The Friend

June 25, D-Day + 19

"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing... not healing, not curing... that is a friend who cares."

The cascading muffles of battle sang out in the night from the port city of Cherbourg. From a hill rise half a mile away from the city, sat Private First Class Rick Fuller, Roanoke, Virginia, straining his eyes to stay awake during this long night. He was 20 years of age, dirty blond, brawny, had a noticeable shovel-jaw, and was a proud volunteer of the Army. He sat mildly comfortably in the battalion outpost on the crest of the hill, his ears patiently listening to the distant grinding of German tanks within the city.

His squad arrived at the OP just around dusk, just light enough to see the squalor that was Cherbourg. Well…his entire squad except his Sergeant, Hilberman, who was called away for another task by the Captain. Hilberman made Fuller Acting Squad Leader within the squad, a promotion that Fuller didn't really care for, unless it was a signed promotion. Bombings from both German and Allied weapons reduced a good 40% of the port city to rubble. American naval bombardment would inevitably increase the percentage if the ships were stupid enough to get close to the coast; the Germans had installed a huge costal gun to fend off the American Navy to reinforce the infantry in the city. Word was that tomorrow, Able's primary objective was to neutralize the coastal gun. Christ, it was virtually always Able Company leading the regiment. How many men did they have in the company now? When were they going to get more men?

His squad's mission was to wait on the hill and report and activity of German infiltrators that may try to assault the battalion at the dead of night. So far, nothing has approached them. Fuller cursed audibly as he thought about this waste of time. Fuller rubbed his heavy eyes and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until his shift was over and Ruby would take over. His drowsiness was giving him a headache. He twisted his neck and observed the sleeping man. Ruby was reclined back into the trench, his helmet dangling off the side of his head, revealing a sliver of the man's bright red hair that illuminated in the gelatinous darkness. Beside Ruby were their other squad mates, Badmouth and Duffy, both resting their heads on another's shoulders.

He heard some slumbering moans by his side. From the look of it, it seemed like Private First Class Herbert Johnson, Dundalk, Maryland, was having something of a mild nightmare. Johnson was 18, short, a tenor voice, chestnut hair, wide-mouthed, and a draftee. Fuller's eyes stayed on Johnson. He occasionally jerked his head from side-to-side, making soft grunts. He had better not have been cracking already, Fuller hoped. Maybe…something did happen to him yesterday.

He recalled the events of yesterday, Sergeant Conti wanted men for a patrol, and Johnson was plucked. Two hours later, the patrol came back. Johnson, with the color drained from his face, walked past Fuller as if he was a phantom, Fuller seized his arm and asked him what happened. "I killed a man," was all he said. He wouldn't say more the entire day, not even the other men of the patrol knew what happened. They revealed that Johnson was on point and entered a house and fired a shot and came back out, inside the house was a dead Kraut and a hysterical French family.

A low ripple of machine gun echoed softly from the town. A few cracks from small arms followed. Then a small explosion, must have been a grenade. Then two shells of artillery that blasted away at the town, the sudden yellow flash was blinding within the dark. The back of Fuller's throat dried at the sight of the shelling, he took a drink from his canteen. The water was warm, but he didn't care. It could have been boiling and it would have tasted like it was from the artic. Johnson mumbled as he woke.

"Uh…I…what time is it?"

"Ten minutes 'til Ruby's shift." He could feel the back of his eyes straining.

Johnson wiped the crust from his eyes and grunted groggily. "See anything out there?"

"Nothing but occasional artillery."

"Hmm."

"Yep."

A chorus of return fire sang out from the town. "Sounds like the party of the year."

"And we're invited tomorrow."

"Hmm."

"You were mumbling pretty hard in your sleep."

"I was?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"Why?"

"I don't know…I was dreaming y'know? It was about…I was…uh…shit, what was it…a-a sleeping bag. I was carrying a sleeping bag over my shoulders to my room, and this bag's heavy, like an automobile was inside the bag. Then strawberry jam began leaking all over it and all over me. Strawberry jam, I shit you not…does that mean anything to you?"

"Yeah, no more schnapps before bedtime," Fuller laughed lowly.

Johnson just groaned softly. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness surrounding him.

"Johnson, go back to sleep, buddy."

"Nah. I'll stay up til your shifts over."

"How kind of you."

"Fuller?"

"What?"

"Why are we fighting?"

Fuller turned to Johnson, "Why do you ask?"

The kid shook his head, "Don't know…can you answer that?"

Fuller sighed, "S'pose we do it to stop Hitler and Tojo."

"But why are we doing this?"

Fuller channeled his Roosevelt impression. "Cause, my fellow American, we fight to end wah!"

Johnson chuckled, "Indeed. We hate wah."

"But we got wah."

Both men laughed. A Kraut machine gun laughed in the distance. Fuller wondered if it got a GI.

"We fight to end the suffering of others," Fuller said.

"But we're suffering in the process."

"Hmm. You're right about that. All this fighting and killing…"

"It's bothering me."

"The fighting or the killing?"

"Suppose it's both."

"I see."

"Yeah."

"The more you kill, the farther away from home you feel. Right?"

"Yeah, exactly that. Hey, Fuller, you feel that way too?"

Fuller's chest tightened. "All the time."

"Hmm…we've been fighting practically every day now. I'm starting to get sick of it."

"I know."

"Fuller?"

"Yeah?"

"When was your first? I never asked."

"Why do you care now?"

"…Just to pass the time."

"D-Day. When we were climbing the bluffs after the Captain knocked out the machine guns, remember? The Germans were falling back, and we were lining them up and hosing them down. Like a duck hunt, you know? I saw this one helmetless German falling back, he stopped to reload his rifle and I got a good look at his face. He had brown hair like sand and a light beard around his mouth. As soon as he finished reloading, I set my rifle sights on him. He was about 30 yards away, maybe 40; but I know that our eyes met. I was always taught by my Pops to never pick fights, only fight if they start it, you know? Be a man when you fought, don't do no dirty fighting. I was waiting for him to raise his rifle at me so I could end him. But he didn't. He saw me, and he ran away like a startled rabbit. His back was turned…" Fuller's voice grew soft. "I fired. He didn't get back up."

"Oh Rick…"

"Do you remember Spuds?"

"Yeah, Mr. Potato head."

"He was right beside me. He patted me on the back and congratulated me for killing a German. Johnson, he congratulated me for shooting a man in the back."

Robbie "Spuds" Williams, Fuller thought, poor bastard got both legs blown off by a mine two days later. He was still breathing when the medics took him away; bawling like a babe, wonder if he's still kicking… "My first time killing a man, and it's in the back. And I'm thinking, how would my Pop looking at me knowing I did that? I tell myself that this war and the Krauts are evil, so it works out in the end, right?"

Johnson didn't respond.

"Right?"

"…"

"Johnson?"

"That's what you said, 'Krauts are evil', huh?"

"After what they did all across Europe, would you say I'm wrong?"

He grunted, "See now, I don't know. What's so different from a German and an American?"

"The hell does that got to do with anything? Herb, what are you talki—"

"History, culture, and language. Those three things separate us, of course. But probably the language barrier is a bigger obstacle, wouldn't you say? Ever stop to think that if we spoke the same language, we could be friends with these men."

"No, because if we do, we hesitate and men die. I don't think the Germans would think the same. What brought out this attitude, man? What did…oh shit…Herb, what happened yesterday?"

"During the patrol, we spoke to several French villagers and they told us that occasionally strange groans would come out from a cottage by the end of the village. The family inside that cottage would say no noise occurred. So we checked it out, and the Sarge sent me in the cottage to check it out. I didn't see or hear anything inside, so I entered the house. Lying on a makeshift bed in the living room was a German soldier. His jacket was hanging by the side and his rifle was on the opposite side of the room, his torso was covered in bloody bandages and he had several burns on his cheek. I saw him, and he saw me. He shot his hands in the air and shouted, "Nein, Nein!" but his hands were so quick I thought he was trying to do something. I honestly did! My rifle was at my hip, the barrel pointed towards him. As soon as his hands shot up, I blew his head off. My first kill.

"Then this French family comes in, and they start screaming at me, probably cursing in French, one girl was crying over the dead German. It hit me. They were trying to save that wounded German. The French were trying to save a German. The same people we are fighting and dying for to save, was nursing the enemy. And they treated me, an American who fights for them, as if I was lower than snake shit. Was does that say about this war?"

"Jeezus, I don't know. War is hell?"

"I guess."

"Your first kill, huh? How about that. My first was a man running away and yours was a defenseless surrendering man. If the papers could only take a look at these "Fighting GIs!", oh Uncle Sam would be so proud, eh?"

Fuller smiled at Johnson, but he did not reciprocate. Fuller sighed. "Herb, did you tell anyone else what you did?" Johnson shook his head. "Hmm, than I appreciate you telling me. I know what it's like, killing something that doesn't fight back. But tell me, if we run into hell tomorrow, are you going to let me die because you're not going to fight back?"

Johnson turned to him, "Of course not."

"Neither will I. And neither will the Germans. Listen, the Germans are just like us, you're right. And they probably feel the same emotions we do. There's probably one like you out there, possibly in Cherbourg; but I have a feeling that even though he's sick of war, he wouldn't let his friends die because he was too sick of it to fight. I hate this war, yet I do not regret volunteering. Because it allowed me to join Able Company, to join the Captain, Sergeant Conti, the Doc, Ruby, Badmouth, Duffy, Fosse, Troy, and you. You're the man that I'm proud to call brother."

Johnson made a light grunt, it sounded as if he was surprised by Fuller's statement. He spoke softly, "You're my best friend, right?"

"Well I sure hope so, who else you best friends with? Ruby? Badmouth? Duffy?" Fuller snickered through lips, "Sergeant Hilberman? Or how about that crazy bastard, Blackwell?"

Fuller couldn't see it in the dark, but for a brief moment, a grin grew on Johnson's face. "Alright, alright. Just asking…cause, it just got me thinking, y'know. You do a lot for me, man. You do. If I buy it, will you write my family?"

"Christ no. What the hell would I say?"

Johnson sniggered at that comment. "I don't know…that I was a good man?"

"Eh, you're okay."

"…That I fought bravely?"

"Didn't you squeal like a girl when you spotted your first German?"

"…That I died for my country?"

Fuller yawned. "Cut the shit."

"…That the collection of Tijuana bibles under my bed aren't mine?"

"And whose are they? The Tooth Fairy?"

"…That I loved them?"

Fuller raised an eyebrow. He nodded. "Sure. I'll do that."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'll write them."

"Thanks, Rick. For everything."

"Alright, alright, get off my dick."

"And if you buy the farm?"

Fuller remembered standing in the middle of the parking lot in Roanoke with other civilian youths preparing to head to the first day of basic. He was surrounded by his family, his mother hugging and kissing him goodbye, his older brother wished him goodbye—he himself was physically unsuitable for military service. His father—who's built like a tank and wore an expressionless mask—gave Fuller a mighty hug and simply told him one word. "Survive."

"Just tell my Pop, tell him…I tried."

"Hmm, 'Dear Mr. Fuller, I am a dear friend of your son, Rick Fuller, and am writing to you on his behalf. I regret to inform you of his passing but I must give you a message from him to you. He told me to tell you, "I tried." He tells me how you were the biggest influence in his life, and all he does throughout his life as a soldier is to make you proud. Even as he is gone, I wish to offer you my personal thanks in raising your son. He has been there for me since we entered basic training, he has been there for me when no one else was. When I screwed up and our platoon ostracized me, he was there for me…to cheer me up. When I needed to spill my guts, he was the ear to my voice. Your son was always there for me. He was always there…and now that he is no longer here, the world is an emptier place without him. You raised a truly gifted son."

Fuller felt a smile form upon his lips, and water crease the edge of his eyes.

Johnson started breathing hard, he was excited. "Holy shit, man! Can you believe all that was on the top of my head? Goddamn I can be the next Ernest Goddamn Hemmingway, with what I just said!"

"I love you, man."

Johnson puckered his lips loudly. Both men laughed, then silently enjoyed the rhythmic staccato of gunfire echoing from the shadows of Cherbourg.

June 26, D-Day + 20

The battered Able Company entered Cherbourg and walked amongst the cobblestone road into the demolished sector of town. They were greeted by scores upon scores of soldiers who were bustling through the edge of the city; infantry, logistics, communication, and medics, all making an effort to accomplish their task. The infantry were running through different sectors to reinforce other units, logistics were having men unloaded supplies from trucks to deliver to the most urgent place in battle, the HQ radiomen were inside buildings relaying information to the brass who stood outside the city of destruction, offering plans of attack. Then there was the cluster of wounded who were being treated within ruined buildings, screaming in a chorus of agony to make the pain stop. Many of the men who were situated in the city wore the patches of the 4th and 9th Infantry Division. And as Able Company entered the town, French citizens were leaving their homes in unison, unluckily changing their status from citizens to refugees. Two large shells exploded in the distance, a French child began to cry, the mother whispered for him to stop. Fats stopped by the little boy and gave him a Hersey bar and winked at him before he left. The boy stared at the largest man he had ever saw, his eyes twinkling in awe.

MacKay received orders to move his company towards the town square, but the Captain needed a squad to scout out the center. He asked for volunteers. Most of the men kept quiet, Fuller and Johnson looked the other way. Their squad leader, Sergeant Victor Hilberman, from Williamsburg, Virginia, had other plans. He volunteered his squad with a knife-edge smile that was a close rival to Blackwell's. MacKay nodded, the squad grumbled; per his name, Badmouth spewed a long list of profanities until Hilberman smacked him upside the helmet. Johnson peered at Fuller and read his thoughts, out of all the squads in Able; they had to be stuck with "Hissing" Hilberman.

Hilberman was often called "Hissing" behind his back by the men, for his snake-like lisp, yet to the men he always found a way to enunciate. He often had a habit of hissing when he was angry, he would grit and talk through his teeth. Even when he had to yell, he yelled at an audible hiss, it made the men believe he learned to whisper in a sawmill. He was the enlisted men's worse nightmare, he never quit in his harassment when a man needed help. When quiet reassurance was necessary, Hilberman would bark like a dog; if a private was innocently ignorant about a subject, he would call him an idiot. It didn't help the enlisted men once they realized he was a Class-A brownnoser for officers. He envied their posh lifestyle back in training and vowed to be one and leave the unsorted enlisted men behind, at any cost. Every man under sergeant despised Hilberman, and every man equal to or above the rank of sergeant avoided him. He was too serious to joke around with and too uptight to break the minutest of regulations—if his fellow NCOs overheard a delivery of peaches to the officers' mess and wanted to snatch some for themselves, Hilberman would actually snitch on them to the officers. Hilberman was Able Company's pariah until Blackwell. His only saving grace that everyone could acknowledge was that he was a competent NCO. He knew his tactics, never cracked under pressure, and he would follow commands to the letter. Fuller and Johnson admit that this attitude saved their lives a couple of times during the war, but Hilberman's crass personality often negated whatever gains the men felt from his aid.

The squad consisting of Hilberman, Ruby, Badmouth, an Appalachian hillbilly called Duffy, Fuller and Johnson, trekked through the phantom sector of the Cherbourg streets. Small arms fire could be heard echoing throughout the city, everywhere. But from where they were walking, the streets and buildings were so empty it might as well as been the desert to the squad.

"Damn, t'is place dun look deeserted…" Duffy announced.

Hilberman hissed, "Ssshut up and sssspread out, and keep your eyesss peeled. Captain'sss ordersss!"

A German megaphone was sputtering throughout the city.

"The hell is that Kraut saying?" Ruby asked open-endedly.

Badmouth shouldered his Thompson and cupped his mouth in imitation, giving a corny German accent, "Attention all Americans, Ze Wehrmacht are hosting a vonderful sale at our market. Try our shitty schnitzel, along vith bullshit bratwurst and fucking frankfurters on the side along vith a damn pitcher of apfelwein pressed from ass!"

That gave the squad a hearty chuckle. Hilberman on the other hand sneered at Badmouth in a low whisper, "Hey, knock that ssshit off, Jagger!"

"What? You know that's what they're fucking saying, Sarge. SSSure as ssshit."

"I sssaid ssshut up! For fuck's sssake…"

Johnson was muttering something to himself before he spoke up to Fuller. "Hey, why is it Able Company's always up front getting shot at first?"

Fuller smiled, his eyes trailing off to a blasted out house, "Naw Johnson, it's not Able, it's just you whose always getting shot at first."

"Quiet!" Hilberman snapped in a shouting whisper. "You bozosss are going to get usss killed." Johnson blew a soft raspberry, Fuller chuckled.

Fuller was glad that Johnson seemingly reverted back to his old jokester self. At least for the day, perhaps. This war was changing Johnson, changing himself and everyone in the company. Former personalities were slowly eroding away under the stress of fighting. The change was a bizarre contradiction to witness. It was subtle and yet it was noticeable.

The squad made a turn around a corner. Johnson clicked his tongue towards Fuller, exchanging glances that told Fuller it was his turn to point until they round another corner. Fuller shrugged with a sigh. Fuller opened his mouth to Johnson, but the noise that Johnson heard was a German Mauser rifle cracking. Fuller fell on his back, the patrol bolted into cover.

Johnson hid behind a destroyed car, his jaw dangling from his face at the sight of Fuller. Ruby dived right beside Johnson and warned everyone with a shout, "Sniper!"

Johnson barked Fuller's name. Silence. Johnson's gut begins to melt.

"Shitshitshitshitshit! Where did that come from?" Ruby mutters to himself. He sees Johnson leaning out from the car, exposing his face, and pulled him back into cover.

The rest of the squad are ten yards behind Ruby and Johnson, they take cover behind a building. Sergeant Hilberman shouted, "Ruby! Johnssson! Y'all got eyesss on?"

"Negative, we can't see him!" Ruby yelled.

"How bad isss Fuller?"

Ruby cursed softly and raised his head to look through the cracked windows of the car at the sniped soldier.

"Shit, Fuller's dead!" he called back.

A perverse anger consumed Johnson. He dropped his rifle and seized Ruby by his collar with both hands. "He's not dead! Rick's not dead you fucking asshole!"

Johnson stood to run and made it from the corner of the car. Ruby rose to his feet and grabbed Johnson and pulled him back into cover once more. The German rifle cracked. A bullet bounced off the hood of the car.

"Damn it! Johnson, he knows where we are! Don't go out there!" Ruby said, his voice was pleading.

"Get off of me! Get off of me, Ruby!"

"Johnssson, you ssstay the hell where you are! That'sss an order, goddammit!" Hilberman screamed at him from behind the building.

"To hell with that!"

In his incessant flailing, Johnson's elbow slammed against Ruby's windpipe. Ruby fell to his back seizing his throat with a horrid cough. Johnson charged from cover to aid his friend. He was firing wildly at the sniper's position with his Garand from the hip. For a brief moment, Johnson felt as if he was Alvin York. The young man could feel Ruby's frightened eyes watching every move he made, he cursed Ruby, he was safe in cover and alive while Fuller was exposed and dying. "Just tell my Pop, tell him…I tried."

Fuller was still, yet his right hand was trembling violently. His dazed eyes were glued on the sky, and his bottom lip began to quiver. A wet red eye was weeping blood from the middle of his chest. "Please hang on, Rick!" Johnson dropped his rifle and lifted Fuller over his shoulders; he could feel Fuller's blood run down the back of his neck. It was thick like jam. He cursed loudly, Fuller was the bigger man of the two, and with each step Johnson took, Fuller seemed to grow heavier.

Crack.

Johnson stopped. The air is sucked from his chest and is replaced with burning flames. The taste in his mouth suddenly turns sour. Fuller is now as heavy as an automobile. Johnson collapses under the weight, his face slams into the dirt. He breaks his nose in the fall.

Instinctively, Johnson clutches his chest and feels wet, jagged meat where his right nipple used to be. The exit wound in his chest was large and grotesque; he could fit four fingers into the hole. He was in too much agony to scream. Johnson could feel his own warmth leaving his body. His hands were falling numb. He pissed himself.

"He got Johnson too!" Ruby announced to the squad. It sounded as if he was choking on his sobs.

Johnson awkwardly twists his body to face Fuller. The edges of Johnson's visions blur with crimson fuzz, yet he's able to make eye contact with Fuller. Fuller was on the verge, Johnson could see it, so was he. Fuller's hand continued to shake, but Johnson could see a faint light in Fuller's eyes. They looked at one another, both men held each other's hand as they muttered one word each.

Ruby ran back to his squad and gracefully dodged the sniper's bullet. But before he made the turn into cover of the building, he looked over his shoulder. His eyes saw the still forms of Private First Classes Fuller and Johnson, both men holding each other's hands, their blood pooling together.