Okay, some bad news, my trust laptop died some weeks ago, so I wasn't able to write. Good news, I had my files saved to a cloud, so everything was saved! So I've been working on my work laptop for school and I finally got this ready.

The Officer II

July 28, D-Day + 52

"Many receive advice, only the wise profit from it."

The one-armed First Sergeant had just returned from dropping off Sergeant Hirsch. The new second lieutenant, along with two privates that rode with him, followed the Top.

"You three will belong to 1st Platoon. They got their share of veterans, so listen to everything that they say."

The lieutenant gulped silently. This was it, he was going to meet his platoon. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

The First Sergeant motioned for the three new men to stop. He looked to the lieutenant, "Wait here, sir." He then walked off around a corner.

"What's all that about?" one of the privates asked the other.

"Don't know. You think he's bringing the platoon to us?"

The lieutenant cleared his throat, "No, I don't think so. All three of us are new. I got a feeling it'll be more like he's getting someone important to come see us first."

The First Sergeant had returned with a helmetless staff sergeant wearing a Ranger vest. "Sir, this here is Staff Sergeant Fischer, Platoon Sergeant and acting Platoon Leader of 1st Platoon. Fischer, this is your new Platoon Leader, Lieutenant Pollard."

Pollard gave a genial grin with a sure nod. He extended his hand out, "Jesse Pollard. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant."

Fischer returned the handshake firmly. Pollard gave a quick blink, this sergeant's palms felt so ragged, they were dry and calloused. The staff sergeant smiled politely. "Roland Fischer, pleasure to meet you, sir."

Crane then looked to the two privates. "Fischer, these two men are also your replacements. Privates Lubin and Mathers."

Both replacements stood tall and at attention as if they were being inspected by a general.

"Private John Lubin, Staff Sergeant."

"Private Edward Mathers, Staff Sergeant."

That got a rise out of the NCO, "Uh, at ease, boys. Don't need to be so damn formal out here. Welcome to 1st Platoon, glad you're with us." He looked up at Pollard, and then turned to Crane, "Hey, Top, I hate to bug you on this, but—"

Crane nodded, "I know, Fisch. I know. Lubin, Mathers, come with me, I'm going to introduce you to the rest of 1st Platoon."

The privates looked towards Fischer, and he gave them a friendly nod and motioned them to follow the Top. The three men rounded the corner, now leaving Pollard and Fischer alone. Pollard blinked when he realized what was happening. This was it, the fateful meeting of the Platoon Leader and the Platoon Sergeant.

"Wanna take a seat, sir?" Fischer asked cordially, extending his hand out to a café table and chairs.

"Sure, sounds good."

Both men sat across from each other, Pollard felt his feet sweating. This felt like a job interview, yet Fischer looked totally composed.

The sergeant pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it, "You smoke, sir?"

"Oh, uh, no thank you, Sergeant. I don't smoke."

The NCO shrugged and put the pack back into his pocket. He then promptly pulled out a beige flask, unscrewed the cap, then proceeded to take three gulps before exhaling. Pollard looked on, slack-jawed. He's drinking! It's just 1130 hours! Should I… reprimand him for that…?

Before he could say anything, Fischer offered the flask to the officer, "Want a sip, sir?"

"I don't—" Wait, why would he offer me a smoke, but not smoke himself? And then, immediately pull out liquor, drink it, and then offer me some… is this a test? Could he be testing me…? "Uh, actually, I wouldn't mind a drink, sure."

The sergeant's expression did not change. Pollard took the flask and took three gulps from the flask. He knew this type of liquor; it was his dad's favorite. He always had it in his study, and he offered it to Jesse on his sixteenth birthday and every birthday since.

"This is good brandy."

That got a smile out of the staff sergeant, "Yes, it is. Very good, sir." He got the flask back and put it away, along with his smile. "I don't usually drink this early, but today's a special occasion where we get a new platoon leader. So, why not, right?"

Pollard didn't know what to say, so he made a quick chuckling grunt.

"You drink a lot, sir?"

"Uh, no, I drink, uh, socially."

Fischer was chuckling, " 'Socially', huh? You come from a good family, don't you, sir?"

How did he… "My dad took good care of us. He did well in his job."

"Yeah? What did he do?"

"He was a defense lawyer; he was very good."

Fischer nodded, "We never had a lawyer's son in this platoon. Interesting."

"So, what did your dad do?"

"Textile mills."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Twenty years, he did that."

"That's a hardworking job."

"Yeah, it is… So, where are you from, sir?"

"Oh, uh, Wilmington, Delaware."

"Huh. Never been to Delaware before. Have you been to Maryland or Virginia?"

"Yes, several times, my dad took me crabbing on the Chesapeake in the summers and we would often enjoy them in Maryland."

"Good to hear. You know most of the boys in the platoon are from Maryland or Virginia. We got one from West Virginia and one from Hawaii."

"Seriously? All the way from Hawaii?"

"Oh yeah. You won't be able to miss him."

"So where are you from, Sergeant?"

"Oh, I'm from Maryland. Laurel, Maryland. I worked out of a vulcanization plant once I hit eighteen."

"What is that? What's vulcanization?"

"It's when you heat rubber and then harden it, and then fashion it in any which way, we mostly use this to make wheels for planes."

"Seriously? That's how that happens."

"Yep."

"How long were you doing that for?"

"About three years."

"Did you like it?"

"I did actually. A bunch of fellas would be griping their asses off, but I never minded the hard work. What did you do for work, sir?"

"I only had a part-time job as a painter. I would be painting over people's sheds, railings, doors, etc."

"You were a part-timer?"

"Yeah, I wanted to do something else while I was in college."

"Oh really? What college are you from, sir?"

Pollard smiled with pride, "The University of Delaware. I majored in business."

Fischer was nodding softly with a polite smile. Pollard wondered if he really cared about his educational background. Oh God, I hope he didn't think I was bragging…

Pollard decided to move along, "So you were a Ranger?"

"I was, sir, me and several other NCOs here were a part of the 29th Rangers, including Lieutenant Conti. I enlisted back in '41."

"I feel confident knowing my Platoon Sergeant was a Ranger."

Fischer made an approving grunt. "So, sir, how did you get in the service?"

"Oh, I enlisted last year. About three months after I graduated."

That seemed to have caught Fischer off-guard. "You enlisted?"

"Uh, yeah, I did. My C.O learned I had a college education and then put me up for OCS, I go through the 12 week program, and I'm a 2nd Lieutenant."

Pollard forced several chuckles as if it were a funny coincidence or a joke. But Fischer wasn't laughing. "Why are you here, sir?"

"Wh-What?"

"Why are you here? Why are you in the Army? Why are you in the Infantry? You're a college graduate, your daddy's a lawyer, you come from money if you got into college, I bet you probably could have skipped the Draft… Out of all the branches in the Army you could have chosen, like the Armored, Quartermaster, Signal Corps, I don't know… why the Infantry? Why are you here, Lieutenant?"

Wow… he just… came out and said it. Pollard had to think of the answer, it was a personal answer, but if he told it, would Fischer understand?

A weak chuckle broke away. "Actually, I was with the Quartermaster Corps. That's what I became an officer in after OCS. I was with the 565th. A salvage repair company; fixed. Do you know what that means, Sergeant?"

Fischer shook his head.

"We repaired boots, field uniforms, torn or blasted equipment like helmets. 'Oh, your jacket is missing a sleeve? Don't throw that away or leave it on the ground, that is expensive, do you know how many bonds purchased that jacket?' They drilled that into us. Nothing should be wasted, anything could be mended. And once we patched them up, we sent them to the laundry company who washed them down and deloused them. Then they hand the same uniform that someone bled in, or died in, completely clean to a fresh-faced replacement. We had 155 men in our company. 35 officers, 2 warrants, and 118 enlisted."

Fischer didn't say a word, his mouth ever closed.

"I was in the Quartermasters for a long while, thinking that I was doing my part for the war effort. I wanted to be Airborne, you know? I wanted to hold a rifle and fire it at the enemy, and do my part for my country. But I told my folks that and my fellow buddies in OCS, but they all talked me out of it, saying that I was wasting my education on the front lines and I could do something with my future in the Army if I had something that matched my background. My unit was in England for most of the time. Then we were attached to the 29th. And then… came D-Day. You boys, you were incredible. The odds were stacked against you, and you came through. After the beach was declared secured, we came on shore an hour later."

Something in his throat nearly made Pollard retch. The pure nauseating stench of all that salt from the shore and the blood. And those fish…

He continued, "Omaha… Christ Almighty… the closer we got to the shore, the more crimson the tide became. You remember? How strong the smell of salt and blood was? There was so much blood and death that dead fish littered the shore! I fished with my dad for so many years, and I never truly knew how many fish were in the water until Omaha. And then we saw the dead and wounded, and I… I can't… so many of them…"

Pollard looked up at Fischer. His face didn't change. And why would it? He survived all of that, Pollard kept telling himself.

"We got to work immediately, there were so many casualties that they requested our company to salvage equipment and to assist the grave registration as well. There were so many bodies… For several weeks we worked on the beach and watched as that once blood-stenched beach became a port of incoming men and supplies… and outgoing wounded and dead soldiers. I saw so many new men landing on France to fight, and so many who were being evacuated from fighting… I…"

He still recalled the face of his C.O. when he asked for that transfer, "I heard that they were looking for new infantry officers since so many of them were being knocked out, and I jumped at the call and requested a transfer, and now… here I am. I come here hearing that an infantry company should have over 200 hundred men, and then I see that this unit has half of 180. So I'm definitely out of my element here. But I want to do my part, Sergeant."

Fischer was quiet.

"You're right," Pollard muttered softly. "I was blessed with a lot of opportunities, and I could have avoided the Infantry entirely. But… I can't explain it, but I had a gut feeling that I could do the most good here, somehow. I figure it may be the same reason you joined the Infantry, Sergeant. Whatever your reason, I'm pretty sure you had a gut feeling that this was where you belonged."

The sergeant's face remained unchanged, his gaze never faltering. "You should have stayed with the Quartermasters, Lieutenant. You could have been doing a lot more good back there than up here."

"Oh…"

"You'd be getting us supplies and resources that we desperately need. You could be saving hundreds of lives, instead of thirty lives."

"Uh, I guess... But I—"

Fischer exhaled, "But, you're here now, sir. Your with the 1st Platoon of Able. That can't be changed. Welcome to 1st Platoon, sir."

The veteran held his hand out to the greenhorn. The virgin infantry officer shook it, "Oh, uh, thank you, Sergeant."

"I'm going to hold you to a high standard, sir. I'm letting you know that now."

"Oh, uh, how high exactly? So I don't disappoint."

"Lieutenant O'Leary high."

"Who's that?"

"Your predecessor."

Oh man… "Oh, okay. Uh, what happened to him? Did he—"

"He's alive and he's fine. This war hit the battalion hard. The Krauts obliterated our sister company, Charlie. So they're reorganizing and O'Leary got promoted from X.O and Platoon Leader to the C.O of Charlie."

"He was the X.O as well?"

"Oh yeah, he could do it all. And that's the standard I have for you."

Pollard nodded. Inside, he felt the weight of that confession bearing down on him. He wanted to complain that such a standard wasn't fair, but he knew it would come out as whining. He had to stow all criticisms. He asked to be here on the front.

"Thank you for being upfront with me, Fischer."

"No problem, sir. You may not think it's fair, but it totally is from my vantage point."

How did he know—

"You see," Fischer continued, "O'Leary started the same as you. A replacement officer, the 2nd officer to the original Platoon Leader. But then he took over, and he had our confidence. He wasn't afraid to lead, and he often did so from the front. He would say, 'Follow me', and we did. He gave his orders and I made damn sure that they were carried out. He told me what to do and he also listened to me when I had something to say. He listened to the men's problem and he sympathized when the time called for it, and at the same time he made a clear distinction that he ran the show. That was the man O'Leary was."

"Wow."

"So, I say all that to ask you something, sir. How do you see your role in this platoon?"

My God, how blunt could he be? What… What should I say this time?

The eyes of Fischer didn't falter. But Pollard's eyes looked down to his hands in reflection. It was a blunt question, but a truly honest one, the lives of these men depend on him. How would he respond?

I want to be the best officer I can be, but I don't know jack-shit… I need his help for this, I can't make a bad impression now.

After a moment, Pollard finally answered as he looked up. "I'm new. I'm green. I heard stories about Omaha, things that you and the men survived that I could not possibly fathom. I've seen the bloody aftermath. You all know what to expect, I can only guess. I don't desire to change the rules around in this platoon, especially when I don't know shit. I may be new here, but I'm not the sheriff in town. You're the sheriff, Sergeant. This is your platoon, but I'm leading it. And with your permission, I want you to help me in that. I expect to lead these men in battle, and I need your help for that. I expect my role is to give orders and to ensure my men are safe. And I expect that when I give orders in front of the men, you back me on those orders. If you disagree, you may offer me advice, but not in the way that damages my standing in front of the men. Behind closed doors, you can openly disagree with me. But not in front of the men. That is my role in this platoon, Staff Sergeant."

Fischer nodded, his face never changing. "I agree with that. I ain't the type of guy to blast an officer in front of the men. I have my subtle ways about it. But if you are totally wrong-which I pray to God you never will be-and you choose not to listen to me, I will nail your ass to the wall, sir."

"I… understand, Sergeant. I'll try not to let you down."

"Yeah. Sounds good… Want to meet the boys in your platoon."

"Yes."

"All right, follow me, sir."

Butterflies were flapping in his stomach as he followed his sergeant. They took a corner and came upon a group of soldiers that were singing campfire songs as one soldier was banging thick sticks against a destroyed fountain, making a pretty swanky beat. Once the group noticed the crisp looking officer, next to the ragged uniform sergeant, their song promptly ceased.

"Ten-hut!" Fischer bellowed.

All the men stood to their feet.

Fischer called out to the squad leaders for reports of their squad. He turned around to Pollard, "Sir, First Platoon is present and accounted for."

There were 26 of them. Pollard looked at Lubin and Mathers, and compared them to the NCOs. Their presentation in their uniforms and faces were as night and day. Lubin and Mathers were like the boys that Pollard would see landing on Omaha to fight in Normandy; the veterans looked like the men that he saw were leaving Omaha to head back to England for evacuation.

But these men were his. How they acted and performed would reflect on him. Unlike the salvage company, these were men that could die under his command if he erred. This new task put the weight of the mountain on his shoulders. But he then told himself that he asked for this responsibility, and he wouldn't let it go to waste.

Their eyes were locked on him, not one eyeball betrayed any emotion. The bloodshot eyes of the veterans felt like heated spotlights, scanning for any sign of weakness or insecurities. He recalled that they only had two officers, and Jesse's predecessor was the best. He had to nail this! He grasped the sling of his carbine tightly and tried to relax his stance.

"As you were," Pollard ordered.

The men fell to parade rest.

"Hello, everyone. My name is Jesse Pollard, I'm 22, and from Wilmington, Delaware. I'm your new platoon leader. I'm new to command but I am excited to be in First Platoon. I would like to meet every man individually over the coming days to be more familiar with you all, and I know I can learn a lot from you. Does any man have any questions?"

There were none.

Pollard nodded firmly, "All right, then, I would like to speak to the squad leaders once everyone is dismissed. Staff Sergeant, you may dismiss them."

"Platoon, dismissed!"

Pollard subtly exhaled a sigh of relief. He looked to Fischer. "Thank you, Staff Sergeant. Any recommendations for me? I forgot to ask you."

"Well you already said what I would ask of you. I recommend you get to know some of them, not all and not right away, but some. Don't force it either. Know some of the men, and then do something that shows them you want to be better. Show them and me, that you want to be better."

"Understood. So, uh, what do you think about me?"

"It's the first day, sir. I haven't formed an opinion of you yet."

"Okay, not an opinion, but how about a first impression?"

"Well you're a stuffy college boy for sure, but you mean well and not wound up as tight as a snare drum. You drinking the brandy proved that. You have a good head on your shoulders, but I wonder how you'll be under fire, sir. Overall, not a bad first impression, Lieutenant Pollard."

Lieutenants Conti and Peck had led Pollard into the Officer's Mess of the 1st Battalion and all three men took a seat near the back of the room. For today, Conti ordered Pollard to sit between him and Peck. Pollard felt nervous, sitting next to his fellow officers who had more experience than him. Conti stood up from the table and called over other officers to sit with them. A man sat directly across from Pollard, he was tall and had the silver bars of a First Lieutenant.

Conti dug into his meal and asked as he chewed, "So, Pollard, how did it go with your platoon?"

"Oh, uh, I think it went all right," Pollard said.

"Just 'all right', huh?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess, sir. I introduced myself and told them that I would be eager to get to know them. Then I spoke with Fischer and the squad leaders for a while."

The First Lieutenant across from Pollard looked up and started chuckling, "So, this is the guy you were talking about, Conti?"

"This is the guy," Conti echoed, still focused on his meal.

"So you're the new officer of 1st Platoon, huh?" the First Lieutenant smiled at Pollard

"Uh, yes, I am. I'm sorry, sir, but who are you?"

"The man you're talking to is Lieutenant O'Leary, the current C.O of Charlie Company," Conti answered, actually looking at Pollard this time.

Pollard blinked incredulously, "Wait, you were the Platoon Leader of 1st Platoon! Fischer kept mentioning you."

O'Leary chuckled humbly, "Yep, that was me. But I got promoted to Charlie, so, here I am, and here you are."

"Yeah, here I am, sir. Oh, excuse me, sir, I'm Jesse Pollard, sir."

O'Leary chuckled, as did Peck. Conti gave a sigh.

"Pleasure to meet you, Pollard. But you don't need to be saying 'sir' so many times out here. Have you been in France long?"

"Yes, I have been here since D-Day but mostly at Omaha, I've been to Cherbourg as I was attached to the 29th."

"Where were you before your transfer?"

"How did you know that, sir?"

"Because I told him, Pollard," Conti muttered.

"Yep, so, where were you before this?" O'Leary repeated.

"Oh, I was… I was with the Quartermasters."

"Why do you sound embarrassed?" O'Leary smiled. "I was a supply officer before I came to Able."

"Seriously? I thought you were always an infantry officer. The way Fischer talks about you… as if you're a paragon."

The 1st Lieutenant shook his head reminiscently, "Oh Roland, that guy is being too nice. I wouldn't have been half as good if it wasn't for him."

Peck swallowed his food, "Kind of a strange, though. You're a quartermaster and now you're infantry. Did they give you any training?"

"It ain't that strange, Peck," Conti spoke. "This is the Army, they pride shortcuts ovuh efficiency. This late in the game, they'll find anyone to fill bodies. I saw clerks who's only specialization is typin' be sent to the Armored Division or Medical Corps. Anything to keep the war effort movin'. But ya do bring up a natural point, Peck. Hey, Pollard, what trainin' ya get?"

"Well, they gave me this here handbook on infantry tactics." He held out a worn out book that taught platoon leaders the basics of infantry maneuvers and small-action tactics. "I read this thing for an entire week."

He actually did. He was determined not to fail. And he hoped that the clear wear-and-tear, and cracked book spine would be evident to the veteran officers how serious he was.

All they did was just stare at him.

"Oh, and uh…" he continued, "when they gave me the book, one officer who saw action told me that your NCOs are your friends, and the Platoon Sergeant your best friend. I was told to always listen to them"

Many of the veteran officers around him grunted and murmured in total agreement.

Conti looked over at him, his grizzled face had a twinge of approval, "Whoevuh told ya that knew what the hell he was talkin' 'bout. Always trust ya non-coms. Always. Don't be afraid to ask 'em questions, it shows 'em that ya earnest."

Peck looked at him as well from the left, "It's important to be in command, but you will know that your NCOs run the show."

O'Leary pointed his finger at him, "That book will help, but if I was you, I would be running drills and exercises with your platoon while you have the time. It'll help you be more familiar and it will train your new replacements as well. Studying can only get you so far. Combat will be your real teacher, Pollard."

His stomach turned to stone at that declaration.

O'Leary continued, "Trust your NCOs, Pollard. You remember any of their names yet?"

"Well, Fischer of course. Then Sergeant Spencer and Hernandez were the squad leaders… and uh, oh God, I met quite a few of them… wait! There was this Mexican who told me he could get me anything I wanted for a cost, but I think his name was Sandy… Santino…?"

O'Leary chuckled, "Santiago, and he's Portuguese."

Pollard sighed defeatedly, "See? I wouldn't have known, and if I mentioned that in earshot, he might have been mighty sore…"

"Hey, don't beat yourself up on this, huh? You just got here. I didn't remember all the names on my first day."

"Me neither," Peck admitted.

"Same," Conti added.

"Oh, okay then," he felt better hearing that. "So, got any tips, O'Leary?"

"Be genuine."

"Sir?"

"None of them are stupid, they know if your heart is truly into them. Ultimately, they want to have the utmost confidence that you'll try your very best to keep them safe. Again, be genuine."

"Gotcha."

"And try not to play favorites."

Pollard laughed softly, "Yeah, I was told that when I was with the Quartermasters."

"And it's true in the Infantry. You're going to have your favorite NCOs, and your… not so-favorites."

Peck chuckled bitterly, "Lord knows I do…"

"Right. You're going to have your favorites, but you can't let it show."

"So, sir, who are those 'not so-favorites'?" Pollard inquired.

O'Leary grinned knowingly, "Well, I'm not going to tell you that. Don't want you having a negative opinion on them from your first day. They're men. They gripe, and when the going gets tough, they're going to gripe to and against you, but they don't mean no true disrespect by it. It's a natural hierarchy to gripe to your superiors to express discontent. You got some NCOs who are natural gripers, you'll realize who they are soon."

He recalled when he was commissioned, they asked a very important question that he readily said yes to. 'Could you send men into a situation, knowing that they would die?'

They asked that to all officers, regardless if they would ever see combat. He gave them that answer because he was sure of it. But now? His stomach was in knots… did he just make the worst mistake in his life?

No. He had to keep telling himself that he didn't. This is what he wanted after all.

O'Leary gave him a courteous smile and pointed his fork at him, "It's a tough job, Pollard. But trust yourself, and your men, and you can get the job done. Trust them."

July 29, D-Day + 53

Pollard came out into the sun on the fine, cool morning and was eager to start his 2nd day out well. He stood in line for chow, the men casually told him good morning. He responded in kind. He wanted to ask each of them how they were doing, but he wasn't sure if he should be that friendly or intrusive on his second day. But he did notice something, all of them were walking sluggishly, seemingly spaced out.

After getting his food, he noticed the sergeants were sitting amongst themselves and sharing a good joke. Pollard wondered if it would be a good idea to sit with his squad leaders.

He approached the three men: Fischer, Hernandez of 1st Squad, and Spencer of 3rd Squad. Apparently, O'Leary had taken the original squad leader of 2nd Squad with him to Charlie Company. The assistant squad leader was a corporal, but he was killed a few days ago, so the role was momentarily absent.

"Hope you guys don't mind me sitting here?" Pollard asked with a smile.

The sergeants stopped laughing and looked at him. Pollard felt like he was at school and asking to sit at the cool kids' lunch table.

"Not me, sir," Sergeant Spencer said.

Hernandez shrugged, "It's your platoon, sir. You can sit wherever you like."

Fischer silently extended his hand out for him to sit down.

Pollard took his seat and started snacking on his breakfast. It took him a moment to notice that the sergeants had already finished their meal.

"Wow, you guys must have thought that this slop is delicious," the lieutenant remarked.

Hernandez chuckled bitterly, "Ha! When is Army food ever 'delicious', L-T?"

Fischer looked at the officer, "When you're on the front, you eat as quick as you can, never know when shit can happen."

Pollard took a hard swallow, "Yeah, about that. I was thinking… I understand that you guys were in a tough fight a few days ago. We're going to be heading out eventually, and I want to make sure that we're prepared, especially the new guys."

"Hmm, the 'new guys'?" Hernandez repeated.

"Yeah, the replacements… including me."

The three sergeants all looked at one another. Fischer spoke to Pollard, "And what are you planning, sir?"

"I… I wanted to clear it with you guys first, but I'm thinking that we do some drills and maneuvers, tactics on the platoon and squad level, map reading, arm and hand signals, I want to feel comfortable before we go on the line. I understand that half of the men here are replacements. I want the new men to be paired with a veteran to ensure comprehension of how to survive. I want to start today."

"You want us to work today over all of that?" Hernandez asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Not everything, let's do something light like arm and hand signals, and light calisthenics, or something to that effect. I want us to be strong when we head into combat, especially me and the new men. So I am asking you sergeants. You know the mood of the platoon, you know how exhausted they are or aren't."

The sergeants stared at him. He felt like gulping from the pressure.

"Sir, I want to rest today, and I know my boys do too," it came from Hernandez, who looked at him cross-eyed.

"Your veterans?"

"Yeah, we're tired, sir."

Pollard felt the heat from the sergeant's glare, "I see. I figured, but I still want to do this. I want to do this. This is my 2nd day here, I'm not ordering anyone around yet with yelling, but I want us to do something instead of sitting down for the entire day. Sergeant, I think we all can benefit if all the new men are on the same page, and reduce the risk of getting someone killed."

Spencer yawned, but then smirked, "We've been on our asses for the past three - four days because we were reshuffling the company organization with Conti being the C.O. Didn't help that we were still thinking about MacKay… But hey, I was getting restless, along with my boys. Let's do it, sir!"

Fischer chuckled, "Yeah, I felt like I was getting soft, I don't want the boys being that way neither. I'm down for some training."

The two sergeants peered over at Hernandez. The lone sergeant groaned loudly and cocked his head back, his eyes facing the sky, "God, and I was just enjoying doing nothing and catching up on months of sleep… fine, what the hell, about time we get up off our asses, huh?"

Fischer nodded, then looked to the officer, "So, when do you want to get started, L-T?"

Something warm was welling in Jesse Pollard's chest. He couldn't refrain a smile, "An hour. Let the boys eat and digest. We're going to tell them ahead of time, but we'll actually start in an hour. Sounds good, sergeants?"

"Yes, sir," Spencer affirmed.

"Whatever you say, sir," Hernandez spoke.

"Sounds good, Lieutenant," Fischer declared.

The sergeants stood up, stretched, and walked away, except Fischer.

"I don't think Hernandez quite liked that, though," Pollard confided in the staff sergeant.

"Ah don't worry about him. He's a goldbrick. But he's squared away in a fight, sir. He'll bellyache and bitch till the cows come home. Don't give him an inch, because he'll sure as shit take a mile. But again, he's solid under fire."

"Good to know."

"You did good with him, sir."

"I did?"

"Yeah, he was testing you to see if you would back down. And you didn't. My advice, sir? It's always good to ask your sergeants things, but never give them a choice if they could avoid work. Suggest it, but never give them a choice. You're in command, not them. But you stood your ground, that's pretty good."

"Oh, uh, thanks, Fischer." Life flew through him with that compliment.

"So, you want to train yourself in tactics, huh?"

"Yeah, I do. I don't want to be useless when the bullets start flying."

"Yeah, neither do we. So, I made an assumption yesterday about your tactical acumen. But tell me if I'm wrong, sir, how much do you actually know?"

"A little of this and that. But not much…"

"Yeah, I figured. Nothing extensive, right?" Fischer unearthed a sigh, "It's gonna be a long process…"

"I'm learning though, I got a book on me! It teaches about infantry tactics at the platoon and squad level."

"Uh huh." Fischer sounded rather unimpressed. "Okay, sir, pop quiz. Let's see what that manual taught you. What do you do when there's a Kraut MG in a defilade from 80 yards out with a clear line of fire on an approach with no discernable cover and two men are wounded and the platoon is pinned down? Do you: A) Order the entire platoon to fall back to cover that may be 50 yards or more in the rear? And leave the wounded? B) Stay where you are under fire, lay down a base of fire with automatic rifles, all in order to retrieve the wounded? Or C) Stay where you are, lay a base of fire and call for support of mortars or artillery?"

"Uh, I… uh… you should… uh..."

"Did your book teach you that, sir?"

"I… no, I don't remember it telling me a scenario like that…"

"Don't feel bad, sir. I gave you a tough question. Let's try something easier. Formations. What's the advantage of a Line formation versus a Column?"

"I know this! A line allows maximum firepower to be directed towards the enemy and allows squads to engage in easier flanking maneuvers, yet the downside is that it gives the enemy sight of your numbers. The column allows a unit to conceal their numbers when advancing, but it is hard to manage if spread out and minimizes effective firepower upon initial contact."

Fischer nodded with his lips tightened, "Very good, sir. How about this one? Explain to me Fire and Move."

"Okay, uh, well that involves three steps: Suppress, Advance, and Attack."

"Please elaborate, sir."

"For Suppress, upon contact and the situation is assessed, a base of fire is laid down with machine guns, if available. If not available, then we use BARs. Uh, then we got Advance. With the base of fire established, a 2nd squad is used to advance from cover-to-cover to close in with the enemy. And then we got the final one, Attack. The squad that closed in to the enemy then neutralized them with rifle fire or grenades."

"Excellent, sir. Glad you got the basics down, well at least in this one case."

"Thank you, Fischer," Pollard smiled. Thank God he read that book carefully on that section.

"But you know, sir, there's still a lot more for you to learn."

"Yeah, I know, but you are my mentor here, Sergeant. I'll need your help."

"And you'll get it, provided you listen. But I don't think that's going to be a problem, sir."

"Yeah?"

Fischer smirked proudly, "Yeah. I'm going to make an O'Leary out of you, Pollard. Just wait and see, sir."