Kanuro5: 12/17/21 - I want to apologize for that four month delay. I had originally intended this to be released in late August, but my job as a schoolteacher is even crazier than I can imagine, readjusting kids back into the classroom during the pandemic, on top of taking graduate classes for a masters degree. Life has been crazy and my writing time has suffered because of it.
As to this chapter, this is definitely the shortest chapter I have done. The length was always planned to be shorter than normal since I wanted to get a chapter out before the new school year. And this chapter is a readjustment for me to "get back into shape". Even though the POV is on a soldier that is not in the Company of Heroes game, they were just as important as the riflemen and often the unsung heroes of an army in real life, so I thought it would be interesting tackling this POV during this mini-chapter. Enjoy!
The Cook
August 7th, D-Day + 62, 1035 hrs
"If you are a chef, no matter how good a chef you are, it's not good cooking for yourself; the joy is in cooking for others."
A migraine born of fatigue was growing beneath the brow of Technician Fourth Grade Clyde McHale.
He, along with the men of Able Company, had been running on more than 24 hours without sleep. They were currently on the back of trucks, driving down the Norman country as they headed back to Battalion HQ. Several of the veterans from Omaha seemed to have been coping with the lack of sleep better than he was. And he knew why, they were riflemen. But him, he was a cook.
Nineteen-year-old Tech. Sergeant Clyde McHale from Reading, Pennsylvania was the Mess Sergeant for Able Company, and last night, he was on the front lines as a rifleman.
Before the Normandy Invasion, in the Mess Section of seven men, he was on the middle rung of the chain of command as a Technician Fifth Grade. He still recalled the members of his original Mess Section and how tight they all were. He remembered in training with the Quartermasters after Basic, they told the cooks that it wasn't uncommon for them to serve as riflemen when under sudden attack, the master sergeant remarked that it happened to him when he was in North Africa. McHale scoffed at that back then. That can't happen to me, it'll never get that bad, is what he told himself. Then D-Day came.
By the time they hit the beach, the Mess Section witnessed Captain MacKay on the shore rallying the engineers to leave the beach and sprint to the shingles. They weren't far behind the engineers, but the German mortars fell on them. One mortar killed their mess sergeant, Staff Sergeant Rike, and blew off a chunk of Sergeant Rienne's leg. Before they got to the shingles, a burst from an MG42 tore through the shoulder and torso of Corporal Vedel, wounding him. Once Able climbed the shingles and targeted the 88s, Sergeant Joffrin was shot in the throat. McHale dragged him into a trench and covered the wounded, screaming for a medic. Conrad came to him and didn't even hesitate when he draped gauze and bandages around Joffrin's throat. McHale was still reeling from the shock, but what he remembered most was Joffrin's blood on his hands, it stuck to his fingers like hot cranberry syrup, warm and red.
By the end of the day, McHale was the most senior man in the Mess Section.
Normally, they would need all seven men to help prepare three meals a day for 180 men or more. But as the campaign raged on, the numbers of Able Company dwindled until having just half the number of cooks was enough to feed the company.
Replacements were scarce during that period, for some damn reason McHale couldn't figure. Cooks could be sent, yet not fighting men, apparently. He got his mess section's quota filled with new cooks around the time they got to Montebourg as Able defended the Red Ball Express. His section included Cobb and Joyner, the two original cooks that survived Omaha, along with the new cooks, Betts, Sanchez, Mags, and Harris. He thought his time in combat was over, but that proved to be untrue.
He had only been in combat twice, D-Day and last night.
It was supposed to be an easy assignment in order to rest at Mortain. His kitchen was established right next to the HQ. Since there wasn't supposed to be a front line, he could set up his kitchen as close to the company as possible. Then the news came that the Germans were heading this way. Conti came to him personally and told him the extreme likelihood that his mess section would be fighting.
Him and his boys were drafted with 2nd Platoon to defend the HQ, but the Germans smashed them with hard and the Americans had to abandon the HQ, and their kitchen, and fall back up the hill. McHale ordered his boys to hurry up the hill, but Betts was trying to retrieve ammo, then two bullets went through his chest, and he fell dead on the slope.
He relived the moment in the mind as he currently looked into the horizon, Clyde felt a raw sourness soil the back of his throat. He never imagined someone would have died under his command.
During the terrors of the night, with a flash and a roar, a shell exploded ten yards away from the trench McHale was now occupying. Cobb, who was beside him, suddenly screamed, then began flailing around as if possessed by the devil. McHale had to hold him down to restrain him, the sergeant found out the cause when a flare burned in the night. A burning shell fragment that looked to be half an inch thick was lodged through his left temple and jutted out of Cobb's eyeball. McHale was so worried about Cobb that his fear fought back the natural reaction he had to vomit at the sight. McHale tried to reassure him, but Cobb still screamed. The mess sergeant had to use his own morphine to calm Cobb down, until Conrad took him back. Even now in the morning, he could still hear Cobb's scream echo in his head.
McHale called on Joyner to relay a message to Sergeant Crane, but Joyner's path brought him to the sight of the tank that charged up the hill. The tank fired and the shell blasted Joyner into a trench. Miraculously, Joyner survived, but was evident to all that his war was over with his left arm mangled to bits.
That was one of the longest nights of his life. During the hard fighting, McHale couldn't see anything at first, but as the battle went on, the more his eyes got adjusted to the dark. He saw a figure moving forward against their line. He lined up the German. The cook's teeth were gnashed as he opened fire with his carbine. McHale emptied ten rounds at the moving target, the figure dropped and didn't get back up. His actions didn't hit him until the morning after, where he examined where the body dropped. It was an officer that had two holes in the torso. McHale came to Europe to serve food, he never imagined he would actually fire his weapon and kill someone.
Just when he thought another terrible moment like D-Day wouldn't occur for him, Mortain proved that he wasn't out of the water yet during this war. He blinked out of his recollection and stared down the green countryside they were driving down. McHale's eyes traced the outline of the hills in the background, and he wondered how many times he would be thrust into combat, and when would his time be up…
The supply trucks careened to a halt outside a village that was designated as the Battalion HQ. The men of Always Able funneled out of the trucks with their weapons. Many of them stretched as they stood in their groups, awaiting their orders from the NCOs.
Sergeant McHale slung his carbine over his shoulder and walked to the side of the road to take a leak, in view of several soldiers. He was holding it in the entire ride.
"You have no shame, do ya, Sarge?" Private Sanchez snickered.
McHale looked over his shoulder with a smirk, "I ain't got anything to be ashamed about."
These were his remaining boys: Harris, Sanchez, and Mags. All privates and replacement cooks. They stood behind him with their hands on their waist.
Mags sighed, "So, Sarge, what should we be doing?"
It still felt odd to McHale to be called, "Sarge," by men who were older than him. McHale exhaled, "Well, Mags, we can all start getting organized. We got a lot of shit to do."
The word was passed among the men that they should rest, while the officers got everything squared away. Many of them placed their stuff down and reclined against sides of buildings to catch naps. Others sat down and began opening up their rations.
McHale zipped himself back up as Sergeant Duck walked over to him.
"So, Clyde, you think we can get something delicious for lunch?" Duck asked with a smirk.
McHale weakly chucked, "Well, if you count your K-rations and 5-in-1s as 'delicious'…"
Duck sighed, "I thought you would say that. Damn Krauts…"
"I know, Duck. The bastards absconded with my kitchen."
"Okay then, I'll tell the fellas to crack open their rations."
The cooks watched as the sergeant walked away.
"So, what are we going to do? We don't have a kitchen, nor supplies," Mags sighed.
"You think the Battalion Mess will allow us to feed the boys?" Sanchez suggested.
Sergeant McHale shook his head, "No, mostly likely not. They have their own people they plan on feeding; I don't think they'll be too hot on feeding an extra seventy mouths."
"Then our boys eat their 5-in-1s and their rations?" Harris asked.
"Precisely," the sergeant nodded. He rubbed his eyes, he felt so tired since last night. He wished he could have slept on the truck ride back, but he never could get comfortable with the loud exhaust and bouncing of the vehicle. "I'm going to go see if someone here at Battalion can provide us with another kitchen, and a truck driver at that."
"Need help, Sarge?"
"No, Harris, I got it. You boys try to get some food of any kind. Mags, you get acquainted with the quartermasters and collect inventory of all frozen food that has come in. Harris, you tally up the rations that Able has and will need. Sanchez, try to scrounge up any extra food you can, especially spam, fruit, and greens. Our top priority is getting Able fed with meals, not rations. Got it, boys?"
"Got it, Sarge."
McHale was feeling pressure in his forehead, he was hoping he wasn't coming down with a fever in this humid country. This headache wasn't doing him any favors. He made his way to the Headquarters and Headquarters Company for the Battalion. He was directed to where he could find the Mess HQ, which was billeted at the town's inn. He was told that the man currently present was the Battalion Mess Executive Officer, Captain Sanderson.
As he entered the inn, an unmistakable smell of pork lingered in the halls. Based on how it wafted in the air, it must have been cooked fairly recently and a lot of it, gauging by the smell. McHale made a request to the orderly that he needed to speak to Captain Sanderson. He paced around to keep himself awake. Two minutes passed when the private told hm to enter.
Captain Sanderson was sitting behind a desk smoking a corncob pipe with a half-empty bottle of gin in front of him.
The captain gave McHale a nod, "Morning, Sergeant."
He stood at attention but didn't salute, a habit since coming to France. "Sir, Sergeant McHale, Able Company. Good morning, sir."
"Able Company, you boys held on to that Mortain hill, right? Surrounded by divisions of Germans, right?"
"Yes, sir, we did."
He chuckled proudly, smoking a few puffs from his pipe, "Your boys did a damn fine job. They did."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now what can I do for you, Sergeant? My orderly mentioned you wanted to talk about your kitchen. If you needed to get supplies for rations, you could have sent one of your cooks that was a private. So, what do you need?"
"I need a new kitchen, sir. And the truck and trailer."
That made the officer cross-eyed, "You need a new kitchen? You didn't mention that to my orderly."
"No, sir. I figured if I did, you may send me away. I wanted to talk to you face-to-face, sir. Apologies."
"So, you really need a new kitchen? What happened to yours?"
"The Krauts took ours, sir," McHale sighed.
"What?! What were you and your kitchen doing so close to the line, Sergeant?"
"We were told we were in a rest area; hence we didn't anticipate any Germans, sir. Our kitchen was down the hill next to "A" Company's HQ. By the time we heard the Krauts were coming, we could pack up our kitchen but couldn't drive away without being cutoff in the dark."
Captain Sanderson's eyes grew, "Ooooh, that's right. I'm an idiot, you said you were with Able, and you just got back from Mortain… I should have put those two together… I heard the fighting was fierce, were you guys used as riflemen?"
"Yes, sir, we were."
"Any casualties?"
"Three of my guys. Two were wounded, my truck driver was killed."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Sergeant McHale."
He made an acknowledging grunt. "Sir." His thoughts drifted to Betts's corpse, draped by a blanket.
"If I may say so, Sergeant, you look like crap."
McHale chuckled, "I feel worse, sir. I'm used to getting up early, but I ain't use to staying up 24 hours, actually, it's more than that. I don't know how the riflemen do it."
A sympathetic expression grew on Sanderson's face, "Hmm. Let me get some Joe in you. How do you take it?"
McHale wanted to actually laugh. He never imagined an officer would ever give him coffee, especially with a choice in how it was prepared. The Army always finds a way to surprise.
But McHale extended his hand, "Thank you, sir, but no thanks. I'll feel better when I can actually sleep, but first, Able Company needs a kitchen. And another thing, sir. I need a truck driver."
"Huh. Do one of your guys knows how to drive a truck?"
"One of them can, but I take his word that he's a better cook than a truck driver."
That got a laugh out of the captain. After he quieted, he inferred, "So just a truck driver? No truck?"
"Well, actually, a truck as well, sir. When the Krauts surrounded us, they took our kitchen and truck, we figured they hauled out in our truck when our reinforcements came."
"I understand that, Sergeant. Pardon me." He pulled out a pen and started scribbling on a yellow sheet of paper. "Pileggi," he called out. The orderly who ushered McHale in had entered. The captain was finishing his writing as he spoke, "Pileggi, take this to Lieutenant Stabile. This is a requisition for a kitchen set and any incidentals, along with a truck for the kitchen. Have it delivered to "A" Company by twelve, have him have it checked with the C.O or the First Sergeant, if absent." Captain Sanderson turned to McHale, "Name and rank of your C.O and Top, Sergeant?"
"Lieutenant Conti and First Sergeant Crane, sir."
Sanderson added the names to his paper and finished it with a signature. He handed it to the orderly, "He also needs to assign one truck driver to "A" Company. Light a fire under it, Pileggi."
"Yes, sir." Pileggi walked out of the office.
Sanderson smoked from the pipe with a grin, "How's that, Sergeant?"
McHale grinned back; his headache was lessening. "Thank you, sir. That helps out a lot." His smile stopped as an idea popped up. Should he risk it?
"Something the matter, Sergeant?"
What was that quote that his teacher once told him? Fortune favors… uh… boldness? "Uh, Captain, I thought I smelled pork around here."
"You got a good nose, we're serving porkchops today."
"Would… would you happen to have any extra, sir?"
The officer's gaze narrowed, "Enough for a company, Sergeant?"
"Well, uh, what's left of a company?"
"Sergeant," he sighed, "You know as well as I do that meals are cooked with a select number of soldiers in mind."
"I understand, which is why I am asking if you happen to have extra, sir."
McHale could tell he wasn't reaching the officer. He hoped that the man wouldn't rescind his offer in assisting him.
Clyde inhaled through his nose and placed his hands on his waist, "Sir, I understand you don't want your men cooking more than they were told. Hell, if I were in their boots, I would hate that too. And I gotcha that you don't feel comfortable cooking food for any company that asks. But sir, I request that me and my men cook the pork for our company, if you would have us."
"You would?"
"Yes, sir."
"As tired as you are?"
"Sir, very few of us got any sleep last night. Why? Because we had two full Kraut divisions trying to kill us, one of those was SS. I witnessed my guys get hit and die. We all did. We were alone on that damn hill, surrounded from night to day. We had shells explode on top of us as tanks and infantry were climbing that hill to kill us. Very few of us slept, very few of us ate, and we survived. This was our toughest fight since Omaha, hands down. And we survived by our fingernails, sir. If I last recall, seventy of our boys were casualties, sir. So, sir, I ask you if me and my boys can please cook these men that we bled beside, the men that truly deserve this, some goddamn pork chops?"
1 hour later
Harris turned over the last bit of pork in their new kitchen, "Okay, Sarge, that's the last one."
"All right, boys, bring the grills. We're going to have to make two or three trips, so let's hustle."
Sergeant McHale led the way with the grills. He hung it out and could smell the rich flavor of the medium-well pork chops waft into his nostrils, rejuvenating his mind and putting a spring into his step. He was proud at the final result. His boys followed close behind him with pork on their grills as well. McHale inhaled before shouting, "Pork Chops! Come and get it! Always Able, Pork Chops!"
The fatigued riflemen shook their heads in initial disbelief. They looked unto the cooks approaching them, and all of them jumped to their feet. The men of Able stared ravenously at the meat on the portable grills, they descended around the cooks with saliva wetting their lips. Their eyes grew large at the sight; they formed a mass around the cooks.
"Y'all had pork chops the whole time?" Sergeant Duhaney asked McHale.
"We got 'em not too long ago and wanted to surprise y'all," McHale explained.
"But we already ate our rations."
McHale smirked, "Oh, so you don't want pork chops?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! I didn't say that, you bastard. We always got room for more."
McHale couldn't refrain from laughing. Every last man from Able received a pork chop, and every man thanked the cooks for procuring them.
Conti was the last man to get a pork chop. McHale shrugged, "Sorry, sir, looks like they got all the big juicy ones."
"That don't matter ta me none. I ain't gonna ask how ya got this, but goddammit, ya did good on this one, McHale. All of you cooks did."
"Thank you, sir!" they all said.
Conti took a piece and snacked on it heartily.
There were only five pieces of the pork chops left, and they were smaller than the ones they offered the riflemen. The four cooks each grabbed one.
"Those damn vultures," Mags laughed with a shake of the head, chewing on the pork.
"Hey, c'mon now, we always eat last, Mags," Harris chuckled.
"I know. But you would think they would save some big ones for those who eat last."
"Apparently, you never had any siblings growing up, Mags," Sanchez replied. "First come, first serve."
The four cooks shared a laugh.
McHale was proud how they were able to cook all these pieces and still retain the juices, even in the small pieces. It amazed him how truly voracious he was, the battle had absorbed his appetite. He ate the porkchop so quickly that he didn't have the opportunity to savor it. But what the hell, that was a good porkchop. The rest of the cooks agreed. It may have been one per man, but it was certainly worth it.
Harris had finished his pork chop, "You know what the sad thing is, Sarge?"
"What?"
"Once they finished snacking on pork chops, they'll be expecting pork chops from us from now on."
Mags belched, "Yeah, and then we won't be liked no more."
"If you wanted to be liked, then why did you join the Army?" McHale asked.
"Hey, Sarge, women like men in uniform."
Sanchez raised an eyebrow, "Really? You're a man?"
The three cooks broke out into laughter. Mags chucked the bone to his pork chop at Sanchez's head.
The cooks slowly recomposed themselves as McHale looked to the three of them. "I'm proud of you guys. I am. It wasn't easy going through what we did. This was your first time in combat, and my second. We did all right. I can't promise you that it'll get easier, but I know we shall be more prepared."
"You don't think we messed up, Sarge?" Mags asked.
"Nope. If anything, it was my fault. But that's that. Our job is supporting the riflemen, be it in battle or cooking, we help them out. And we did that last night. Now, we'll be getting a new truck driver today, and when he comes, give him a good welcome. We'll save this last pork chop for him. And we'll get new men as well. Now you guys are truly veterans, I'm proud of ya."
Clyde McHale turned around to observe the riflemen. They had smiles on their faces and contentedness in their eyes. His headache had ebbed into a mild throb.
After he flung the bones to the ground, Sergeant McHale looked back at his men, "C'mon, boys, let's get back to the kitchen, the rest of food ain't going to cook itself."