The Company II
July 19, D-Day + 43
"Letter writing can be seen as a gift because someone has taken his/her time to write and think and express love."
"Mail Call!"
Those words often got the beleaguered and exhausted infantrymen excited. News from the outside world not directly engaged in the war. Letters from friends and family given to them, to help remind these men fighting in remote cities and towns that the people back home never heard of or could probably pronounce; to remind these brave men that they have not been forgotten.
Able Company's involvement with the Battle of Saint-Lo ended yesterday. The Americans held on to 95% of the city, but the 1st and 2nd Battalion of the 116th Regiment were placed into reserve in the rear, while the 3rd Battalion fought on alongside the 30th Division in rooting out the last German defenders. With bitter urban and house-to-house fighting finally over for them, the news of mail reaching them was a most welcome levity.
The men noisily clamored around the mail clerk, Private First Class Mortimer Wilson, as he stood on the back of a parked jeep with stacks of V-Mails in his hand.
"Hold on, fellas!" he futilely urged on. He felt as if he needed a stool and a whip to fend off these pack of lions. "Let me read the names off, damn it!"
He looked at the first name, "Uh, Sergeant Hudson!"
"Back here, pass it back!" the sergeant said. Wilson handed the mail and it was passed back systematically by the troops.
"Next is… Corporal Santiago!"
"Right here!"
"Lieutenant O'Leary!"
"Here I am."
"Private First Class Dupree!"
"Present! Wilson, I'm to the left! Over here!"
"Uh… Private Kostan—no, Konstanto?"
"It's Konstantinos, buddy! Hopefully next time you'll get my name right!"
"Then tell whoever sent you this letter to have better penmanship!" Wilson fired back, handing Konstantinos the letter.
And on and on he went, delivering the letters to the soldiers present around him. All of them were eager to receive the mail, once they seized it, they opened it savagely and examined the contents of their respective letters.
The three scouts were lounging in their jeep and in their usual spots, all three reading their letters within deep contemplation.
Toto had just finished his letter and he smiled hard, "Hey, fellas?"
"Huh?" Bachman grunted; his eyes glued to his particular letter.
"My Old Man just got remarried."
Mac looked over to him, "Oh, really? Congratulations, then."
"Yes, indeed. I'm glad he's do'un well, from the mail, it seems that he's quite happy."
Mac played with his thumbs uncomfortably, "Uh, Toto… what happened with your Mom and Dad?"
"My mom died of tuberculosis when I was fourteen."
"Oh my God… I'm sorry to hear that," Mac said earnestly.
Bachman put down his letter and patted Toto's shoulder, "Yeah, I'm sorry too, man."
"Thank you, fellas. But it's alright. It was mighty tough when I was that age. Real hard on my Old Man, my Mom's been dead for nine years now. I'm glad he's moving on."
"Who'd he marry?" Mac asked.
"Katie Tates, she was a teacher at my old school. I never had her as a teacher, but she was hilarious, students loved eatun' food with her. I can see why my Old Man likes her." A warm smile enveloped his face, "They sent me a photo of their wedding photo. Here, fellas, take a look-see."
"Oh wow, she's not bad looking," Bachman remarked.
"Yeah, she is. Oh wow, Toto, you look a lot like your Dad."
"Yeah, I know. That's what everyone told me when I was younguh… oh man, I'm so happy for him."
"I'm glad it worked out with him," Mac said.
"Thank you, Mac… Hmm, what did your lettuh say, Mac?"
Mac gave a short chuckle, "From my family. They're just talking about the general state of affairs."
"Well, go on and share, if you would kindly?"
"Well, the first part is personal so… I'll keep that to myself. Here, let me read this paragraph to you guys. 'Old Bluebell showed that he still had some spring in his step. He mated with the Turners' dog, River, and is a father of six puppies. Bluebell still has that fire in him. Ruth wanted a girl puppy and she named one Shy, for it was quite scared of us. But Shy took a liking to Ruth after a few days, now they're inseparable. When you come back from Europe, you'll be able to say hello to the new addition to our family.'"
"That was cute, Mac. Hey, who was Ruth?"
"My sister."
"She's single?"
"She's thirteen, you ass."
"Why call me that? I ain't know. What type of dog is Blueballs?"
Mac glared at Toto; Bachman erupted in laughter. "Bluebell," Mac growled through his teeth. "And he's a Jack Russell. He's about eleven years old now."
"Now that's an old dog," Bachman remarked.
"I know. I'm surprised my dad put him out to stud. You have a dog, Bach?"
"I do. Name's 'Bear'. He's a Retriever."
"A Lab?"
"No, a Chesapeake Bay. Man, I miss that dog so much. Smart as a whip and more energy than you could believe. When I enlisted, I had my uncle and aunt take him in."
Toto looked over his shoulder at Bachman, "Any comforting news from back home?"
"Oh, you wanna hear this? It's not that long, but here we go. 'To Nathaniel, we are so relieved to hear that your wounds were not serious! Even more so that you made a complete recovery, but please be careful, we cannot exercise that enough. We know that war is filled with peril and that any moment may be your last, but please try and be careful the best you can. We are happy that you are able to return to your old unit. True friends are hard to come by, and you are certainly blessed to be fighting alongside them once more. Do your best out there. We are so proud of you; you have no idea. We are looking forward to your next letter! Love, Mom and Dad.
P.S. Remember to read your Bible every day and remember, Philippians 4:13."
Toto asked, "What's that Philippians verse?"
" 'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.' " Mac had answered.
Toto nodded his head, "That's a good verse."
"That's my family's verse." Bachman explained. "Before breakfast, supper, and bedtime, we all had to say that verse all the time. I used to hate it; not the verse, mind you, but the recitation of it. So repetitive and so dull, I thought. But getting older, during Basic, and in Normandy now, that's one of the best ways I can go through each passing day. I just keep reciting that verse, and I feel… safe."
"I'm surprised you told your family that you were wounded, they must have had a heart attack when they read those words."
"Yeah, I thought of that, Toto. But… I've always been honest with my family. I'm not going to omit something if it may frighten them. I could be killed at any moment, and they deserve to hear everything that happens to me while I'm over here. Omaha showed me that. My first hour in combat and I'm lying in the sand, bleeding and in pain, scared of everything in the world. Who's to say that that won't happen again?"
"I respect that."
"Thanks. Hey, Toto, can I borrow a pencil? You definitely got extras."
Toto dug in his bag and handed one to Bachman, "Here, Bach. What you need it for?"
"I'm writing a letter back to my parents. I usually do it immediately, so I don't forget, or if I never have the chance again."
"Y'know, that's a good idea," Mac said. "Hey, Toto, can I borrow one as well? I want to my family back too."
Toto gave him a pencil as well. He looked to his own letter from his loved ones and remembered the last time he saw them. "Oh what the hell… might as well write to my family right now as well."
Private First Class Tommy Smits was bounding for joy, "Oh my good graces! Imma brothuh! Imma big brothuh!"
"What the hell you talking about, Smitty?" Sergeant Hernandez asked, passing by.
Smitty handed the letter to Hernandez, "My Ma gave birth to a girl, two months ago. I ain't no longuh an only child! Imma brothuh! I always wanted to be a brothuh!"
"Wow, congratulations," smiled Hernandez. "How old are your parents, hayseed?"
"They did dun have me when they was young'uns, y'know? I membuh Ma sent me a lettuh back in England, sayun how pregnant she was, goin on how I was gonna be a brothuh, and now here I am!"
"That's good to hear. What's your new sister's name?"
"Heather. Heather Lynn Smits."
"That's a beautiful name for her."
"I know right, can't wait to see her when I get home, Sarge."
"Yeah, you'll have quite the stories to tell her when she gets older." Hernandez gave the happy Smitty a nod and walked off.
Corporals Kyle Filkins and Joss Callahan of 1st Platoon were watching the ecstatic Smits. They shook their heads in disbelief and laughter.
"What the hell is wrong with Smitty?" Callahan asked, smoking a German cigarette. "Getting all excited about a new sibling, as old as he is. You would think we was a new father or something, by the way he's jumping around."
"I know, right," replied Filkins. He then snickered, "Well… you know what they say about the West Virginians and how much they love their families, right?"
Callahan playfully smacked Filkins in the head, "Don't be spreading rumors about ol' Smitty, alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
Smitty was very giddy, he wanted to tell others the joyous news. He always begged his parents when he was younger if he could have an extra sibling, but despite the parents' eagerness to fulfil that wished, they were not blessed with another child. Until now. Smitty was always the social one in his neighborhood, always wanting to be with someone and having tons of funs with friends. He always wanted someone at home to play with, to get in trouble with, and to even fight sometimes, like his other neighborhood friends who all had siblings of their own.
The first man Smitty saw that was close enough was Santiago, who was lost deep inside his own letter. Suddenly, Santiago partially crumbled the paper in his hand. His eyes were red and looked as if he was choking on something.
Smitty's smile was evaporating. He approached the scrounger, "Santi, what's the mattuh?"
Santiago was surprised at first, he quickly rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat, "Uh, it ain't anything, Smitty. It's nothing."
"Well that ain't the truth. Ya gonna start fibbin' on me, Santi? Clearly it dun had to do with that letter in yo hand."
Santiago lowered his head to the dirt.
"C'mon now, Santi. Ya can talk to ol' Smitty. Let me lend ya my ear, eh?"
Santiago's teeth were pressed together tightly. "Uh… L-Letter from my Papa… m-my brother is dead…"
"Oh my God… Miguel… I'm—"
"No, don't go on apologizing. I'm happy that you're a brother now. Don't go apologizing to me on that accord."
"But still, I should have dun kept my trap shut."
"Don't! Smitty don't apologize."
Smitty took a seat next to him, scratching himself uncomfortably as he asked earnestly, "Uh… which one? I knows ya had a lot of siblins'… so, which one?"
"Juan. It was Juan, he was the third oldest."
"Oh man… uh, h-how did he…?"
"Killed in combat. Juan was a Marine. He was apparently on some island held by the Japs." Santiago held out the paper with trembling hands, "It was uh, 'Cape Gloucester;', some… fucking island in New Guinea."
"Where the hell is New Guinea?"
"I don't know, man… some island that the Japs held on the ass-end of the world. And the one that Juan—" tears were rolling down his cheek. "Where… Where Juan—"
He crumbled the paper in one hand and began to weep loudly. Smitty extended his arm around his shoulder, whispering, "I'm right here, buddy… I'm right here…"
Several heads were turning over to them, many with concerned and curious eyes. Smitty didn't need to say a word, he just gave them a look that only soldiers who lost those dear to them would understand. Slowly, their comrades formed a comforting circle around their grieving brother and sat beside him in solidarity.
In one hand, Corporal Jeremy Troy was reading a letter back home; in the other hand, he was drinking a bottle of wine he found in an abandoned French home after the battle. The words he read put a smile on his face, compounded by the fact that this red wine was pretty damn good, if only his hometown, Roanoke, had an abundance of wine instead of an abundance of whiskey and shine.
"Hey, that look's good. Can I get a swig of that?"
"Be my guest, Conrad." The sniper handed the bottle to the approaching medic, who took five mighty gulps from the bottle and handed it back.
"Just like a doctor to lie to people."
"What the hell did I lie about?"
"I guess your definition of a "swig" is different from mine."
"Hey, man, that's a regular swig to me."
"Gulpin' it down like it was milk, you bastard," Troy chuckled.
Conrad took a seat across from Troy, "Any news from back home?"
"Yep, remember Eddie Scansko?"
"Yeah, he was in our class at school before being kicked out for… uh, what did he get kicked out for again?"
"Didn't he sleep with a teacher?"
"Uh-Uh, it definitely wasn't that… no, wait! He fingered Mrs. Bell as she was walking by in the hallway. Right on through her dress."
"Oh yeah! That's right. The balls on that bastard… It's a miracle her husband didn't come to the school and murder him."
Conrad sighed, "Yep, that was 'Crazy Eddie'. What about him?"
"He was arrested."
"No shit? For what?"
"Breaking and entering, apparently. He was burglarizing buildings on 10th Street, then he got caught heisting a cash register."
"Dumb bastard"
"Right?"
"Anymore news?"
"Yeah, back to our high school."
"Of course."
"After 40 years, Mr. Flint is retiring."
That got a smile on Conrad's face, "Oh man, good for him. Swear I thought he was going to be teaching till he hit a hundred."
"Me too," Troy chuckled.
"What else does your letter say?"
"Eh, that's pretty much it. The rest of the letter is just my wife talking about… personal stuff."
Conrad nodded, "Hmm, how is Lucille doing?"
"Well, from this letter I think she's doing well. She's still a secretary for her uncle's creamery business."
Conrad started laughing.
"What's so funny, Walt?"
The medic shook his head, "Oh, it's just the thought of Lucille Jones typing away on a typewriter."
Troy started laughing too, "I know, it's hilarious."
"I remember the whole school talking about how much of a crackshot she was."
"Damn right, she was. She was a natural shot; she could outshoot her brothers. Never forget, one day she took a challenge by the neighborhood boys to see what she could shoot with, using only three rounds in 30 minutes. She went out in the forest, we heard three shots; one in the first five minutes, the second in fifteen minutes, and the last in the final five minutes. She came back with six squirrels tied to a stick."
"I heard that story! I never did believe it, thought it was all hogwash and junk!"
"Uh-Uh, buddy, that was all true! Lucille was that damn good. She taught me how to shoot, y'know?"
"Really? She taught you to shoot?"
"God as my witness. It was after that feat with the squirrels that I asked her to, and she was happy to oblige. She took me hunting with her brothers, that girl had to be the spawn of Davy Crockett, she was a real huntsman… or in this case, a huntswoman. But yeah, that was the starting point when I fell in love with her, Walt."
"Yeah?" he said, his tone beseeching for juicier details.
"Yeah, I guess she felt the same way. When we were thirteen, I was hunting with her and her brothers and we got "lost"," he said, winking at Conrad. "We were "lost" for a few hours in the wood, making out, hands above the clothes, but all over her body."
"Yeeeah?"
"We were both courteous at that age, didn't wanna rush things, y'know? But, uh, when we hit fourteen," Troy had a mischievous grin with a sly expression. "Our courtesy started disappearing, if y'know what I mean."
Conrad exhaled in wonder. He laughed with a wagging finger, "You lucky dog."
"I know. Lord blessed me good and right with Lucille. If she could see me now, popping the heads off Krauts like they were squirrels…"
"She would probably chain you to the bed and go to town on you?"
"You know, she probably would," Troy smiled.
2nd Lieutenant Emory Peck of 2nd Platoon was smoking a Marlboro and reading his letter he received in the mail from his Aunt Dolores. After his parents died, "Aunt Do" took him in as her own. Peck smiled at the letter from his Aunt, who was always curious about his wellbeing since he was a child. Her letter asked him of how he was doing, if he made any friends, if he liked being an officer in battle, if the locals were pleasant, if he was eating well, and how did he think the men liked him. Same old Aunt Do.
If he had to respond to her inquiries, he would say that he is doing… all right, if he was honest. Being a platoon leader was one of the most difficult positions he could ever recall being in. He was a replacement officer for a battered platoon with only nine men that could only muster two corporals by the time of his arrival. The rest of the men he received that day were replacements; and though he had to earn the respect of the new men, he truly strove to earn the admiration of the Omaha veterans, the 2nd Platoon Nine, as they were referred to. Most of them treated him like an officer, with the only the standard amount of respect, but Peck wasn't 100% sure if they would follow him unconditionally into battle, especially that Blackwell. That man infuriated him with his dead man glare and his callous responses towards Peck; and at the same time, Peck heard rumors that Blackwell shot his own officer once for incompetence, which frightened Peck to his core.
He was satisfied that he got a humorous Platoon Sergeant in Hudson. The man was certainly quirky, but he held the platoon when he was a corporal and everyone in the platoon, veterans and replacements, loved him. He was good-natured and assisted Peck when he could with the platoon, and yet, Peck couldn't really call Hudson his friend. In fact, he had acquaintances within the company, but no friends at all. The closest acquaintance/friend he had was Lieutenant Sleeman, another replacement officer who came in at the same time at Cherbourg; however, Peck had heard that during the opening attack on Saint-Lo, Sleeman apparently went nuts and broke down and was relieved. Back again, he was all by his lonesome.
Everything else in Aunt Do's letter seemed… trivial. The food was still the same Army slop the mess sergeants cooked for them, the locals were nice and did smile upon the soldiers which made their task seem worth it, but in the end, the soldiers worry themselves more about the Germans than the local Frenchies. Could he even bother explaining the horrors he had seen within a month of fighting, would she even understand? He had seen men shot, stabbed, and blown up by explosives. He had to send several men to their deaths a few times. How could she understand what he truly meant if he wrote that down? How could anyone understand if they had not seen war up close?
He placed his letter away and rubbed his sore eyes with a yawn. When he looked up, he noticed Private Mason Saywell, an Omaha veteran, storming off away from the platoon in what the young officer could describe as wrathful fury. Walking a distance behind him was Peck's reliable Platoon Sergeant, Derek "Duck" Hudson, who stopped in his place to watch the fuming Saywell leave the platoon. Duck's face was painted with concern, his teeth pressed tightly in uneasiness.
Peck stood to his feet and approached Duck, "Sergeant Hudson, what's wrong with Saywell?"
Duck noticed him and cleared his face and tried to regain his composure, "Oh, L-T… how are you doing, sir?"
"I'm doing fine, Sergeant. I'm just wondering about Saywell, he looked utterly pissed. What's the matter with him, do you know?"
Duck looked over his shoulder, then turned back around and whispered to the officer, "His girl just sent him a 'Dear John'."
"Oh damn…"
"Yeah."
Peck looked over to Saywell, who was still marching off and becoming an ever-shrinking figure in the distance, "Oh Jesus… H-How did you find out?"
Duck sighed, "I was right next to him. He was showing off the letter, trying to brag and stuff about his girl writing him. Apparently, he didn't even bother reading it first, before showing me. I read it silently as he read it to himself, and… well…"
"What reason did she give?"
"A reason of utter bullshit."
"What was it?"
"That she missed Saywell so dearly, and this other bastard stateside was there for her, and Saywell wasn't. So, she started feeling feelings for this other man and... aw, hell, you know what happens after, sir."
"She said that?"
"Damn right, she did. Can you believe that horse hockey?!"
He sighed, "That's rough."
"Exactly! God, what kind of bitch does that?! That's utterly vile!" he slurred.
"Why are you so aggravated by this? That wasn't your Dear John."
"I don't need that to be mine to feel pissed, sir! My friend just got his heartbroken over some bullshit reasons. And now I'm thinking about all the other fellas in this outfit that probably are going through something like this, or worse, their girls don't even tell them that they're cheating on them."
Peck quickly sucked on his teeth for a moment, "Sergeant, you uh, you think I should talk to him?"
Duck's eyes went cross, "About this?"
"Yeah…?"
"No offense, sir, but what are you going to say to him? 'Sorry that your girl two-timed you, Saywell , just forget about it and move on?' Please, sir, tell me you aren't thinking of that?"
Peck tightened his mouth and grunted uncomfortably. I… I actually was. Man, when you say it like that, I'd sound like a dumbass…
"It's best to let it be for now. Let him get that anger out of him, sir. And if he wants to talk about it, then let him talk about it."
"Has that ever happen to you, Hudson?"
"What? A girl two-timing me? Nah. Ain't never happen. Hell, I wouldn't know what to do if that did happen… I may have smacked her in the face and then cripple the bastard who stole her from me."
"What if the guy who has your girl… what if he never stole her?"
"Wha'cha mean?"
"What if she left on her own free will, and she never told the other fellow that she was seeing you?"
Duck was quiet. He placed his hands on his waist contemplatively. "Shit… I don't know, sir. Did that happen to you?"
The lieutenant scratched his neck, "Kinda… I was in school and it happened to me. She uh… she was interested in me, but didn't tell me she already had a boyfriend, and didn't break up with him either. When he found out that she was seeing me…" Peck could remember how violent he was, the threats of murder were on that guy's mouth. "It wasn't pretty…"
"Oh shit, I'm sorry, L-T…"
"It's fine, Hudson. But maybe it's the case with Saywell?"
"Even if that's so, she still cheated on him."
"Yeah, you're right. I still think I should talk to him, I'm his platoon leader, after all."
"That you are, sir. But its not your job in this regard. You are responsible for the men's combat performance and everything, but the wellbeing of the enlisted men falls directly with the Platoon Sergeant. Sir, I think it's best if we let Saywell work this out, any comforting words will be meaningless to him right now."
"But, Hudson—"
"I know you just want to help, L-T. But I know these men intricately, trust me on this, it'll be best if we let this go."
I understand, Hudson… you know these men more than I ever could hope for… you have their trust. I just wish I did… "I understand, Sergeant."
"Good. I'm glad. And don't take this personal, sir. You've been with this company for a few weeks, you'll get to know these guys better, I promise."
Staff Sergeant Roland Fischer groaned as he finished reading his letter. Sitting beside him was Private Dean "Badmouth" Jagger who was sharpening his bayonet against a whetstone.
"What's in that letter that's biting your ass, Sarge?"
Fischer looked at the private. Badmouth continued, "What the hell happened?"
The sergeant sighed, then explained, "It's a letter from my mom. Before the war, I used to work in a rubber plant where we vulcanized the rubber and it—"
"The fuck is that?"
"Vulcanizing is when you harden rubber, we harden rubber to make tires for automobiles and planes. I worked at that place for about three years, and the owner, Mr. Hobbs, was a nice guy and promised all of us that went off to war—enlisted and draftee—that once the war was over, we could all get our jobs back with a bonus for our wartime service."
"Holy shit! All right, that's good fucking news, Sarge... wait, you ain't smilin'… oh shit, did something happen?"
"Yeah. Apparently, from what my mother wrote me, a massive fire broke out in the plant and burned it all to the ground."
"Oh shit! Damn…"
"Yeah… the only good news that came out from that was that no one was injured from the fire."
"Oh, thank God for that. That would be goddamn terrible."
"It would be. Yeah. Thank God, on that accord."
"Sorry you lost that job, Sarge. Sounds like you enjoyed vulcanazin' or whatever the hell that was."
Fischer tongued the inside of his cheeks in reflection, "I was promised a job when this war was over. My folks didn't have the money for me to go to college, I barely scraped by school to graduate. I thought I would be working at Mr. Hobbs' plant for most of my life… and now that dream went up in smoke, literally." The sergeant rubbed his jaw, "What am I going to do now once the war's over? Seriously."
Badmouth began cackling. "Ain't we gotta wait till this goddamn war is over before we thinking about stateside life?"
"I was raised to always think two steps ahead and to always have a backup incase your first plan fell through the cracks. Yes, the war's still going, but it can't and won't last forever, and when it finishes, I would want to work immediately to make a living."
Badmouth looked on at Fischer and scratched his neck for a moment, before coming to a realization. "Hey! How about a career in the Army after the war, Sarge?"
His face scrunched at the question. "A career in the Army? Come on, be serious, Badmouth."
"I am! I can see you staying in the damn Army! You have the damn discipline and skills to do so. As long as they're no fucking wars to fight, then the Army won't be too bad. Shit, just keep reenlisting and you'll rise up to even be a goddamn officer."
"Huh. What are your plans after the war, Badmouth?"
He gave a chuckling scoff, "I have noooooo fucking idea. I guess we gotta kick Germany's goddamn ass first before I figure out what the hell I oughta do. Once we shoot that son of a bitch Hitler, then I can worry about my fucking livelihood."
"You don't think you can stay in the Army after the war, Private?"
"With the way I fucking talk? Hell no. The Army probably wouldn't stand for that shit in peacetime. They'll throw me in the fucking stockade, just for speaking my fucking mind with my fucking tongue."
The platoon sergeant stared at the young man. "Jagger, do you have to swear every fifth word or something? Did you lose a bet?"
"Hell no, Sergeant. That's just the way I talk! Damned if I change for shit."
"Your dad never beat you for cursing? Nor your mother washed your mouth out with soap?"
"Nope! Only time I got an ass-whippin' was if I fucking swore at my parents. Hell, I got my colorful vocabulary from those two."
"I don't believe you."
"God as my witness. Swear on my balls. You know that damn old saying, 'Swearin' like a sailor'?"
"Yeah?"
"My Pa was in the Navy during the last war. That bastard always be swearin' up a fucking firestorm. Didn't care who was present."
"Really?"
"Yep, my Pa's a sailor and my Ma's Irish. My vocabulary has been colorful ever since I fell outta the goddamn womb."
That got a laugh out of Fischer, which then got a laugh out of Badmouth. "I'll be a son of a bitch," the sergeant said. "That actually makes sense why you're such a verbal screwball."
"Goddamn right it does. But I'm serious though. You can make this life of soldiering your career, Sarge. It would be fucking perfect for you."
Fischer's mind drifted into that thought. The Army itself wasn't any trouble for him, really. The exercising and drilling were tough, but he played baseball and basketball in school and was used to physical fitness. He did have a talent for command, the men did seem to respect him. The only downside to the Army was that there was a war, but not all wars last forever. He loved all the places the Army has taken him across the country and across the world, seeing sights he never imagined or possibly could see, if he stayed within the Rubber Plant by Mr. Hobbs.
"Stay in the Army, huh…" he mused quietly to himself, while Badmouth was grinning in agreement.
Conti was sitting on pieces of rubble, eyeballing the company lounging and interacting with one another like gossiping schoolgirls. He saw all ranges of emotions from the men. Those who were happy to ecstatic, to those who were sad to miserable, the ones were silent and unemotional, those who folded the letters neatly for preservation to those who crumbled and ripped the papers and discarded them. Each action showing a piece of the soldier's soul from interaction with the outside world that could not comprehend the horrors that have endured.
Conti's hands were empty. No one had ever sent him a letter when he was overseas. He didn't care. At least that's what he told himself, sometimes. When he looks unto a soldier's expression of rapture that reminds that man that he is loved and thought upon frequently, that joy is envious, and Conti believed he deserved that much. Then again, when he looks unto a soldier's expression of sorrow or anger upon reading a letter to know that misery loves company and that a country directly isolated from war still holds the brutality of hard knocks, Conti is glad that he is free from such tawdry mailings.
Conti looked down to his left hand, the fingers on the right hand fiddled around the ring finger of his left. A ring had once graced that finger. He exhaled gruffly. Joyce… what the hell do I expect you to write me? After what I did? He wondered what she was doing now, probably enjoying her life to the fullest. She always had a talent for that. He wondered if she cared that he was in Europe. Oh hell, did she even remember him after so long apart? Why would she even bother writing to him…?
"Joe. Hey, Joe…" Captain MacKay said to him.
Conti looked up to him, "Sorry, sir… I was thinkin' 'bout somethin'."
"I can tell," he grunted as he sat beside the First Sergeant. "What's it about?"
"Nothin' important."
"Ah, I see." MacKay took the time to look at all the men reading their mail. "Glad the mail caught up to us, it seems like a big morale booster for the guys."
"Yeah, for most of them anyway. A buncha them are happy, I noticed some Sad Sallies and Weepin' Willies who crumbled and tore their mail."
The Captain sighed downtrodden, "Well… not all news from back home is going to be good. But that stands to reason with the law of average and everything. But, most of them seem happy, and that's pretty good for me."
"I figured. Always the 'glass half-full' fella, ain't ya, MacKay?"
"I have to be, I'm the one in charge."
"You got yourself some mail?"
MacKay smirked and showed it to Conti, "I do."
Conti gave a single chuckle, "What did she say?"
MacKay opened the letter and examined it. "Let's see… you want me to read it aloud, Joe?"
He shrugged, "Sure, let's see what Mary has to say."
MacKay smiled and cleared his throat before reading, " 'John, I hope this letter finds you in good health. I'm hearing so many things about progress in Europe it's crazy, especially about your division. I never thought I would ever need geography in my life. If only I paid attention in Mr. Baldwin's class, then again, he taught American geography. But still, I have a big European map in the dining room. I think everyone has a map of Europe or the Pacific to keep track of their loved ones.
'You should see Calvin now; all he does is run everywhere. He's quite a bundle of energy, he's even tiring me as I try to chase him. He asks about you constantly, he misses you so much. You should hear the little prayers he says during bedtime, they're all of you. Every day he wishes you to return home, and sometimes he grows sad. But he keeps praying to God and Jesus that you come back so you can be the 'Greatest Daddy Ever'. He is such a lovable child.' "
MacKay stopped; he wiped his eye after he read that. Conti silently smiled. MacKay cleared his throat and continued. " 'Life in D.C. is so crazy now, you have war bond drives running relentlessly all hours of the day, tourists from everywhere are crowding the place, and many soldiers are coming back to explore the monuments. Calvin swears he sees you in all of the soldiers, but I tell him that it's not you. He looks sad, but he recovers quite quickly, he takes that from me I guess.' " MacKay chuckled loudly, "Oh yeah, of course he gets that from you, Mary," he said to the letter.
He kept reading. " 'I'm trying my best to keep my mind occupied the best I can. Janice Burnett has started a book club that I've started attending. We are currently reading Ben-Hur, it's a period piece set during the Roman Empire. The main character is Ben-Hur, a Jew, who is captured by the Romans and goes on an unbelievable journey to reunite with his family. Oh this is a great work of fiction, you would love it! I'm halfway done with the book and I will love for you to read it so we can speak upon it. My father is mentioning so many things we can all do when the war is over. Everyone says that Germany is close to being defeated, some say it will be over by Christmas! How wonderful could that be, John? The only problem will then be Japan I suppose, but hopefully, you shall return once Germany has lost.
" 'I love you, John. I know you are keeping your men safe, you always had that paternal love and instinct. We've all seen it since we were in school. They are lucky to have you as their Commanding Officer. I believe that you are doing a wonderful job and I pray everyday that you keep on going in the face of adversity. Unlike this war, I know you can last forever, John. Love, Mary.' "
Inside the letter was an enclosed photograph of Mary holding their son in front of the Lincoln Memorial. MacKay was grinning from ear-to-ear as he folded the letter neatly and placed it in his jacket pocket. He kept looking at the picture of his wife and son. He was getting so big, if only he was there to witness that growth. And she had never lost her beauty, that pristine Hollywood smile of hers was mesmerizing.
"That's nice of Mary to write," Conti said.
MacKay nodded, "Yeah, it is."
"Sergeant Conti? Sergeant Conti, where are you?" Private Wilson was shouting.
Both officer and first sergeant turned around, "I'm over here!"
The mail clerk came jogging over to them, "There you are, Sarge. I was looking everywhere for you."
"What for?"
"You got a letter, Sarge. I called your name, but you weren't with the rest of the men, so I put it to the bottom of the pile until I was finished with the rest. Here's your letter."
Wilson handed it out politely, Conti eyed the telegram as if it was from Mars. A letter… for me…?
He grabbed it unsurely, "Uh, thank you, Wilson…"
"No problem, Sarge. Later, Captain." He waved to both men and walked away.
MacKay was grinning, "Oh look at that, you got a letter, too. How's that, Joe?"
"I… I don't know, this ain't ever happen to me. Who the hell sent this to me?" He eyed the return address, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Uhhhh, it's from, Mary… as well…"
MacKay's grin vanished. "What…?"
"Yeah, this is her name and your address…"
MacKay's mouth hung low, "Why is she writing you, Joe?"
"I dunno. She's your wife… uh, sir." He examined the name once more as if to see if this was a trick. But no, on the return address of the V-Mail was clearly written "Mary MacKay", and it was addressed to "Joe Conti", along with his rank and unit information.
The sergeant's eyes shifted towards MacKay, who was giving him a glare mixed of confusion and irritation. Conti gave MacKay an innocent and honest shrug. He opened it and read it carefully to himself.
"Hello Joe,
I do hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. And I bet that you are mighty surprised to receive this. Especially from me. I know. I wasn't initially trying to even write you, just to John. But then, as I finished John's letter, Calvin came in the room asking about his father, and then he mentioned you. He asked if you were coming back from the war, and that got me thinking, thinking that I should write to you as well.
Knowing your natural curmudgeon nature, I can guess that not many people desire to write to you. Such is unfair, for anyone worthy of calling themselves your friend will know that despite that abrasive side of you, is the smooth underbelly of compassion that lies within you. And John has seen that inside you, and so has Calvin—as young as he is—he always uses "Uncle Joe."
With that being said, I have something dear I want to ask of you. It's nothing too major in the grand scheme of things, but it is a selfish whim of mine that I ask you to help me with. Many young men have enlisted, several tens of thousands of brave young men who must fight against ruthless Germany. And many of them shall be under John's command. We both know how John is, he would put the world on his shoulders if he could. I ask this of you, to please watch over him. That when it gets too hard for him, you will be there to remind him of his duty, to cheer him up when he gets down, to be the true friend that you are.
Yet this letter is not just for you to help him, but I wrote this for you as well. I am aware that family has never been a strong point for you. But know that even though you are over there fighting the Nazis, that you still have family. In me, Calvin, and John. You are never alone, Joe. Even when you try to make yourself out to be a loner. You have people back here who care about what happens to you. We miss you. I never said it aloud, but parts of me do miss you, Joe. You have been a valuable friend to our family, and please know that after the war, you always have a place at our home. Stay safe and watch over John for me, or I swear I'll nag you so hard you'll tear your own damn ears off!
Sincerely,
Mary MacKay."
Conti put down the letter with trembling hands and looked to the sky. MacKay leaned in and softly muttered, "So, what did Mary say?"
"Hmm?"
"What did Mary say, Joe?"
"Oh." Conti was smiling, his mind flashed the image of Mary. "She said nothing."
"Wait, no she didn't."
"Uh-huh," his smile was growing.
"Joe. You will. Tell me. What she said."
"Noooope."
"Did she talk about me?"
He folded the letter crisply, neatly put it in the envelope and placed it in his jacket and started chuckling. Then stood up to stretch and turned away from his C.O.
"Wait?! She did talk about me! What did she say?! Joe! What did she say?"-
"Hmmmm… she said… nothin', sir."
"You're still smiling! Damn it, Joe! I am your Captain, you will tell me what said, Sergeant! Hey… Hey! Stop walking away! That's an order! Damn it! C'mon, Joe, please? Tell me what she said, man! Please!"