The Captain II
July 2, D-Day + 26
"Humanity should question itself, once more, about the absurd and always unfair phenomenon of war, on whose stage of death and pain only remain standing the negotiating table that could and should have prevented it."
"—What can be said of a man who is willingly to give his life for others? He was a brave man, madam, taking effort to go first before his comrades to protect their lives. A true and wondrous artist whose poems brought serenity to many of the soldiers of Able Company, and to me. The world is truly a lesser place without Randall Eubanks. I was proud to lead such a man as Eubanks within my company. May God keep him by His side in heaven.
Sincerely,
John MacKay
Capt. Comm—
Able Com, 29th Division"
MacKay reclined backwards in his chair and exhaled bitterly. He opened his writing hand and clenched it once more in a periodic fashion to avoid cramping. His eyes were straining so hard that he could feel them vibrating. How long have I been at these letters? He took a sip from his warm coffee and ran his fingers through his dark hair.
Private Eubanks… He was a smart kid who could have gotten into college had he not dropped out to help his parents during the Depression. MacKay had sat down with Eubanks about a month before the invasion in a one-on-one talk for about half an hour about life, war, and poetry. Surprisingly, he showed very acute knowledge about Alfred Lord Tennyson, Walt Whitman, and Plato. MacKay was taken back by his intelligence, many men barely remembered these three from grammar school, yet Eubanks could recite passages from their famous works. Eubanks explained how his father was a janitor at a library and on some long nights, he would bring Eubanks to the library in which Eubanks would read all he can. Eubanks was smart and brave enough to be commissioned to an officer, but before that could become a possibility, his chest was ripped open by a machine gun at Cherbourg.
He placed the letter of death in the stack on the right with the other 20. The parchment he spent hours writing upon seemed to taunt MacKay with the utmost savagery, reminding him of all the men who were never to be reunited with their loved ones, reminding him of all the men he had failed, of all the families that he had failed. His eyes were beginning to ache, and he closed his eyes just to rest them.
It was the Spring of 1939 that flashed in his mind. He was still a Sergeant during peacetime America, and was stationed with Conti on the East Coast. He was given a wondrous week-long furlough and he planned to enjoy every moment of it. The brightest memory he had was the walk down the National Mall of Washington, DC with Mary. He was in his brown dress uniform the whole time and she was wearing that tantalizing purple slim cut dress that ran down to her knees with white flowers printed all over. Her mother gave her a lovely white hair flower to match the dress; it gave her an extra layer of beauty that MacKay never thought possible for her to gain.
They walked down the mall by the reflection pool and up to the Lincoln Memorial where many families and couples were sitting down and sharing memories as well. Strangely, the most vivid sense that MacKay could remember of that day were her bare hands. She forgot her purple gloves that day, and so he held her hand the entire trip their and back. Her hand was small and pristine, never perspiring and was smoother than any velvet. Her nails were perfectly trimmed that when it brushed against the skin, it provided a calming scratch instead of skin-breaking tears that most women's nails inadvertently caused. Anytime Mary felt like kissing him, she would gently squeeze his hand twice and caress her fingers on the back of his hand sensually.
Mary would nuzzle her head on MacKay's shoulder, and whispered, "Promise me that you'll make this last forever, John."
He would kiss her on her cheek, "Forever and ever, Mary."
The National Mall suddenly transformed into their home across 14th Street. Mary receives a telegram in the mail, she reads it word for word; and then she collapses on the doorstep crying. She pulls out that lovely hazel-colored hair of hers by massive clumps with her hands so hard that blood pours from her scalp. The courier tries his best to console her for her loss, but no amount of consolation can save her from misery. And then the crying of Calvin echoes from inside their home, emulating his mother in their despair.
MacKay's eyes shot open, and with the shake his head he slammed his hand on the table in a panic. He was too busy panting for air to take notice that everyone in the café has ceased in their conversation and began watching him. When he does realize the sudden air of silence, he blushed slightly, and said, "Uh…sorry, everyone...um excuse me." And like that, everyone turned back to their own conversations. MacKay rubbed his eyes to keep himself awake.
The Captain of Able Company was residing inside a popular café in Cherbourg that was fortunately completely untouched by the raging battle. Though the French civilians loved the café, it was the Army officers that loved it even more. The quality of the brew was above decent, the bakery still had stores of dough that had yet to mold and was baked into some delicious bread, and it provided a filter from the loud reconstruction of the port occurring within the city. At first every single G.I. was coming here, but the staff officers who never set foot in Cherbourg during the battle quickly made the café an Officer's Club, much to the chagrin of the enlisted men.
"Excusez-moi, Capitaine."
MacKay raised his head from the letter, and was greeted by his French waiter who had a pot of freshly brewed coffee ready to refill the Captain's cup.
"S'il vous plait." MacKay told him.
The waiter poured the luxurious black liquid into MacKay's mug.
MacKay gave the man a genial smile, "Merci."
The waiter left as the Captain took a long gulp of coffee, hoping it could reinvigorate his mind from fatigue. It had been nearly a month since the invasion and he's felt utterly drained since Day One. Physically and mentally. He remembered veterans of the Great War saying that they've seen battalion commanders age fifteen years within a single year just from the hell of war. MacKay felt like he had already aged twenty. His bones began to ache with each movement, he could feel the bags growing underneath his eyes, and with each day he spends in Europe he begins forgetting several days back in America.
He rubbed his face with his hand and stared down at his notepad to see the names he had yet to do. Who's next?
He saw the name, and exhaled, Private First Class Rick Fuller.
Fuller…3rd Platoon, he was great pals with Johnson…should I tell his family the truth? The question itself was more gut-wrenching than anyone could imagine. You wanted to tell the family the truth of how they died. With all that these soldiers have been through, the horrors they've seen, the men they killed, the sacrifices they made for their friends, these soldiers' fates deserved to be told truthfully. But…did they have to be told to their family?
The family always seeks the truth, but could they handle it? Can he honestly tell them how one kid got torn in half by an artillery shell? Or how about another man getting his stomach and liver shot out by a machine gun? Or how about the private who was castrated by a landmine and bled out screaming for their mother? Or maybe the young man who was lit on fire by a German pioneer squad, screaming to God as his eyeballs were melting within his sockets? How about— No, that would be too cruel for any parent to receive.
Rick Fuller…Next of Kin…Isaiah Fuller, Father. MacKay sighed, clenching his writing hand. Here we go…
"Dear Mr. Isaiah Fuller,
I truly wish this letter would find you in better circumstances, but I regret to inform you in the passing of your son, Private First Class Rick Fuller.
Rick was a man that every soldier inspired to be. He was courageous, thoughtful, and insightful, always thinking of ways to get the men out of trouble during a firefight and in lulls he would make sure his comrades' equipment and weapons were still in working order. In the attack of Cherb—" Wait, should I include the location? What about censorship? What if—" His mind snapped back to his own parents and wife reading an obscure letter of his own death, not bothering to state where in Europe he died. To hell with censorship, the Army will just have to do that themselves. "—ourg, Fuller was the lead scout whose job was to scout out enemy positions to reduce the danger of Able Company's approach. Even then, his thought was of nothing but the safety of the company. And at that moment, his life was ended by a sniper." Wait a minute, 'his life was ended', what? Damn it, John. That's too damn callous! Hmm… "And at that moment, he was shot by a sniper and he died shortly after." Is that much better? Is it?
"Rick was a soldier you could always rely on to get the job done. He knew what it would cost if we failed and he always strived to give beyond 110%..." He did give beyond that, he died. Goddamn it… is that insensitive to write? "He was a grand soldier and a friend to all men within the company. It pains me to write this letter to you and your family, but you must know the quality of the son you have raised, Mr. Fuller. I am utterly proud to have led Rick Fuller in battle and I believe that he is sitting beside God in heaven.
Sincerely,
John MacKay
Capt. Comm—
Able Com, 29th Division"
MacKay recalled how it was four days after D-Day, and MacKay spotted Fuller with his squad, field striping his rifle and cleaning it. Then he moved over to Ruby and ordered him to clean his rifle, and Ruby did so with a smile. Fuller pulled a whetstone from his pocket and told Badmouth to sharpen his bayonet, in which Badmouth did with a smirk. He gave additional ammo to Duffy and asked if he could tighten the pins to his grenades so they wouldn't be pulled accidentally by foliage. Curious, MacKay called over Fuller and asked him why he was making his squad do this. Fuller replied with confidence, "Sir, I'm trying to survive sir, I want to keep my Pop's word and survive, and I'll be damned if I do and everyone else doesn't."
MacKay lifted up the letter in his hands and he reread it.
"Promise me that you'll make this last forever, John."
"Forever and ever, Mary." He kissed her on her soft lips.
His mind now resided in October 1943, New York. The day that 2,000 Americans were being shipped to England. He was a First Lieutenant then and recently requested for Ranger training. To see him off was his father and mother, Mary's father and mother, MacKay's sister and Mary's two cousins. Mary was a tough woman and never cried, yet MacKay swore he saw a tear fall from the corner of her eyes. She hugged him tightly and said those words to him. He replied with what he always said to her. He still remembered the sadness in those emerald green eyes of hers, the bitter tearing of the soul that one had when they knew they might lose their most cherished love forever. It was those same green eyes of hers that he saw in Calvin, only three years old at the time. MacKay hugged him tightly and kissed his forehead, saying that he would always love him.
…If Mary was to receive a letter, would she have—
The front door to the cafe opened, the commotion of Army construction invaded the indoors. MacKay brought his attention to the crashing sound from the outside, and noticed Sergeant Conti and Lieutenant O'Leary entering the café.
Several First Lieutenants immediately stood up and approached Conti, extending their arms out to block his way. "Sorry, Sergeant, this café is for officers only."
MacKay could tell Conti was sizing them up with that hardened glare of his, he looked upon their clean uniforms, clean-shaven faces, and arrogant attitudes of their. Hell, MacKay could tell these were new men; they didn't have the eyes of battle fatigue.
Conti snorted, "Don't worry, I won't be long, sir."
O'Leary stepped forward, getting in front of Conti. "Besides, he's with me." He craned his neck to show the silver bars of a First Lieutenant on his collar.
Ralph O'Leary was a tall and lanky Irishmen from Philadelphia. He towered over most men at the height of 6'4; he had prominent jowls that seemed to widen his face and possessed the cold blue eyes of the sky that was emphasized by his walnut colored hair.
Conti grunted matter-of-factly and went past the officers, only for one of them to jump in front of him and stuck out his chest. "Listen, Sergeant, when an officer says get out, you get the hell out." His friend looked at O'Leary, "What you trying to do, buddy? Let all the NCOs in here? You let one in, they'll all start coming."
Conti growled lowly and curtly, "Sir, I am here to meet with a Captain, so please get out of my way…sir."
"You ordering me? Who the hell do you bums think you are?!"
"My First Sergeant and my Executive Officer!" MacKay bellowed from his table.
The lieutenants spun around with anger on their faces, but quick erased it when they noticed who had addressed them.
"Uh, Captain!" one of them said, snapping to attention.
"Those men are from Able Company of the 116th." His face shrunk in a sneer, "You better show them some proper respect, lieutenants."
Upon hearing the unit, the lieutenants immediately backed away from the two men. quickly sitting down and returning to their coffee. O'Leary was grinning from ear-to-ear, whilst Conti shook his head with a subtle smirk. MacKay waved at them to approach. The two men took seats next to their CO, removing their helmets and placing them on their laps.
"Thank you for joining me."
"Yeah, sir. This place is… pretty swanky," O'Leary said, nodding with approval, "Nice décor, calming atmosphere and oh so wonderful patrons, they make you feel right at home. And apparently these Frenchies brew some great cup of Joe. Thank God our bombs didn't touch this place."
"Yeah and I bet'cha the owner is too." Conti smirked.
The waiter came to their table with a smile on his face. "Je peux vous aider?"
The Irish lieutenant's face went blank, "Uhhhhh…"
The Captain chuckled softly, "He asked if he could help you."
"Oh yes…um, oui, monsieur. Uhhh…gimme a moment…uhh je veux a big café, and some un crème, and uh…shit… Captain, how do you say 'sugar'?"
"Sucre."
"With sucre, please."
"Oui, monsieur." The waiter turned to Conti, "Et toi, monsieur?"
Conti shook his head and moved his hand. "Thank you, but I'm fine."
"Oui, monsieur."
The waiter bowed and scurried back to make the order. Conti reclined back in his chair; his eyes fell on the stack of papers beside MacKay.
"What are you writing, sir?"
MacKay's eyes fell to the letters. He kicked himself, he lost track of time and failed to put them away.
"These are… the letters to the families."
Conti and O'Leary began looking away, sucking their teeth in uneasiness. MacKay placed his hands on the stack, somehow, he could feel all of them as if they were still alive.
O'Leary began scratching the back of his neck, "Oh…um…yeah… if you don't mind me asking, sir. How many have you completed?"
"Enough."
"Oh…"
"Yeah. I was hoping I can turn these in before we move out. Got a lot more to finish."
"It'll be alright, sir. You'll finish them up."
"Yeah…" MacKay sighed, "So anyway…Ralph, how are your replacements?"
"Eager," the lieutenant replied with a soft smile bordering on humorous. "They keep asking us about what happened at Omaha with these wide-eyes of theirs. We tell them how we fought up the murderous beaches and about our drive all the way to Cherbourg and they keep asking when we are going to fight the Germans."
Conti chuckled, "They just came yesterday and they are already lookin' for a fight."
"I know. Good golly, buncha kids."
"And these 'bunch of kids' are going to get their wish." MacKay said.
The waiter brought the lieutenant his coffee. Conti and O'Leary stared at the Captain with lost eyes. "Excuse me, sir?"
MacKay sipped on his coffee and exhaled. "I got some news from Battalion. We're moving out."
O'Leary groaned, Conti lit a cigarette.
"When, sir?" O'Leary asked.
"Tomorrow. 0700. Fortunately, we'll get to ride on trucks on the way to the front."
"I thought the Colonel said we had a whole week off the line?"
"Supposedly, but the Germans don't quite care for our R&R, now do they, lieutenant?"
"No, sir."
"Where are we heading, sir?" Conti asked.
"South. The Supreme Allied Command is forming a plan for the Invasion forces to breakout of Normandy soon, so our next objective is the crossroad town of St. Lo. The entire Army Corps is moving out."
"When can we move further east, sir? Specifically, Germany?"
"No time soon, you can thank the British for that."
"Wha'cha mean, sir?" Conti asked.
"Montgomery bit off more than he could chew. The Brits still haven't taken Caen yet…"
"But it's been nearly a month!" O'Leary exclaimed, disbelief painting his face.
"I know. The whole invasion relied on them taking Caen back on D-Day. The American divisions are moving south so we can flank the Germans in the southeast and bring relief to the Brits and Canadians at Caen and so we all can get the hell out of Normandy. I don't know all the details about it but I do know we're leaving Cherbourg for good tomorrow."
"And back facing Jerry…" Conti exhaled crustily.
"Our favorite pastime, eh?" MacKay said, forcing a smile.
"Yeah. Can't I retire early, sir?" O'Leary asked.
"Who you talking to about retirement?" Conti asked with a raised eyebrow, "That's for old men like me who served during the Old Army, I need some goddamn retirement out of all of y'all."
MacKay got a good chuckle from that. He took a drink of his coffee and felt a surge of energy. His hand fell on the stack of papers and he felt like his ten-second surge had just crashed.
"Ralph."
"Yes, sir?"
"Speak with your non-coms, and train the new men well. I don't want to write more of these letters back home…and I don't want you to be prepared to write these either."
"Yes, si—what? Excuse me, sir, what did you mean?"
"You're the X.O, anything happens to me…"
"Don't talk like that, Cap."
"You need to be prepared for whatever happens, Ralph. Understand?"
"But sir, as long as—"
"Understand?"
O'Leary nodded reluctantly and said, "Yes, sir."
"Good. Thanks for coming up here, Ralph. I'll pay for your coffee. Now please excuse Conti and I. I need you to relay the assignment that I told you to the other platoon leaders and platoon sergeants."
O'Leary stood up and placed his helmet back on his head. He nodded to the Captain and the First Sergeant and exited the café with his coffee in hand.
Conti shook his head, exhaling smoke from his crusty lips, "Seems like poor O'Leary ain't ready for what you were offerin."
"He needs to be ready, everyone needs to be ready. I've got a bad feeling about what is to come. And not just him, you too."
"What do you mean?"
"Joe, whatever happens to me or any officer in Able, you need to be ready to take the reins."
"Hmm."
"Don't be like that, Joe. I'm serious. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yeah…I got it, sir."
"If this drive to Cherbourg has taught me something, it's that this war will get worse before it ends."
"Always, sir." Conti picked up on MacKay's hand still on the stack of papers. "Are you halfway done with those?"
"Not even halfway…I thought I had more time before we moved out."
Conti placed his cigarette down on the ashtray, "Sir, do you mind if I…comb through some of these?"
"Go ahead."
Conti was shifting through the paper, reading off the names of the fallen. "Rick Fuller, Randy Eubanks, Clancy Vasner, Mark Croons…James Tolliver…Benjamin Dikeman…" Conti's face scrunched up as he continued reading, "Henry Lewpanos…Mark Clooney…Ronald Syme… Conti caught on to the pattern. "Wait? These ones…all of them were killed after D-Day…d-did, you write any of these letters for the boys who were killed on the beaches?"
It seemed to Conti that MacKay was shivering. MacKay cupped his hands onto his mouth and sighed. "Not one."
"Why not, sir?"
"How can I, Joe? These letters I'm writing... Fuller, Eubanks, Johnson, Vasner, Croons, Tolliver… and it goes on and on…they fought against the Germans. They've had combat experience and I could write to their families knowing full well that they fought and died. But now…" MacKay reclined back in his seat, his eyes locked on the ceiling. "How can I do it, Joe? How can I write to their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, that some of them never even made it out their goddamn boats before they were ripped to shreds by machine guns? How can I honestly write that some of those boys were pulled under the waves because their packs were too heavy? All without firing a shot at the enemy. None of them died 'valiantly' or 'heroically'…they just died…" MacKay looked at Conti, his voice was fragile, beseeching, "Joe… how the fuck am I going to do that…?"
"Jeezus Christ…"
"How can I, Joe?"
"I—I don't know, sir. But, you're going to have to figure something out."
"Yeah, I know I will…"
The First Sergeant inhaled bitterly through his mouth, he wished he could have figured something better to say to MacKay.
MacKay scratched his neck, staring sullenly at the stacks of papers by his hand. "Joe…each word that I write, I think about Mary and Calvin."
"Oh…"
"Yeah…I think how Mary could react if she receives mine and that a letter she gets is filled with callousness and hollowness. I think of the closure she may never receive if someone is afraid to write the truth or simply chose not to because of indifference. That fear…that fear of not knowing what happened…I can't even begin to describe the…horror. I wouldn't wish that on her, or any other family. But how can I just write…"
He stopped talking. He drank from his coffee and exhaled the warmth.
"I'll tell you what's not going to help, sir. This fear of yours. If you start thinking too much about this, you ain't going to be effective with the Company. You won't help us as you debrief us, as you direct us, as you lead us in combat where we all really need you. If you falter because you fear of what you may write to the families, then too be honest sir, you're just gonna keep on writing more letters in the future. You need to stay focused, sir. There's no easy answer for this. Hell I wish I could give you somethin' profound and shit. But look at me. I ain't eloquent in the least. But I am the First Sergeant and I can you give you the advice of one. Whatever you say, you can't take it to heart or have it affect your duties, sir. Able needs you at 100%."
"I know, Joe. I know…" MacKay shifted his gaze from the letters to Conti and recognized that stern stare he always used on the privates. The corner of MacKay's mouth rose slightly. "I swear if I wasn't an officer, you would have slapped me in the back of the head to snap me out of it."
"Sad thing is, when you got your commission I knew I'll never have the chance to do it again."
Both of them shared an amiable chuckle.
"Sir, I can't always give you the answers you seek. But you can still come to me if you need to talk, sir."
"Thanks, Joe. I mean it."
"Yeah, no problem, sir." Conti lit another cigarette, his eyes scrolling down on MacKay's list of names on his notepad. "Who you writing next?"
"Herbert Johnson."
Conti dragged on the cigarette.
MacKay remembered how Johnson and Fuller once played a prank on Baker Company's NCOs during the battalion baseball tournament back in England. They apparently convinced three other Able men to down gallons of lemonade and eating pounds of asparagus the day before the game, and the five men snuck within the barracks and urinated on the team's jerseys. The following morning, the Baker men couldn't even bat and pitch without cringing from the overbearing smell. Able won, 8 – 2. The only reason that MacKay found out was that he overheard Johnson boasting of his 'masterplan', and he brought Johnson over to the side. Johnson pleaded that he had Able's best interest at heart, they had to prove they were the best in the battalion. MacKay recalled how he shook his head at Johnson's explanation, finally saying, "I see…Johnson…can you do the same thing with Charlie Company?" Johnson gave that young toothy grin of his, "Yes, sir!"
MacKay shook his head, "Unbelievable. It still gets to me. Both him and Fuller, a moment apart from one another. What's that word, that describes something…uh, poetic, I guess. Yet, something tragic at the same time?"
"Uh, 'ill-fated'?"
"No, not quite… it was based off… that's right, 'Shakespearean'!"
" 'Shakespearean'? Was that the name of that British guy who wrote some plays?"
"Yes it was. He made some very poignant tragedies that are still referenced to today. Back when I was first commissioned, my CO was a college professor, and anytime something bad happen, he would find some beauty in it, a tragedy he deemed it, even calling it 'Shakespearean.' "
"How would you label what happened to Fuller and Johnson, 'Shakespearean'?"
"Best buds, inseparable, you couldn't say one name without saying the other, one gets shot, everyone cowers but the other runs out to save him, he gets shot too, both of them die holding hands… what else do you call that, Conti?"
"War."
"Now that's Shakespearean."
"Hell yeah."
"Sure you don't want any coffee, Joe?"
"You know what? I can go for a cup." The Sergeant turned around in his chair and spotted the waiter. "Garçon, coffee!"
The waiter looked over at the Sergeant with a mild disgust, but ultimately bowed his head and was approaching them.
"The hell crawled up his ass?" Conti asked.
MacKay shook his head with a laugh, "Joe. 'Garçon' means 'boy'."
"Whatever, he knew what I fucking meant."
As the waiter begrudgingly took the Sergeant's order, MacKay returned his head to the paper letter in front of him. Herbert Johnson…Next of Kin…Scarlett Johnson, Mother. He flexed his right hand, grabbed his pen and exhaled. Let's begin.
"Dear Mrs. Scarlett Johnson,
It pains me to write this letter, but it's with heavy heart that I must inform you in the passing of your son, Private First Class Herbert Johnson.
Herbert was a young man with grand enthusiasm and character. His closest friend in the war was Rick Fuller, the two of them were always inseparable, never being far from laughter or mischievous trouble. It was because of Herbert's gregarious nature that proved that the relationships of men in war can exceed that of blood brothers. Your son, proved such mettle of camaraderie in his final actions. Herbert's squad was scouting out the advance in the city of Cherbourg when his squad came under fire from a sniper. Rick Fuller was hit and laid in critical condition. Refusing to see his friend suffer, your son bravely rushed out into the open to rescue his fallen friend. I was not present when he did such an action but I was told by his squad members how valiantly he behaved. He lifted Fuller upon his shoulders and tried walking back to safety. His only priority was rescuing his friend. But the sniper shot Herbert, and he collapsed alongside his brother-in-arms and he died along with Fuller." MacKay pinched the bridge of his noise and sighed.
"This savage war has claimed a great many lives of young men everywhere in this country of ours. And I know my words may bring little comfort in your time of personal loss. But I know for a fact that Herbert's efforts to save his friend has shown that the courage of these young men can inspire others into action. Upon seeing their comrades falling, Herbert's squad reorganized and sought out and neutralized the sniper. Your son was a great man and no words can express my pride to have him serve under me. I truly wish that God shall grant you peace and mercy upon receiving this letters and I pray to God that he keeps men like Herbert and Rick by his side in heaven.
Sincerely,
John MacKay
Capt. Comm—
Able Com, 29th Division"