A big inspiration for this chapter came from a war memoir by a sergeant who was with the actual 116th Regiment, 29th Division on D-Day. The book I used as a reference was Omaha Beach & Beyond: The Long March of Sgt. Bob Slaughter. A very good book that chronicles Sgt. John Robert Slaughter's journey from Virginia to D-Day and beyond.
Enjoy!
The Sergeant III
July 24, D-Day + 48
"When a soldier's morale is low, there is no better medicine on Earth than the sergeant"
The smell of burning fuel was in the air. 2nd Platoon was marching forward in a column on the dirt road, two files parallel to the other. The endless drones of the bombers flying overhead was almost hypnotizing. In the vast distance, the GIs could overhear the muffled explosions of the bombers dropping their payloads onto the Germans. As the platoon kept marching, the burning fuel stench was growing stronger, and it was not the results of the bombers.
Buck Sergeant Derek "Duck" Hudson was eyeing the wooded area with utter suspicion. Just where the hell was that stench coming from? They kept marching down the road, but no one could spot the origin of the smell. It came from tanks, Duck knew it for sure, but was it American or German?
At the crack of dawn today, elements of the 4th Cavalry had sped past Able who were just waking up. The Cavalry was sent in to catch up to the Panzer Lehr Division. Duck had figured that the higher ups realized that when the Germans caught the Able Company Scouts last night, they must have mobilized quickly since they now gathered key intel on American positions.
Just remembering that Bachman, Toto, and even the quiet, but friendly McMahon were captured due to a glory-seeking officer was boiling Duck's blood as he marched. Bachman had been an original man of Able who they all knew for a year's time, wounded on Omaha and returned to Able just to be with his buddies instead of a different company. Upon first introductions, Toto seemed like a Southern prude that could have doubled as an officer, but he was as genuine, comedic, and gritty as an infantryman could be. Then there was McMahon who everyone called "Mac", he was a quiet and timid looking kid, but he was quite amenable when you talked to him, and apparently he was getting famous throughout the company for being a skilled cook. All three of them, captured, beatened, tortured, or shot. Would any of them be seen again?
All because of Lieutenant Gittens. Duck looked to the sky and whispered, "Thank you, God. Thank you that he's gone."
Blackwell and Sergeant Duhaney saw it last night, after the Battalion Commander came to speak to MacKay about Gittens' fuck up. The colonel left with Gittens in his jeep and all of Gitten's stuff. And like that, Gittens had vanished from the company this morning. One officer for three enlisted men, it wasn't worth it. Goddamn glory hounds.
Duck looked ahead of him and grunted at the sight of his Platoon Leader. At least this man wasn't a glory hound, nor incompetent. 2nd Lieutenant Emory Peck and several others were among the very first replacements Able had received in the war, after they took Cherbourg. Duck had slight reservations about him at first, yet he couldn't exactly remember why. Maybe it was his youthful face? But Peck has so far proven himself to be level-headed, willing to listen to Duck and the other NCOs, and has shown himself to be fairly competent in a fight. He wasn't reckless when he issued orders, he was a cautious man by nature; Peck also wasn't overly brave, charging in front of his platoon like O'Leary or MacKay would have done, and yet he never hid in the rear. All-in-all, Peck was a straight shooter of an officer, the one any soldier would feel comfortable with.
He was glad that there was some real leadership in 2nd Platoon, but still, Duck wished there was more. It was tiring being the only sergeant in 2nd Platoon. MacKay had promised that he would requisition some Sergeants for 2nd Platoon after Cherbourg. However, Hill 192 had annihalted Charlie Company, so most of the sergeants would be there to fill the ranks of the reorganizing Charlie. The situation didn't improve when Able was forced to give three of its NCOs to Charlie, disallowing the sergeants in the other platoons to move to 2nd. Once again, Duck was stuck doing a job that he wished he had others for.
Below the boots of the marching platoon were the treads of Shermans who had rode on down the very road the infantrymen were walking on, mere hours ago. He wondered-no, he was hoping that these Shermans kicked Jerry's ass and could save Able some trouble.
"Hey, Sarge?"
It came from behind him, it was a new guy that came in the day Conti and the others left Able. "What is it, Private?"
"Uh, it's Private Carey, Sergeant. Uh… so what are we going to do if we meet the Germans?"
Duck didn't look at him, his eyes were on his surroundings, "Wha'cha got in your hand, Private?"
"Uh," the kid actually looked down to examine. "My rifle, Sarge…"
Duck didn't even bother responding. The private caught on to what he had said, his cheeks tinting a low red.
He spoke up again, "That… uh, wasn't a smart thing to ask, huh?"
Corporal Terry Cavanaugh spun around and looked at the kid with an emotionless mask, "Wow… two stupid questions in a row."
That got a good chuckle out of the men around them, even Duck couldn't refrain from laughing. Where the hell were they getting these replacements? Duck groaned to himself that he forgot the name of this kid, he just came in four days ago, him and three others. He was the Sergeant, the Platoon Sergeant of 2nd Platoon, it was his responsibility to remember the names of the new men. Fortunately, Carey telling him his name had jogged Duck's memory. The other three privates were named Storm, Taralla, and Camden. The veterans made it a rule to not bother memorizing new guys until they survived three days in combat. Duck was a Sergeant, not one of the boys, he couldn't afford to do this. He couldn't afford to be callous.
"Private Carey," he said without looking back, "Why did you ask that question?"
"Uh, well… a lot of buzz is going around in the company that the Germans are expectin' us, since they captured those three scouts… so I was wonderin' that if that's the case, what are we going to do against the Germans."
"We do what we were trained to do, we find the enemy and neutralize them. That is our job, Private."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Lieutenant Peck ordered the parallel column to divert into one, and drift to the left of the road. The men figured they must be coming up on a landmark, and they were right.
"Holy shit…" Duck heard Private Carey gasp.
The smell was the first thing that alerted the men before they saw it. The smell of burning diesel. The road rounded a bend behind some thick trees and opened up into a large plain. The entirety of 2nd Platoon was moving to the left to get out of the middle of the road, which was blocked by a convoy of destroyed Shermans.
Four Shermans were blasted to pieces, their formations were that of an unorganized column. The lead Sherman sat in the middle of the road, it's hull still burning. Behind the lead, were two Shermans, about ten yards apart from one another, both were flaming wrecks, their hulls completely split open. The turret hatch on both of them were open and fire was still burning strong inside the tanks.
The rear tank was the only tank facing a 45 degree angle to the right, and the only tank with it's treads blasted. The turret had taken several mean hits, that too was sending up smoke. Several engineers and medics were standing by the tanks, assisting the wounded and draping blankets over the dead tankers who were blasted out of the tanks. There was one shellshocked tanker being treated by medics as he sat by himself in front of a wrecked Sherman; his face was so black from the smoke that it reminded Duck of the actors from several minstrel shows he saw as a kid. The medics were asking him questions, but the tanker did not reply; his mouth was open and his eyes were staring off into the endless horizon.
In a ditch to the right about 30 yards from where the lead tank was a smoking wreck of an M8 Greyhound. Four draped corpses were resting by the Greyhound. And to the left side of the ditch was a devastated scout jeep, blown literally in two pieces by a tank shell. The entire area was swirling nauseous fumes of fuels.
"Jesus Christ…" Duck could hear a man further up in the column say aloud.
"Is that the 4th Cav?" someone else said.
"Oh my God, what the hell happened to them?" Private Carey asked, covering his mouth from the stench.
"All four tanks got obliterated, and they're so close to each other as well," said another private beside Carey.
Terry sighed, "Vehicle Ambush 101, boys. If a convoy is moving in a column, you target the lead vehicle first. And just like back home, it causes a traffic jam."
Blackwell then took over, his eyes not leaving the wrecked tanks, "Then they target the rear vehicle to immobilize it, and trap all the vehicles in the middle from escaping. Next thing you know, it's fish in a barrel for those middle vehicles…"
"That's four Shermans though, and I don't see one hint of Kraut armor? How the hell did this happen?" a private in front of Duck muttered, he was a replacement as well, Storm.
Blackwell's eyes narrowed, "Gittens."
"Wait, it was Gittens?" Storm replied loudly.
"Noise discipline, back there," Lieutenant Peck ordered.
"It was Gittens, wasn't it, sir?" Blackwell asked loudly, his voice reaching the entire column of the 2nd Platoon.
The 2nd Lieutenant was staring at the tankers who were lying on cots, stiff and draped in blankets. Blackwell could tell that Peck didn't even want to look at him. But the officer replied, "The Panzer Lehr were waiting for our armor and ambushed them."
Blackwell grunted, "Yeah. Because of Gittens. He let the Krauts capture our scouts, along with our intelligence, maps, and radio. And then 12 hours later, we lose some tanks. Ain't that a kick, boys?"
Duck looked around, the men were sucking the bottom of their lips and staring at their boots as they marched.
"Yeah, that's how it happens," Blackwell continued loudly. "And we're going straight after these fucking Krauts, who are waiting for us like a hunter waits for a buck. They're probably watching us right now."
Duck could hear Private Carey shivering in fear.
The veteran kept going, "They got strong armor and blasted our support to shit! And now we got good men killed because of fucking officers. And that's what's waiting for us because one officer—"
"Hey, Blackwell?" it came from Duck. He had turned around, his mouth was tight and his eyes glared, "Shut up."
Several of the new men gasped. Blackwell stared at Duck unblinkingly, "Yes, Sergeant."
Peck looked behind at Duck, their eyes met and he nodded, then Peck turned his head back around.
Duck could feel the energy of the platoon, and it was pitiful.
Captain MacKay had ordered Able Company to stop their march and set up camp a hundred yards to the west of the road. Peck and Duck led their platoon to their designated spot to put their equipment down, then a messenger from the CP gave the Lieutenant a private message. Peck made a soft curse, and told the messenger that he would be there shortly.
"Hudson," Peck said to him, "I need a word with you."
Hmm, that look in his eyes...
"Gimme a sec, sir. Terry, Blackwell, take 2nd Platoon fifty yards out next to those trees. The L-T and I will be right there."
"Roger that, Duck," Terry nodded.
"Is this area clear from Jerry, sir?" Blackwell growled in a bitter tone.
"Blackwell, that's your job, buddy. You're a goddamn Kraut killer, make sure it's clear of Jerry," Duck replied.
Blackwell nodded with a grunt. He and Terry walked away as they ordered the platoon to follow them.
The Sergeant and Lieutenant walked over to a shaded area. "I don't understand how you can tolerate Blackwell, Sergeant."
"Well, I've seen scarier than him, sir. And also, he only has a hard-on for officers. Excuse my French, sir."
"It's fine, Sergeant. I've certainly noticed that side the first day I came here."
"But I figure that Blackwell ain't what we're talking about,. Right, L-T?"
"No, it's minor but.. MacKay wanted to speak to me individually when the platoon was situated."
"He did, huh?"
"Yeah. But what do you think he wants, Hudson?"
"My guess? Making you the new X.O."
"Don't play like that, Sergeant."
"I ain't playing, sir. Gittens's gone. You're the only officer left in the company, why won't it be you? Go ahead, sir. I got 2nd Platoon."
"Right." The lieutenant took a long look at his men from a distance. The men were dragging their feet as they moved, they carelessly threw their equipment and helmets on the ground, not one of them cracked a smile or said a word.
Peck was frowning, "Look at 'em, they look miserable."
"Well, sir, what happened to the Scouts and seeing what happened to elements of the 4th Cav, spirits ain't the best."
"Crap, yeah, you're right."
"Don't worry about it, sir, go see the Cap. I got this."
"What are you going to do?"
"Go see the Captain, sir, I can handle this."
Peck looked unsure, but he knew better to doubt his Platoon Sergeant. He gave Hudson a nod and then proceeded to leave.
"2nd Platoon, gather around!" Duck ordered. "Form a circle here."
The men formed a large circle around Duck, he then ordered them to take a seat. Half of them took a knee, and the other half sat on their asses. Duck was the only one standing in the middle, chuckling at the memory that popped in his mind. This reminded him of his life back home, when he sat around the campfire with his fellow Boy Scouts at the Boy Scout Jamboree in DC, a year shy before Duck attained the prestigious rank of Eagle Scout. These men of the 2nd Platoon were his Scouts, and he was the Scoutmaster.
"So what's this about, Duck?" Terry asked.
The platoon looked at him. Spirits are low, so, here goes nothing... Duck sat down beside Terry and Blackwell, and took a gulp. "So… anybody got a joke?"
Nearly every man's eyebrow rose in response to the question. Followed by awkward silence, all eyes on the Sergeant.
Duck cleared his throat, "I asked if anybody has a joke to tell?"
The men looked at one another with quizzical and uneasy expressions.
Saywell had looked around. He started playing with his handlebar mustache before speaking up, "I got one… okay, uh… so… so these two Jews walk into a bar and—"
"Uh, yeah, let's avoid those ones, Mason," an uncomfortable Duck told Saywell.
"Yeah, I agree," Private Camden chimed in.
Saywell grimaced, his mustache did so as well, "Who the fuck asked you, replacement? Didn't you come in a few days ago?"
"Yeah I did. And it matters cause I'm a Jew!" Camden replied with fire.
"Congratulations. Wanna hear the punchline? It involves getting your cock—!"
"Knock it off, Mason," Duck said sharply.
The awkwardness returned tenfold. Not even a chainsaw could cut through this.
Great idea, Derek… the sergeant thought to himself.
Duck cleared his throat, then slapped Saywell across the helmet, "You moron, don't you know anything about comedy?" He forced a smile, "You don't open with the religious jokes, you save those babies for last!"
That got a soft amount of low chuckling from the men. Saywell grunted lowly, but gave a bitter grin, "Apologies, Duck. I ain't no comedian. Why don't you share with us your routine? How would you open up the floor?"
"Simple, you heckle the crap out of the audience. Like you, Mason. How often do you comb that mustache of yours for lice? With a mustache like that, I thought you'd worked for the Pony Express. And even then, that thing is so bushy you must have inherited that from both your Papa and your Mama."
That got a bigger reaction from the men. Duck kept going, "Christ, I mean it. That thing is so bushy, General Custer would have surrendered to it."
The men burst out laughing. King, Terry, and Lovett ribbed and slapped Saywell's back. Even Saywell was laughing at that.
Duck smiled, "See? Like that. And then, you shovel crap on yourself. I saw you get some from a few mademoiselles in Cherbourg, Saywell, must have been the mustache. I mean, look at me! Do I look like the guy who'll get a lot of tail?" Duck then faced the platoon, "Shit... My sex life is a shit-show, I mean, do you know that look the broads give you when they want to have sex? Yeah... me neither."
The platoon was laughing.
The Sergeant kept going, "My God, and the real kicker is when the broads were trying to avoid me. One time I met this real glass of water, and I asked for her number. She didn't give me her number, instead she gave me her address and told me, 'Come over at 7, they'll be no one home.' So I came over at 7, and guess what? No one was home."
The men were holding their sides with laughter.
"C'mon you lazy bones, ain't anyone ever went to an USO? Let us have it! C'mon, lay on the jokes!" Duck beseeched.
Cunningham was giggling, "Oh I got several, Sarge."
"Oh God, here we go…" Saywell said.
Cunnigham caught his breath, "So fellas, what is a soldier's least favorite month?"
"I don't know, what is it?" someone asked.
Cunningham was snickering before he answered, "March!"
A universal groan was the reply.
"Oh man, that is terrible," someone said in annoyed laughter.
"That stinks, Cunningham," Taralla the replacement murmured.
Cunningham brushed off his shoulders before speaking, "How about this? What do you call a snail on a ship? A snailor!"
"BOO!" someone jeered with laughter.
"Shut the fuck up, Cunningham," Saywell shouted.
Cunningham exhaled with a grin, "This one gets a laugh all the time. An army recruiter finds a wimp and asks, 'Would you like to join the army?'
The wimp then says, 'My arms aren't very strong, but my legs are... I'd much rather join the Leggy!'"
"Shut the fuck up, Cunningham!" Saywell pratically screamed in irritation. The men with hilarity at that response.
Other men rolled their eyes and started throwing pebbles at Cunningham as they booed. But Cunningham was still laughing during all of this.
"All right, all right," he said, "I was getting you all warmed up! I saved my best for last!"
Terry rolled his eyes, "Jesus Christ, that wasn't the end?!"
"No, it's good, I swear!"
"Okay, Cunningham, last one," Duck told him.
"I swear to God, Cunnigham," Saywell warned, "If this thing is as bad as the other ones, then you ain't going to have worry about the Krauts shooting you…"
That itself got laughter out of a few men.
But Cunningham smiled and said, "All right, listen up. There's a private running down a hill and he runs smackdab into an officer.
'Where the hell do you think you're going, son?' the officer asks him.
The Private says, 'Sorry, Captain! It's just so crazy up there on that hill, the fighting is so intense and bombs are going off everywhere! I got scared and tried to go AWOL.'
'Who you calling 'Captain?' You see this star on my helmet?! I'm a general, goddamn it!'
The private was shocked, 'Wow! I didn't realize I ran that far back.' "
A typhoon of raucous laughter rose up from 2nd Platoon. Men were clutching their sides, men's faces were turning red, and some of the veterans had to gasp to catch their breath. Even the stoic Blackwell had broke his mask and started chuckling at the joke.
Cunningham shrugged smugly and cracked, "I told y'all! I told y'all I was saving my best for last."
"All right, I admit," Saywell said after catching his breath, "I was wrong about that. That was pretty damn funny."
"Best thing that every came out of his mouth, I tell ya what," Lovett added.
King smiled, "We may probably run into our general like that if we had to."
"Definitely, but you know who we wouldn't run into in the rear? Captain MacKay," Duck said proudly.
"Damn straight, he's up in the thick of the fighting," Hefferman confirmed.
"Yeah! And if he commands us from in the back, he's still close enough to the danger." Lovett gleamed.
King noticed the new men were listening to them, the veterans, in awe, "You guys should have seen him on D-Day," the translator said with pride. "He was actually walking on the beach during that murderous MG fire."
"No way!" a private gasped.
"I heard it was a firestorm of bullets on that goddamn beach!" Cunningham exclaimed.
"Oh it was," Terry attested, "Me and so many others got shot trying to reach the bluffs. But the Cap, this man was walking and rallying others to move forward."
A gravelly voice came from Blackwell, "Yeah, he stood up and walked. I've never seen an officer do that before. Willingly exposing himself so brazenly to rally his men…"
Duck was nodding through it all, "Yep, the Captain has nerves of steel. I suspected he always had that, but I'm pretty damn sure the training with the Rangers helped with that."
As soon as Duck uttered the last word, he was met by an onslaught of silent and confused gazes, all of them came from the replacements, new and old.
Only Cunningham could find his voice. "The Captain was a Ranger?"
"Of course he was!" Hefferman said loudly. "Why the hell do you think he always wears that green Ranger vest?"
Cunningham's eyes flashed opened, "Wait a minute, Conti had the same vest too! That means Conti was a Ranger as well, right?"
Lovett clapped his hands slowly, "Congratulations, Cunningham. You just won the kewpie doll."
Private Carey spoke up, "So all the men in Able with a Ranger jacket were actually Rangers?"
"That's right, Private," King said sincerely.
The new men looked on at Hudson with wide eyes. Hudson looked down at his torso, he felt the stares of all the men focused on his own green vest that he wore over his combat fatigues.
"So, Sergeant Duck, that vest you have, you're a Ranger then…" Private Carey asked.
Derek's eyes went to the sky, he smiled at the thought, "Yeah, I was. The 29th Ranger Battalion."
The men, aside from the veterans, gasped and murmured in amazement.
Cunningham spoke up, "The '29th', huh? I didn't know the Rangers had a number that high."
Duck was chuckling, "Well, it was a Provisional Battalion, Cunninghman, a distinct detachment from the 29th Division.
Hefferman rubbed his hands, "Oh boy, I guess it's story time, eh?"
"Damn right it is," Duck smiled. He looked at his audience, he had their complete attention.
"I ain't going to bore you that much with the details. Just know that I enlisted back in mid-June in '40. It was after the Brits were kicked out of Dunkirk that I saw the writing on the wall. We were going to war within a year or two. If the Krauts could conquer France and send the Brits back to England, then they could eventually invade England herself. ANd if that happened, then Uncle Sam would definitely have to step in. So, I joined the Army two weeks after Dunkirk.
"So bing-bam-boom, I'm in the 29th, then the Japs attack, Army expands, I get promoted to Corporal along the way, the Division is shipped to England in late '42, and now it's December of the same year. Word got around to us regular Joes that you could volunteer to the Rangers. They told us the Rangers were supposed to be the best of the best, like the British Commandos that gave the Krauts so much hell and were apparently hitting them everywhere at once. They promised we'd be the first to fight, and I was on board."
"What was it like?" Cunningham asked eagerly.
"Maybe if you shut the fuck up, then he would tell you, Cunningham!" Saywell growled.
Duck continued, "Oh, man, I thought Basic was tough, but it had nothing on Ranger training. Maybe because our cadres were Brits, and actual veteran Commandos at that. They put us through the fucking ringer. Many men washed out and returned back to their units. I admit, I puked my guts up at least ten times during the entire selection. They didn't want no pansies, those Brits were hardened killers. Even more so than Blackwell over here."
The privates looked over nervously at Blackwell. The black-hearted man was expressionless, yet his eyes were locked on Duck with utter coldness. Duck didn't even blink at the glare as he looked at Blackwell, "Why you think it's so easy for me to talk to you, Blackwell? I have seen the eyes of true killers before I met you."
Blackwell only chuckled, then shook his head with a grin. The privates were stunned.
Duck continued, "These men sat us down individually and asked us directly, 'Do you believe you would be able to stick a man in his back with a knife? Or slice his throat open as you hold his mouth shut? Or if you had to, stick a man in his heart with the knife, peer into his horror-filled eyes—and then twist'?"
The privates' mouth dropped in terror.
"The dying truth, I tell ya. That's what happened. You'd think that the Brits are polite fellows, and they can be. But not these men. They cursed worse than drunken Irishmen. Hell, a good hand of them were Irishmen, they cursed us every name under the sun. They made sure every damn one of us could swim, and we would have to swim in the Wear River in the blistering cold to fine-tune our bodies. They even took us to the Highlands in Scotland to go running up those damn mountains and for wilderness survival; they sent us out there with nothing but a compass and map and told us we had an hour to get back to camp. Those Commandos were the real deal."
Private Storm whistled, then said, "Y'all must have been in the best of shape."
"Of course. Because of their training, we all could go toe-to-toe with the meanest boxer and outrun any Major Leaguer that was trying to run for home. That's why I got my washboard stomach, and that's why the Captain can outlast a lot of you guys ten years younger than him during calisthenics."
"Oh yeah, you Rangers were in a class by yourselves," Terry laughed as he remembered.
Duck smiled fondly, "And it was worth it. Come February, we passed, and we were designated Rangers. We received paratrooper boots to wear, a felt diamond that had 29th Rangers on it, and an olive drab Ranger vest. That's what I got on now. And this…" he grabbed his vest tenderly, "This is my pride and joy, just like the other Rangers who are now in the 29th. I worked, sweated, puked, and bled for this vest, while so many others had dropped out."
Duck took a pause and drank from his canteen. He could see the engaged eyes of the men around him. He sighed after the water left his lips, his eyes fell to the dirt as he screwed on the cap. "Yeah boy, those were good times. We were Rangers for months, constantly training, marching damn near marathons every day, I shed about fifteen pounds during my time as a Ranger. But they taught us so many things, small-action tactics that not even America teaches us, how to stalk an enemy and move in which your body doesn't make noise against your clothes, expert weapons training; you name it, and the Brits taught it. We were supermen."
Duck's wondrous smile began to fade.
"In the fall of '43, we were given our first assignment. And before we could go on our first raid, we found out that we were being scrapped. Apparently it wasn't feasible for the 29th Rangers to exist, or some bullshit to that extent. This came from the higher-ups. Boy, we were furious… the devil himself would have been terrified of our fury on the day we heard the news. Instead of transferring us to another Ranger Battalion, they ordered us all to return to our original units in the 29th Division.
"After that, to distinguish us as Rangers, the 29th did a special thing for us. They allowed us to keep the Ranger vests and Ranger tabs. We always wanted to wear it, but we couldn't because it wasn't dress regulations to wear the Ranger vest over our plain infantry jackets. So virtually every 29th Ranger had the idea to cut the sleeves of the jacket off and wear the sleeveless vest over our regular combat jacket. So anytime someone saw us, they knew we had Ranger training."
"Damn, that's incredible, Sarge," Private Camden spoke out.
"I guess that explains how lucky we've been for a while," Cunningham commented.
Duck was nodding, "Yep, that is part of it. Think about it, boys. How the hell have we been surviving this long in these impossible situations? Because our Captain was a Ranger, he received better training than most other company commanders."
"What did it mean for you to be disbanded from the Rangers, Hudson?" Blackwell asked.
The men leaned in closer. Duck's eyes fell to the dirt once again, "A waste. A goddamn waste, Blackwell. I'll always sweat and bleed Able Company; but, I cannot help but think… 'what if?' We trained and trained for nearly a year, and then we're told that we were no more. It hurt. But the worst hurt of all was how they tossed us to the wind and we had to go back to our original units."
"What do you mean?" Private Carey muttered.
Duck sighed. He took out his bayonet and stuck the point in the dirt, drawing various balls, "What do these sports all have in common? Football, baseball, and basketball?"
"They all use balls?" King answered.
"Well… yes, they do. But that's not the answer."
"They're all team sports," Cunningham ushered up.
"Bingo. They all involve teamwork. Any team worth its salt knows the strength and weakness of every player, the coach devises strategies to best accommodate every player's strengths, they train endlessly and share in each other's hardships. That is the quality of teamwork we see in sports. Now, imagine this. That every player of that one team is sent to random teams across their league?"
"Ohh…" two privates muttered despondently.
"Yeah…" Duck said in kind. "That is what happened to us. All the combat readiness and efficiency that we gathered together was wasted. And now, us individuals retained such information and skill, lost in a company that did not have the benefit to receive such training. And of course, one man cannot win war. So yeah, splitting us up was a goddamn waste."
The platoon was quiet.
Duck forced a chuckle, "But hey, as always, Able lucked up, we were one of the companies that got more than five 29th Rangers return to the company. And all of us had survived Omaha. So did the training save our asses?" Duck shrugged, "I can't tell ya. I want to believe so, I do, but I get an echo in the back of my mind that the idea of training can only take you so far. Lady Luck has to be on your side if you mean to survive."
Cunningham was rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, "So, was Conti the same back then as he was now?"
"Actually, he wasn't with the 29th Rangers. Conti came from the original Rangers, the 1st Battalion. I don't know how he became regular infantry, going from the 1st Rangers to the 1st Infantry. He never talks about it. Conti didn't show up to Able until '44."
"So including you, we have more than five former Rangers in our outfit?" Private Carey asked.
King looked at the new men and smirked, "Able Company has six men who were a part of the 29th Rangers: our Sergeant Hudson here, Corporal Troy the Sniper, Staff Sergeant Fischer from 1st Platoon, Staff Sergeant Paine in the Machinegun section, First Sergeant Crane was also a Ranger, and then we got Captain MacKay. And even though he wasn't with the 29th, our former First Sergeant Conti was a Ranger."
"Huh, and all of them are NCOs," Private Taralla muttered to Carey.
Terry exhaled a puff of smoke from his cigarette, "Listen up, boys. Conti's gone, all right? But if any of those six with the green vests tell you to do something, you shut the fuck up and listen to them. They are among the finest men in Able."
The privates were all in awe.
Duck looked at Terry warmly and gushed in a feminine tone, "Awwwwww! Terry, I had no idea you cared so much about me!"
Terry grinned with his teeth, then puckered three kisses at Duck. Duck replied with a singular, long pucker.
Both men laughed, followed by the chorus laughter of the 2nd Platoon Nine, except Blackwell. The privates and replacements started chuckling as well. Terry snapped to them and glared, "What the hell are all of ya laughing for?" The only laughter that remained was that of the veterans.
"I knew it," Lovett grinned.
"Knew what?" Duck asked.
"I goddamn knew you thought you were better than us because you were a Ranger."
"Well it's hard being worse than someone who couldn't hit the broad side of the barn and shits himself."
Lovett stoically flipped the bird at Duck. The men laughed.
Once it died down, Private Carey remarked in a sudden sulking attitude, "Well, Sarge, I guess we need all the Ranger help we can get. We're getting closer and closer to the Lehr Divison."
Several soldiers then nodded dejectedly. Saywell tapped King's shoulder, "Finally got a replacement who knows what's up…"
"Whoa, hold on! What's all this loser talk going around about?"
Saywell sighed, "Feels like we're heading back into Cherbourg, Duck. We're entering the jaws of the Krauts who are waiting for us with the big guns."
Duck spat out some phlegm, "Ain't no need to worry about that. Those on the offensive always have to worry about that. Nothing has changed, guys."
"The Krauts got our intel, Sarge," Cunningham frowned.
"Like I said, 'nothing has changed'."
"And they got better armor than we do," Private Storm added.
"Am I broken record?! What did I say? 'Nothing has changed!'Y'all think Jerry's stupid?" He then stood up and walked in the middle of the circle, "They ain't conquer most of Europe by being dumbasses. Of course they got intel on us, they always do. Even on the run, their intelligence is top-notch. But so what? They're still on the run. And we're still kicking their asses. They got better tanks than ours? Yeah? Guess what? Those superior tanks are hauling back to the Fatherland faster than y'all can blink! Because they can't sustain a fight with us. We braved the odds at Omaha, we fought through a typhoon of house-to-house fighting at Cherbourg, we penetrated those damn hedgerows, we took 1-9-2, and we just kicked Jerry's ass out of Saint-Lo. Always Able, goddamn it! Nothing has changed."
Duck started laughing now with the goofy smile, "Why the hell are y'all worried? Huh? Just because Heinie Himmler looked over your shoulder on a math test?"
That got a chuckle out of the platoon. Terry shook his head with a snicker, "Ah hell, I ain't worried about no Heinie." He then pointed to Private Carey, "But I bet that new guy is worried about Heinies, ain'cha kid?"
"Wh-What? No, Corporal, I'm not." The private smiled brazenly, "Next Heinie I see, I'm gonna give a big ol' slap!"
Duck recoiled with an exaggerated expression, "Whoo! Y'all hear that? Private Carey is going to slap the next heiny he sees! Guess we all know what he likes to do on a lonely Friday night."
The platoon erupted in laughter.
"No! No-no-no-no-no!" Carey was shaking his hands. "Th-That's not what I meant! I didn't mean it like that!"
Cunningham patted him on the shoulder with a smile, "Hey, man, better you to slap that ass than kiss it, right?"
More of the men were guffawing uncontrollably.
"Aw c'mon, guys!" Carey whined with a frown.
A smile grew from ear-to-ear on the Sergeant's face. These brave men, smiling and joking. This is what I wanted to see! He turned around on instinct, spotting Lieutenant Peck returning from the CP and beckoning Hudson to come over.
Duck exhaled, and then grinned, "All right, boys, I'm gonna excuse myself for the meanwhile. Terry, you got the platoon."
"I gotcha, Duck."
The sergeant looked at his men all gathered round, "Listen up, boys. We'll be fine. We lost some men, but this ain't stop Able before. And it sure won't stop us now. We're in this together, come hell or high water. Understood?"
"Yes, Sergeant," the privates said confidently.
It seemed to Duck that Peck had just swallowed a stone, so tense was his face. Duck walked beside the officer as they roamed over to the dirt road, "So, what's the verdict, sir?"
Peck rubbed his mouth uncomfortably, "Yep, I am the new Executive Officer…"
Duck patted him on the back. "Was there ever any doubt, sir? I don't want to say 'I told'cha so', but…"
That got a chuckle out of the officer, "I know, I know. You told me so. But I at least thought that they would bring in another officer."
"Well, seeing as how well that went…"
"Right. And I'm a 2nd Looie, and the only officer left in the company. I just think it's too soon for me. I've been in Able for about three weeks now."
"Well, sir… if it makes you feel better… Lieutenant O'Leary was a replacement officer a month before the invasion and within a week of the landing, he became the X.O. And I know I told you that I was just a corporal when I was leading this platoon."
"Yeah, you did. Still don't know how the hell you did such a thing."
"Sometimes, sir, it just be that way."
"Hmm, I guess so, Sergeant."
"From what I can suggest, sir, being the X.O will be like being the platoon leader, except you have more platoons under your command."
A bitter smile rose on the officer's mouth, "Yeah, cause that makes me feel better, Sergeant."
"That's what I'm here for, sir!"
Peck sniggered, "Smartass. Anyway, we have our next mission, Hudson. Tomorrow, we go get those Panthers at Hebecrevon."
"Right… I'm going to pretend I know where that is."
"It's ten miles out from us, we're going to move out in thirty minutes and march up to two miles and hunker down for the night. We're going to track down the Lehr Division and destroy their medium tanks, specifically their Panthers."
"So Panther hunting, huh? Can't say I'm excited about that prospect, sir."
"Why's that?"
"Don't think it prudent to be hunting Panthers with Shermans."
At that comment, Peck was smirking deviously, "Oh, Sergeant, don't you know?"
"Know what?"
"The only way to hunt down a predator, is to use another predator."
And seemingly on cue, the ground was rumbling. Then sounds of creaking metal came from behind the two men. Rolling up was a convoy of sleek tanks, smaller than Shermans, but it sure as hell packed more of a wallop than a Sherman could.
They were M10 Tank Destroyers. Four of them. The lead M10 drove to a stop in front of the lieutenant and sergeant.
Duck's eyes were growing, as was his smile, "Wolverines."
Out of the open turret that the Wolverines distinctively had, a sergeant popped his upper body up and waved to Lieutenant Peck, "Lieutenant, is this Able Company?"
"That's right, Sergeant. I'm Lieutenant Peck, the X.O of Able Company."
"I'm Staff Sergeant Matthews, 4th Cavalry. We're attached to you boys for tomorrow."
"Yeah, I heard. You need to speak to the C.O? That would be Captain MacKay. The CP is down the road about a hundred yards," he pointed.
"Appreciate it, sir!"
And with that, Sergeant Matthews ducked back in the turret and the tank geared on forward, as did the convoy of Wolverines.
"Man, we must be heading into a world of trouble if Command gave us Wolverines." Duck mentioned.
"Don't worry, Sergeant. We'll be fine tomorrow."
"Glad you feel confident, sir."
Peck looked over Duck's shoulder, "And speaking of confidence, look at our boys over there. They seem totally different. Rejuvenated. They're laughing and smiling. Good job, Sergeant. What did you do?"
Duck looked at the platoon and smiled, "My duty."
As mentioned in the beginning of the chapter, I drew inspiration from Sgt. Bob Slaughter's memoir, where he was actually a part of the 29th Ranger Battalion.
I also did so to tie in a detail which was aggravating for me as I played the game. The developers put into the Company of Heroes campaign several models of the individual Rangers being a part of the rifle company of Able Company during several cutscenes, where these two two units would not have shared soldiers or even interacted that much, as depicted in the game. It is especially egregious as to how they give MacKay and Conti the Ranger models to use, despite them being in the 29th Division. It was baffling!
So, to tie in to that, I used the 29th Ranger Battalion as a reason why some Rangers were spotted amongst the Able Company ranks!
This probably wasn't needed, but I thought it would be interesting concept to explore and give some more character details about certain soldiers.