The Promoted

July 1, D-Day + 25

"Success isn't always about greatness. It's about consistency. Consistent hard work leads to success."

Yes! Finally!

Derek Hudson had sewn in the last thread and bit it off, examining his new sewn chevrons on his combat jacket and beamed with utter pride. He knew he would get this honor eventually, but nothing this soon. Duck put the jacket on and buttoned it up and felt the power welling inside him. The power of a Sergeant.

Yesterday, the Captain announced the list of names of a third of the men from Able Company who because of their exemplary skills in battle, were planned to be promoted. After losing most of their company in this campaign, it was fittingly seen that the survivors would be rewarded with experience. Half an hour ago, the First Sergeant visited the newly promoted men and distributed new combat jackets and their new chevrons to be sewn onto their jackets. Duck savored every little moment he stitched his chevrons to jacket.

The promotion meant many things to him. First and foremost, it showed he was appreciated. Until two days ago when Terry returned, he was the only NCO in the entirety of 2nd platoon after Lieutenant Croons and Staff Sergeant Tolliver were killed in Montebourg. He had to lead the most understrength platoon in Able throughout harrowing danger from the Germans for weeks until it was whittled down to nine men, including himself. And here at the end of the day, he has realized that his strenuous efforts have not gone unnoticed.

For the rest of the platoon it was a relaxing day away from combat, resting away in the Normandy sun in Cherbourg, doing whatever they can to keep their minds away from the horrors they witnessed. A few of them were reading, others were playing cards, and some were fastidiously grooming themselves.

Terry Cavanaugh was busy reading a Dick Tracy comic book, and noticed his new Sergeant spinning around like he was a ballerina, admiring his new chevrons. Without averting his eyes from the comic, Terry said, " 'Sergeant Duck'…hmm…well I admit it has a better ring to it than 'Corporal Duck'."

"I know, right!" Duck grinned. " 'Sergeant Duck', 'Sergeant Hudson', 'Sergeant Duck Hudson'… I love it!"

"Oh dear," King smiled with a roll of his eyes, turning the page of his Bible, "I think Duck's brain has checked out."

Terry scoffed with a smirk, "Like it ever checked in."

The men laughed amongst themselves. But Duck replied back with a grin, "Keep laughing, chumps. Get it out of your systems. That would be the last time you laugh at your Sergeant."

"Yes, Sarge." Rawlings said with a robotic salute.

Hannigan was peeling an orange, "What I wanna know is out of nine guys in this platoon, only two are promoted?"

"Weird isn't it. I guess it shows that to be a Sergeant you need to be a heartless bastard and for a Corporal you need to be grade-A kiss-ass!" Lovett playfully laughed.

Sitting away from the squad was the infamous Blackwell, sharpening his bayonet with a small whetstone. His eyes fell on Lovett before he cleared his throat audibly. He slid the edge of the bayonet so hard, Lovett could have sworn he saw a spark come from the whetstone.

Blackwell's stare was cutting hard, "What? Is that anyway to address a corporal?"

To the men of 2nd platoon, it was no trick. Blackwell actually had earned a stripe for his actions during the past month. He had returned to being an NCO and finally—officially—held the power to command almost everyone in the platoon.

Lovett began to explain, "I-I ain't mean nothing by it, Blackwell. You know that, right?

"Do I?"

"Well…I thought so…what I mean is—how it feel to get promoted?"

He gave a demented smile and shrugged. "It don't me nothing."

Lovett looked on uneasily, "R-Really? Why is that?"

Blackwell turned to him, "Cause y'all already be listening to me."

Duck turned to him, "You're a corporal now, Blackwell. Your job is to watch over the men, not trying to scare 'em."

"You mean keep doing what I have been doing since the get-go?"

"Uh-huh."

Blackwell scratched the back of his neck, "You know, Duck. You never struck me as the obvious-type."

"I'm just surprised you got promoted at all, Blackwell. I was pretty sure being "busted" down to private meant you stayed a private." Hefferman said as he was shaving his head with a straight razor to keep his head bald.

Blackwell leaned against a wall, "I thought so too. But I figure if the war is chewing out NCOs left and right, then they must need all the experience they can get."

"Here that, boys? Since Blackwell made Corporal, he's too good to be with us." Hannigan joked.

"I know we're too good to be with you." Rawlings said.

The men began to softly chuckle amongst themselves. Then it hit Duck like a bullet when he realized it. Blackwell was actually laughing along with the platoon. Son of a bitch, Duck began to smile. He remembered the day, Blackwell came to Able, and it was as if the Grim Reaper himself came to them; menacing them with his bloodthirsty glare, his unhinged attitude, and sending proverbial fear down their spines if you so much as bumped into him. He avoided all of them, and the entire 2nd Platoon avoided him the best they could. But with only nine men in the whole platoon, avoiding each other was damn near impossible. But now it didn't matter, they have all experienced the brutal reality of war that no other platoon or squad in Able has come to realize; these rag-tag men of 2nd Platoon had inherited a most wonderful and sorrowful secret that bound them together closer than anyone else in the Able Company. Blackwell on many occasions had saved their lives during the fighting, and some of them in turn had saved his, building this mutual trust and respect amongst themselves. The rest of the men in the platoon still had some minor reservations about Blackwell, but it was nowhere near as bad as it once had been. It now seemed that Blackwell was finally starting to find his own place with the platoon.

"So, are we going to give you some hip-hip hoorays, Sarge? A nice little promotion party?" Lovett asked.

"We would need some cognac for that." Duck chuckled.

"And some cigars," Terry added.

"How about some cake?" Saywell suggested.

"Chocolate would be great!" Rawlings called out.

"Along with some vanilla ice cream on pecan pie!" Hannigan included.

"Great! We got the food, now we need entertainment! Let's bring a band! Anybody have a connection to Glenn Miller?" Lovett asked loudly.

"No, but my sister knows Bing Crosby." Rawlings chuckled.

"My uncle used to tour with Jimmy Dorsey," Terry said.

"Well we can never go wrong with a jukebox on the side, right?" Hefferman recommended.

"Oh! Oh!" King exclaimed, "And we can even get some books!"

The entire platoon stared at him.

King began blushing and his voice began to trail away. "Oh uh y-you know…like we can, uh, read as we uh w-wait for…the stuff to arrive…?"

Blackwell grunted in amusement. "What's the matter with you all? How can there be a party without women involved, huh?"

"Wow! Jesus Christ, even Blackwell is a better party planner than you, King." Saywell snarked.

The men enjoyed a raucous laughter at the blushing translator's expense. Blackwell once again showed some merriment with the rest of the men. Duck suddenly had an idea.

"Y'know…that's not a bad idea. Let me fetch some cognac and we can celebrate! I know where to find some. Blackwell, you're coming with me."

His tone was cold as ice, "Why?"

Duck was at first taken back by the tone, but he asserted himself in a calm demeanor and smiled, tapping his index finger against his stripes on his bicep and ushered in a singsong tone, "Cause your Sergeant said so."

Luckily, Duck was able to see the tension fade from Blackwell who chuckled, "Goddamn. Already pulling rank, huh?" Blackwell stood to his feet.

Duck shrugged, "Hey, if I don't who will?" He turned to Terry, "Terry, stay here and keep the peace."

"Is that an order, Sarge?" the corporal asked.

Duck bent down next to Terry and gently took the comic from his hands and smiled, "You're goddamn right." And gave the comic back to him.

"So why the hell did you drag me with you, Duck?" Blackwell asked, his hands in the pocket of his jacket.

"Cause I knew you'd want to bash your head in if you stayed with the squad," Duck couldn't help but exaggerate.

"Oh, and you think accompanying you is much better?"

"Yeah, I do. And I know you do as well."

After not hearing a retort, Duck knew he was right.

The two men continued their walk down the avenues of Cherbourg. Within their sector, the men of 1st platoon were enjoying a mild bout of R&R in the town. Most of them were conversing and joking with one another, a few were reading with content smiles on their faces, others had French women on their laps and began boisterously laughing with them and copping feels whenever they could, and some of them even managed to scrounge a football and were tossing the ball in the middle of the road. Within the platoon, he bore witness to the rested and excited faces of the men who just like Duck, received their coveted promotion.

Sergeant Fischer of 1st Platoon had earned him a rocker underneath his chevrons, known to all as a Staff Sergeant, and was celebrating by planting a big kiss on a French woman's cheek. Sergeant Paine of the machine gun section had received the honor of being promoted to Staff Sergeant as well. Private Kyle Filkins got a promotion to Corporal along with Joss Callahan. Duck could spot the medic, Walter Conrad, hanging out with 1st platoon, he bore the newly sewn chevrons of a Technician Fifth Grade. Yet throughout these faces, he found the man he was looking for, Technician Fifth Grade Santiago.

Duck shook the scrounger's hand, "How's it going, Corporal?"

"Can't complain, Sergeant. Just got my stripe!"

"I can tell, but can you tell with mine?" Both men shared a laugh. Duck leaned in close, "Hey Santiago, I need some cognac. You think you can procure some, buddy?"

He rubbed his stubby chin, "Hmm, believe me, on any other day, I would love to "procure" it, but I'm here celebrating my rising up, like you, Duck."

"So you ain't getting it?"

"Sorry, man."

Duck sucked his teeth, "Where's the damn phone? I need to call your manager! Is this how your establishment treats a lifelong customer? God, my mom was right, service ain't as good as it used to be…"

"Oh too bad, you just missed my manager, he just went out for lunch."

"Come on, man…"

"Just messing with you, Duck. Look, I don't have the cognac, but I do know someone who does…"

"Oh yeah?"

Not wanting everyone to hear, Santiago whispered the name into Duck's ear. The sergeant leaned out with a smile and thanked the scrounger. He knew where to go next. As he turned to leave the platoon, he noticed Blackwell standing by the edge of the street watching something truly unexpected. Hernandez's squad was spaced away from the rest of the platoon, and all the men were lounging around, except for Merrill, the meekest man within the company, even more than Private Deering, the Catholic choirboy.

But that man stood meek no more. He stuck his chest out like a heroic superhero, and gave a smile of confidence. Duck and Blackwell had to take one look at his jacket to determine what gave Merrill this quantity of self-confidence.

No longer was he merely Private Malcolm Merrill of 1st Squad, 1st Platoon; now he was Corporal Malcom Merrill of 1st Squad, 1st Platoon, assistant squad leader. To Duck, it seemed like nothing could rain on Merrill's parade.

"Looking pretty great, Merrill! What happened? Your balls finally dropped?"

And like that, the feeling of wonder vanished from the new corporal's face.

Merrill sighed as he turned to his laughing squad-mates, "Damn it, Lazzano, I'm a corporal now, you can't speak to me like that."

Lazzano shrugged with his smug Italian smirk, "Sure I can! You're still "Meekly Merrill" to us. And no extra stripes or bars will change that, Merrill."

"Merrill, don't get angry that he's right," Lampton the radioman, commented as he was busy playing with his radio. "I mean, you still have the same disposition, the same cracking voice you had as a private, the same goofy beaver face, the same nasty breath and the same body language of a virgin."

"My voice doesn't crack!" Merrill croaked.

"Ooooohhhh! It just did!" Pines squealed without looking up from reading his book. "What the hell, Merrill? Did someone just grab your nuts?"

The three men began a hearty laugh. Duck couldn't refrain himself from laughter either. Blackwell looked on with an emotionless face.

"Glad to see the boys are still respecting Merrill." It was the newly promoted Sergeant Hernandez of 1st Squad, 1st Platoon. He approached Duck and Blackwell from behind and spoke to Duck, "Feels good to get a ticket to the Sergeant's Club, huh Duck?"

"Yeah, long overdue, eh?"

"Exactly what I was thinking. But unfortunately, there's no complementary drinks that comes with the rank."

"Damn, and Eisenhower promised me a dry martini if I got bucked up."

"Hell, he promised me a Johnnie Walker Black!"

"Want me to get a telephone to call him?"

"Why bother? Why would a General listen to a Sergeant?"

The two men chuckled, but Duck stopped when he noticed something. "Hey, what's wrong with Adair over there?"

Private Jim Adair was sitting on the side of road, his back turned to his squad making jokes about Merrill. He was smoking and reading a book as if trying to drown out the sounds of laughter in his squad.

"Oh, the miserable bastard is sulking that he didn't get promoted."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he's been pining to climb the ranks, and now that he hears that Merrill of all people got chosen…"

"Oh…so aren't you going to say anything to him?"

"Say something like what?" Blackwell finally spoke, " 'Oh sorry, Adair that you didn't get promoted, better luck next time'?"

"Exactly," Hernandez said with a nod. "Nothing I say will make him feel better, he'll get over it eventually."

"So how did 'Meekly Merrill' get plucked as corporal?" Duck asked.

"Oh because the squad nominated him. Except Adair, of course."

A smile formed on Duck's face, his eyes glued to the squad, "And they're still ribbing Merrill about it."

"Those bastards are just happy for him, though I doubt Merrill knows that. Hell, I don't think even he knows they recommended him. But he's the best choice, I know that and the men certainly know that. Though I believe that they just did that so they won't have responsibility. But he takes this seriously and he has leadership potential."

Blackwell chuckled lowly, "You believe that scrawny little fuck is leadership material?"

"I do." The easygoingness of Hernandez eroded, replaced by a tranquil yet primal anger bubbling on his face, "And Blackwell, do not, insult, my men."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Their eyes locked, Blackwell spoke first, yet he did not break his gaze. "Alright. I got it."

"What the hell are you doing here anyway? I thought you kept to yourself?"

Duck interposed, "Not anymore, it wouldn't do for an NCO to keep to themselves."

"What? 'NCO?'" Hernandez took a look at the sociopath's chevrons. "Blackwell…? Weren't you busted?"

"I was." Blackwell began picking his teeth. "Then the Cap announced my promotion. I spoke to him and you know what he said?"

"What?"

"That based on my experience and actions so far, I get to lead. And also, some people recommended me for a promotion."

"What foul, twisted bastards would recommend you?" Hernandez said, his face warped in disgust.

Blackwell chuckled. And so did Duck. Duck walked past Hernandez, patting his shoulder and winked at him. Blackwell followed.

"Where the hell are we going, Duck?"

Duck could hear the impatience growing in Blackwell's growl. "Bear with me, Blackwell, we're almost there. Santiago told me of a certain crew that always have the right liquor. They're right past 3rd platoon."

And on cue, the two men arrived in 3rd platoon's sector. They found 3rd platoon to be in the same jovial mood that 1st platoon was with their band of promotions. Corporal Austin Hollister moved up to Sergeant and was dining on some French cheese and bagels from grateful natives with the Troy the Sniper, who was promoted to Corporal. Corporal Jelenic of the mortar section was promoted to Sergeant and was busy speaking with Duhaney and Crane about his new entry into the world of sergeants. He witnessed the new Corporal Ruby playing catch with a baseball with his squad-mates, Badmouth and the newly promoted Corporal Duffy. Ruby and Duffy were enjoying themselves with the game, yet Badmouth looked as if he was possessed by the very incarnation of rage. He was dropping all the balls that were thrown to him, and grew even angrier with each drop.

"Golly, Badmouth, ya couldn't catch water from a flood!" Duffy laughed, "The hell happenin to ya, boy?"

Badmouth grimaced with bared teeth, "Shut the fuck up, Duffy! Jesus, why don'cha talk right ya goddamn yokel!"

The Appalachian looked to Ruby, "Good Lawd, what crawled up his bum and dun died?"

"Beats me, Duffy." Ruby replied. "Maybe it's his time of the month?"

"Fuck off, Ruby."

"Yep, it's definitely his time. Seriously, man, the hell's eating at ya?"

"For fuck sake, I'll tell y'all! How the fuck both of you get another stripe and I don't get fucking shit?! Why am I the only man in the fucking squad not to get promoted?! Can someone tell me the problem, goddamn it?!"

Ruby began chuckling, "For one I bet it's that mouth of yours."

"You shitting me? The fuck is wrong with I say, asshole?"

Ruby shot his hands up as if to prove a point. Duffy shook his head with a smile, "We ain't back in boot camp, Badmouth. I reckon the chain o' comman' don't wan' no foul-mouthed screechuh as an NCO. But that's just me…"

Badmouth grumbled with his hands on his hip, "Fuckin' bullshit…who ya think told the Captain not to get me promoted?"

"My guess would prolly be Hilberman."

"Oh…shit…that fucking hisser…that explains it! Hilberman fucking hates me! Goddamn Hilberman…fucking asshole!"

Duck shook his head. Poor bastard. And apparently, Badmouth wasn't the only man acting crabby. Duck spotted Corporal Evan Gettle sitting on a crate and staring at the men of 3rd platoon. Duck wasn't sure, but it seemed that bitterness was on his face.

He walked up to Gettle and patted him on the shoulder. "Hey, Evan, what's going on?"

Gettle's eyes narrowed sharply. "Sergeant."

"Uh…everything okay?

Gettle began sucking his teeth, "So you, Hernandez, Hollister, and Jelenic got promoted to Sergeant, eh?"

"Yeah…I—uh, I guess we did. What's wrong man?"

"I'm fine."

"Yeaaaaaahhhhh, no. No you ain't, what's wrong?"

Gettle gave Duck a surly stare. "How come I wasn't promoted? Hmm?"

Shit…him too? "Oh…well, I don't know, Evan…"

"Yeah, apparently no one knows. I mean, did the Captain forget what I did on the beaches? Or was it Conti who forgot how I took out a Kraut machine gun? Or was it fucking Crane who didn't remember me dragging in Davies back in the house when he got hit? Because they seem to remember everyone's exploits except for mine…"

"Evan, relax man. It's not that big a deal."

"Oh yeah? That's rich coming from you, Sergeant. Not a big deal to someone who already got their rank. Yeah, why don't you rub it in more, huh?"

"Damn it, I didn't mean it like that— "

"Uh-huh, yeah…well, congratulations on your promotion, Duck. I mean it. Good job…great job…absolutely great…"

Gettle scoffed and formed his face into a sneer, his eyes falling on the men who had the privilege of being promoted.

"Why, Duck? Why them? Why not me?"

"Evan…"

"Ya know what? Fuck it, I don't fucking care…" Gettle placed a Lucky Strike in his mouth and lit it as he walked away, his eyes glued to the dirt road.

Duck exhaled remorsefully, Great job, Derek…you always know what to say, don't you… How could he be so damn inconsiderate? Going around and slapping backs and laughing about his new rank, yet failing to realize those who were not as fortunate to gain the honor. Adair, Gettle, Badmouth and no telling how many others are silently sulking that they were not chosen to take new responsibility in leadership. Duck had a feeling their time will come eventually, but who the hell knows when that would be.

"Hudssson!"

Oh Jesus, no…

He reluctantly turned around to see the Hissing Sergeant glaring daggers at him.

Duck forced a smug smile, "How's it going, Victor?"

"I am to be referred asss SSSergeant Hilberman, to you, Hudssson! Don't forget that!"

"Why? We're both sergeants now. I can't call you Victor? Alright, how about Vic? Or even Sergeant Vic? Or how 'bout—"

"We're not the sssame sssergeant, Hudssson. Don't know if you heard, but I've moved up," the hissing man said with his chin thrusted out conceitedly. "I'm a SSStaff SSSergeant, if you cannot tell. I ssstill outrank you, and thusss you ssshall ssshow me sssome ressspect!"

Good Lord, how can he say all that without spitting once?

Duck groaned softly, "Yes, I understand. What do you want, Hilberman?"

"Those chevronsss that you just sssewn on to your jacket."

Duck looked at his arm, "Uh, yeaaaaahhhh…?"

"SSSee anything wrong with it?"

"Uh…no…?"

"Really? Then how do you explain that extra piece of thread dangling at the end of thessse two ssstitchesss, Hudssson? Asss you sssew, all threading ssshould be at equal length!"

Duck turned his head to Blackwell, wanting to desperately believe if this was really happening. Judging by Blackwell smirking hard, fighting back laughter, it was. Duck turned back to Hilberman, "You…cannot…be serious…?"

"I am. How does it look to enlisssted men if their NCOsss' presssentation isssn't crisssp and uniform?!"

Oh my fucking God…

"You're going to reprimand me on this? Because my fucking threading is too long?"

"Yesss. I. Will."

Fuck you, Hilberman! "Alright, fine, I'll get this fixed immediately, Hilberman." he said with the roll of his eyes.

"Good. And remember, you are to addresssss me as a sssenior sssergeant, Hudssson."

"…Yes, Staff Sergeant."

Hilberman was on his way, until his eyes fell on Blackwell who stood there indignantly. "You asss well, corporal."

Hilberman stuck his chin out pompously, leveling his eyes on the maniac, Blackwell. But he soon reeled his chin back in at the Gorgon-like glare Blackwell was giving him. Blackwell's lips parted slightly, slowly showing his pink tongue within his mouth. The air of his words exited with a degree of weightless, "Staff Sergeant…"

Hilberman turned and walked away, unaware of his left hand trembling.

Duck rolled his eyes and brought his hands up as he faced Blackwell. "Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. I get promoted to Sergeant and he still acts like an asshole because he has a rocker underneath his chevrons. You ever see a sergeant pulling rank like that officer bullshit?"

Blackwell shook his head with contempt, "Only at Basic."

"Damn…I pity Ruby, Duffy, and Badmouth having "Hissing Hilberman" as a squad leader."

"You only see that behavior from officers."

"Why couldn't he get a commission and get the fuck up out of Able, Blackwell?"

"Because it's the Army, Sergeant. The Army's priority is making one's life as miserable as possible."

"You're preaching to the choir, Blackwell…great, now I have a headache. Hey come on, let's find the cognac."

The two men didn't have to go far to find the supplier. They came upon the tank that had assisted Able Company throughout the war, Excalibur, which at the moment was surrounded with activity of the French populous.

The local children were busy climbing the tank, eagerly looking with wide eyes down the hatch as their cautious parents called their names to not fall in. The rookie whose name Duck was not familiar with, was busy monitoring the children with a smile, ensuring they wouldn't touch anything dangerous. Russo, was leaning back against the tread flirting with a mademoiselle, petting her derriere. Grits and the new, Corporal Adrian, were posing by the front of the tank with a French family for a family picture.

"Hey soldier, would you appreciate some free cognac?"

Duck looked up to see Sergeant Wilcox, sitting by the turret of his tank, a little girl of five sitting on his lap playing with his dogtags with his helmet on her head, his legs swinging down as he smiled at Duck.

Duck smiled back. "It would be a crime to say no. 'Free' you say? What's the occasion?"

"For you joining the Sergeant's Club, Duck. Catch."

The tanker tossed a good-size bottle of cognac towards the infantryman. Duck caught the heavy glass and marveled in amazement.

"With such generosity, no wonder your tank is crowded, Wilcox."

"Hey, the perks of owning a majestic steed!" He extended his arms and slurred somewhat majestically to the heavens in a boisterous cry, "Let the people of the earth marvel at the Stallion of Righteousness! The generosity of a knight is for the love of the peasants! For a Knight of the Round, that is all that a knight desires!"

"And we're certainly gonna love these 'peasants', all right!" Grits snickered, before leaning into the girl with a kiss.

Blackwell and Duck chuckled seeing Wilcox trying to balance the child on his lap as he reached back in his tank to seize another bottle of brandy.

"From a Sergeant to a Sergeant. This is an incredible gift." Duck remarked.

"Well not quite…uh…anymore. I g-got a Staff Sergeant promotion."

"Well then congratulations are in order, Staff Sergeant Wilcox."

"Indeed they are, Sergeant Duck."

With a smile, Duck climbed the Sherman just to cling cognac bottles with Wilcox in a toast. The tanker took a large swig from the brandy and eyed Blackwell looking on him.

"I see they bucked you up too, Blackwell." Wilcox said, blinking slowly with each enunciation.

"Only because someone recommended me for it." Blackwell cracked a subtle grin and winked at the tanker.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said with a shrug of the shoulders.

"I know more than you think I do, Wilcox. I know you spoke to the Captain after the Red Ball passed by."

"Had to tell him how we made it through."

"I appreciate it."

"Hey," Wilcox held out his cognac in a salutary gesture, "You saved my crew's life, now we're even."

With a bottle in hand, Duck and Blackwell returned back to their platoon, greeted by the men as heroic raiders returning with beautiful plunder. Hannigan found some cups to share and the nine-man platoon gathered round the bottle. As Duck prepared to pour the exotic liquid into the cups, in came Doc Conrad, delivering a message for 2nd platoon to gather near the town square with the rest of Able, immediately on the Captain's orders. The platoon groaned, but Duck promised they would drink once they returned.

A rumbling of engines boomed from within the town and was now approaching them Able Company with incredible speed. Trucks pulled up to Able Company's bivouac, filled to the brim with young, round-faced soldiers. As the trucks screeched to a halt, the lift gates in the back fell down and the soldiers began jumping out and marching forward to face the men of Able Company, with Conti barking, "Hurry up! C'mon, c'mon! Move your asses!" The new men fell into line with surprising acuteness, all numbering out to 50 men.

"Jesus, what is this, a parade?" Rawlings commented.

"Who the hell are these guys?" Saywell asked open-endedly as he played with his mustache.

Blackwell nodded and matter-of-factly announced, "Replacements."

All the veterans of Able were slowly gathering in front of these new men who stood in a parade rest line. As these replacements stood to attention, Duck was immediately taken in by the contrast of them with the veterans. These new men were all clean-shaven, newly outfitted with spotless jackets and dungarees, their helmets were polished with no bullet streaks or dents in them; they were all virginal as if ready for an inspection. Most of these replacements were privates, and two of them even had the distinction of being 2nd lieutenants.

MacKay looked out to his company and smirked with surprise on his face, "Wow, everyone's here? Geez Louise, you'd think a pinup girl was touring with the USO."

That got a good chuckle from the veterans. MacKay chuckled himself before turning to the crop of replacements. He steeled himself and stood straight, "I am Captain John MacKay, Company Commander." MacKay pointed to Lieutenant O'Leary who stood at attention by his side, "This is now First Lieutenant Ralph O'Leary, of 1st Platoon. The Executive Officer of Able Company. And I believe you all have met the company First Sergeant, Joe Conti. And these men that stand before you, are Able Company. And you shall now join their ranks, so as the C.O. allow me be the first to say, welcome to Able Company. As you've noticed, there's not a lot of us. We've been fighting for a straight month and suffered heavy casualties, and you are here to fill our ranks back to fighting condition. We were the first wave during the invasion of Normandy. And we shall continue to be the first wave throughout the division, and carve through the German lines with everything we got. Now scaring you isn't my job, that profession belongs to our illustrious First Sergeant."

The veterans had to muffle their snickering. Conti gave the smartasses a tombstone cold scowl. That shut them up.

MacKay continued, "But I have to tell you the truth. But just because we invaded France and the Russians are beating the Germans in the East, does not mean the Germans are going to stop. We are a fighting outfit, and we are going to fight. If you have any qualms about taking a life, then allow me to offer you a suggestion. Speak to the chaplain, speak to God, you may even come to speak to me if you wish; but do not try to speak to the Germans, for I guarantee you that when they try to speak to you, they'll be speaking to your corpse. Sergeant Conti? Any words."

"A few sir. As the Captain says, we are going to have some hard fightin' ahead us. And we ain't got time to teach ya everything, so ya bastards better remember what ya learned during training and listen to these veterans of the invasion. Follow what they say, do what they do, and they shall try to keep you alive. I emphasize 'try' because here's a primal lesson you're gonna learn about this war; DEATH does not give a fuck about you!"

The new men were taken back from the Top's sudden bluntness. One of the 2nd lieutenants of the replacements gave a worried look to the Captain. MacKay shrugged. "Don't look at me, Lieutenant. The Top's right."

Duck wanted to snigger, but he remembered his new position as Sergeant, he had to be tough and…soldierly like Conti was. He needed to keep up this façade in front of the new men.

"Well said, First Sergeant. And if that's everything," MacKay said, "Sergeant Conti shall redirect you to your platoons. On a final note, I can't promise that I will bring you all back home safe from the war, but I will try my very best to do so. Welcome to Able Company. Always Able!"

"Always Able!" the veterans replied with bravado.

Conti was given a clipboard with a list of names by an NCO from the replacement depot and ordered the 50 men into separate columns to join their respective platoons. As Conti read a list of 15 names, those 15 stepped forward in a line in front of 2nd platoon, one of the 2nd lieutenants was in the lineup as well. Duck's eyes widened for a moment. The sheer size of the replacements joining his platoon was astounding.

Conti spoke to the replacements, "As of today, fifteen of you shall now be in 2nd platoon. Men, this here is Sergeant Hudson. Acting Platoon Sergeant of 2nd Platoon, he and the men behind him are all veterans of the invasion. As I have stressed, listen to them at all times and maybe you won't be buried here in Europe. Maybe."

"Pardon me, First Sergeant." The newly minted 2nd lieutenant said, "Is this all of 2nd platoon? Just nine men?"

"That's right, sir." Duck said, stepping forward. "We are all that's left since the beaches. And you know who did that to us? The Germans. I don't care what you heard at the replacement depot or scuttlebutt from your pals in intelligence, but the Germans are the toughest sons of bitches in this war. Three continents are fighting these bastards and they're still holding strong. They gave this platoon an 85% casualty rate, so odds are that since you joined us, you may not be going back home in one piece. Listen to us, and we'll try to avert that. Understand?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" the men shouted back as if they were still in boot camp. Just hearing them treat him like a D.I. sent his soul soaring over the moon.

Duck could have sworn that Conti gave him a wink of approval. "Well, ya heard it from him, gentleman. You have no idea what's instore for ya, but listen to these guys and ya may have a chance of understanding. That's all." With that, Conti turned to redirect the other replacements to their new platoons.

The second lieutenant walked up to Duck. "Evening, Sergeant. I understand I am to be your new platoon leader."

"Seems so, sir. As Acting Platoon Sergeant allow me to welcome you to 2nd platoon, Lieutenant…"

"Peck. Emory Peck."

Lieutenant Pecker…? Hope you're not an asshole. Duck smiled confidently, "Pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Peck. I am Sergeant Derek Hudson, and I shall do my utter best to help you sir!"

Hudson had to be a tough, stone-faced Sergeant that the men respected and feared, like Conti. His first impression had to be vital. These boots had to know that 2nd platoon was his platoon, no matter what happened. He had to be the man that could send shivers down a private's face and…oh hell, who was he kidding? He was nothing like, Conti. Why should he act like him? He figured he ought to be a sergeant his own way.

"Or if you want, you can call me Duck; everyone else does."

Lieutenant Peck squinted his eyes, " 'Duck', huh? Did I…hear that right?"

"Yes, sir. The name's a…well I'll tell you later, sir. But you can call me that if you want."

"Oh, uh…alright…"

"Would you like to see the platoon, sir?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Platoon! Attention!"

The veterans snapped to attention with a click of their boots and shoved their chests out. Duck could feel the sideways scowls of Lovett, Rawlings, and Hannigan. Duck was loving it. As a corporal, he couldn't have gotten away with this—as much. But as a Sergeant and with an officer present, he could take the time to slightlyshow an abuse of power. Eh, he would make it up to his buddies later on, but for now, why not indulge in the rank a bit.

"Here are the men sir. Corporal Terry Cavanaugh, everyone calls him Terry, he's actually a returned wounded man, sir. Just shows how much he loves 2nd platoon and Able. Next is Private Thomas King, our translator, very smart kid who can say anything in German, see watch. Say, 'Kiss my ass', King."

"Uh…Leck mich im Arsch."

" 'Son of a bitch.' "

"Hurensohn."

" 'Hitler eats shit!' "

King groaned softly, "Um…uh…Hitler frisst Scheiße."

"Ha! See, sir?"

"Sergeant…"

"Right, sorry sir. Anywho, here's Private Mason Saywell, an excellent scout. Private Cedric Rawlings, our BARman. This bald bastard is Private Tim Hefferman, in my opinion, more deadly with a knife than a rifle. Not to say that his aim is crap. We then got Private Brian Hannigan here, the guy can fling a grenade down a rabbit hole from 30 yards away. Here's Private Samson Lovett, don't play cards with him since he's a cheating bastard…oh yeah, and 2nd platoon radioman. And the man at the end is Corporal Walter Blackwell. Now Blackwell is special, he has more experience than most men in the company, just shy under Sergeant Conti. He's…a few dimes short of a buck but he's wired tight in combat, you'll see him tell me several things to do from time-to-time. He actually saved the platoon and some tanks by doing so. So with respect sir, if he speaks to you, please listen."

Lieutenant Peck shivered as he delved into the black pits of Blackwell's eyes. Blackwell said to him, "Hope you're a good officer, if not…" Blackwell fell back into line and looked onto the group of replacements, all of the young men couldn't match his gaze.

But Peck puffed up his chest, "Is that how you speak to an officer, corporal?"

"Sorry, sir, Blackwell has his own ways, we just have to live with it," Duck mediated, getting between the two.

The lieutenant continued his glare at the impudent corporal before relenting. "Well, Sergeant, thank you for showing the platoon. You seem to know them well."

"Yes, sir I do. It was just us for a long while, sir. With this small group, we're closer than any other platoon in Able. Hell, sir, I wouldn't trade these men with anybody in the entire ETO, sir."

The lieutenant raised his brows in warm, genuine surprise, "Truly?"

"Yes, sir. And I hope I'll get to say the same for you sir." The sergeant turned to the replacements, "As I said, I'm Sergeant Hudson, but if you want, some of you can call me Duck. Long story, alright? I'll tell you some other time. Anyway, I'll steal some bullet points from Conti's spiel. Listen to us vets when we reach combat and you shall be fine. I can't wait to get to know each and every one of you! Welcome to 2nd Platoon, fellas!"