We Were Soldiers

132. Joe

"What do you think this is?" asked Sergeant Wells. He held up a forkful of sausage which Lieutenant Joseph Grant considered carefully for a moment.

"Sausage."

"But what do you think it's made of?"

"Pig, generally," he said. Admittedly, cooking wasn't his area of expertise. "I guess it could be beef."

"I've been eating these same sausages for weeks," Sergeant Wells continued, "and I've yet to see a single pig around here. On an unrelated subject, there was a kid in my class back in school whose dad worked as an orderly on a surgical ward at one of the big hospitals in New York. He said that all the body parts they had to cut off people, or all the organs they had to remove, got put into a big incinerator and burned every night. Apparently, the whole place smelled like a burger joint. What do you suppose the doctors in our camp do with all the bits they have to hack off our soldiers out here?"

Joe considered the sausage on his own plate, then swiftly swallowed a bite full before he could start thinking about the smell of cooking flesh. "I'm not going to let you ruin my breakfast. And I wouldn't talk like that around the cooks, if I were you. They work hard to make sure we're well fed."

Sergeant Wells rolled his eyes. "Lighten up pal, it was a joke. Whatever this sausage is actually made of, it sure beats grits. Or shit-on-a-shingle." He shivered.

He persevered with his own breakfast while Wells continued telling him about all the awful things he'd eaten since enlisting. Thankfully, there were no other officers around. The sergeant had a bad habit of being far too informal at times. And really, Joe ought to remind him that he couldn't call his CO 'pal' out in public like that. But the part of him that had found the past twelve months incredibly lonely was disinclined to correct what was, in the grand scheme of things, a relatively minor infraction.

A fit of giggling and hushed whispers diverted his attention from his food. A group of nurses had a table in the far corner of the mess, and was it his imagination, or did they keep glancing over his way and then falling into further whispers? No, definitely not his imagination. They were probably whispering about Sergeant Wells—they always waved and said hello to him whenever he passed the hospital tent.

"You should ask Nancy out," said Sergeant Wells, quietly but close enough to his ear to make him jump.

He quickly re-engaged with his breakfast. Heartiest meal of the day. Couldn't do a proper morning's work without… something substantial… "I'm not sure I have time for… social activities." He glanced at the nurses from the corner of his eye and whispered, "Which one's Nancy?"

"The pretty blonde who's been givin' you the eye all morning."

There was only one blonde nurse, and she was rather pretty. In fact, wasn't she the one who'd tended to him the last time he'd gone to donate blood? And the time before that too, if he wasn't mistaken. But that was probably just a coincidence.

"Maybe it's you she's interested in," he offered.

"Nah." Wells waved the suggestion away as if it was nothing. "Already tried, and she turned me down. Gotta respect a dame who knows what she likes, and that is not me. You got a girl waiting back home?"

"Me? No. I signed up straight out of college and went through officer training, then got moved around a lot. Didn't give me a lot of opportunity for staying in one place and meeting women. Then in '41, when Roosevelt signed the Lend-Lease Act, I was shipped out to London with the first group of logistics staff to oversee the arrival and distribution of goods. There was a girl I took a liking to there, but the feeling didn't seem to be mutual, and I don't think she ever saw me as more than a friend. When I was drafted into the invasion of Sicily, I tried to put her out of my mind."

"Ah-ha!" Sergeant Wells gave him a triumphant grin. "Called it."

"Err, what?"

"You might wear a US Army uniform, but you have a very slight British twang to your accent, and I couldn't figure out why. This explains it. Anyway, not important. You've no girl waiting back home. I'm not Nancy's type and she's definitely been giving you some looks that oughta be starting fires this morning. Why don't you invite her to the movie tomorrow night?"

"Or," he countered, "we could ask her and one of her nurse friends to accompany the both of us—"

"Whoa, hold your horses." Sergeant Wells held up his hands as if he really did have to halt some equine onslaught. "I don't know you well enough to go on a double date with you. I'm not even sure that's allowed, on account of you being my CO and all. I'd have to defer to you all the time and call you 'sir'. How would that make me look in front of a dame?"

"Respectful?"

That comment earned him a snort of disbelief. "I'm going to hard pass on that suggestion. You should definitely go for it, though. Pick her up at six, have a light dinner in the mess first—hopefully not a dinner consisting of parts she helped supply via the surgical route—and then you can impress her by ordering some lowly privates to move out of the best seats in the house, just like we've been practicing these past couple of weeks. Dames love it when guys go the extra mile to get them the best stuff."

He had to admit, Sergeant Wells' methods did seem to work. Ever since he'd started 'flexing his rank', as Wells called it, soldiers who'd ignored him in the past had started being a little more respectful. They didn't just walk by him when they passed between tents, they offered a 'sir' and sometimes even a 'good morning'. They didn't automatically start talking in muted whispers whenever he was around, either.

It wasn't easy, being the son of the camp's commander. Everybody expected him to go running to tell tales the moment he heard something he didn't like, as if the Army were actually just a really big Preschool. Things had been fine in London, when he was surrounded by other administrators, but out here there much more of a 'them and us' mentality where officers and enlisted men were concerned. Unfortunately, Joe got it from both sides. Even the officers thought of him as a snitch, and avoided him as eagerly as the enlisted men. Until recently, anyway. Convoluted as it seemed, being a jerk to people really did seem to make them like you more. Sergeant Wells was a jerk to everyone—except the nurses—and he was one of the most popular guys in the entire camp despite having only been there a few weeks. He routinely threatened to punch anyone who even mentioned Captain America or the Howling Commandos around him, and in return he got invited to poker gamers or darts games or games of dice. If he wanted a seat at the movie or in the mess, he just booted one of the lower ranks out of the way, and they didn't even grumble. If he asked a private to polish his boots for him, it was as if they thought he was the one doing them a favour! Try as he might, Joe just couldn't wrap his head around it, and he didn't think he'd be able to get away with the same behaviour no matter how much rank-flexing he tried.

"I'll think about it," he agreed. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a staff meeting to attend in the General's tent."

"Well, don't think too long. Movie's tomorrow night. You know dames need at least a day to prepare themselves for this sort of thing."

"Are you going to the movie?" he asked. It might be useful to have him there, in case anyone needed glaring at. Ousting someone from their seat with Sergeant Wells present might be different than doing it without his backup.

"Which one are they showing this time?"

"The one where the team get captured and taken to a factory, and hung over barrels of acid."

Wells wrinkled his nose. "Nah. I hate the deus ex machina in that one. That means—"

"I know what it means." He tried to smooth away the momentary surprise that must've crossed his face. "You're too well educated to be an enlisted man. You should've done officer training."

"Yeah, it's my biggest regret," he scoffed. "Before I forget, you mind if I take a couple of hours this morning? There's a poker match going on over by the motor pool, and I was hoping I'd get chance to play."

"Gambling is—"

"Against the rules," Wells finished. "Yeah, I know. But it's only gambling if it involves an exchange of money or goods. We play for bragging rights, see? Besides, playing strategy games like poker keeps the mind sharp and, even more importantly, helps to keep up morale in times of adversity. You do not want morale to get low. I ever tell you what happened to Private Denning, from the 9th, when his morale got low?"

"No, you didn't. What happened?"

"He shot himself," said Wells. "In the head. That was not a good night."

One day, he would learn to stop asking leading questions like that. Almost all of Wells' stories about the past ended with somebody dying. It was as if he was trying to harden himself to death by talking about it as much as possible. It was not a healthy way to live. "Sure, take a couple of hours. I expect my meeting to take at least that long anyway."

Sergeant Wells offered a sloppy salute and switched his attention back to his breakfast. As Joe left, he snuck a quick glance at the nurse's table. Nancy was smiling at him, so he hurried out and set off towards the General's tent. Maybe after the meeting he'd visit the medical tent. He hadn't given blood in a while, and it might give him chance to casually asked if she liked the movies.

He smiled to himself as he walked through the camp. His luck was definitely improving since Sergeant Wells had been assigned to his department.

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The motor pool wasn't Danny's favourite place to play poker. The ground was always churned up from the vehicle wheels and the whole place always smelt faintly of gas and oil. Plus, there was no view of the medical tent. But it was quiet and out of the way; nobody came over here unless they needed to pick up a jeep for a mission or take a tank out on a combat op, and there were no ops going ahead at the moment. It was common knowledge by now that for the past few weeks, the Allies had been hitting France with everything they had. The General had managed to keep it hush hush for the first few days, but it couldn't be kept quiet forever. Now, their camp's position finally made sense. They weren't here to take back Italy; nobody particularly wanted it anymore. No, they were here to stop any German reinforcements in Italy from making their way to the French border and catching their boys on two fronts. These days, the French operation was all anyone talked about.

"Heard our troops are still shy of Cherbourg," said Sergeant Forrest, mincing his words around a large cigar as he carefully studied his hand.

Pfc. Kempsford, from the Signals, upped that ante of knowledge. "It won't be long now. Cherbourg's well defended, but I heard Captain America is with the troops there. Only a matter of time before they take the city. Wish I could be there to see it."

Danny didn't have to look up from his cards to know that every pair of eyes was on his face. They were still convinced he was secretly working with their hero. Waiting for the opportune moment to tell the General his actual orders to take the army into France and help their forces by hitting the Krauts with a hammer against the anvil of the invasion force. He wouldn't have minded the rumours half so much if he had actually ever met the guy.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'm sure when Captain America's finished single-handedly storming France, he'll have time to make a movie about it. Then you can watch it in person."

That seemed to reassure them, the patsies, and they refocused on their game. Danny called the latest bet, then folded when the ante grew too high. He only had a pair of kings, and he could already tell Forrest wasn't bluffing. Poker wasn't just about knowing when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em, it was about reading people. Guessing what your opponent was going to do and whether their effort was real or a bluff. Not unlike war, really. He was quite a decent poker player, if he did say so himself. Did that mean he might make a good General one day? God, he hoped not! The stakes were just far too high in that particular game.

"I heard Lieutenant Grant might be going on a date with Nurse Shaw tomorrow," he offered up as the next hand was dealt. Forrest hadn't been bluffing; he'd had in inside straight. But there would be plenty more opportunities to win his money back.

"Which one's she?" asked Smith, one of the mess sergeants. He cooked the best poached eggs in the entire camp. Danny was working hard on making the guy his new best friend, because poached eggs were the one form of eggs he had yet to master. There was a knack; he just didn't know it. But Smith did, and Danny would possess his knowledge or die tryin'.

"Ooh, the pretty blonde," said Kempsford. "I asked her out once and she turned me down."

"Me too, pal," said Danny. It never hurt to admit defeat for the sake of a little rapport-building. "Honestly though, I prefer brunettes. I only asked on a whim, I think she knew I wasn't being genuine. Dames can tell stuff like that just by looking." As he considered his new hand, he eyed up the man to his right. Sergeant Harris was the real reason Danny was even bothering playing in the game. He worked in the motor pool, and was the go-to man for spare vehicle parts for anyone in the Syndicate.

After many careful weeks of following the paper trail and gentle probing of contacts he'd made along the way, he'd finally learnt that the Syndicate was controlled by somebody much higher up than he'd been expecting. Whoever it was held at least the rank of Major, maybe even Colonel. All the leads pointed to somebody high enough to cover any mistakes that were made at the lower levels. Further probing had also revealed that nobody actually knew who was in charge of the Syndicate. And that was… unusual. Whoever it was seemed to operate in the shadows, never interacting with Syndicate members directly, but always making sure minor transgressions stayed off the radar. The problem was, it had all grown too big. Gotten too messy. Whichever officer was trying to keep it all covered was fighting fires on too many fronts. That was how the top brass had finally got wind of the supply issue.

Danny had to make his move before something could go wrong, or the guy responsible for this mess could go into hiding. And the best way to do that was to ask for something that the lower members of the Syndicate couldn't handle themselves. Something that would be noticed if it went missing. Something… big.

"Speaking of brunettes," he continued, throwing in coins to call the bet. He'd go head to head with Harris on this one, if he could. Let the guy think he had a decent hand, then fold. Winning the pot this round would make him more amenable to a favour. "I was thinking of asking Nurse Ramsey out on a picnic, next time I get a day of furlough. Seems a shame to waste all this beautiful scenery."

"Which one's Ramsey?" asked Forrest. "Wait, is she the short one with the big—"

"Yeah," Danny interrupted.

"Damn. I've been sweet on her for ages! Don't let that stop you, though. I wouldn't wanna stand in your way or anything."

Sergeant Forrest was almost exactly like Sergeant Weiss, except for the fact that Weiss had daughters of Wells' age and would break the neck of any guy old enough to be her father who hit on her. Forrest was a lifelong bachelor and did not care how old a dame was, as long as she was legal. He had the lowest standards of anybody Danny had ever met.

"Thanks, 'preciate you not standing in my way," he said, and tried to sound genuine. "So I was thinking, on my way in to this place, after hiding out with the Resistance"—they all nodded. The best way for Captain America to get one of his agents into the camp without being caught was to have him delivered there by the Resistance. There were some real bullshitters, in this army—"I walked past a cliff top with the most amazing view of the Alps spreading out to the north. I figure that's probably the best place in the whole of Italy to take a dame on a picnic."

"Lucky bastard," Forrest grumbled.

"Thing is," he continued, "it's about a half-day walk back east. Jeepable in an hour, I reckon. What's the stance on jeeps? Is it doable?"

Sergeant Harris quickly shook his head. "Not a chance. If you were Infantry, we might be able to wrangle it. And that's a big 'might'. But a desk-monkey and a nurse? No way. I don't know anyone in the whole camp who could get you a jeep. Parts is the best I can do." Harris grinned. "Now, if you wanna build a jeep part by part, then we might be talking."

Damn. He hadn't expected that idea to get shot down so fast. But then, everyone was on high alert, on account of potential Kraut reinforcements passing through the area, so perhaps it wasn't so much the jeep that was the issue, but the timing of his request. Might be worth trying again in another couple of weeks. Perhaps he'd even be able to think up something else to try getting through barter.

"That's a shame," he said. "Don't suppose I'll be able to convince Nurse Ramsey to go on a half-day hike with me. I'll see what else I can think of."

"There's always the movies," Kempsford suggested.

Danny didn't even bother responding. Why would he wanna take a dame on a date to a movie where she'd spend the entire half-hour staring dreamily at some other guy? The whole point of a date was to get her lookin' at you, not dreamin' about Captain America and his stupid hair.

He glanced at his watch. "Whoa, when did time happen? I gotta get back to my desk before Grant notices I'm missing." He folded his hand and collected what was left of his coins while the others shouted out farewells. The morning hadn't been as productive as he'd hoped, but it hadn't been an entire waste of time. True, he'd lost a little money, but he'd also learned what was and wasn't possible right now. And sometimes you had to lose before you could win.

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"And so to conclude," said Major General Grant, as the staff meeting drew to a close, "we can probably expect our forces to establish a feasible base of operations within the next three months. The Swiss won't permit any soldier to cross their border, and they've extended some measure of protection to Liechtenstein, which also remains steadfastly neutral. That means the next step for the Germans currently garrisoned in Italy is to either push on into France and face the English and American forces along with our allies, or retreat into Austria and begin reassigning troops to the growing threat they face on the Eastern Front. As of this moment, intelligence can't say which way they might go, so please remind all your staff that they need to remain on high alert and be prepared to pack up and march if we receive orders."

A round of salutes and 'yes sir's followed, and the General dismissed them.

"Lieutenant Grant, please remain behind for a moment. I'd like a word."

Joe tried not to fidget as the rest of the officers filed out. His father didn't speak to him privately very often; they both agreed that it was best they conduct their conversations in public, to allay any fears of favouritism or preferential treatment. Not that that had worked particularly well up to now.

He stood a little straighter under the General's scrutiny. Growing up with the other army brats, he'd seen father after father pushing his son to join up and serve. His own father had never been like that. He'd wanted Joe to make the decision for himself. Encouraged him to try different things. But once the decision had been made, he expected nothing less than exemplary service from his son. They were pretty big boots to fill. His father had served with The Rock back in the Great War, and been decorated for bravery. Not an easy legacy to follow for a man stuck behind a desk. But his father wasn't a young man anymore, and the circles under his eyes had been getting deeper and darker over the past few weeks. It seemed the pressure of being combat-ready behind enemy lines for so long was weighing heavily on him. Not that he would ever admit it.

"I heard you've been getting out a bit more," his father said at last. "Mingling with the troops. Playing at darts. Catching a movie."

"I haven't been neglecting my duties, sir," he said quickly. "I—"

"It wasn't an accusation, Joe. At ease for Christ's sake. I know you haven't been neglecting anything; departmental reports show your team is still the best performing out of all the quartermasters. I'm just glad you're making friends amongst the men. I didn't even know you liked darts."

"It's good for developing and maintaining hand-eye coordination." He narrowed his eyes at his father. "Have you been keeping tabs on me?"

Grant Senior waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing like that. I do keep my ears open, though. A good General keeps his finger on the pulse of camp gossip. How's your new sergeant working out?"

"Better than expected," said Joe. "Sergeant Wells has a very… erm… unique way, of looking at things." And a very unique way of not showing respect for the proper chain of command. Best not to mention that, though. From what he'd been able to glean from the guy, the SSR had not been a very traditional army outfit, and Sergeant Wells had been permitted a considerable amount of leeway to achieve his missions. And for a man who'd served daily with three out of the six Howling Commandos, he was remarkably tight-lipped about his previous assignment. "He came up with an inter-departmental form that allows us to expedite troop requests to reduce delay in assigning equipment. The form is still being trialled, but we're seeing some good results so far."

"The ES-1 form?" his father asked. "I've seen a copy of it. Looks efficient. I thought you were the one who came up with that, though?"

"Sergeant Wells insisted I take credit for it," he explained. Also, probably best not to mention that Wells' designation of ES was short for Expedite Shit. He quickly changed the topic, in case his father decided to actually ask what it meant. "In fact, I'd like to recommend Sergeant Wells for a promotion to Technical Sergeant. I have no idea why he hasn't been promoted before now; his talents are wasted as an enlisted man."

"Hmm." His father pulled a file from a drawer and skimmed it quickly. "He does have a Commendation on record. Authorised by a Colonel Phillips, though it doesn't say what for. And I suspect even if I had that information, it would probably be heavily redacted. But I'll make sure the Commendation goes through, and keep your recommendation in mind for the next round of promotions. Here." He put the file away and pulled an envelope from his pocket. "A letter from your mother. Would it kill you to write to her every once in a while? She's convinced herself that you're dead, and that I'm keeping up pretences to spare her feelings."

He winced as he accepted the letter. "Yeah, sorry. Things have just been very busy around here."

"If you can find time to play darts and watch movies," his father admonished, "you can find time to write your mother. Next set of V-mails will be going out on Tuesday."

"I'll make it a priority."

"Glad to hear it." His father straightened up, switching from dad mode to military mode without breaking stride. "That will be all for now, Lieutenant. You're dismissed."

Joe saluted and pocketed the letter as he stepped out of the tent and into the glaring light of day. He had to blink a few times to clear his vision and give his eyes chance to adapt. A letter to his mom… they were always so hard to write. She was proud of her son, and terrified for him. She loved him very much, and wanted him to come home immediately to settle down with a wife. Things would've been so much easier if he wasn't an only child.

From the corner of his eye he spotted a pair of nurses carrying some of their medical equipment, and a smile touched his lips as he remembered his conversation from breakfast. So, the one named Nancy had been watching him, had she? Perhaps he really should ask her out. He'd been so focused on his work that he hadn't even thought about women since leaving England, and Lizzie was a hard one to forget. Besides, it might be nice to watch one of the Captain America movies with somebody who didn't spend half their time scoffing and eye-rolling at everything that happened on the screen. For someone who claimed he'd never met Captain America, Sergeant Wells did seem to have a lot of opinions about his movies.

He took a short-cut back to his own section of the camp, dodging between the barracks tents of enlisted men. As he approached the back of one, he stopped when he saw two servicemen step out for smokes; the last thing he wanted was some awkward 'good morning' conversation from them. So he hung back for a moment while they sparked up and slowly strolled away. Their words reached his ears, but it took a minute for him to process them.

"…not really sure what to do about it," one said.

"At times like this, I ask myself, WWWD?" the other replied. "And Sergeant Wells told me directly, that the best thing to do is suck up to your CO. Become his best buddy. Do him favours before he even thinks of asking for them. That way, he won't look too closely at your work, and if a few things go missing… well, it's a big army, right? And nothing except the gas and munitions stores are guarded. Maybe there was even an administrative error…"

Joe froze. That didn't sound like something Sergeant Wells would say. Except… it sounded exactly like something Sergeant Wells would say. And Wells had been doing him a lot of favours recently. Did encouraging him to ask a nurse out count as sucking up? Did inviting him to watch movies count as becoming his best buddy? And that inter-departmental form he'd created… the ES-1… it had improved efficiency, and meant Joe didn't have to look as closely at his staff's work.

He cast aside all notion of nurses and made his way via the shortest route to their regiment's supply tent. The clerk on the front desk saluted him, but he waved the man back down as he stepped inside the semi-darkness. It wasn't a true store. In a real bunker, there would have been shelves for everything. Here, there were only baskets and buckets. He stood in the centre and looked around at them. They were all full. But… appearances could be deceiving. Baskets could be padded out with straw or cloth. Important components could be replaced with rusty junk. He wanted to look around and say with pride that nothing was missing. Everything was accounted for. But the serviceman's words, along with the fact that Wells had re-organised the books, meant he couldn't be sure of anything, not even his own stores. There was no other way around it. He would have to do a manual inventory and cross-reference every entry in the log book. It was going to take all day. Maybe part of the night, as well.

He returned to his own tent and took the seat behind his desk, trying to mentally prepare himself for the task ahead. A moment later, a familiar voice called, "Knock knock," and Sergeant Wells sauntered in. Suddenly, the Sergeant's confidence seemed more sinister, his saunter more staged.

"Y'know," he said, sinking into the chair in front of the desk, "I hate all this knock-knock stuff. It makes me sound like the bearer of a really bad joke. Maybe you should get a little bell or something, that we can ring before entering."

"Right," Joe countered. "Because that would do wonders for my reputation around here. The General's son with the silver bell!"

He tried to keep his tone as light as possible. Tried to keep his suspicions buried deep. But Wells leaned forward and squinted at him, as if looking through his brain. "Somethin' wrong?" he asked.

Time to think creatively. "Not really," he said, trying for a defeated sigh. "Just a lot to think about, after that staff meeting. And a letter from my mother, which I just know is going to be full of impassioned pleas for me to come home. As if I have any choice in the matter."

"Right. Mothers, eh?" Wells shifted on his seat. "Anything I can help with?"

"Actually, I've got a huge report to write for the General," he said. "I'm going to be busy most of the day. Do you think you could spare some time to help out Captain Briggs for a few hours? He's a man down because of a broken leg." That much, at least, was true. The enlisted men just wouldn't slow their pace after it rained, no matter how much they were warned about running through the mud.

"Well, if you're sure you don't need me here…" Wells said. "I guess I could help the guy out. You sure you don't need anything first? I could stamp some of the requisition forms in your pile, if you like. You know how much I love to hear the thud of 'rejected'."

"I'm sure. I'll get around to those forms myself, shortly. For now I need to concentrate, and you do tend to be something of a distraction at times. No offence."

"None taken." Wells stood and stretched. "I even distract myself, sometimes. Fine then, I'll go play gopher for the combat engineers, and you can get your report done. Did you at least manage to ask Nancy to watch the movie with you?"

"I didn't have chance," he said. "But I will do, first thing in the morning, when I plan to give blood."

"Alright then. See ya later, L-T."

The Sergeant remembered to salute, and as he disappeared, Joe sank down into his seat. Captain Briggs had enough work to keep Wells occupied for the rest of the day, which gave him until the morning to look for evidence of theft. With a deep sigh, he headed back to the supply tent. This was gonna be a long night.