I've been meaning to put this out for a while, but unfortunately because of the pandemic and virtual teaching that I have to do with my students, my time has been very occupied.

This chapter was inspired by a conversation I had with a Vietnam vet with his experience of being a replacement during one of his tours.

The Replacement IV

July 28, D-Day + 52

"Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it."

Machine guns and men were screaming together on that godforsaken beach. He recalled he was being pulled forward and placed into cover by Hollis and Lew. His leg felt as if a molten dagger was impaled in his leg and a boiling nail was firmly lodged in the right side of his body. He never knew being wounded was this bad. His buddies called him "Hershey" and told him to wait patiently for a medic. He watched them attack up the beach, leaving him behind, until he passed out from the pain…

The new men within the truck were rambling off about everything under the sun. Whether it was baseball, family, girls, Jerry, they were babbling incessantly. He sighed from the back of the truck, Replacements never change, he thought. They were all the same 18-year-olds who wanted to prove they weren't scarred, so they would talk your ear off, equating that conversation equaled courage. And he was stuck in this truck, listening to them as they were all driving to their destination.

Not all of these replacements in this truck were privates. On his left, two men down, was a 2nd Lieutenant, who was just as quiet as he was in this truck filled with young privates. He looked to be in his early 20s, thanks to that brown fuzz on his lip and chin. But he knew this lieutenant was a virgin in battle. He didn't have the eyes.

Suddenly, the truck was silent. The replacements were staring at him again. They were so uncomfortable that their conversations had stopped. He could hear one of the replacements muttering, "Seriously, is that MP going to put his weapon away."

Hmm, that's a good question. He looked up to the right, across from him was an MP Sergeant, wielding an M3 Grease Gun, safety off, and unslung, the barrel pointing outside the truck. The entire ride, the MP didn't take his eyes off of him. He counted himself lucky the guy's finger wasn't on the trigger during the many bumps they were taking.

Their eyes met, he sighed at the MP, "You know, Doug, you can put away the Grease, right? What the hell can I do in here? I ain't got a weapon."

The MP Sergeant shook his head subtly. "Can't do it, Hirsch."

He sputtered his lips. His eyes drooped down to his arm. He was wearing the chevrons of a Sergeant, and yet he was being treated like a criminal.

Well… technically he was, he did go AWOL, even for just an hour…

All I did was trying to break out, and they clip my balls…

He wondered what "Lucky" Lew and Hollis were doing right now. Were they all right without him?

"This is the stop for the 1st Battalion," the driver echoed.

The truck careened to a stop in the outskirts of a French town and several men unhatched the back of the truck and beckoned the men to hop on out. The replacements were stretching with remarks of gratitude that they were no longer confined in that truck. Doug, the MP, was still following him, two meters behind with his Grease Gun still pointed at his back. Hirsch snorted and spat out some phlegm and stretched his legs and shoulders until he heard his bones crack.

Someone came up to the group of men. He was a tall NCO; he was helmetless and was shaved damn near to the scalp. And for some reason, he was wearing a Ranger vest. "My name's Crane, First Sergeant of Able Company, 116th. Welcome to the 29th."

He held a clipboard with one hand. Hirsch noticed that his left hand was tucked within his combat jacket, and possibly damaged. Was he wounded?

"It says here I am scheduled for 10 men. When I call your name, step forward."

He bellowed the names and the privates stepped up, followed by the lieutenant that was in his truck. Crane finally called for "Hirsch", and he stepped forward with his unwilling escort.

The First Sergeant eyed him with suspicion. He turned to the MP, "Uh, Sergeant, who is this man?"

The MP looked at him before turning to the one-armed First Sergeant, "This man here is Sergeant Chaim Hirsch. As of July 28, today, he is being transferred from the 11th Replacement Depot unto A Company, 1st Battalion, 116th Infantry, 29th Division."

"A replacement NCO?"

"That is correct, First Sergeant."

"Okay, huh… What has he done that requires escort from the Military Police?"

"Sergeant Hirsch and numerous noncommissioned officers unlawfully exited a military hospital in England while recovering from wounds to return to their combat unit. They performed this action in learning of transferring to a replacement depot upon being deemed fit for service. To ensure his transfer is complete, we are tasked to watch him and the other noncommissioned officers unto they are transferred to their designated unit."

The First Sergeant fully turned his body towards him. His eyes seemed to be dripping with pity, and that was certainly a look Hirsch didn't expect, nor desired.

The MP pulled out a sheet of yellow paper and handed it to the First Sergeant, "You are to sign here acknowledging the complete transfer of this soldier in accordance with the United States Army regulations."

The Top's eyes stayed on Hirsch as he spoke to the MP, "Sure… do you have a pen?"

With a few flicks of the wrist, Chaim Hirsch's ass now belonged to the Able Company of the 29th Division.

The MP slung his weapon, then stood tall and gave a salute to the First Sergeant. The Top returned it sharply. The MP turned around to head back to the truck, his eyes lingering on his former transferee as he walked.

Chaim chuckled bitterly, "Thanks for the trip, Doug. It was fun, we gotta do it again. When you get back to England, tell that Captain Derzo to kiss my ass."

The MP kept walking.

What an asshole…

"All right, you ten, you will follow me to Able's CP," Crane ordered.

Crane promptly spun on his heels and walked with purpose, while the replacements were catching up to him.

The new lieutenant cleared his throat before speaking. "First Sergeant, what happened to your arm?"

"I was wounded in Saint-Lo, sir."

"Aren't you in pain, Sergeant?"

"No pain whatsoever. I'm fine, sir."

Seeing that infuriated Hirsch. How the fuck could he get away with that?!

The lieutenant cleared his throat once more before asking. "How many men are in the company?"

"82."

"Oh, out of…?"

"180."

"Jesus…" Hirsch could hear one of the privates exclaim from behind.

The Top continued, "Well, with you ten. That's now 92. So, we're now at more than half strength." He did a poor job in hiding his bitterness.

"How many officers are in the company?"

"Two. That would be the C.O and X.O, sir."

"What? There's only two officers in the company?"

Crane looked over his shoulder, "Three."

One of the privates asked, "Uh, Sarge, this company sees a lot of action, right?"

"You're not going to crap out on us, are ya, Private?"

"No, Sergeant. I was just asking."

"We do. We always seemingly get tasked with the difficult assignments. But we always pull through."

The First Sergeant stopped at a house and opened the door, motioning for the men to follow him into the CP. Upon entering, the men took a gander of two helmetless officers in a study room, one standing and the other sitting as he gazed over papers.

Two men, one young and one old. The young officer was no older than the new officer that Hirsch had rode with. He had a youthful face, but through the eyes and his posture, Hirsch recognized that this man was still relatively new to war, but was acclimating rapidly, having seen a good deal of fighting in a short span of time. And whenever this young officer moved, he had a subtle limp in his left leg.

The old man looked to be in his 40s, and he had the butter bar of a 2nd Lieutenant and a Ranger vest as well. His hair was beginning to thin and grey around the edges and he had wrinkles that detailed his face. His face was in a natural curmudgeon frown and his eyes were bloodshot and baggy. Despite his haggard looks, Hirsch knew this guy had seen heavy fighting, thrice as much as the young lieutenant next to him.

These were the C.O and X.O? They both were 2nd Lieutenants…

The older man looked up to the First Sergeant, "How many men we got, Sergeant Crane?"

"Ten, sir. A lieutenant, a sergeant, and eight privates."

The two officers shot their eyes on Hirsch. "A sergeant?" the old man muttered.

Hirsch sighed under his breath, God, am I going to hear that all damn day… And I guess the old man is the C.O… "Yes, sir," he spoke for himself.

"Hmph, we never got a replacement NCO before. I wonder why we're—"

"Excuse me, sir," Hirsch interrupted. He didn't care, it had to be addressed. "I'm not a replacement."

Hirsch could feel the replacements beside him staring at him, gob smacked at what he had said.

The grizzled C.O didn't even blink. "That right?"

"Yes, sir. I'm not a replacement."

The C.O made an uninterested grunt. He casually moved his eyes over to Sergeant Crane. "He was wounded and was caught going AWOL from the hospital, so they sent him to us," Crane explained.

"Ah," was all the C.O said.

The old lieutenant moved his head to the other men and stood up from behind the desk, "Welcome to Able Company. I am the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Conti. It's pronounced 'Con-Tea'. Two syllables, ya shouldn't get it wrong. The man beside me is Lieutenant Peck, he is the Executive Officer and is doubling as Platoon Leader for 2nd Platoon. This company has been through hell since D-Day and you all can either be a part of the solution, or a part of the problem. And by God, under my command, ya ain't gonna be a part of the problem. Y'all gonna remember every damn thing ya remembered at basic and ya gonna listen to every damn thing the veterans of the company tell ya—" Hirsch noticed Conti's eyes moving to the replacement lieutenant, "—and I don't give a damn what their rank is, ya shut up and listen."

Conti drank from his canteen and swished the water in his mouth before swallowing it. "Ya gonna be partnered up with a veteran. I don't care if he calls ya a bastard, ya Pa a deadbeat, or ya Ma a whore. I don't care if he ignores ya like if ya were a ghost, ya stick to them like stink on shit. Now, I'm gonna to point to each of ya, and give me ya name, last name only, all right?"

"Oh, uh, Lubin."

"Meyers."

"Hill."

"Gertz, P-F-C."

"Wedgewood, uh, medic."

"Yeah, I can see the Red Cross on ya arm, Doc. All right, keep going."

"Loeb, P-F-C."

"Mathers"

"Singleton."

"Hirsch, Sergeant."

"Pollard, Lieutenant."

"All righty then…" Conti grunted. "Lieutenant Pollard, you shall be in 1st Platoon. The Platoon Sergeant is Staff Sergeant Fischer. He's a good man, ya can learn a lot from him, listen to what he has to say. Everyone else, we will determine where to place you shortly. For now, everyone wait outside. Sergeant, stay in here for a moment."

Pollard gave a salute to Conti, in which the eight privates mimicked. Conti gave a half-assed salute back and motioned with his head to get out. Now it was only Hirsch, and the two ranking officers in the company left in the room.

Peck crossed his arms, "You sass off to the officers in your old unit, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. I was explaining how I wasn't a replacement, sir."

Conti studied him for a moment as he sat back down behind the desk, "Hmm. Ya coming into a new company to replace men who were either killed or wounded. What do ya call that, Sergeant?"

"Reinforcements, sir."

That got a laugh out of the C.O. He pointed at him with an ashy finger. "All right, that was a good one. I'll give ya that." His laughing ebbed away. "I gotcha, ya don't want to be associated with a greenhorn, right?"

"Exactly, sir. This isn't my first outing."

"When did ya first see action, Sergeant?"

"North Africa. Kasserine, sir."

" 'Kasserine'? What outfit you from?"

"The 1st."

He noticed the old C.O's eyebrow shooting up, "Really? What regiment?"

"The 16th. Able Company."

Conti made a two guttural grunts, or was it a chuckle? Then shook his head. Hirsch could have sworn he muttered, "Son of a bitch," under his breath.

Conti took out a cigarette and placed it in his lips. "Well, now you are in Able, 116th, with the 29th."

Yeah, I know…

Conti continued, "The 16th has been in the thick of the fighting since the war began. Were you in Sicily?"

"I was, sir. I also landed alongside you Twenty-Niners on Omaha Beach. So, I've seen my share of fighting, sir."

"Listen good, Sergeant Hirsch, I understand where you're coming from—"

Yeah, sure you do…

"You ain't the only man who had to worry about being transferred to a new unit."

Conti lit a match with one hand and cupped his free hand around the light. He drew on the cigarette and spewed the smoke without using his hands. The grizzled man turned to the X.O, "Peck, I know Hudson was bellyachin' over not havin' another sergeant. So, Sergeant Hirsch is in your platoon."

"Yes, sir."

Hirsch made a silent and slow nod of acknowledgement.

"So, ya gonna spill the beans on why ya weren't court-martialed for goin' AWOL?" Conti asked.

The sergeant exhaled forcefully from his lips; he knew he was going to be repeating this story all day. "Well, it's like this… I was wounded on D-Day, I got shot in my side and some shrapnel from a mortar dug into my leg. After we took the beach, they sent me and a buncha fellas back to England. You both know what happens to those who aren't seriously wounded… I was one of those fellas. My problem wasn't going back to fight, it was going back to fight with some other random unit. Fellas that I didn't know from Adam. Fellas I can't rightfully trust to have my back. And since more units were being poured into France by the week, the wounded veterans were being shipped out to different units to replenish forces. Leaving entire divisions if they need to. I wasn't feeling that, and so were others. So, we tried to leave as soon as we were well enough and hop a boat to France and find our respective companies. But a Captain caught us as soon as we were in the hospital parking lot. All ten of us."

Hirsch was shaking his head, "Apparently, every wounded veteran in England had the bright idea of doing this and were AWOLing so frequently that the hospitals couldn't keep up. He had a buncha MPs arrested and were about to lock us up along with taking our stripes. But a colonel heard what was happening, and he reasoned it would be a waste of veteran NCOs if we were kicked out of the Army or were busted to privates upon transferring to a new unit. He figured if we were Sergeants, we could exercise leadership with the replacements who came into the unit and help maintain company cohesion."

Conti rubbed his heavy eyes, "Not a bad plan, in theory anyway."

"Yeah… so this goes on our record, but we weren't demoted. We were forced to heal up until our release, but we would be under constant guard from MPs. All the way from recuperating, to hospital release, to sailing back to France, to the repo depot, and to our new unit."

"That must have been a glorious assignment for those MPs," Peck commented.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Why not?"

"I didn't give a damn about how those MPsfelt, L-T," Hirsch replied.

Both officers looked at one another.

"And that's how I'm here, sir. And since I am now an active combatant in the ETO, I respectfully request a transfer back to the 1st Infantry Division, 16th Reg—"

"Denied."

"Wh-What?"

"That transfer is denied, Sergeant Hirsch," Conti repeated, blowing out smoke. "I understand how ya feel, but my company needs every man we can scrape together. And being a veteran, ya like a goddamn golden egg. So ya staying here in Able."

"B-But sir…"

"But what?"

"I request again for a transfer."

"And again, denied."

"Sir, all due respect, but I do not believe you are making the best decision here, sir."

The L-T's eyes narrowed tightly, "What?"

Hirsch recomposed himself, his Dad was a lawyer, so he could try one of his tricks. "This decision seems to be waste of valuable military resources. As a noncommissioned officer, my skillset has me being most proficient in a content situation under men I know and can exercise full authority. I cannot fully express my full proficiency if I'm discontent in my current situation, sir."

The cigarette fell from the crusty, cracked lips of Conti.

He stood up and approached the Sergeant. The officer's eyes were as wide as the moon.

"How old are ya, Hirsch?"

Hirsch gulped subtly. He could feel his nerves fray. He had seemed combat on three different campaigns, personally killed ten Krauts, and yet this glare from this old man reminded Hirsch of his father's scowls.

"Twenty-two," he muttered.

Conti was talking slowly, enunciating every word, "You would think a sergeant, in his twenties, and a veteran of two years of war, would not have the mindset of an eighteen-year-old private who hadn't had his combat-cherry popped."

Conti swerved his head back to look at Peck in disbelief, then swerved it right back to Hirsch. "Did that really come out your goddamn mouth? 'Discontent'?! This is war, no one's content!"

Hirsch's eyes fell to the floor. He even yells at me like Dad…

Conti made a short grunt of disgust. He walked away from Hirsch, picked up the cigarette he dropped on the floor, and smoked it again, "Listen here, Sergeant. Ya think ya the only bastard with problems like this? Huh? Able Company probably got a handful of veterans that we haven't heard from who were most likely forced into other units when they got healthy. But those are the odds ya play when you go AWOL from the hospital, half the men make it back, the other half don't."

Then why the hell did the coin land on me for not making it back…? Hirsch sighed, "Yes, sir."

"So, where's your weapon, Sergeant?"

"The MPs wouldn't let me carry one until I was processed with the company."

"Well, now ya processed. What kind of weapon you want?"

Hirsch slightly recoiled, "Excuse me? You're giving me a choice?"

"You've been in the fight since Kasserine. You already know what you need. So, what do you want?"

He thought it over for twenty seconds. "Can't go wrong with a Garand."

"Done. The First Sergeant shall procure it for you."

"I also want a Colt .45."

Conti's eyes narrowed, but then eased up. "All right. That may not be as easy. If Crane can't get one, ya on ya own."

Well, at least this C.O knows what it's about… Thank God for that. "Thank you, sir."

The First Sergeant had brought the new men to the rest of the company and took them through each platoon and distributed them out. Then came 2nd Platoon in which Lieutenant Peck beckoned Hirsch and two of the replacements to follow him. The men of 2nd Platoon were lounging around next to a mound, their eyes upon the new men. One of the men walked up to them.

Peck extended his arm out, "This is the Platoon Sergeant of 2nd Platoon, Sergeant Hudson, he goes by the nickname, 'Duck'. It's a funny story how he got that."

A platoon sergeant? But he ain't even a Staff Sergeant? He then recalled Conti's words of how they needed every man in the company. Huh, and he got a Ranger vest on as well.

This sergeant unearthed a charming smile full of teeth, "Welcome to 2nd Platoon boys, glad to have y'all aboard."

The replacement privates shared similar acknowledgments; Hirsch simply grunted with a nod. Behind the Sergeant was the rest of the platoon, sitting together with their weapons in their laps, sizing up the new arrivals.

"Smells like fresh blood," one of them had commented to two others. These three weren't NCOs, but just by peering at their uniforms and the bags under their eyes, these three smartasses were veterans.

He spotted three corporals amid the platoon and could distinguish immediately that they were veterans, one of them had the chill of death around him. The rest were privates, some were more experienced than others.

This was his new platoon?

"You're a sergeant?"

Hirsch snapped out of it. "Huh?"

It was Hudson, "You're a Sarge as well, huh?"

"Yeah, I am."

The Platoon Sergeant turned to his leader, "Who's this guy?" he asked innocently.

"Do you recall how you wanted another sergeant in the platoon. Well, Conti procured you one," Peck answered.

A smile shot on Hudson's face, "About damn time, I was tired of being the only sergeant here! But you're a replacement? A replacement sergeant?"

"I ain't a replacement, buddy."

"We got him from the depot," Peck explained.

"My God, an actual replacement who's an NCO… don't that beat all…" the sergeant mused.

"Hey! I ain't a replacement, sergeant!" Hirsch rebutted.

Behind Hudson, the platoon was looking on with silent blinking. They were all staring at him like he was a mythical creature, too real to exist.

"Well that's a first for us," a veteran commented openly.

Hirsch looked at the man, "You ain't get new men who are NCOs?"

Another veteran shook his head solemnly, "Nope. All we get are damn eighteen-year-old privates. Every other outfit seems to get replacement NCOs, but not us, until you."

"What's your name, Sarge?" one of the corporals asked.

He grumbled under his breath and walked up to the platoon, "I'm Sergeant Chaim Hirsch, Able Company, 16th Regiment, 1st Infantry Division."

" 'Ha-yum'? How do you say your name?"

"It's pronounced, 'Hi – yeem'."

"What language is that?"

"Just call me 'Sergeant' or 'Hirsch', goddamn it."

One of the veteran privates whistled loudly, "Goddamn… we got the luck of the draw, boys. We got a man from the actual 'Bloody First' with us in our platoon."

"Something finally goes right for us," another veteran said. He smirked at Hirsch, "Welcome to 2nd Platoon, Sergeant Hirsch."

"Yeah, welcome."

"Good to have ya aboard."

"Welcome, sergeant."

"Uh, yeah… thanks for the welcome."

One of the veterans smirked at him, "How ya get here, Hershey?"

He pressed his lips tightly, "Don't call me that."

"I was just—"

He held out his hand, palm open in a cautionary manner, "Just fucking don't, that ain't my name to you guys."

The veterans looked at each other. The one who asked him sourly recoiled with an eye roll, "All right…"

Hudson cleared his throat, "So, Hirsch, what brought you here?"

"I landed on Omaha, I got hit twice and my boys patched me on the beach, and I was left there to be taken back to England. I got better, I tried to bust out, but was caught. That Captain Derzo was an anti-Semite, I know it. He had a particular hard on for me just because I wear a star around my neck rather than a cross."

"Hey, I'm a Jew too!" Camden smiled earnestly.

"Huh," Hirsch rolled his eyes. "Well, then, Mazel tov and L'chaim, I guess… You want a cookie, Private?"

Camden's smile died away.

He continued, "Anyway, that's how I came up here. I was nearly court-martialed, but they said they needed men with experience, so I kept my stripes, but I lost my company…"

One of the corporals whistled, "Sorry about that, Sarge. Yeah, I was fortunate to get the hell out of dodge in the hospital. I got to the beach and was caught as well, luckily the Colonel got me back into this company."

"Wh-What? You went AWOL as well?!"

The veteran private nodded, "Yeah, Terry here broke out of the hospital around the same time as Smitty from 1st, and Duhaney from 3rd."

Hirsch gaped at the fact. "No way…"

"Yeah," the man continued, "And there was Bach, and of course Crane's old stubborn ass. Then there was Brisbane—"

Hirsch's blood boiled into an outpour, "What kind of bullshit is that?! All of you bastards come back from being wounded?! Huh?! How is that possibly—"

"Sergeant, just calm on down now…" Peck warned him firmly.

Hirsch stood up, his eyes not wavering from the platoon. He shifted to the Platoon Leader and Sergeant, "I'm gonna take piss, that all right?"

"No, how about you stay right here and apol—"

"Actually, sir," Sergeant Hudson cut in. He stared into Hirsch's eyes before looking back to his officer, "I think it may be best if we let him go."

Peck mused on it after studying the sergeant's face. "All right, go ahead, Sergeant."

As he walked off, he heard someone whispering behind him, "The fuck is his problem? God, what an asshole."

Hirsch made his way back to the outskirts of the town and sat down, reclining his back up against a dirt mound. I'm the asshole? How would you all feel being taken away from your company? Don't fucking judge me…

Every time he clenched his eyes, he saw the faces of his buddies from the 1st. There was Brycen, Hollis, Squid, and 'Lucky' Lew. Brycen was blown in two by a shell on Omaha. Squid lost his left leg to an MG on Omaha, Hirsch recalled how he was blubbering in pain as he was praying in Greek. A sniper had shot Hirsch and it was because of Hollis and Lew who dragged him into cover and applied first aid on him. That was the last time he saw those two, after they patched him up… they left him, they had to carry on the attack on that beach. Are those two even alive right now…?

Hirsch looked around, no one was paying attention. He could leave. He could leave right now and hitch a ride, and no one would notice for several hours… He could leave this damn company; he could join his buddies and—

Hirsch looked up. A tall man with corporal chevrons was looking down on him. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth bore no smile; he wolfishly glared down on the sergeant.

"Corporal," Hirsch said, his voice was more annoyed than indifferent. "You following me?"

"Lucky bastard," said the corporal with a shake of the head.

"What?"

"You."

"How the hell am I lucky, Corporal?"

A wicked grin grew on the corporal, "At least you got your stripes intact, and you ain't been court-martialed."

"Whoop-de-doo…"

The corporal sat beside him. "The name's Blackwell. And I ain't from the 29th originally. I was with the 3rd, and now I'm here with the 29th."

"Does that make me your buddy?"

"Nah, it ain't."

"Hmm. Were you wounded?"

"Nah, I ain't never got hit since being over here."

"How long were you in the war, Corporal?

"Since goddamn North Africa.

"R-Really?"

"Oh yeah. It ended for me at Sicily."

"What the hell did you do, Blackwell? How did you end up in a different division?"

"I shot my officer."

"Yeah, well—wait, wha-what—you shot an officer?"

"Yep."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

Son of a bitch… with those eyes, he ain't lying… "And you got away with it?"

"Eh, depends on perspective really. The bastard was running away and getting my friends killed… so I shot him in the back and took the attack on in. I was a sergeant then."

"But didn't they book you?"

"They did. They took my stripes and took me away from my outfit. I thought they would have me lined up against a wall with a cloth around my eyes. Then, by providence, they sent me to the 29th, I figure they needed all the bodies for the meat grinder on D-Day. After Omaha… they were goddamn right to get everyone they could. You certainly know that."

"God…" was all Hirsch could say.

"Yeah, I guess…" Blackwell was chuckling, bitterly. "You got buddies."

"Yeah, I do."

"So do I… or did I… Bess, Swopes, and Moore… goddamn, I don't even know if they're still alive… hey, you think being wounded and gettin' caught two months ago is the end of the world? I ain't seen or heard from my brothers in a year. So go fuck yourself, Hirsch."

"Who the fuck asked you?"

Blackwell stared in the sky and shook his head softly without a word.

A silence grew between both men for two minutes. Blackwell shuffled through his breast pocket and pulled out cigarettes in an offertory manner. Hirsch accepted.

Hirsch lit his smoke, "So, what do you think of this company?"

Blackwell exhaled smoke from his nostrils, "It's the worst."

"Really now?"

"Yeah… but it's the best kind of 'worst'."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Blackwell smirked with the smoke in his lips, "You'll find out if you stay here long enough."

"I wonder if it's because of that old lieutenant… Hey, what of the C.O, Conti? A bit long in the tooth, huh?"

"He's almost in his 40s."

"Oh God, so why is he a 2nd Louie? How many times has he fucked up?"

"Zilch, since I've been in the company. Conti's Old Army. It's rare for Old Army to fuck up. Enlisted as a private back in the early 30s, I believe."

Hirsch rubbed his jaw. "No shit?"

"Yeah. Just nearly a week ago, he was a Top, then he got promoted to a Lou."

"So… for a decade he—"

"Was an enlisted man, yes. He's got more experience than any man in the company, maybe in the battalion. He was a Ranger before, then he was in the 1st Infantry Division."

His heart thumped, "What?"

"Yeah."

"What regiment?"

Blackwell shrugged callously, "I dunno. Ask him next time ya see him. I just know he was at Kasserine where he was wounded holding the line. He was hospitalized, promoted to Top, then was transferred to the 29th. That's all I know."

That grizzled face of Conti shined in his mind. What the fuck… he never mentioned that. Is that what he meant when he said, 'Son of a bitch'?

Blackwell looked over at him, "The hell is wrong with you? Ya look green in the gills."

"I'm… fine."

"Yeah, sure you are."

"How is this outfit, Blackwell? None of that 'best of the worst', shit."

"They're all right, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"There it is."

"Hmm…"

"This Able Company has received it share of good men, and bad men. But they always come up roses in the end. That's Always Able for you."

" 'Always Able'?"

Blackwell smirked. This time, Hirsch couldn't detect any malice from it, "Always Able. You'll understand…"

Hirsch flicked his dead cigarette in the air, the face of his buddies still radiated in his mind.

"It ain't the end of the world, Sergeant." Blackwell told him. "It feels like it, starting over at the bottom with no one to speak to. It's hell, like first day at boot camp. But it ain't the end of the world. Like everything in the world… it gets easier… but you got to work at it every day, that's the hard part, but it does get easier…"

"Why the hell you speaking to me, man? One look and I don't really peg you for the feelings type."

"I ain't. You ain't the only bastard who was separated from his buddies. And I'll be damned if I bite it because you're moping around in a fight."

"I ain't—"

"Then cut the shit!" the corporal said sharply. "Unlike the usual heaps of crap we get to bolster our ranks, you actually know what the fuck to do. That shit is valuable. And again… if your experience can assist me in living a bit longer…"

"This ain't my company."

"It wasn't mine either. But to Jerry, all of us Americans are in the same unit."

Blackwell threw his cigarette away, his eyes falling to the ground, "Those three guys of mine may be alive, they may be in France, or back home. But I sure as shit am going to stay alive to find out. How about you, Hirsch?"

Son of a bitch… I'm… He saw those faces and remembered how blessed he was to have friends like them. Was it worth spending the foreseeable future in a stockade before he saw them again?

"And I'm supposed to thank you for your pep talk, Blackwell?"

"Thank Duck. He's the one who put me on you. I'm your vet mentor."

"Oh, fuck that, you think I need a mentor?"

"A mentor for fighting? Hell no. I can already tell your damn proficient. But you need a mentor for the company. And if you try to desert, I got permission from Duck and the L-T, and Conti, to shoot you. Hopefully, it won't come to that.

"Think you can catch me?"

"You better sleep with one eye open if you do. I have a thing about cowards."

"You better sleep with both eyes open if you call me a coward again."

Hirsch witnessed the widening of Blackwell's mouth, his gleaming teeth emerging from a wicked smile. "There it is," a voice of rasp came from the corporal's mouth.

Blackwell's grin was continuing to widen as he stood to his feet. "So that means you're staying. Good. Now get your head out of your ass, being grumpy is my job in this goddamn platoon, Sergeant." And he walked away.

Hirsch was walking back when both Lieutenant Peck and Sergeant Hudson were approaching him. Peck held out his hand, "Hold up, Sergeant. I understand you're not in the best of moods, but you're not going to be taking your anger out on my men. Now you are part of my platoon and you will get with the program. You reading me?!"

"Like a book, sir. Really. And… uh, I need to say this. I'm sorry, sir. And you too, Hudson. I… just need some time to get adjusted. I'm a Sergeant, I gotta act like one, right?"

He could tell that took the lieutenant by surprise, "That's right… I'm glad you see that, Sergeant."

"Yeah, I gotta thank Blackwell for that, and I guess for you too, "Duck". Now, ugh, I gotta swallow my pride and apologize to the men, huh? If you excuse me, I wanna get right on that."

As Hirsch walked away, he could overhear the lieutenant who sounded exacerbated, "Really? Blackwell? Blackwell changed him?"

Hirsch could hear Duck chuckling, "I told you, sir. I told you that I would handle it."

Hirsch kept walking. These were his new comrade-in-arms, huh? Well, if he wanted to survive, Hirsch knew he had to earn their trust, and to them, his trust. He was here in this new Able Company, and had to accept this as a new reality. He thought back to his friends, his brothers… Squid, I hope you're resting easy stateside… And Hollis, Lew, you bastards still better be kicking when this war's over, because I ain't going to kick the bucket and I ain't rotting away in prison until I see you both again.