We Were Soldiers

5. Monticello

It happened just after midnight.

The lights in E-6 came on and the door was flung open by a camp sergeant who roused the 107th with an order to be dressed and assembled outside the barracks in fifteen minutes. A mad scramble ensued. Not wanting to add to the rumours, Bucky had purposely avoided mentioning their imminent departure to the rest of the 107th, so at least half the regiment were completely unprepared for such swift action. The half who'd actually put a little stock into the gossip had already packed some of their gear away, but there was still a lot of work to be done in a very short time.

Some leapt out of bed, some stumbled groggily, but within five minutes, they were all dressed. Spare clothes were rolled up into their duffels, and their backpacks were checked to ensure their field kits, mess kits, first aid kits, cleaning kits, entrenching tools and spare ammo were packed away, along with books, spare paper, pens, envelopes, and other important personal items. Sleeping rolls were lashed to the top, adding another six inches of height to the large bags.

Beds were unmade, blankets and sheets were folded up, and pillows were pulled out of their cases. When everything in the barracks had been returned to the way they'd found it, the men fastened their gear onto themselves and their comrades. The bayonet knives and sidearms were threaded onto belts. Rifles were slung diagonally across the shoulders to allow backpacks to be carried comfortably. Bulky gas masks were carried on their straps hanging from the neck, and the heavy, uncomfortable steel helmets were worn for the first time as they were intended to be. By the time the regiment had assembled with their heavy duffels outside the barracks, they resembled not so much a group of soldiers, but pack mules.

As Bucky joined Wells at the head of the formation, the thing that most struck him was the silence. Eighty men should have made more noise than the occasional quiet coughs and throat-clearings which reached his ears. The silence was accompanied by a tension in the air, heavy as thunder and sharp as lightning. It seemed to crackle off the top of the steel helmets, and the straight-backed rigidness of the 107th told Bucky they all felt it as much as he.

The same sergeant returned to issue another command.

"You're to take your men to the south gate and await further instruction."

Neither of them asked why. One of the first things you learnt in boot camp was not to ask stupid questions, and 'why' was the stupidest question in the army. There was only one answer that could ever be given to that question:'Because I said so.' On his first day of Basic at Camp McCoy, Bucky had seen one guy chewed out for twenty minutes for daring to ask 'why?', and then the unfortunate recruit been given laps, and then push-ups, and he'd spent the entire next day assigned to latrine duty. They camp drill sergeants had made a harsh lesson outta that guy, and since then, nobody had been dumb enough to ask it.

Down at the south gate, they found themselves standing in line behind one of the Signal brigades, and the Screaming Eagles fell in behind them a few moments later, headed by Sgt. Murphy and another sergeant whose name Bucky couldn't recall. Like the 107th, the 101st Airborne looked tense, and he was glad it wasn't just his own regiment feeling the pressure.

They waited for half an hour. His dad had told him that fifty percent of war was waiting, forty percent was marching, and maybe ten percent was actually fighting. When the waiting was finally over, they found themselves—unsurprisingly—marching. They hadn't been told where they were going, just that they should follow, and that was pretty much what Bucky had been expecting, too.

It was a couple of miles to Piermont. A couple of long, weary miles. It wasn't a particularly hot night, but weighed down by their heavy gear, each wearing as many layers of clothes as they could manage to save room in their duffels for personal items, the troops felt every Fahrenheit of that trek. They encountered not a single vehicle on the road, which was lit only by the silvery light of the lunar orb. The moonlight glinted off the tops of the steel helmets, giving the impression of a giant silver snake winding its way down the road in front of him. When he took a moment to glance back, he couldn't even see the snake's tail.

The smell of brine and seaweed grew stronger, blown inland by the offshore breeze, and pretty soon they found themselves arriving at a port. Like the road, it was in darkness, and a large ship was berthed at the dock. At least, Bucky thought it was a large ship. With its hull painted grey and its deck a dark blue, it was hard to judge its size. The moonlight didn't so much illuminate the vessel, as obscure it.

In the port, there was more waiting. Again, it was the small sounds which stood out. The coughs. The clanging of rifles against helmets. The shuffle of feet. The whispers of men who did not dare to raise their voices. The lap of water against the creaky wooden dock. A steady thud, thud, thud, turned out to be the sound of Bucky's blood pulsing through his body, the noise made louder by the echoing confines of his steel helmet.

When the line began to move, the thud, thud, thud increased in tempo. Standing on his tiptoes to peer over the heads in front of him, he saw the steel snake disappearing into a dark hole in the side of the ship, and as they shuffled closer, he saw that the hole was actually a door, only wide enough for the men to walk two abreast. He'd never been on a ship before—the small sailing and rowing boats he'd tried out on quiet tributaries of the Hudson didn't count—and he watched with eager fascination as the vessel swallowed the regiments in front. The recruitment posters had always shown men walking up a gangplank onto the deck, in broad daylight and warm sunshine, waving to their loved ones who'd come to see them off, while a marching band on the docks played a farewell concert.

This is nothing like the posters.

It wasn't the first time he'd had the thought. He'd had it before, at Camp McCoy, whilst knee-deep in an assault course that had been churned to mud by the thousands of feet that had come before his. It had rained, that day. He'd been weighed down by his sodden clothes, and his rifle—just a dummy, thank God—had slipped from his grip a half-dozen times. Everybody got chewed out on that course, and that was something else the posters never showed; the mean-spirited, slave-driving, mouth-foaming drill sergeants. If the posters had shown the army as it really he was, he doubted they'd get half as many volunteers.

The regiment ahead of the 107th stopped, and a man dressed in a nautical uniform called out, "101st Airborne, 9th Infantry, 107th Infantry, 46th Engineers, 93rd Signals, you will proceed onto the ship and follow your escort to your designated sleeping area."

It was the only instruction they received. The snake moved forward towards the dark hole, and suddenly the ship was there, looming so near that its closeness surprised him. It may not have been the size of a luxury ocean liner, but it looked pretty damn big. Painted onto the grey hull, in huge black letters, was the name, USS Monticello.

As the dark, gaping maw of the door appeared straight ahead, Bucky felt Wells bump into him.

"Watch your footing," he whispered.

"How do they expect us to do this when we can't see a damn thing?" his fellow sergeant grumbled.

Bucky had no answer. Sometimes, 'how' was an even dumber question than 'why'.

They stepped inside, and suddenly everything felt closer, hotter, confined. There were lights on the walls, but they only gave out a sickly yellow light paler even than the light of the moon. The trudging became more clamorous as boots landed heavily on metal, and with so many feet moving at once, the whole floor seemed to vibrate, shaking in time to the march. Bucky swallowed the lump rising in his throat, and sent a silent prayer that this ship's decks had been reinforced enough to hold the weight of all the soldiers it was taking on.

The ship went on forever. Bucky had known the vessel was big, but he hadn't known there was so much of it. The insides of the ship were an endless labyrinth of metal corridors, each identical to the last. The 107th and the regiments with them were taken on a dreamlike trek through the vessel's bowels, until eventually they stepped out into an area just a few metres wide that stretched on as far as the eye could see. The long room's sole defining feature could be summed up in a single word: hammocks.

They were like suspended bunks, hung two-high from a metal frame built between the ceiling and the floor, running down either side of the room. There was space of only a metre between the two rows, a narrow gangway through which men poured. Further down the room, the men who'd already arrived were claiming their hammocks and storing their gear as best as they were able.

Bucky selected a hammock a couple away from the next regiment, and decided it was a fine enough place for the 107th to call home.

"Might as well get comfortable," he told the rest of the men. "It'll probably take a while for the rest of the troops to be brought aboard. If you can get a few hours of sleep, do."

Around him, the rest of the regiment began hoisting off their heavy backpacks and claiming beds of their own. Bucky studied the upper hammock of the pair he'd picked. It barely looked sturdy enough to hold a child, much less a man.

"There is no way you're having the top hammock," Wells said, standing beside him and looking at the two flimsy lengths of material that were to serve as their beds for the next two weeks.

"Why not?"

"I don't want your heavy ass falling out and landing on me."

"I'm not heavy," he shot.

"Heavier than me. Have you ever even slept in a hammock before?"

"Like you have?"

Wells gave him an obsequious smile and gestured at the uppermost hammock. "By all means, be my guest."

He hated when Wells got that smug look on his face; it meant that he knew he was right about something and was gonna enjoy being proven right. But Bucky could hardly back down now. Besides, he wasn't heavy.

Shrugging off his pack, he dumped his helmet, rifle, gas mask and duffel on the floor, then placed both hands on the hammock and hoisted himself up. For a moment, he thought he was fine, but he was actually just precariously well-balanced. As soon as he moved, to try and get his legs into the hammock, he slipped over the other side, banged his head on the wall, and landed flat on his back on the cold metal floor. Wells peered over the hammock and looked down at him, and he didn't say a damn word.

"Alright, you can have the top hammock," Bucky relented.

Wells made hammocking look effortless. Bucky wasn't the only one to have had a spill; most of the guys taking the top hammocks took two or three tries before they could get in, and there were even men who couldn't get into the bottom hammocks without falling out. At least Bucky managed to avoid that embarrassment.

The makeshift sleeping quarters suffered the same sickly yellow lighting as the corridors, and the guys who had beds next to and below the lights quickly realised how lucky they were. Being next to a light meant you could actually read the words in a book, write a letter, or find things in your pack. For the next hour or so, there was lots of reshuffling as soldiers bartered for the coveted spots nearest the lights.

Bucky didn't particularly care; he was too tired to move now. Knowing they were shipping out that night had kept him awake until late, and he'd only managed an hour of sleep before being woken for departure. Now he lay in his hammock, only a few inches off the floor, and simply listened to the quiet chatter of the men around him.

When his mind finally gave in to tiredness, he dozed in and out sleep. He had a strange dream in which he was sleeping in the air, suspended on a fluffy cloud, no hard mattress to support him. He woke with a start, tensing, ready to hit the ground… but the hammock was around him, and he was safe.

When he heard a quiet, rhythmic creaking, he looked up and saw the hammock above swinging gently from side to side. He had no idea what Wells was doing to make it swing—and he probably didn't wanna know—but suddenly, the chance to inflict a little payback on his friend was too tempting an opportunity to miss. He aimed his finger at an area he thought was probably right in the middle of Wells' back, and gave the hammock above a swift, sharp poke.

"Fuckin' hell, Barnes!" Wells shouted, as he jolted upright and his hammock stopped swinging. His yell drew a few curious and amused glances. "Don't do that."

Bucky laughed. "What're you doing?"

"Well, I was reading. Now I'm having a fuckin' heart attack."

"No, I mean, why are you swinging?"

"I find it relaxing. Having somebody's finger jabbed into my spine… now, that's not relaxing at all."

"How do you make it swing?"

"Just put your left foot against the wall and push."

He gave a gentle push and felt his hammock swing. Wells was right; it was relaxing. Soon enough he was dozing again, and the quiet murmur of voices fell away.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

The next morning—or rather, later that morning—one of the ship's crew appeared to provide an update. All of the troops were now aboard, supplies for the voyage had been stowed, and the ship would be weighing anchor within the hour. For the rest of the day, while the Monticello was in sight of the coast as it headed down for the Gulf Stream, only the crew would be allowed on deck. After that, soldiers could go up on deck in half-hour slots throughout the day, and no man would be allowed on deck without a life jacket.

Shower and bathroom facilities were at the fore of the ship on the third deck, while the galley and mess were on deck two. Food was served twice per day, in the morning and the late afternoon, and the men were expected to eat as quickly as possible; loitering would not be tolerated.

Large sections of the ship, including the bridge, the storage hold, the communications room and the engine room, were off-limits to troops. Smoking below deck was forbidden. In the event of the ship taking on water, the men were to make their way in an orderly fashion to the outside deck, don life jackets and board the lifeboats. The crewman then gave them long, convoluted directions to the galley, and left them to contemplate everything he'd told them.

"Why would the ship take on water?" asked Carrot, his blue eyes darting nervously around the room. "Aren't they built to be water-tight?"

"Most of these converted troop transports are pretty old," said Wells, rapping his knuckles against the metal wall. "Most of them aren't even U.S.-made. The British donated some, others are French, or Dutch, or Italian, and you can't trust Italian engineering. Ships are metal, and metal rusts. Plus, y'know, U-boats. They're everywhere."

"Right, Sarge. U-boats," Carrot scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"Don't take them lightly, Corporal," Wells warned. "In October 1941, the USS Reuben James was the first U.S. warship sunk sunk by U-boats in this war, and since then we've lost the USCGC Alexander Hamilton, the USS Jacob Jones, the SS Dorchester, the USS Gannet, the USS Erie, the USS San Francisco—thousands of troops lost on that one—, the USS Atik, the USS Leedstown, the USS Joseph Hewes—"

"I get the point."

Sgt. Murphy from the 101st, who was nearby, jumped into the fray, his bushy moustache aquiver.

"Some of the big liners, like the Queen Mary, can outrun U-boats, but most of the older, smaller ships, are too slow, so we'll get an escort. But there's not that much an escort can do to prevent an attack, they can mostly only react to it."

If Carrot looked pale, Tipper looked worse, but when Bucky glanced around the men, he saw Private Hawkins looking like he wished he hadn't decided to stay with the 107th after all; the expression on his face was simultaneously sick and resigned.

"That's enough," Bucky said, before Wells could jump back in with another grim fact. "Look, it's breakfast time, why don't we see what's on offer?"

"I hope it's eggs," Wells sighed.

What had seemed like a good suggestion at the time swiftly became a waking nightmare. Bucky realised his mistake about ten minutes into the trip to the galley, after they'd taken the third wrong turn in the identical-looking gloomy corridors. He should've sent the men up in small groups, instead of bringing the whole regiment. It didn't help that Murphy had decided to bring the Eagles along for breakfast too, so every time they got turned-around, almost two-hundred men had to about-face and make their way back from where they'd just come. The corridors were not only dark, they were also narrow, and there was much grumbling and jostling before they reached their destination.

The galley did not impress. They had to queue for half an hour behind a group of soldiers from some other part of the ship, who'd had the same idea. With only two crewman punching meal cards, it took a painfully long time for the troops to be admitted into the galley, where a dozen or more cooks served breakfast from giant hot metal trays.

There were no eggs. Breakfast was something lumpy and yellowish white that looked like it might have come out of a poorly baby. Further down the long serving counter were slices of charred toast which men were scrambling over each other to get to.

"What's this, oatmeal?" Bucky asked those closest to him.

"Worse," said Wells, pulling a very unimpressed face. "Grits. Hopefully tomorrow's breakfast will be better."

They took their trays to the mess, where they had another unpleasant surprise. There were no tables and no chairs. Just long, shelf-like platforms below chest height at which men ate standing up. At the ends of the platforms were large metal sinks, where trays were to be rinsed before being stacked for taking away. Breakfast was a very muted affair.

Since there was no deck-time, they went straight back to the troop quarters and settled in for a long, tedious journey. Bucky suggested a poker game, and Gusty, Wells and Franklin immediately took him up on his offer, along with Murphy from the 101st and a corporal from the Signals who introduced himself as McNally. Carrot wanted to play, but he still couldn't grasp the hands, so they made him watch instead.

Bucky guessed the ship must be under-weigh by now, because it had taken much longer than an hour to get to the mess, have breakfast and return, but if the ship was moving, he couldn't feel it, nor could he hear any hum of the engines.

"Are we moving?" he asked over his cards. Gusty, McNally and Murphy had folded. Wells and Franklin were still in, but Bucky was only one card away from a full-house.

"We're always moving," said Wells. He threw one card and picked another from the deck. A light frown played across his face before he smoothed it away. "Even when we're asleep, in bed, at home, we're moving."

"Now I know you're joking, Sarge," Carrot piped up. "'Cos when I'm asleep, I wake up in exactly the same position I started off in."

"You're sitting on a planet that's travelling around the sun at about 67,000 miles per hour, Carrot. I can guarantee that you don't go to sleep in the same place you woke up."

"Yeah but is the ship moving?" Bucky insisted.

"Sure. At about 67,000 miles per hour."

"You're killin' me, Wells," he said dryly, to which Wells merely grinned.

"I think we're moving," said Murphy. "It's just that we're moving so slow we don't feel it. And we're probably still in shallow coastal waters, so we won't feel the waves for real until we get out to sea."

"Aw, hell," Franklin grumbled, then threw his cards face-down on the table. "I'm out."

"In that case, I raise fifty," said Wells, adding chips to the pot from his pile. "Well, Sergeant Barnes? What's it gonna be? I strongly recommend folding."

"Can I look at your cards?" asked Carrot hopefully.

"No you cannot, Corporal, because your face would give my hand away."

"Aw."

Bucky glanced down at his cards. He'd picked up the last three-card he needed for a full house, but it wasn't a very high house; threes and sixes. Wells had thrown a lot of chips into the pot after the last round of card-taking, and so far he'd shown himself to be a fairly defensive player… but Bucky wasn't entirely certain his friend wasn't just bullshitting.

"I'll call," he said. At this point, if he folded, he'd lose everything anyway. He could afford to lose another fifty, on the off chance that Wells was bluffing.

"Y'sure? 'Cos you're a pal, I'm gonna give you one last chance to fold."

"Just show me your damn cards," Bucky growled.

"Should'a folded," said Wells, as he lay out a straight flush. "It's a good job we're not playing for real money, or you'd be poor right now."

"I thought you were bluffing," Bucky said, trying not to sound sulky.

"I never bluff."

His comment earned a round of disbelieving scoffs from the rest of the players, but before anyone could respond, Tipper bounded up, all nervous excitement.

"Hey guys, I'm gonna go for a shower. Anyone wanna come with me?"

"Tipper, what branch of the armed forces do you serve in?" asked Wells.

"Err, the Army, Sarge."

"Exactly. This isn't the Navy, so go take that shower by yourself."

"But I don't know how to get there!"

"Ask one of the crew," Murphy suggested.

With a reproaching tut, Wells shook his head. "I wouldn't. You can't trust sailors. They might try to give you soap."

"What's wrong with soap?" Tipper asked quaveringly.

Wells shook his head again in despair while Gusty and Murphy sniggered.

"I'll go with you, Private," Carrot offered. "I'm sure we can find where they are without having to ask the crew."

"Sailors aren't really like that… are they, Sarge?" Franklin asked, when Carrot and Tipper had departed. "You were just saying that to scare Tipper, right?"

"It's your turn to deal, Franklin," Wells said, nimbly dodging the question. And judging by the look on Franklin's face, Bucky suspected the guy wouldn't be asking the crew for directions any time soon.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Burgers," said Carrot. "Big, thick, juicy burgers with the thinnest slices of tomato on top. Done on the barbecue, so that they're still sizzling when they're put on the bun."

"Hotdogs," Biggs offered. "With ketchup and mustard."

"And fried onions," added Gusty. "You can't have dogs without fried onions."

"My mom's lamb casserole," said Bucky. Picturing it in his mind, he could almost taste it. Thick slices of potatoes, thin slices of carrots, and chunks of lamb swimming in hot meat stock.

"Corn on the cob," Wells said. "Dripping with butter."

"Will you guys shut up already?" someone from the 46th Engineers called out. "You're making me hungry."

Bucky knew exactly how he felt. The dinner served in the galley that evening had been an even bigger disappointment than breakfast: spam; a dry, boiled potato; a small pile of green beans, and gravy that was so runny it had almost escaped. It had been edible, just barely, but almost every man except Tipper had come away complaining of an empty stomach. It didn't take much to fill Tipper's stomach up.

"What do you think the food will be like when we get to England?" Franklin mused aloud, to nobody in particular.

"More spam, probably," said Wells. "I hear they take their rationing very seriously there. They don't have any cows left in England now, you know. They've all been slaughtered for food already."

"I heard British food is really bland," said Davies. "It's all boiled vegetables and lumpy mashed potatoes."

"I like lumpy mashed potatoes," Bucky interjected. His mom made the best lumpy mash ever. Making mash so creamy that it was almost liquid was some kinda heinous crime, as far as he was concerned. If a pile of mash didn't hold its form when you turned it upside down, it wasn't proper mash.

"Plus they drink warm beer with no fizz in it," Gusty said, back on the subject of English cuisine. His comment earned a round of disgusted sounds, but another thought marched swiftly through Bucky's mind.

"Hey, Biggs. You gettin' tired yet?"

"A little. Why?"

"I figure we should tie you down before you drift off and start sleepwalking."

"Yeah," said Wells, and Bucky could practically feel the twisted humour dripping from his voice above. "No telling what those sailors will do to you if they find you walkin' around the Monty looking completely out of it."

"I suppose it would be best to tie me down now," Biggs sighed, ignoring Wells' comment. Most of the 107th had learnt to ignore Wells' comments by now. Only Carrot and Tipper routinely fell for them, because Carrot was too damn naïve to know any better, and Tipper still young and impressionable enough to not wanna ignore someone ten years his senior.

Bucky swung himself out of his hammock and pulled his Biggs-adapted belt from his pants. Everybody in the 107th had a Biggs-adapted belt, these days. The adaptation was a couple of holes punched near the buckle-end, so that the belts could be fastened tight enough to restrain the private. As he reached Biggs, Carrot—who had the hammock above—passed down his belt, too.

"At least we've got these convenient metal frames, Sarge," Carrot observed, as Bucky lashed the human mountain to the frames on either side of his hammock. "They've gotta be better than a camp bed."

"Yeah. How do you feel, Biggs?"

The private gave an experimental tug on each arm. "Feels fine, Sarge. Thanks. I appreciate you not letting me walk off the ship straight into the ocean, or wander around in my sleep to get buggered by sailors."

"Ignore Wells, he was just joking about that," he assured the big man.

"No I wasn't," Wells called unhelpfully, from further up the row. He was peeping over the side of his hammock like a cat watching the mice at play. "My brother Tim's in the Navy, and he says you'd be surprised at the things some of them do to pass the time on long voyages. There's a reason they call every cabin-boy 'Roger', y'know."

"I don't get it," said Carrot, his blue eyes troubled. "I have a cousin called Roger. What's wrong with that?"

Poor Carrot's obliviousness earned a round of snickers from the men nearest by, and Bucky returned to his hammock, to the book he'd been trying to read in the semi-darkness. There was no doubt about it; by the end of this voyage, he'd have a serious case of eye-strain.

As the hours passed, more and more men began to fall asleep despite the hungry, unsatisfied aches in their bellies. Carrot brought out his photograph of Samantha, as he'd done every night in the barracks, and spent a short time just looking at the love of his life. Eventually, he put the picture away and added to the symphony of snores echoing around the long room.

The quiet swinging of the hammock above told him Wells wasn't asleep yet, so he gave a couple of pokes in the back and waited for his friend's face to appear. It did, upside down, and with a scowl on it.

"What'd I tell you about doing that?"

"Are you still reading that book?" he asked.

"Not still;again."

"Wanna swap?" he asked, holding up his copy of Of Mice and Men.

Wells wrinkled his nose. "Naw. Read it already. Thought it was kinda boring."

"It's great American literature," Bucky pointed out.

"It's American literature, for sure. 'Great' is entirely subjective. If you wanna read something great, ask Gusty if he's got a copy of The War of the Worlds. Written by a distant relative of mine, y'know."

Bucky decided to let that particular piece of bullshit slide, since he had no real way of disproving it. Besides, there was a greater chance of Wells being related to a famous author, than there was of him eventually marrying Rita Hayworth. Which brought another point to mind.

"I haven't seen Rita since we came aboard."

"I left her back at the barracks."

"You forgot to pack your picture of your future wife?"

"Are you kiddin'?" Wells snorted. "Not a chance in hell I'm gonna bring a classy dame like that onto a ship-load of miscreants and perverts. No, Rita's safe on dry land. I'm not Carrot, I don't need to look at a picture every day to remind myself what a beautiful woman looks like. Anyway, she's not the only beautiful woman in the world. Maybe England's got its own Rita. I'm not actually that discerning."

"You're a real gentleman, Wells."

"Truer words were never spoken," he nodded solemnly. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get to the end of this chapter before I go to sleep."

"By all means, don't let me keep you from your sixth read-through of your book."

"Seventh," Wells corrected. "But who's counting?"

When his friend's face disappeared, Bucky sighed and turned to the first page of his book. Tomorrow, he'd see if Gusty had something interesting to trade, otherwise this was gonna be one hell of a long, boring trip.