CHAPTER 9 "Can't Tell"
06/07/44
6th entry
It has been 4 days since we've fought on Foucarville and Beuzeville-au-Plain. Yesterday, Captain Collins has managed to make contact with the rest of Able who were scattered all over Normandy in the night of June 6. All of us moved to this town of Ste. Mere-Eglise to rally with them. Boys from the 82nd captured this village days ago during that fateful night. And now, many had converged here for their R and also to prepare for the actions ahead for the rest of the Normandy Campaign, as Sergeant Donnelly demanded.
Lieutenant Speyer departed when the rest of the fellows from Dog Company met up with us at Beuzeville; almost at the same time when those Infantry guys from Utah relieved us. So are the rest of the non-Able Company men who tagged along with us.
And I forgot to return his pencil.
Right now, it's all sleep and rest for us. Until we receive new others from Battalion HQ of course…
D-Day plus 1, Village of Ste. Mere-Eglise, Normandy; France, 1401 Hours
Temporary Company Headquarters; Able Company, 506th Parachute Regiment; 101st Airborne Division
I managed to get some sleep. A complete one. Finally. And I'm not talking about the kind of sleep in which one eye must be left open. No. I stretched out this morning. I regained much of my strength, typical in greeting a fresh new day. But even though I felt rested enough, I wasn't looking forward for any orders. Though I know they will come sooner or later.
It was already afternoon. What to do today…
Nothing much. Again. I played some poker with McCarran and O'Shea and with some guys from the 82nd. Yes, both 101st and 82nd had intermingled today. The streets of Ste. Mere-Eglise were exuberant with the variety of American faces walking around; mostly doing nothing "official". The poker game I had was less enjoyable, however. A poker without Clyde was not as lively as it was supposed to be. I kept seeing an Ace of Hearts on the deck of cards; shuffled again and again after each game.
Rosenbaum was messing up with the radio again. He was in a church together with his platoon; listening to BBC and all.
Right now, I found myself playing chess with O'Shea inside a local shop. Funny. We were using a chessboard care of the Germans. It seemed old though. Berlin-made. 1934 vintage.
Some pieces were absent. I used 3 bottle caps for the missing Pawns. An empty rifle casing for my Queen.
"When will you stop castling, David?" I asked.
It was already our 3rd game. 2 to nothing. That castling tactic he kept on using keeps winning him the game, as I've noticed. We we're playing for 30 minutes now. But time seems to snail like an hour or two. I don't really care though…
"It's called 'strategy', Robert! Just shut up and play!"
It was my turn. A black Pawn was moved to D9.
"You sure aren't getting tired with this game…" O'Shea sighed.
Qxb5.
A white Queen took a piece at B5.
"What!" I didn't saw that coming.
"Heh. Checkmate, yet again…"
The King was cornered immediately.
Now, 3 to nothing. O'Shea was pretty good in this game. Damn. Of course he should be. That New Yorker smile of his keeps pissing me off. I hate it when I lose.
"That's it! I'm out of here!" I stood up.
"Go ahead. Anyway, I'm tired of sitting my ass all day just for this."
"Where're you going?" I asked. He began to grab his helmet.
"To the bar down the street over there. I'll get something to drink. Wanna come?"
"Yeah."
There was nothing left to do anyway. All our fire seems to have been extinguished. Nothing seems to rekindle them. Ironically as it seems, David and I were down today amidst the supposed joys and laughter we should have been sharing with the rest.
Picking up our gear, we made a walk down the lane towards the saloon. A couple of Airborne guys were there; also drinking the time away. Tables were a bit dusty. Some chairs resting on top of them. Only the sun illuminated the seemingly abandoned place.
We went to the counter. We scanned for some whisky or wine. But we couldn't find what we're looking for. Every bottle was written in French. And it looked like some had been looted earlier; gaping empty spaces between supposedly close groups of wine and liqueur gave us that hunch.
O'Shea got a bottle; I recognized the word 'cognac' in its incomprehensive label.
"You wouldn't want that, David." I bid him.
"Really? Can you suggest anything aside from French brandy?"
How did he know that it was EVEN a brandy?
"Well if you find a Scotch; I'd really would bang the gavel for that." I said.
But there was none. Yeah. I'd better get myself ready for another sip of "Normandy-brandy". Tastes like crap…
We brought out a few cups. I pulled the cork out with a knife. As it got off, the smell of cherry water nuzzled in my nose. It was an aroma that's getting familiar to me. Though, I hated this stuff; I sat down with O'Shea on the table. We started to pour.
It was funny, the sound of the distilled spirits rushing down the glass reminded me of the drink I had with my Dad; that family reunion on Saturday night. Reminded me of home. Also, reminded me of Gretchen…
Gretchen…
It was hard to set aside reality for once, when you're a hundred miles away from her. But I wanted to. Reminiscence was perhaps the most reasonable thing I could do for now…
I've been out here for just a few days. Yet, I couldn't help but to miss the comforts, joys and memories of home. I don't know what day it was today; really. Maybe it's just me. Looking at my calendar seems to be synonymous with tracking down the last days of my life; how long will I last before this war's over. But if it was a Sunday; I would picture Mom and Dad going to Grandma's house in Missouri. A Saturday, then it is Gretchen's day-off. I do hope she is fine today. I'd like to see her hazel eyes again after I'm done with this tour of duty.
I frowned. Now I know what war is like. So nostalgic.
I'll be damned if I found myself joining up once more in the years to come.
So far away from home.
But little did I know that a chance like that will never be given to me.
Ever…
Today was the perfect time for me to soul-search; the effects of the cognac began to knock to my door. My mind was blanking out a bit; the water was seemingly slowly seeping into the depths of my brain. As if a letter was given to me by God to answer his call; to see myself.
Something blinked into my head.
Oh yeah. I forgot about that.
I took out my diary. I didn't mind O'Shea's stares at me as I fumble with my bag. The red notebook inscribed with a bronze "Property of R.L. Turner." Nothing to write down, though.
Slid between the last two pages were the letters. Memos, greetings, Christmas cards, all my mail was cramped there. I haven't read some of them, though. Among them was the one most recent letter I received last May. The one final letter from Gretchen. Though it was already crumpled to hell, I wanted to pull it out again. I think it was a Friday last month when I thought about opening it. But Captain Collins was so strict that we should focus more on the job at hand. D-Day. It would have also aroused suspicion; since all 176,000 men of the invasion force was denied of contact to the outside. Reading it might put my ass on the line again.
Something like "Incompetence to follow direct orders from the unit's commanding officer" thing.
I took it out and unfolded it. This was the first time I will read this letter. It was dated January 7, 1944.
…
"Hey, what's that?" O'Shea asked me.
I didn't listen.
01/07/1944
Dear Robert,
How are you today? I understand that you might not reply to this one too. If counting was allowed, I'd be damn sure that this was the 99th letter I sent to the Army Mail for you. I hope nothing's wrong. Just be sure that there is a good reason for you not to answer back.
Remember that bank I am working on? Well, it got burnt to the ground last Saturday night. A drunken moron drenched the place with motor oil and lit it up. I think this guy's name was Arthur. The old man running the bakery down the lane? Mrs. Bailey and him had a very 'dangerous' argument as I've heard. He got caged after the police caught him. Right now, I have no job. Isn't funny? Hopefully some mothers in this town make a calling for baby-sitters. Mom's helpless without me…
Listen. I know for a fact that something's up with the Army. After the news of Operation: Torch reached back home, I am getting worried. Worried for you. Sounds mushy, eh? But yeah; I am. Please come back home safe. I don't know when you will be shipped to Europe. I am looking forward for a special welcome when you return. You're mom's got it thinking over.
Always remember that I never held anything against you. Perhaps when I said I was; I wasn't thinking straight. I hope this year's end I won't see a folded American flag in your home.
Take care of yourself, Robert. For me.
Gretchen.
David noticed my silence; my eyes going about as I read the letter.
"Let me guess… it is from-"
"From Gretchen." I cut in.
"Good for you." O'Shea replied "Me? I haven't got any letters from Rose back home."
"O…that waitress girlfriend of yours?"
"Yeah."
"Hey! Maybe she's seeing another guy right under your nose and you don't even know it!" I joked.
"Heh. Well, Robert. If I knew that, next time we fight I'd gladly lead a charge straight into the krauts' line of fire; then WHAMM! Instant Hero's Welcome! She'll have second thoughts for sure."
"She would? Maybe she'll kill herself when she found out that you were sent home in a box."
Footsteps at the door.
I turned around.
"Hey! Drinking without me? That's just rude, Robert." McCarran spoke.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Just patched up a guy who fell from a truck headed here when it swerved hard down the road. Nothing you non-medics should be concerned…"
He sat down with us. I handed him a cup and he poured down. He smelled it first.
"What do you call this stuff?"
"French guys called it cognac. Their own shitty version of Blended American Whisky." I answered.
"Well, you're quite wrong there, man. This thing is made from cherry. Blended American's made from grain. Besides, this is a brandy. Not a whisky. Dumbass." O'Shea commented.
"Shut up."
Hugh saw the piece of paper held in my fingers.
"What's that?"
"This? Just another letter from my girl back home…" I quivered.
"Gretchen?"
"Yeah…"
"Heh. Lucky bastard…" He laughed.
In truth he was just hiding his envy. Amongst the 3 of us, he was the only one who doesn't have a sweetheart to go home to. He wasn't that good with women. He told to us once that he loathed girls. Too incompetent for his standards as he says. So hard to please. Actually, he was just a timid guy and he doesn't even want to admit it.
The atmosphere was silent inside the bar. The two guys we saw earlier began to leave. Just the 3 of us remained. We already finished our bottle as seconds seemed to tick by like minutes. Man. The stuff really tastes like cherry water. With dust.
"I'll get another one." O'Shea stood up.
Picture us sitting there doing nothing; staring mindlessly at anything worth our attention. McCarran was resting his eyes. He sighed as he lay back at the chair. I admit that I wasn't used to silence.
Then I thought of a stupid question just to break our numbness. The cognac really slowly trickling into my thinking.
"So, what do you guys think of this war?"
"What?"
That was odd. McCarran sounded as if he wasn't surprised about my words speaking out such a query constructed in a mindless manner only because I was a bit drunk.
"You saw what happened yesterday." I continued, "I bet that was just an appetizer for a really terrible main course…"
"Yeah…just one day…then Clyde's dead, Gallagher's dead, Ambrose's dead, Murphy's dead…"
Those were the names of the people who were with our platoon. Only these persons never saw tomorrow.
"It doesn't seem to end, does it?" O'Shea spoke, coming back with 2 more bottles.
"Yeah."
"I was just wondering, how many more people will get killed once this war's over?" I asked to them, though I wasn't looking forward for some answers.
"Dunno. Maybe 4, 5, 6 thousand more? Only God knows how many…" O'Shea replied.
"Was that something you can read on the Bible, priest?" McCarran smirked.
"Can't tell, my 'Jewish friend'." He sighed. "Can't tell."
"It's a cruel world, Hugh. Past, present and future." O'Shea continued. "That's why I can't tell."
"…"
But the reason why is pretty simple. Old men wage wars; yet it is the youth who must fight and die.
"None of that matters from here." McCarran opened up the other bottle. "Let me ask you, David. Since you're the only 'friar' here, can you say that killing is a sin?"
"Yeah. In every single way." O'Shea replied. "Come to think of it, this war made us 'sinners'." He began to laugh.
"So what're we doing is wrong?" I asked. My voice was half-hearted.
"Perhaps the only thing wrong for once in our lives." He murmured.
"…"
"Come to think of it. I grew up in a Catholic house-hold and I find myself here; killing people…"
"But it's not your fault, David." McCarran remarked. "You said that this world is a cruel one. Then that means there should be no good guys."
"I guess…"
"I think that's just a reason for us not to go to heaven, huh?" I spoke.
He gave us our cups, already filled with wine.
I began to wonder if what I was doing was really wrong. If this was the thing Gretchen told me before; the thing that kept me "wasting my life for the both of us." But why me? Why would I? Why could I? Was the eagerness to serve my country and make my family proud nothing more than a worthless goal or a fleeting dream? Or in Gretchen's terms; another macho-trip?
Damn.
I wanted answers, yet these gave me more questions.
Days like this drive me into questioning my own soul. We were all done quickly. Leaving emptied bottles and cups, we stood up and left. I stepped out; sighing. We were back to duty. Back to the harsh reality of it all…
I'll find out someday. How harsh the world really is…
-TO BE CONTINUED-