The Replacement

July 11, D-Day + 35

"Today is the start of a new adventure. New challenges to face, new memories to make, and new obstacles to overcome"

The truck bounced over a hump, sending the infantry in the back hopping in the air and slamming back down in their seats. Many of the replacements inside chuckled in surprise, one joked that the bumpy ride reminded him of his Pop's pickup truck back in Kansas. To Private Clarence Franks, it reminded him of the time his school bus would always take him home down the rickety dirt road back in Rhode Island.

Franks held on to the frame of his M1 Garand, it was somewhat cold despite the humidity of the countryside. He was pretty giddy, soon he would be firing his weapon at the enemy. Maybe he could shoot three Krauts with one bullet! He remembered his buddy Declan Hall from basic was bragging how his Daddy once shot three Germans with a single machinegun bullet back in the Great War. He was smiling now, I wonder if my sons will be boasting of what I did in this Second War, he thought. He wondered where Declan was in France, what if he was in the 29th Division just like Franks was?

"Hey buddy, what's your name?"

The man who asked was sitting opposite of him. He looked to be about Franks' age, and had bushy eyebrows and a naturally scrunched up face, as if he was sucking on something sour. But he seemed friendly enough, so the young man decided to answer with a smile, "Franks, Clarence Franks. What's yours?"

The guy smiled back, "Kingsley, Max Kingsley. Hey, you wouldn't happen to know how much longer it'll be until we get there, do you?"

Franks laughed, "No, I don't, but I sure want to know, man. Legs are killing me, I need to stretch."

Kingsley nodded, "Hit the nail right on the head with that one. I wouldn't mind going on a twelve mile hike if it meant I could stretch."

"Christ Almighty, did I hear a soldier saying he wants to go on a hike?!" said another replacement sitting across from Franks on his left.

"Yeah? Well who are you?" Franks asked.

The man chuckled, "The name's Trevor Cunningham, gents." He broke out a grin full of teeth, "I hated the hiking in basic! And you want to do a twelve-miler? What are miserable people like youse doing in the Army?"

"Same as you, I imagine," said Franks. "Because we need to stop the Nazi tyranny with a great big American boot up the ass!" He ended the comment with a snicker; the whole truck went up with whoops as the other new men voiced the approval of such an answer.

As it began to quiet, Kingsley answered back, "I would one day want to tell my students what I did in service for the country, to tell them that I fought in history."

"You're a teacher?" Franks asked.

"No not yet, but I want to be one. I'll do a mighty fine job."

"What you want to teach?" Cunningham asked.

"History, European History to be precise. And here I am, on the cusp of history in Europe."

"I remember my history teacher, Mr. Boise. God, I hated that asshole. Prolly you'll be an asshole when you start teachin'."

Kingsley smirked smugly, yet his tone was good-natured. "It is probably because of your underprivileged vocabulary that most teachers didn't particularly warm up to you, Mr. Cunningham."

Cunningham looked to Franks, "Told ya he was an asshole."

Franks laughed. Kingsley chuckled softly. Cunningham smiled, "Well we're all heading off to the 1st Battalion. So what company are you guys assigned to? Able, Baker, Charlie, or Dog?"

Franks answered, "They told me at Division that I'm with Able."

Kingsley beamed, "Yeah? Look at that, I'm in Able too!"

"Me three," Cunningham said with a sly grin. "Looks like us three will be spending a lot time together.

Franks said to him, "Wait now, don't skip out on your own question. Why did you join the Army, Cunningham? Were you drafted?"

"T'hell with that shit! I wanted to fight Jerry like you! I lied about my age just to sign up, everyone else back home was enlisting, and I would be damned if I didn't. I'm glad I did, scuttlebutt is that with our fighting in France, we'll be in Berlin by November and home by Christmas! The war over in four to five months? Hot dog, that'll be a treat and a half! Just made it!"

The truck careened to a stop. The replacements looked out from the back of the truck with eyes of wonder. Here they were, at the regimental pool for the 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Infantry Division. Franks was smiling from ear-to-ear, lost at the thought that all these men were in the middle of a French countryside as beautiful as this. About a hundred men were roaming around do hundreds of things trying to pass the damn time. Their patches on their shoulders matched his, the grey and blue of the 29th Division.

"Alright, get out! Grab your weapons and get out," shouted an NCO, pulling down the hatch from the back of the truck.

The replacements began hopping out one-by-one and began stretching their limbs and shouldering their packs and weapons. Franks could feel the eyes of the veterans upon them, he tried to straighten himself quickly. No way in hell would he look a fool to them.

"Replacements, stand ready!"

All of them stood at attention. Franks made sure he stood between Kingsley and Cunningham. Here it is, he thought eagerly, trying yet failing to force away a smile, I'm about to meet my company. My future brothers-in-arms!

A staff sergeant walked by them, examining them all. "So these are the replacements for 1st Battalion, huh? A dozen of you in all, huh?" He took a drag on his cigarette and spewed the smoke from his lips. "Alright now, how many of you fuck-sticks are with Able Company?"

Franks' smile quickly soured. Kingsley looked unsure at the comment, as did Cunningham.

"What? Ya pea-brained bastards don't speak English? Which one of youse belong with Able Company?!"

Franks, Kingsley, Cunningham, and two other men raised their hand and told him their names.

"Christ, y'all sure you're Army approved with your hearing fucked up like this?"

"Well I know some women can attest that I'm Army approved," Cunningham said with a grin.

The sergeant glared daggers at him, "Shut the fuck up, private."

"Okay…" Cunningham said dejectedly.

An NCO walked passed and laughed to the staff sergeant, "Those are some great killers right there, Benson. These choirboys look like they ain't ever touched their peckers before. Good luck showing them around."

The sergeant spun around, "Oh go fuck yourself, Marty."

"Can't. That's what the Army's doing."

He turned back to the new men, "So Able, uh… I guess you'll find Able down that trail over there, just keep walking through the hedgerows, take a left at the junction and… uh— whatever you'll just find them next to a large farmhouse. Good luck, I got a hundred more replacements to sort out…"

And like that, he walked past them. The replacements blinked incredulously.

"Army hospitality, at its finest!" Cunningham said cheerfully, but he said it with a scornful shake of his head. "Ain't that a kick in the head?"

The five men decided that they best head over to the poor directions given to them. As they took the trail, the four foot high hedgerows began growing in size and density until they reached a full six feet. Franks thought he was inside a giant maze, he heard back in the rear that momentum had stalled because of these hedgerows, and he chuckled it off, but now seeing it, he could fully understand why.

Soon the replacements came upon a bundle of voices past the corner of a hedge and entered on the lawn of an open farmhouse with many men sprawled around. He exhaled in anticipation, Able Company, huh?

Most of the eyes of the veteran Able men were on them as they walked past, and the veteran eyes held the looks of disinterest. They felt like freshmen in high school walking amongst the territory of the seniors. Franks was lost in a daze at the colorful vocabulary they used against them; words that he knew they dare not repeat in front of their mothers. Every word directed at them that came out a veteran's mouth had a variant usage of "fuck". Fucking Cherries, Fucking New Guys, Fucking Boots, Fuck Faces, and Fuck Sticks.

And their attire? These guys looked more at home with pigs than the cover of the poster he saw that showed pristine riflemen with a toothpaste smile. They had dried mud caking their pants and combat jackets, dirt and dust had blackened their faces, their facial hair was unkempt and they all stunk miserably. Their uniforms were bleached from a combination of sun and sweat into a bizarre combination of yellow and green. Their jackets had tears in them and their helmets had white streaks cutting through the olive and were dented.

Franks saw five men playing cards and decided to approach them. "Um, we're looking for Able Company…is, uh, is this it?" he asked.

The veterans looked at them with a dull surprise. A corporal spoke up with a cigarette dangling between his cracked lips, "That's right. Who're you guys?"

"We're the replacements."

The veterans scoffed and turned away from them, the replacements could hear one of them sneer under their breath, "Fucking kids, what are they gonna send us next? Toddlers?"

The corporal held out a lazy finger, "Go report to First Sergeant Conti, he's by the…" the corporal rolled his eyes and sighed, "whatever… he's over there, just ask around."

"Geez, don't you love how everyone is so great at giving directions?" Cunningham asked his fellow replacements. The five men left the veterans, refusing to say anything after hearing them snickering behind their backs.

It wasn't long until Kingsley saw the patch of a First Sergeant up ahead. "First Sergeant!"

The man spun around in a rage. With surprising quickness, he moved towards the group of newbies. "Goddammit, don't ya being yelling my rank out loud! Want me to be sniper-bait?"

Kingsley's head retreated between his shoulders like a frightened turtle, "Uh no, sir—I-I mean Sergeant."

Conti rubbed his crusty, bloodshot eyes. He examined their pristine uniform and looked them each in the eye. "Ya five must be new guys?" his voice was as rough as sandpaper.

"Yes, Sergeant," they all said in unison as they snapped to attention. The veterans beside them sniggered, the Top yawned.

"Whatever, at ease. I'm First Sergeant Conti, out here, just call me Top, don't be screaming men's ranks out so loudly. Germans know English and they're snipers everywhere." Conti looked at his own chevrons, "Figure I oughta cover these bastards up just to be safe."

This man was a soldier? Franks could see bags under bags underneath his eyelids. His stubble on his chin had patches of grey in it. He seemed like someone's father, by God he was old!

"The CO, Captain MacKay, is off at Battalion and his Executive Officer, 1st Lieutenant O'Leary, is busy checking the perimeter," Sergeant Conti continued. "So as First Sergeant, allow me to welcome you all to Able Company. Now I need to find where to put y'all…"

"First friendly face that we've seen all day, Top." Cunningham gleamed.

"Really? Guess what, I ain't here to be chummy with y'all. I'm here to make sure y'all got yer shit together. You reading me, private?"

"Yes, Top."

Conti cleared his throat and scratched his greying stubble, "How old are ya guys?"

"Eighteen," they all said.

"All five of ya?"

"Yes, Top."

Conti spat out phlegm, "Jeezus Christ."

A man was walking by and had the swagger of an NCO from what Franks gathered. He looked to be Mexican. The NCO snickered in Conti's ear, "Always Able."

"Always Able," Conti affirmed with a sigh.

"Jerry's going to love these guys."

"Yeah they will. And so will you, Hernandez."

"What you mean, Top?"

Conti stuck his ashy finger at Franks and Kingsley. "You two? Got names?"

"Yes, Top! Um, I'm Private Clarence Franks!"

"Oh and I'm Private Max Kingsley, Top!"

"Fantastic…" Conti turned to Hernandez, "Ya got these two whelps."

"What?!"

"Them mortars ain't making ya deaf, are they Hernandez?"

"Don't do this to me, Conti!" he growled. "Don't stick these two on me!"

"Just did, Sergeant."

"C'mon, Conti!"

"I ain't repeating myself, Hernandez."

"This is bullshit!"

"Welcome to the Army." Conti turned on his heels, "You remaining three, follow me, I'll… I guess I'll find you your squads."

Cunningham looked to the two as he walked off, "Why do I got a bad feeling about this?"

Both Kingsley and Franks shrugged as answers back at Cunningham as they watched him and the two other men disappear down the road.

Hernandez sighed, "Goddamn it… this is some ol' bullshit… you two follow me."

"Yes, Sergeant!"

The squad that waited for them had three men lounging around, and like the other soldiers, these men were disheveled and dirty. Two of them had olive private chevrons on and the third had the stripes of a corporal. They had a musty stink of locker-room sweat to them

"Who are those guys behind you, Vince? They look… aw hell, we're getting replacements?" one of them asked, Franks figured he was Italian by the accent.

"Yeeeeeeeep."

"Fantastic…" one of them said dryly, his stink eye focused on Franks in particular.

The corporal loaded M1 rounds into his bandolier, he was pretty thin and had a youthful face, "Lazzano, Adair, lay off of 'em." He looked to the two, "Our new guys, huh? What are your names?"

At least he was relieved that there was one friendly man here, "Oh, uh, nice to meet you all…" Franks gulped at the unresponsive glare the two other veterans were giving him. He chuckled awkwardly, "Uh… yeah, yeah, yeah, so I'm uh, Franks."

"And I'm, uh, Kingsley. If I may, who are you guys?"

"Why the hell does it matter to you, new guy?" one of them sneered. "You won't be out here long enough for it to matter no-how."

"Wh-What does that mean?" Kingsley asked.

"You'll see."

"Uh… I mean, we're on the same squad; we need to know each other's names right? If we go out into combat and we need to call or alert you…"

The veterans stared at each with vacant expressions. The corporal shrugged his arms, "Fine then, Kingsing."

"Uh, it's 'Kingsley'… uh, corporal," he said awkwardly.

"Just shut up man," Lazzano said.

Merrill began. "My mistake, Kingsley. I'm Corporal Merrill."

"Name's Lazzano."

"I'm Adair. Goddamn fucking replacements…"

"And in case you haven't caught on, I'm your squad leader, Sergeant Hernandez. This here is 1st Squad of 1st Platoon, our platoon sergeant is Staff Sergeant Fischer, he's…he's around here somewhere. As is our platoon leader 1st Lieutenant O'Leary. For now, dig a foxhole wide enough for two of ya and make yourself at home." He pointed to the veterans, "Listen to whatever these men tell you, got it."

"Yes, Sergeant."

Hernandez simply grunted and popped a squat underneath the shade of a tree and lit a cigarette.

Kingsley gulped softly, "Well, Franks, I had… uh… colder receptions before."

"Yeah, me too… C'mon, let's get a hole dug."

The hole was coming along, it was about a foot deep and three yards wide, but it had to be deeper and wider to fit both Franks and Kingsley. Franks shoveled the dirt and Kingsley held open a bag that held the dirt to make a sandbag. Sweat was already dripping down Franks' nose. Over to their left, the veterans were minding their own business, Lazzano and Adair talking to one another.

"Hey, Adair?"

"Yeah? What is it, Laz?"

"Ever been to a carnival?"

"Yeah, weirdest five bucks I ever spent."

"Why?"

Adair took off his boot and sock and was picking the gunk from between his toes. "Bunch of freaks and fuck-ups in the carnival, I tell ya. Saw a midget juggling tomatoes on the back of an elephant, a bearded woman, and a Chinaman who could twist his body more than a goddamn pretzel."

Lazzano smirked. "You must have felt right at home."

"Bite me. Why the hell you ask that anyway?"

"Y'know Mitts from Baker?"

"Yeah, what about that shorty?"

"Spoke to his sergeant yesterday, he was pulled off the line. He cracked up under that barrage down the line in Baker's sector."

"Yeah, I remember the earth pounding yesterday with that much ordnance being dropped. So he cracked, huh?"

"Yeah, apparently he was screaming how the shells were louder than the elephants. Over and over again. The shells were louder than elephants and he crapped his pants, kept screaming that shit. Turns out he was raised as a carnie and was used to elephants screaming all the time."

"Mitts? Huh… guess that makes sense. What's the point of telling me that?"

"Nothing, just thought you would like to know. All that arty coming right from 192."

"Hmm."

"Yeah…"

"Shit…"

Franks looked to Kingsley; he was wearing the same expression on his face. There was artillery that was louder and heavier than elephants? He remembered the stories on the radio of zoo animals and how loud and sharp an elephant's cry was. The Germans had weapons that ear-splittingly loud that can make a man befoul his own trousers?

"Uh, excuse me?" he called over to Adair and Lazzano, meekly.

Adair twisted his head and eyed the incomplete foxhole. "You done? That hole's a shit-show. It needs to be wide enough for Santa's fat ass to take a shit in."

"Well, that's still a work in progress, but um, couldn't help but overhear about that guy… uh, cracking I guess. Is… Is it that bad out here?" Franks asked.

"Oh yeah, it's almost worse than Omaha."

The replacements exchanged glances and slacked jaws, "R-Really?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" Kingsley asked.

Adair stared at him with the eyes of a bull, "Look around you, look at the hedgerows! How in God's name can we fight in this condition? We've been fighting in this crap since we came to France! And when we think that we're learning, the Krauts show just how naïve we really are. The Krauts are dug in, they can hear you on the other side and sometimes shoot us through the damn hedgerow. If we use tanks to bust threw, the Krauts just wait and use rockets to destroy our tanks. Plus they got the high ground with their artillery at the tippy-top. Christ, this is our third day here and we already lost 23 men, most from our platoon."

"Most of them replacements." Lazzano added with a stare.

"Oh man…" was all the replacements could say.

"Yeah, it's a goddamn nightmare out here. To top it off, we're going to be hitting 1-9-2. Goddammit… HQ sent Crazy Charlie to take out the hill, and even they couldn't take it."

"Crazy Charlie?" Franks asked.

"Charlie Company of our battalion." Merrill answered.

"What hill? '1-9-2'?" Kingsley asked.

Both newcomers followed Merrill's arm and finger into the distance against the backdrop of a moderate size hill being blasted by artillery. Merrill took a look at the hill, "That is what Crazy Charlie attacked. Goddamn Hill 192. They attacked that hill two days ago, no one came back."

It felt like Franks swallowed his own heart. "Not one?"

Merrill shook his head gravely, "Not one."

Adair snorted and spat. "Apparently, from what Fats said, the only radio message they sent back was how untenable their position was, their mounting casualties, and how they needed more backup. After that," he looked to the new men, "Zilch."

Lazzano stepped in. "Baker tried to send out patrols right where Charlie was in the line and were hit by a wall of Germans. Those Krauts must have encircled Charlie and shot them to pieces…"

Hernandez looked over to them, "Since Crazy Charlie failed, Able is going to attack that monstrosity."

"We are?" Franks tried to hide the concern in his voice, but to no avail.

"When?" Kingsley asked.

"Tomorrow."

"Oh Christ…"

Lazzano examined his weapon, "That's right, you better pray to the Son and the Big Man upstairs. Replacements like you get killed faster than turkeys in November."

"What?!"

"Don't go scaring them, Lazzano." Merrill said. "It won't help us if they're petrified when they go out there."

Adair chuckled bitterly, "What's wrong with what Laz said? It's the dying truth."

"Stop." Merrill said, summoning a gravity of authority in his voice.

"Fine. You can go and coddle those two, Corporal." Adair scoffed.

Behind Franks and Kingsley, a Staff Sergeant approached 1st Squad, shouldering his weapon over his shoulder with his helmet hanging down his side. He gave a quick nod to the new men and walked up to Hernandez. He had noticeable stubble on his chin and he coughed before he spoke, "How's it going in your neck of the woods?

Hernandez grumbled under his breath before speaking, "What? What is it, Fischer?"

"Patrol order, Hernandez."

Hernandez buried his face in his hand and groaned, "Roland, don't do this to me…"

"Hernandez…"

"I just got two replacements for Christ's sake."

"So did everyone else."

Merrill stepped up, "What do we have to do, Fischer?"

"Glad to see that you're not complaining, Corporal. Able is moving out in three hours to establish an HQ closer to the hill, so we need several trails to be scouted. Once we find a trail absent Krauts, Able will move through it."

"What about Bachman and his jeep?" Adair asked. "They're scouts, Sarge."

"They're out scouting a different trail, we have three to choose from and you guys got the second trail while a squad from 3rd Platoon has the third."

"But why us?" Adair complained. Fischer stared at him with hard eyes.

"Quit bitchin', Adair, it's getting old." Lazzano groaned as he rose to his feet. "Let's just hurry up and do it."

"I swear, Hernandez, why do half your men have better attitudes than you?" Fischer scoffed softly.

"Because they don't carry my responsibility."

It seemed to Franks that the Staff Sergeant ignored that comment and looked at his direction. "You two are new, huh?" he asked.

Franks and Kingsley stood to attention. Franks spoke first, "Yes, Sergeant. Franks, Clarence, Private."

"Kingsley, Maxwell, Private."

"Alright, privates, I'm Staff Sergeant Fischer, the platoon sergeant of 1st Platoon. Welcome." He extended his arm towards the vets, "Listen to whatever these men say. They're gonna keep you alive the best they can, learn from them and remember what you learned at basic and you'll be fine. Best of luck."

"Thank you, Staff Sergeant!" they both said.

Fischer gave them another nod. He looked towards Hernandez, "Get it done, pronto."

"Yeah, yeah."

Once Fischer left, Hernandez shook his head. "If it isn't one thing, it's another… Alright ya bastards, up and at 'em."

The new men grabbed their equipment with blinking speed, sharp contrast to the veterans who were rising like senior citizens fresh from a nap. "Alright ladies, I'll bring up the rear. Adair, your BAR is going to be on point first," said Hernandez to the slow moving men.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," he said, shoving his magazine inside his automatic.

Lazzano followed Adair and gave the two new guys a sneer as he passed by, "Word of advice, new guys? Don't fuck up."

Kingsley pursed his lips tight. Franks muttered lowly, "Yeah, thanks…"

"Hold on," said Corporal Merrill. He stopped both of the new men. "Take off your packs, this is a patrol, not a march. You won't need that extra forty pounds on your back."

Kingsley told him, "Thanks, Corporal." Both men took off their packs, their shoulders feeling ever lighter. "Question, Corporal. Why is everyone so… mean and disinterested in us?"

Franks gave him a quick glance, but said nothing. Cause we're the new guys, I thought you would have realized that, man.

"Simple. You both are new and in their eyes, pathetic. Most new guys that come enter Able get taken out pretty quickly. In this squad, we lost two good guys who were… with us before Omaha. One of them tried to help a dumb replacement and got killed for it. Laz, Adair, and Hernandez haven't forgotten that. I haven't forgotten that." His voice suddenly became sharp, "Listen, I'm not here to be friends, I just don't want either of you to fuck up and get us brought down with you. Understand? Good. Now let's get going."

Merrill walked ahead of them. Both replacements looked at one another. "Well, let's not 'fuck up' shall we?" Kingsley uttered.

Franks nodded with a soft chuckle, "Amen to that. Hey, looks like you'll get your hike after all."

"You two done staring into each other's eyes?" Hernandez asked sharply. "Good, now move it."

These hedgerows were truly colossal, well over seven feet tall and too thick to see through. Combined with the heavy trees from above, the vegetation blocked away most of the natural sunlight. Only beams of sun perforated through the slight fist-size openings of the trail. He could hear the thumping of artillery rounds in the distance, and with each of the explosions erupting farther away, he shook in his skin.

Adair was the point man, his long BAR was like a detector for human life, swaying from side-to-side along with the man himself. He turned around to check behind himself, only to get an angry glare from Hernandez and a flicking of the hand to get him back to facing front. He didn't understand why Hernandez was angry with him? Didn't he tell them to watch all directions? Why the hell didn't anybody tell him anything? Maybe Merrill could, but he was up several yards and he seemed as determined as the other veterans to not walk into an ambush.

Hernandez made a hissing noise through his teeth and the entire squad stopped and squatted to a knee. Franks squatted quickly and faced the squad leader in the rear. His tan finger pointed in Frank's direction, "You, new guy, take Adair's position at point!"

"Me?"

"No! The other guy, you!" his finger shifted more accurately to Kingsley.

Kingsley gulped, "Y-Y-You want me up front?"

"Yeah I do, now get to it."

"But where am I supposed to go? What way do I take?"

Franks heard the hurried footsteps of Merrill coming behind them. "Hernandez, maybe we should keep the boots off point for a while, huh? This terrain is a pain in the ass. Let them get a hang of it for a while, huh?"

Franks saw a look of disgust on his face, "We ain't got time for that, Merrill. They gotta learn someday, might as well be today." He snapped towards Kingsley. "Take over point for Adair, just keep walking and keep eye out for Jerry."

"Y-Yes, Sergeant Hernandez," he stammered. He gave Franks a look that seemed to resemble fright and confusion, but he did as he was bid and walked up to the front. Franks wondered if he himself looked like that, if he looked so pathetic whenever a veteran talked to him.

It hadn't been five minutes into walking. He couldn't remember a time where he was in a more humid environment. He swore that his sweaty back was stickier than most adhesives that his uncle sold in his shop. What he wouldn't give for some water. He reached for his canteen and unscrewed the top.

"Hey!" Hernandez whispered loudly. "Can that canteen, you don't drink on patrol!"

Sorry! Sorry! It was so hot and— He quickly screwed the top back on, kicking himself mentally, now he struck out as a dumbass to his own sergeant. Great… just great… maybe if he acted better he could get back in his—

His heart then seized in his chest. Ahead of him, the earth seemed to have belched with deafening volume. As he looked up ahead of him down the line, he saw patches of dirt and grass falling from the sky and pink mist evaporating into the air amid brown and blackened smoke.

"What was that?!" Franks screamed.

"Shut up! Get down!" Hernandez shouted at him in a hoarse yet quiet voice.

Franks noticed that everyone else was already prone on the road. He hugged the ground like a snake, his ears still ringing from the explosion; his nose was stuffed with the stench of thermite and a burnt odor.

No one answered Franks' earlier question, "What was—"

Hernandez curtly shushed him. Franks was trembling. Not a single man in the squad was moving, no one said a thing, but why were they so still and silent? More importantly, where did that explosion come from? He raised his head, it came from in front of the column, and it seemed to be where… Kingsley was…

Still on the ground, Adair turned around with a blackened face and said back down the line to Hernandez. "Fuckin' Schu mine!" His voice was soft yet audible enough for Franks to hear.

Hernandez called up, equally quiet, "Anyone hit?"

"Yeah, it was the new guy," Adair answered.

"He dead?" Hernandez asked.

"Don't know."

"Well go check!"

"Alright, alright, keep your panties on… hmm… he's… yep, he's dead..."

"Goddamn it! I told Fischer! I told Conti! Goddamn it!" Hernandez sighed hard. "What the hell was the kid's name?"

Lazzano shrugged, "I dunno. Adair, did you get his name?"

"The fuck should I know? Merrill, what about you?"

"It started with a "K" I think. Uh, not 'King', 'Kinson', damn it, he told me it too…"

Kingsley. His name was Kingsley. Franks shuddered in the mud. He met that guy not even two hours ago, he was a nice guy, he wanted to be a teacher after the war. He met him less than two hours ago and he was already dead, and his own squadmates didn't even remember his name. Christ, how come they forgot Kingsley's name? His heart froze in his chest. Do they even remember my name?

"Hey…, new guy, wha'cha doing?" Hernandez stood over him, his face contorted in disgust.

"I'm staying down here, like I was told," Franks managed to squeak.

"Didn't you hear me? It's clear. Get off your yellow belly and move, damn it!"

Franks placed his hand on Hernandez's shoulders, his eyes began to tremble, "Sergeant, please… remember m-my name, its Franks. Franks. Clarence Franks."

Hernandez swatted his hand away, "Get the fuck off of me. Keep quiet and keep moving. Survive day three and I'll consider it. Got it?"

Franks nodded. He looked ahead and caught sight of him. Kingsley's body was smoking, green flies had already began circling around him. His left eye was popped and the egg white fluid leaked down his face into the cavern that used to be his nose. He was missing both legs and the blast had split his Garand into pieces. This was the second man that Franks had seen who was dead. He recalled when his grandfather died six years ago from heart failure. At his funeral, he was so clean and presentable in his black suit; it looked like he was sleeping in the coffin. Franks figured that when death came for you, it would be like falling into a deep sleep, you would be at peace and look at peace. But this... But Kingsley…

"Well, what now?" asked Lazzano. "That route is mined, we head back, Hernandez?"

"Nuh uh, we go through this hedgerow, one at a time."

"What if the Krauts are over there?"

"They didn't open fire when the explosion went off, I don't think they're past this point. Probably just mined their rear for extra security. Let's get going. You, new guy!"

"Sergeant, its Franks."

"Whatever, take point through this hedge here. Check up ahead to see if we have a safe route."

The earth might as well have crumbled under Franks' feet. "Me?"

"Yeah hurry before Jerry gets wise."

"Where do I go?"

"Are you stupid, go straight, damn it! You see that hill right there in the distance? Head straight there and move through some vines.

"Wha-What about you guys?"

"We're not all going through there in case of Jerry, scout ahead about 50 yards and come back and get us, got it?"

Lazzano sucked his teeth, "Should we really send him?"

"I agree with Laz on this, Vince," Merrill chimed in.

"I want him to do this, alright? Get going, Private."

"Yes… Yes, Sergeant."

Franks stared through the opening in the hedge and held his breath as he ventured in; he felt in the bridge of his soul that once he crossed, he would never leave the hedgerows alive.

Conti came up with Doc Conrad and jogged over to Hernandez and the still smoking form of Kingsley. Conrad immediately began looking over the dead man. Conti immediately looked to Hernandez's squad.

"What the hell happened?" Conti asked, taking a knee.

"Po' bastard was on point and stepped on a Schu mine. The Krauts mined this damn road." Hernandez announced.

Conti sucked his teeth, "Fuckers, alright then—wait… this guy… Hernandez! Why the hell did you put a new guy on point his first day out, Sergeant?!"

Hernandez shrugged, "Kid's gotta learn, Top."

"He'll learn how to die, goddammit! And where the hell is the other one?"

"He's looking for another route, I told him to head through this hedgerow to find anything useful."

Conti stood to his feet, his full frame eclipsing Hernandez. "By himself, on his first day out here?" Conti couldn't contain the anger in his voice.

"Like I said, they need to learn, now. If we're attacking Hill 192, then I need men who know what the hell to do!"

Conti glared at the sergeant. "Hernandez, so help me if that kid dies, I'll make sure you're on point for the rest of this goddamn war."

What the hell am I even doing here? He couldn't help but think it. What could he possibly accomplish on his first day here? Why did the squad with the exception of Merrill pour all their shit on him and Kingsley? Because they were the new guys? They couldn't help it that they were new. He had to start somewhere, just like they did! Couldn't those men see that? He was just doing his part, like them, to end the war as quick as possible. He was a part of a squad, a platoon, a company; but he never felt as alone as he did at the moment.

50 yards, just 50 yards and you can turn around! Branches and wet leaves slapped him on the helmet, causing the metal bucket to ping him painfully in the bridge of his nose. His palms began to sweat on the stock of his rifle, beads of sweat were running down the tip of his nose, the vegetation overhead of him blotted out most of the sun, yet the humidity was everywhere around him. His mind flashed to the smoking remains of Kingsley, he shuddered hard. Just like that, his plans for the future ended, with a single step. He gasped suddenly. Mines! What if the way he was taking was mined as well. He froze in his tracks and observed the ground before his feet, his breath caught in his chest. What if he could be walking in a minefield? Did he already walk 50 yards? Was it 55 or 54, or maybe 60! He gasped harder, what if one more yard had a mine to it?! He had to get help before—

He felt a heavy pressure building in his sphincter, his breath was becoming ragged and he could feel sweat fall down the nape of his neck. He heard a rustling behind him. Franks spun around, his finger on the trigger, the barrel was pointed at Conti's chest. Franks breathed easier, much to Conti's chagrin.

"Jeezus, kid! I'm on your side!"

Franks was shaking, "I'm sorry, Sergea—I mean Top… I-I-I thought you w-were a Kraut!"

Those eyes… Franks thought as he stared at the Sergeant. They reminded him of his grandfather, a stern skeleton of a man, whose raspy voice could erode gravel. And by fact the meanest son of a bitch that Franks had ever met, well, beside his drill sergeant he had at Basic. Those eyes of the Sergeant were tired and cold.

"Christ, kid, you're white as a ghost. What's your name?"

"Franks. Uh… Clarence Franks."

"Listen, Franks. Listen. Just breathe, dammit. Breathe. In and out."

Franks nodded and inhaled, then exhaled. "Once more," Conti told him. Franks repeated it and he noticed that he was beginning to calm down. His brain could finally think.

"Better?"

"Yes, uh, thanks Top."

"Don't mention it."

"Wh-What are you doing up here, Top?"

"Went to check up on the explosion. So… that other new guy got killed already, huh?"

"Kingsley... Yes, Top."

Conti sighed, "And that bastard, Hernandez, put ya out here by yaself?"

"Y-Yes, Top."

"Hernandez, that goddamn mook, puttin' a replacement on point on his first day…" Conti grumbled lowly and looked off to the side, "I'm gonna put my foot up his ass when this is over…"

"What, Top?"

"Nothing. C'mon kid, follow me, do what I do. And for Christ sake, make sure ya have ya weapon pointed at the enemy."

"We're going forward? But what about the rest of the squad?"

"C'mon, we should be close to Charlie's AO. About two minutes away, keep low and follow me."

"B-But what if this approach is mined as well, sir?"

Conti took a brief look at the area. "Krauts didn't mine this place. Look, this is from the inside of the hedgerow—where they reside in, they don't mine their own side unless they're retreating, but they're often too much in a hurry to do that. And look at the grass, all in one fine piece, no upended clumps of dirt. It's easier to mine a dirt road than natural grass because it blends in better, ya understand, son?"

Franks nodded in silent awe. To see the wisdom and natural sense of a veteran soldier was incredible. Franks wondered if he himself could be like that one day, able to tell the layout of possible ambushes from one look of the terrain alone. Conti placed a finger on both of his lips and motioned with the head for Franks to follow him. Then the First Sergeant squatted low and began slinking like a cat, a careful step at a time. He was crouching so low that his knees were at his chests, Franks was kind of surprised how flexible and quiet the First Sergeant really was. He figured it must have been combat that was a great trainer for him.

They had been walking for three minutes now and Franks was still learning everything from simply watching the Sergeant. He subconsciously evaded all twigs and branches on the ground while his eyes were still looking forward. His jacket and dungarees were laced in a special way to reduce snag of branches and vines of vegetation. Every time his boot hit the ground, Conti would exhale a short and soft breath from his lungs, to better mask his breathing. His Thompson was always pointed forward in front of himself in case someone or something jumped out at him. What a teacher this man was, Franks resolved never to lose sight of Conti's back. With an experienced man in front of him, he felt as if the world could explode; and yet he would be truly safe. He had to copy his movements exactly, he came this far with a senior soldier in front of him, he could not embarrass himself.

Conti came across a section of thick hedgerows, but it seemed like there was no way to cross it. Yet Franks took a deeper look and saw an opening past the brush several yards down and ventured at a low crouch, his finger glued to the trigger of his rifle.

"Top, I found an opening over here," he whispered.

"Good job, head through it and keep low."

That compliment felt better than a first place trophy. He took a deep breath and lurched forward through the opening. As he came out from the other side, a horrid stench of vileness raped his nostrils, he gagged loudly, he spat out phlegm off to the side. His eyes caught the outlines of a large pit that was in front of him. Franks stared into the pit, breathless and terrified. He didn't hear Conti who came up from behind; the First Sergeant simply stared into the pit and made a soft sigh.

"What's the matter, Franks? Never seen a dead body before?"

Conti moved forward, leaving Franks staring into the pit of a mass grave filled with dead American soldiers. Their limbs stiffened in awkward and grotesque positions by rigor mortis, all of them were pale, their blood had dyed the bottom of the pit, their eyes were open and haunting, and the dreaded humidity had taken its toll on the bodies, already starting the decaying process on top of the awful stench of feces and bile. Their lips were a crusty black and their former pink tongues now transformed into a shade of grey. It was damn revolting, Franks was sure that he could smell feces. Fat green flies were already covering their faces, resembling large blackened acne peppering the skin. Several flies even flew into one GI's eye socket and several were on his flopping tongue.

A portion of vomit shot up to the back of Franks' mouth. He gagged bitterly, tears formed in his eyes from the reflex. He wiped it off instinctively. Can't let him see me cry!

Fortunately, Conti didn't seem to notice him gagging or shedding tears. He silently looked into the pit of death as he walked by it, speaking low and to himself, "Aldridge, Lincoln, and… shit, even you Batts…" Those names, are they the ones in there…?

Conti continued with a sigh, "Crazy Charlie… Christ…"

Wait! So this was the remains of Charlie Company?!

His eyes wandered to the open area ahead of the pit. "This can be a perfect staging area for Able when we attack that hill tomorrow."

Huh… what…?

He turned back to Franks, "Franks, you remember how to get back to your squad and the company?"

He nodded. Somehow, he was unable to form words.

"Then get Hernandez and bring your squad back over here. I'll stay here. Move it, Franks."

He nodded once more, his eyes finally caught the scenery of Hill 192 about three hundred yards away from him. He scurried off quickly. Not more than two hours ago he made two friends, met his company, and now one of them was blown to pieces and he came upon a mass grave of Americans and just realized that tomorrow they'll be attacking the hill that made that mass grave. It fully hit him that this could very well be the worst day of his life. Why the hell did he enlist?