Enjoy the chapter.
The Company III
July 25, D-Day + 49, 1400 hrs
"When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure."
Colonel Franklin Rivers, Commanding Officer of the 116th Regiment, poured some French brandy into several cups on the desk. His worn eyes watched as the liquor cracked the ice cubes in the cups. He took the cups and offered it up, saying, "Now, I don't often come down to the Battalion HQ. But when I do, something has gone down that deserves my attention."
Lieutenant Colonel Liam Lincoln, the Commanding Officer of the 1st Battalion, was sitting on a drawer near the back of the room with the cup of brandy in hand, "And well, so many things have gone down in the past hour alone, Colonel."
Rivers exhaled, taking a seat on the rim of the desk in the center of the room. He drank from the brandy before exhaling, "John MacKay was one of the finest Company Commanders in the entire regiment. Hell, the entire Division. I was bragging it up with the other Regimental Commanders what he did on D-Day with Able. He earned that DSC for that action; I just regret I couldn't make it into the Big One."
Lincoln muttered, "He was one of the best, that is why I always gave him the tough assignments, cause I knew he could accomplish them."
"He was one of the best because he was a Ranger. The only other man from those 29th Rangers that's a Company Commander is a feller in the 3rd Battalion. MacKay was an invaluable leader, and… our regiment is lesser from losing a man of such a fine caliber."
"Here, here." Lincoln nodded. "The regiment indeed, but especially the 1st Battalion. I now lost 3 of my 4 original . I couldn't believe it was John though."
Both men drank their brandy.
Rivers shook the ice within his cup, watching it slosh within the liquor. "John MacKay, I heard it was… instant. The only solace I can take from such news was… that it was quick."
"I don't believe it makes it better, Colonel…"
"No, you're right, Liam. No man in war should be suffering as they die for their country. Not our boys, and not Jerry."
"Yet that happens all the time, sir." Lincoln clarified.
"Yeah, yeah it does…" Colonel Rivers placed the cup down on the desk and looked straight ahead, "I know you and John were close. I understand how torn up you and the company are of his death… but then you storm into Lincoln's HQ and demand to take command of Able Company. You? Am I hearing that right, Lieutenant Conti?"
Joe Conti had been silent the entire time. He was sitting in a chair with a cup of brandy in his hand undrinked, in between Colonel Rivers and Lieutenant Colonel Lincoln as they conversed with each other. He had gauze taped to the inside of his left ear, it ruptured during the explosion that killed… that killed…
He squeezed the cup; it was hard even thinking about that. The docs said it could heal in a few weeks, just keep it dry and get an antibiotic if it kept ringing. Honestly, Conti wasn't even focusing on that kind of pain, he was barely focusing on the conversation of the senior officers. But upon hearing his name, Conti raised his head and eyed the bird-colonel, "Yes, sir. That is correct."
"I looked up your file and saw that it went back a decade. Fort Riley. Why take over Able, Lieutenant?"
"There are no officers among Able Company, sir. 2nd Lieutenant Peck was wounded today in the battle and is off to the aid station. The only officer that has been with Able Company is Lieutenant O'Leary, but he is the Company Commander of Charlie. I know the company and they are in need of leadership. Unless you would have a company, ran exclusively by NCOs? I can provide that leadership, Colonel."
"Lieutenant Conti," Lincoln spoke up, "We understand what you are feeling, but you cannot demand such things from us colonels."
"I don't mean to demand, I request."
"As you requested from Major Simpkins to go forth to assist Able. Oh yes, he mentioned you and the Ranger sergeant you brought into the building. And despite his express orders, you defied him and went out there anyway. Tell me why, Lieutenant."
"Able was in dire straits, sir. They were down several tanks and losing more, the nearest armor wouldn't make it in time. I saw that a Ranger squad was present, and I recruited them to assist Able. Because of those Rangers, we had one surviving Wolverine and all the Panthers were destroyed. If I waited, Able would have most likely been destroyed."
Rivers grunted before drinking. "That was quite a leap of initiative you took. I wish all the officers in the regiment were like that. But that still doesn't mean you get Able, Lieutenant."
Lincoln spoke to his commander, "Sir, I believe I can find a suitable replacement for MacKay."
Rivers shot an eyebrow up, "Really? All right, Liam, please remind me how well your last suggestion of a replacement officer worked out for Able?" The Lieutenant Colonel lowered his head.
Rivers continued, "I'm pretty damn sure that the Lehr Division managed that counterattack against Able and outmaneuvered the Air Corps because of the intel that hairbrained officer let slip into their fingers."
The bird colonel sipped from his cup and exhaled. "Damn that man."
"Sir?" Conti asked. "You mean Gittens?"
"Not him. I'm talking… hmm, listen up, Lieutenant. After MacKay's death, our scouts reported one tank leaving the area."
"What…?"
"That's right, Lieutenant. It was no Panther. It was a Tiger tank."
His cup hit the floor. Clarity. He was shot by it like an arrow. "A Tiger… would it be Joseph Schultz…"
Rivers frowned, "Lieutenant, how did you come by that name? Wait, MacKay must have told you, huh?"
"He did, sir. He said he would be in the… area… a Panzer Ace. He told me that 2-3 weeks ago. Schultz was there?"
"He was, and we believe he was one the who fired at Captain MacKay."
"H-How? Are you certain, sir?"
"We are." Lincoln chimed in from behind. "I had Dog Company come up to reinforce you after we received the confirmation the last Panther was knocked out. Some of the boys spotted a lone tank leaving the area, and it was a heavy with a white eagle on it. That was Joseph Schultz all right."
Something was bubbling within Conti's gut, it and rose like building magma within his chest. Now he had a name to one who killed John.
Rivers quietly observed Conti for a moment. He placed his empty glass down on the desk and closely approached the lieutenant, "You want command of Able?"
"I do…"
"It wouldn't be like being a First Sergeant."
"I don't care…"
"You don't?"
"No… Give me Able, sir…"
"I can always give the command to another officer in the regiment."
"You can… but I'm going back to Able…"
"But what of your orders?"
"I don't care…"
"Lieutenant… you better watch your words."
"I don't care… I left Able once, I shall not do so again… Who is left to lead them? Lieutenant Peck was the only officer left and he's wounded. The highest-ranking man in Able is First Sergeant Crane! I want Able, sir."
"And people in hell want ice water."
"The boys need me, sir. They need me…"
Rivers stared at him with an unchanging expression. He looked to Lincoln, then back to Conti. "You want command of Able, Lieutenant Conti? Well… you have Ranger training, been in the Army for a solid decade, served with distinction during Kasserine Pass. You are one of the most experienced men of the 29th Division. Then again, regulations have it that you need to be transferred to another outfit and I can find someone else to take command. Another outfit that's green could benefit from a mustang. So… what to do with you? What do you deserve?"
"A chance."
"Hmm."
3rd Platoon
To think that Crane would have been Acting Company Commander of a rifle company… He had wished it would have been under completely different circumstances. MacKay was dead, Peck was wounded, and Conti was at the Battalion HQ; Crane was the senior sergeant and thus currently ran the company.
With the capture of the Hebecrevon industrial complex and the Panzer Lehr destroyed, Able Company could actually enter into the town of Hebecrevon itself 300 meters away and rest. Crane wanted to scoff at the thought of resting. Who the hell could rest after experiencing this loss? Upon entering the town, Crane spoke with the Platoon Sergeants of the infantry and weapons platoons to take their men and find some place to sit down and await further orders. That was the best Crane could suggest. What was the protocol for a rifle company who had no officers present? Yes, the senior sergeant takes command, Crane knew that much; but are they still combat effective? Are they placed into reserve? And he only had one good arm, and he was AWOL from B.A.S. Would they pull him out and send him back to the aid station? And if that happened, then who would be in command of Able then? Fischer or Paine?
Crane buried his face in his hand. God, if only MacKay was here, so they didn't have to go through this…
Word had got around that it was a Kraut tank that took a shot at the Captain. Why the hell didn't any of them hear the tank or felt its treads? American reinforcements spotted a heavy tank leaving the ruins in the distance. Crane ordered his men to investigate and they spotted tread marks from between the rubble of the road… from approximately 850 meters away… and it was in a spot with a perfect view of MacKay and Conti.
A Kraut tank. Everyone now knew. But what pissed Crane and everyone off the most was the balls on those Kraut bastards.
All of the tanks were destroyed, Able had won. That tank could have fled, and no one would have noticed.
But no…
It actually took the time to advance through Hebecrevon, take aim and fire a single shell at their Commanding Officer. And then run.
Why?
Out of fucking spite. It had to be. Crane was goddamn sure of it. And so was everyone else…
"Crane?"
The First Sergeant looked to Sergeant "Fats" Middlebrook, MacKay's personal radioman. The overweight soldier's forlorn face was amplified by those small glasses he wore on his face.
"Yeah? What is it, Fats?"
"Just wanted to let you know that Sergeant Duhaney took 3rd Platoon over two blocks away."
"Oh, yeah, thanks."
"Mhmm"
"How you doing, Fats?"
"How ya think, Top?"
"Just have to ask."
"I know."
"C'mon, let's head over to 3rd Platoon."
Crane and Fats arrived at the platoon's position, sitting outside in the middle of a street, everyone sitting in a circle, their eyes on their weapons, boots, or the gravel on the road. Every man quiet, their words kept in their thoughts. Corporal Gettle was fieldstripping his rifle, his mind in total concentration. Badmouth was chucking gravel into a busted window, trying to break every little piece of glass. Everyone's mind was trying to be preoccupied yet failing.
"Hey boys," Crane said, breaking the verbal silence. "Mind if Fats and I sit here?"
Duhaney nodded to him, "Of course, Lloyd. Pop a squat."
Both sergeants sat down, several eyes were on him.
"Sergeant Crane?" it came from a replacement who came in after Saint-Lo.
"What is it, Private?"
"What was he like as a Ranger, Crane?"
His lips were tightened as his mind drifted back, eyes were on him, "Just as he was a Company Commander, dauntless and diligent. He had a lot to prove, not in a bad way. He was an old man compared to most of us. And an officer at that. He had to lead the way for everyone. Upon being our C.O for Able, nothing really changed. MacKay was that kind of guy… He was a brave man… a good man…"
"Yeah… and now he's a dead man…" Fats mumbled audibly.
Sounds of exhales through mouths and nostrils filled the air around 3rd Platoon.
Duffy shook his head, "Dun don't make no sense how the Cap bought it. No sense at all. That tank dun come on close 'nuff to fire, and we ain't hear it approachin'… We knock off alla dem Panthuh tanks, so why the Sam Hill dun this tank take a shot at Cap and just run with its tail tucked?" The Appalachian corporal rubbed his face with both hands several times, "Dun don't make no sense…"
"When has war ever made sense, Duffy?" Sergeant Hollister exhaled. "When has our time in Normandy ever made sense?"
A sudden crash of window glass echoed. The men turned their heads to the culprit.
Badmouth was standing up with rocks in his hands, fuming. "Goddamn Krauts! Fuck 'em all!" Badmouth sneered. "Who the fuck was on perimeter watch, huh?! How come no one saw that piece of shit tank! Which blind son of a bitch was sleeping on the goddamn job and—"
"Jagger, that's enough!" Duhaney curtly rebuked.
"I'm just fuckin' sayin'—"
"Enough!"
"So I gotta shut my fucking mouth cause some goddamn—"
"Jagger! Enough!" Crane yelled from his seat.
The profane kid groaned to himself, he threw the rocks on the ground furiously. He suckled from the mouth of his canteen, then skulked away in a pout.
The area quieted. Corporal Ruby rubbed his jaw in contemplation, his eyes were hollow. "Goddamn, after all that we've been through, I had a sliver, y'know? A real goddamn sliver of hope that maybe, freakin' maybe, there was a chance of getting through alive. But when the Cap got it…goddamn it…I gave up. That man wasn't born to die like that. To get blown away by a damn tank? That shouldn't have happened. He was one of those men that war could never break."
Corporal Evan Gettle slurred, field stripping his .45 pistol, " 'What makes you so goddamn special?' "
"What?" Ruby replied.
"That's what you're thinking, right? 'What makes you so goddamn special that you can survive this?' Right? That's what you're thinking."
No one said a word.
Gettle continued field stripping his weapon like a machine. "I'm not special. None of us are. Before Omaha, I was a stupid bastard. So fucking stupid. I was actually thinking, 'It can't happen to me, maybe some poor bastard, but not me! God loves me!' Then comes Omaha, I can still remember the salt of the beach and blood swirling in my nostrils… I then moved on realizing, 'It could happen to me, I just gotta be careful.' And then today… the Cap? Boom. Fucking boom. And he's gone. If it happened to the Cap. The Cap!" he suddenly shouted. "If it happened to him, then it will happen to me… it will happen to me… it will happen to—"
"Gettle," Crane's voice reverberated.
All eyes looked to the First Sergeant, but he stared at the corporal. "Gettle, you stopped fieldstripping your weapon."
The corporal looked down, realizing he failed to put a single piece in once he had stripped it. His hands were shaking, "Oh… thanks Top…"
Crane drifted back to 1942. He closed his eyes. There was MacKay cheering on the fellow Ranger wannabes to get up that hill. MacKay was cheering on Crane by his first name.
He opened his eyes, "We're going to get through this, boys. We will. We're going to get through this. Always Able, boys."
"Always Able…" everyone echoed.
2nd Platoon
It was just yesterday where Duck had his entire platoon in a circle to joke and lift their spirits. Today? Spirits were lower than they had ever been, even more abysmal than yesterday. Derek Hudson could not even feel the willpower to even utter a joke. Who could possibly joke on the day where one loses their father?
That's what he was to them, a father. A man they all relied on for emotional security when times were tough. He never panicked, he never cracked, he never cried.
Now in the town, 2nd Platoon was in a tavern with boarded up windows, and yet the door was broken down, courtesy of the Germans most likely from what Duck figured. The interior was spacious. There were plenty of tables scattered neatly through the tavern. There was a large wooden stage for the cabaret shows that would have been playing during peacetime. Near the center of the tavern was the bar, where most of the men were inevitably drawn to.
Their weapons were placed on the tables or were leaning against them, their gear and helmets were haphazardly strewn across the tavern. They sat at the table with their filthy boots on top, staining the beige tablecloths.
Corporal Terry and Private Lovett were behind the bar, tossing bottles to the men. Once they got their bottles, the men sat by the tables and used their bayonets to unscrew the corks. The only voices that were being ushered were the men requesting which liquor to be tossed to them.
Duck had requested some bourbon and sat beside King and Blackwell
Of course, leave it to Private Cunningham to speak first on non-alcoholic matters. And yet, his words carried no joy.
He exhaled the red wine he drank, "The Old Man is actually gone. This still doesn't feel real."
Saywell twisted his head towards the private, his voice was soft, "Shut the fuck up, Cunningham."
"'Kay."
"Hey," Duck said firmly.
Saywell sighed, "Sorry." He messily drank from his bottle, the drops of liquor dripped unto his handlebar mustache.
Hefferman looked across the tavern to Duck, "Duck, wha'cha think our misfortune with officers are? First, Lieutenant Peck gets wounded. And then, second, it's MacKay who gets it."
"I can't tell you, … I just can't…"
Private Carey spoke up, "I haven't been here long, but it always seemed that the Captain was cool and under control of everything."
Private Camden chimed in, "Yeah, we were new, but he made us feel welcomed."
Cunningham's chuckling was bitter, "Exactly… Hell, the Cap reminded me of my own Old Man."
"Because he was," Terry explained. "He was the Old Man of the company."
King smiled gently, "We could come to him with any worry… and he would listen and speak to us earnestly upon it."
Lovett nodded gently, "That's the kind of guy he was. I remember him talking to Eubanks, you new guys wouldn't know him, but he was an Omaha vet. I remember him talking to Eubanks for half an hour on authors like Whitman and Tenny-something. And Eubanks was a private."
Hefferman jumped in as well, a smile that was weak and yet had pride underneath it, "And he was the best during a fight with the Krauts. He always had a plan and would let the officers and NCOs know it. And he never pussyfooted during a fight, if it were required, he would be up there firing his weapon at Jerry."
"Come hell or highwater," Saywell jutted in, "if you saw him close to you, you just knew you would be fine."
"Yeah," Duck gave a fragile grin in remembrance, "That was MacKay…"
The replacements were silent, their minds racing to the figure of John MacKay, as described so passionately by the 2nd Platoon Nine.
"That son of a bitch…"
All heads craned towards Blackwell. He had lit a cigarette and spewed out the smokey contents.
"That son of a bitch, MacKay. Proving me wrong…"
"What the hell are you saying, Blackwell?" Terry asked him.
"MacKay, dumbass. That man was always riding my ass to be a part of the company. I didn't give a fuck. Why should I? You fellas ain't my company with the 3rd Infantry. So why should I care about ya? I told that to MacKay, he told me he didn't give a fuck about that. 'To Jerry, all of us Americans are in the same unit.' He had a point, but I didn't give a fuck…"
He dragged on his cigarette and blew out the smoke. "The day before Omaha, I told Conti what I thought about MacKay. I told him, 'Show me one good officer, and I can show you twenty dead ones and forty dead enlisted men.' I meant it. I've seen so many officers not worth a single goddamn iota. If you don't know what an 'iota' is for you boys who failed school, it means really goddamn small."
Blackwell started coughing, then it turned into a chuckle. "Then came the Invasion and our trek through Normandy. And there was MacKay. I wanted him to fail, I've seen so many of these asshole officers believing they're the next Hollywood star and this is all a game. But MacKay…" he shook his head, "Not him. Not him. He had a habit of proving me wrong, an annoying goddamn habit of that. He even gave me one of my stripes back after I was busted for shooting an officer. What kind of man does that?"
Blackwell took a long drag of the cigarette again and exhaled, "MacKay, that son of a bitch… he proved me wrong, even to the end…"
Terry took his bottle and raised it in the air, "To the Captain."
The men of 2nd Platoon hoisted their bottles and cups in the air.
"To the Captain."
"To MacKay."
"This is to you, sir."
"You were the best of us, sir."
"We're here because of you, Cap."
Duck was grasping his arms tightly. He recalled MacKay in England as they were Rangers. Even then, he was showing up all the younger men, but he was never arrogant about it. He would be in the lead in a marching column and would be the first one up the hill and cheering on everyone to reach the top. He would wait for everyone to reach the summit before he went back, and somehow, he would always find his way back down to the lead of the pack. All great leaders had led the way. And John MacKay was one of the greats.
Derek was gripping his trembling arms tighter. He couldn't let his men see him like that. He had to be strong, he had to lead the way, like Captain MacKay.
Weapons Platoon
The platoon consisting of the heavy machine guns and mortars set up their weapons near the outskirts of the town. Staff Sergeant Greg Paine of the machine guns section didn't want any more Kraut surprises for today. If Jerry decided to counterattack for any damn reason, they would be running headlong into Browning bullets and 60mm mortars.
He had his section place machineguns into interlocking fields of fire, and he ordered the Mortar section leader, Sergeant Mike Jelenic, to position their mortars thirty yards behind the machine guns. Once their weapons were fixed, the entire Weapons Platoon sat together in contemplation. Hunkering with the Weapons Platoon was the company sniper, Jeremy Troy, and medic, Walter Conrad, and the Engineer Squad consisting of T/3 Adam Mercer and T/4 Hank Birch.
Mercer lit a Chesterfield and spewed out the smoke, "Of all the people who I woulda bet money on to make it, I always thought the Captain would, ya know?"
Birch nodded his head slowly, lighting his own smoke, "Hell yeah. He just had that mettle to him."
"Christ…"
Troy was sitting beside Conrad and gave the medic a cigarette, "The man was something else.
Conrad remembered, "On those damn beaches… I was busy treating the wounded I pulled into a ditch. One of them was dead, but I was in such a panic with everything going on that I didn't notice. He came to the ditch and spoke to me, to get me out of there to treat the wounded at the shingle. I moved on to the other guy and the Krauts killed him in front of me. I remember freaking out, cursing up a storm. But MacKay didn't leave me. He took me by the arm, and we ran together to the shingle, I was freaking out—like, I was outta my mind. But I remember, him calming me down with his words as we're running through a storm of bullets. He came to me, our Captain, came to me personally to pull me out of there. He risked his life for me. He did that…"
"Oh yeah, D-Day. Shit… he nearly shot us because we didn't want to move," Mercer was chuckling lowly. "Ain't that right, Birchie?"
"That he did. He fired a burst a few feet from our faces, boy he was so angry I thought he would actually kill us."
Paine looked at the engineers, "But he knew, he knew more men would die on that beach if anyone faltered. He did that to save our lives."
"Yeah, he did."
The platoon fell quiet for a solid minute.
Birch took the cigarette from his lips, "So, who's in charge now? All of our officers are gone."
Paine looked to him, "That's the First Sergeant, Birch."
"I know, but in case they send him back. He has a bad arm and all. Who'll take command of Able then?"
The men around them murmured.
Conrad muttered, "That's a good question, Birch."
"I guess it would be between the Staff Sergeants," Sergeant Jelenic suggested, his eyes lingering on Staff Sergeant Paine.
"It would," Troy asserted.
Birch looked to Mercer, "So then it would be between Mercer, Paine, or Fischer."
Mercer scoffed with a chuckle, "It ain't me. I'm an engineer, and a technician at that. My money's on Paine."
"Me?" the senior machinegunner asked.
"Yeah, bud, ain't ya a Ranger?"
Paine's eyes fell to his Ranger patch on his shoulder. "Yeah, I am. In that case, technically I would take command. Or at least be second-in-command to Crane. Also, Fischer is in the same boat as a Ranger, he could take command since he's a rifleman. But it would never come to either of that."
"How so?"
"The brass will send us an officer to take command. Sure as shit."
The men around him scoffed. Conrad was the one to speak up, "Yeah, and look at the wonders fucking Gittens did for us…"
"I ain't say they would be good," Paine sighed. "But they will give us an officer to lead us. That is definite."
Jelenic looked to the machinegunner, "Conti?"
"Not him. Army regs. We wouldn't mind Peck, but who knows when he's coming back."
"I patched him up, I would give the Docs four days with Peck before they send him back," Conrad commented.
"That soon, huh?" Troy blew his nose. "They can give us officers days before Peck shows up. And a First Louie at that, just like Gittens."
"So, our choices are either a First Louie, like Gittens, or a 90-day wonder?" he sighed out the smoke, "Fuckin' hell…"
"God, I wish O'Leary was still here."
"Yeah, well he ain't," Paine told Jelenic. "That ain't how it is."
"I know, Greg, I know. I'm just saying."
"I know, Mike."
"Goddamn… they got the Cap, they actually got him…"
Conrad's eyes fell on the engineer, "Birch, don't be dwelling on it. MacKay's… he's gone, we can't be dwelling on it. We have bigger problems."
Birch's head snapped to the medic, "How the hell can ya say that, Conrad?"
Conrad pointed to the red cross on his arm. "That's how."
Paine stood up and looked over the platoon. "Conrad's right. MacKay would expect us to be sad, but he wouldn't want us to be weeping over him. He would want us to keep on fighting. We're in a war goddamn it. And it stops for no man. C'mon, we got a job to do. Muniplo, Williams, get on the guns. Mike, get your boys by the mortars and have an observer up front. This will be the last goddamn time the Germans catch us off-guard."
1st Platoon
The men of the 1st Platoon had organized themselves in a massed, silent clump. Half of the men were smoking, others were passing around flasks of liquor without ushering any jolly aplomb, a few were silently staring at either the dirt, the sky, or the empty faces of their comrades.
T/5 Santiago was digging in his sack and pulled out a bottle of wine. He opened the bottle and stared at the contents inside, without drinking it. He broke the silence, "Back in St. Fromond, I promised I would get him something he appreciated. I knew he was thinking of something, I knew he was. But he never told me what he wanted… if he had asked, I would have risked everything to procure it for him. I would have."
Corporal Merrell nodded despondently, "All he ever wanted was for us to survive and get home. That's what he always wanted."
Corporal Callahan lit a German cigarette, "God, is that even possible anymore. A guy like MacKay getting it, so quickly, and when we thought the fight was done… If he can get it, then…"
"Yeah…"
It started as a grunt, but it evolved into chuckling. Every man present turned to Sergeant Hernandez. Sergeant Spencer looked at him, "What the hell's so funny, Vince?"
Hernandez finally stopped his laughter, but he was smiling as he caught his breath. "I was utterly horrified that day."
Everyone narrowed their eyes at the comment.
Hernandez continued with a chuckle, "I was scared whenever I messed up when I was little and my Papi would get his belt. I was terrified when I thought I knocked a girl up back home. But I was utterly horrified on D-Day. Do y'all remember? Those of you that were there. Ramps came down, Jerry blasted our landing crafts with MG fire. I somehow made it out, I don't even rightly remember how, but I did."
He was laughing harder, "Me and my boys were hiding behind a landing craft. Then I see Conti and MacKay wade through the water. MacKay wanted to go across the beach, but I was so horrified that I would rather drown than face Kraut bullets. And y'all remember what he did?"
The veterans of D-Day began to form grins on their faces. Staff Sergeant Fischer snickered, "Yeah, I do. He was walking on Omaha. Not running, but walking."
"That's right!" Hernandez exclaimed with laughter. "The crazy bastard was actually walking through that hellstorm!"
The laughter of the veterans rose to a high degree. Hernandez was stammering in amusement, "And he—And he was walking like he was on a str— a str— a stroll! Yelling for all of us to 'get up there on those shingles'!"
"I couldn't forget that!" Lazzano gasped.
"Man knew he wouldn't get hit!" Santiago commented.
"Hard to hit a man who dun be walkin' wit purpose!" Smitty laughed.
Private First Class Hagen jumped in, "I remember he looked at me and called me by name, twice! And told me to move forward, and he's just walking!"
Franks was wide-eyed by the statement, "The Captain really did that?"
"Hell yeah he did, Franks." Staff Sergeant Fischer confirmed. "And when the engineers were too scared to come to the shingle, he rushed back through the beach just to get them, and he came back with them."
"Whoa, that's unbelievable…"
"Yeah, the man had balls of brass to do all of that," Spencer recollected.
"That's what I liked about him, ya know? We lucked up when we got him as our CO, no man could call him a coward," Hernandez rubbed his jaw with a chuckle
"Ya know why, right?" Staff Sergeant Fischer asked them before revealing something juicy. "He was an NCO before being commissioned."
The laughter and smiles promptly evaporated. It was replaced by gaping mouths and bewildered eyes; their expressions were those who truly saw the light after years of darkness.
Sergeant Spencer blinked quickly, "Seriously, Roland?"
"Seriously, Spencer." Fischer had a smile of pride upon remembering. "He told us when we were in the 29th Rangers. He told us he enlisted back in '34 with Conti. That's why those two are tight. They both were privates and he rose the ranks for a decade. All the Rangers in Able knew about this; well, now I guess you guys in 1st Platoon know it now. But that's why he knew what the enlisted men had to go through, that's why he genuinely cared about us."
"Oh my God, I never knew that," Santiago remarked.
Merrell was smiling at the revelation, "He's a mustang… that makes so much sense."
Hernandez was nodding quickly, "Yeah, that's right. He never got upset over the little mistakes us NCOs made, he never required us to excessively salute… goddamn, it makes sense."
"Cause he was in our boots when he was enlisted," Callahan muttered.
Fischer's smile turned bittersweet, "Yeah, that's what I always liked about him."
The men of 1st Platoon draped their heads down, the glowing image of their Commanding Officer shined in their minds.
Sergeant Hernandez sighed, "Captain MacKay. From walking on the beaches of Omaha…"
"To Carentan…" Callahan said.
"To Montebourg…" Merrell said.
"To Cherbourg…" Lazzano said.
"To St. Fromond…" Santiago said.
"To Hill 1-9-2…" Franks said.
"To Saint-Lo…" Smitty said.
"And at the end of Hebecrevon …" Fischer finished.
"Hey, how are you boys doing?"
The men of 1st Platoon wheeled to the voice. It was 1st Lieutenant Ralph O'Leary, the new Commanding Officer of Charlie Company. The officer was followed by Sergeant Luce and Corporal Filkins behind him. Ever briefly, the veterans of 1st Platoon shot to their feet in excitement.
"Sir!" the veterans smiled.
"Luce an' Filkins, y'all dun came to visit us!" Smitty exclaimed.
The veterans hugged the two NCOs that were once proud members of Able's First Platoon, but now, are with O'Leary in Charlie Company. The two NCOs were equally as excited in being back with their boys, even when it had only been five days since their departure.
O'Leary and Fischer shook each other's hands firmly, "Fischer."
"Lieutenant," Fischer stated proudly. "What are you three doing here over at Able?"
O'Leary cleared his throat softly, "We heard about MacKay… So, we came to check up on you guys."
The men of 1st Platoon were nodding, Franks spoke up, "Thanks for visiting, sir."
O'Leary smiled at him, "No problem, Franks. Looks like you're hanging in there."
"I'm doing the best I can, sir."
Lazzano asked with a cigarette dangling between his lips, "How is it at Charlie Company, fellas?"
Sergeant Luce spoke, "It's interesting. It's like the regimental baseball game, the men of the battalion are on one team. We got fellas from Brutal Baker and Daring Dog in our ranks, and the survivors from Crazy Charlie as well."
Corporal Filkins remarked to them, "Yeah, but it ain't no Able."
O'Leary sighed, "Yeah, it ain't. But we're making do. But we're here to check on you guys, and how you're doing."
Fischer looked at the former Able men, "You lifted our spirits, but still… it's…"
O'Leary patted the Platoon Sergeant's back, "I know, Fischer. I know, boys. Luce, Filkins, and I are feeling the exact same way… the exact same way…"
His boots crunched across the gravel of the street of Hebecrevon, with each step, Conti could feel his stomach tightening. He was prepared to speak to Able, but this still gave him knots. He was so apprehensive that he didn't even bother smoking.
"Hey, y'all, Conti's back!" he heard a man announce loudly from a distance.
It took him a full minute to enter the town, but by then, the men of Able gathered around the Lieutenant. Crane stepped forward, "Hey Conti… so, what's happening with Able?"
Conti dared not look at his feet when he spoke to them. "I spoke to Colonels Rivers and Lincoln… I am the new Commanding Officer of Able Company."
These faces of theirs…
"Y-You are?" Crane asked.
Conti forced a smirk, "Jealous, Crane?"
"Surprised. I think we all are. Didn't you have to transfer upon being—"
"They granted me a special privilege, 'to maintain morale cohesion', they called it. But I'm here now."
He noticed Sergeant Paine scratching his scalp with a smirk, "Thank God it's you Conti."
"Hell yeah."
"I couldn't handle a 90-day wonder taking the reins of Able."
"Thank you, Jesus!"
"It had to be you, Conti. We wouldn't really take anyone else!"
Joseph Conti's mouth fell ever so slightly. You guys…
Crane was smirking softly, "So, Lieutenant, what're your orders?"
Conti swiveled his head, his eyes meeting all the faces that were gathered. "Y'all are goddamn impressive, y'know that? Anyway, we're holing up here for tonight. Command says that all of Jerry are fleeing, but I don't give a shit, we're establishing a damn perimeter around here. 3rd Platoon hunkers to the south with Weapons, while 2nd and 1st are to the east and west. Also, got some news. The 1st Battalion is being pulled off the line. As far as I know, past a week."
The boys of Able murmured amongst themselves, their faces lighting up ever briefly at the news. They were gossiped among themselves, repeating what they heard, some of them even let out a light cheer. The veterans of Able gave Conti a nod of assurance, a nod of trust. Conti told them to tend to the men and to disperse, and so the crowd began to thin, their spirits lifted ever so slightly.
Conti blinked in surprise, but ultimately made a smile, spotting the tall figure amidst the dispersing crowd, "O'Leary!"
"Hey, Conti. You can guess why I came over."
"Yeah, I appreciate it."
"Christ, I still can't believe it."
"Yeah, me neither. This still doesn't feel quite real…"
"Do you know how it happened, Conti?"
Schultz… "A Kraut Tank, a Tiger. It snuck its way in and fired on MacKay…"
"Goddamn it…"
"Yeah… Hey, how's Crazy Charlie coming along?"
"We're not quite there yet, we're at 35% fighting strength right now, and most of them are replacements who only fired during Basic. I don't quite know how I can do this, Conti."
"Welp, I'm on the same goddamn boat you are, O'Leary."
He gave a weak, earnest chuckle, "Yeah, I guess you are. But hey, you'll get through this, Conti."
"Yeah, I will, won't I?"
"Yeah. You got the men of Able behind you."
"Hmm."
"You got this."
"How long will you be staying with us, O'Leary?"
"About another 45 minutes, then I have to go back to Crazy Charlie."
"Hmm, then you oughta get to seeing the entire company. I need to do something, if you'll excuse me?"
"Yeah, of course. I'll see you, before I leave."
"Got it."
He took the SCR-536 handset with him as he walked. Conti had expressly told Fats to not contact him unless the news was vital. Conti just needed some solace. He just needed to walk. Away from all distractions.
He found a bomb crater in the middle of the land. Perfect, he thought. He slumped down inside and removed his helmet, his back reclining against the hole, the back of his neck resting on the rim. His eyes draped over the outline of the industrial complex in the distance. Even from the distance, he could spot the area he last saw his friend alive. The flash of that explosion was playing in his mind on loop.
Before the light swallowed him, he was smiling…
Joe's hand was drawn to his breast pocket. He took out Mary's letter. He dared not open it. He had already memorized the entire contents of the letter. Just feeling it, folded in his hands, was enough for Joe.
Mary… Her words circled around his mind like a record.
"Calvin came in the room asking about his father, and then he mentioned you. He asked if you were coming back from the war"
Calvin… the baby that John and Mary allowed for him, of all people, to hold in his arms. The baby that was now four years old and inquired about him. Four years old… without his father.
"You have been a valuable friend to our family, and please know that after the war, you always have a place at our home"
His teeth gnashed together; his right hand instinctively crumbled the letter.
"Mary…" All those disapproving stares and half-hearted glares that she gave him whenever he said something inappropriate, only for her to laugh it off later and pat him on the back.
"Stay safe and watch over John for me."
A violent shiver hit his body; his voice was getting ragged.
"Watch over John for me."
After that blast, his body was mangled…
"Watch over John for me."
Pieces of his body were missing; all of his flesh was blackened as coal. His eyes were closed, but his face was so scarred…
"Watch over John."
Why…? Why was it him…? I was mere feet away… I busted an eardrum… but he actually…
"Watch over John."
Why… did you take him like that…?!
"Watch over John…"
His throat was tightening, his chest was heaving. "Mary… I couldn't—"
Fort Riley… 1934… "C'mon, you can do this! Show these chumps what an "old man" can do!"
Ten years, a war, and he never changed. From day one, he was his friend. His voice was trembling, "John… I—"
A wet stream fell from his eyes.
"Joe… you're truly one of a kind."
He clenched his fists to fight the sensation, but it grew in intensity the harder he tried. The dam broke. His hands were shaking out of his control, his crusty voice was now that of adolescent sobs.
"John…"
The Commanding Officer of Able Company spent his few minutes of command in pain. Alone, and weeping.