know that? I would not want to be out there with any other squad if my life was on the line, you guys have already saved my dumb ass more than a few times." He said, smiling. The smile he was issuing being returned, along with a few light hearted chuckles.

"Keep your heads down, but be vigilant! We don't want our replacements to get slaughtered, so stay alert, that's all I'm asking of you for the next," he looked at his watch, 1200 hours, "three thirty hours, and by the way, does anyone have any extra rations, we dropped ours when the shelling started… and their covered in Hartsock, so I'm going to ask if anyone is willing to share their C-ration with me… is that alright?" He asked, looking up as each member of his squad said in unison, "if you want to share with me, sir, I have no objections."

This made him smile. The six of them made a good family. They watched out for each other, encouraged each other, and congratulated each other. They told each other stories about home, movies, girls, girls, and more girls. They also remembered the stories of those who were gone, Hartsock's times in Little League, Travis' stint in Major League play, and all of Crittenden's letters, which were read at assembly whenever there was a lull in the fighting or the time between battles was interrupted by a sudden peace over the French countryside. These readings were done by none other than Haverson, much to Crittenden's combined delight and embarrassment, but he just laughed it off and had a good time with the rest of them. Stories. Stories of all kinds, he even remembered an argument between Leggett and Hartsock about if Superman and Batman got into a fight, who would win. Leggett kept saying Batman would win, while Hartsock, and pretty much the rest of them, agreed that Superman would kick Batman's sorry ass into next year.

"That is all, gentlemen, now fall out and be careful." He barked in a commanding tone, giving them all a salute, "each and every one of you, were gonna make it, I promise you." He said in a softer tone, giving them a nod. They gave a nod in reply, and fell out as ordered, heading back to their foxholes in short order.

The Sergeant smiled even wider as Haverson sat down next to him as the others dispersed. "Here sir… share mine," he said, a smile on his lips as he set the, what to most palettes, would be a horrifying meal of spam, but to them, it was a godsend. They dug into it quickly, the spam being slightly frozen, but still edible as they let each bite thaw for a minute in their mouths before chewing and swallowing. This slowed their pace a bit, but they had to have made that a five minute lunch. Both of them had lost their hot soup breakfast earlier that morning, and they definitely did not want to lose this meal, as well.

Things were quiet on the bluff overlooking the almost orchard-like field before them, watching for any signs of movement over the next three hours. Sergeant Baker had devoted himself so fully to the task that he jumped when he was tapped on the shoulder by another man in fatigues. "Sir, we are the replacements, Dog Platoon" He said, his larger jowls quivering as he spoke.

Baker gave a relieved sigh as he reached for the man's hand, feeling fat, warm fingers taking his hand and giving a good, hearty squeeze. "This boy is pretty big to be a paratrooper," he thought, giving him a look over. The man before him could best be described as… roley poley, with a little bit of a gut, and a shock of blonde hair peeking out from under his dark green steel pot. He wasn't exactly fat, but his girth was… Healthy was the best way he could describe him. He had a strong grip, denoting that not all of it was fat, but that the fat concealed a stronger person beneath the flabby façade.

He seemed to be a man of good character and good will, probably very light hearted and full of life, someone he didn't see as being the best person for the position of Sergeant. Baker sighed, then quickly began to inform the Sergeant about the situation and about the action a few hours before hand. "And be careful, okay?" he concluded, looking into his shockingly blue eyes.

The large Sergeant nodded, "Alright, I'll watch my step" he said, giving a soft chuckle as he broke the other Sergeant's gaze, setting off into the foxhole, taking up most of it with his own body, the frozen blood under his feet cracking under his weight.

Baker turned to his company, calling out, "Fall in! Get ready or a few hours of sleep and a hot meal." He chuckled as he began to hike up the side of the hill, thinking about exactly what that hot meal would entail, as the rest of his men fell in step behind him.