BOUNDING HOME

BOUNDING HOME

Twenty-three days have passed since we stormed the beaches at Omaha; three weeks of rigorous combat before finally relieved. Our transport squealed to a halt within a regimental Command Post set up in Ste-Laurent, a quaint coastal village we helped liberate during opening days of the Normandy invasion.

Woofie is first to spring from the truck, no doubt his 6’-6” body must be screaming for nourishment. I have to grin at the big lummox. His charge toward chow lines is second only to the one he made taking out a fortified pillbox about a week ago. God pity any mess cook who tries denying him extra portions.

Can’t blame him, though. We’re all famished and sick of skimpy field rations. Exhausted, the men began dropping wherever they could find space within the crumbled remains of a small shop complex in the village center. Our duffel bags had been shipped across the Channel and were here waiting for us, though several will go unclaimed. Many are already rifling through them, putting hot showers and clean clothes ahead of real grub. Reeking of grime, sweat, and plagued by diarrhea, they’re eager to be rid of raunchy uniforms.

The lot of us are also delirious with anticipation of much deserved R & R. Word from Command Post HQ has it we’ll be in Ste-Laurent for only a couple days. It’s likely some in the outfit fear if passing out now they’ll miss the shuttle to England, even if scheduled two days hence.

As for me, I’m nauseous and running a fever from a festering bullet wound crippling my left hand but decide to put off seeing the docs until after a debriefing I expect will be called at any time. A field medic said I needed one of the Army’s new intravenous penicillin drips, but I’d gladly swap it for shut-eye. Sleep is next to impossible on the battlefield. There were times I would have traded my soul for a single one-hour nap.

“Ten-hut!” Bodies rose to attention as a Colonel entered the room.

“As you were, gentlemen. Which of you is Zecca, Vincent?”

“Here, sir.” I must smell like a gorilla’s behind but try smoothing my dirt-encrusted beard to appear at least somewhat presentable.

“I’m Colonel Flanary, Astor Flanary.”

He ignored my slovenly appearance but does order me to remove the disgusting bandage covering my hand. Two knuckles are broken and the hand is bloated to nearly twice normal size. I winced as he gently eased the rotation to better study the damage, wrinkling his nose at the foul-smelling pus oozing from the fetid hole.

“Jesus, that’s nasty, son. I think you have blood poisoning. As soon as we’re through, you get that seen to, and I do mean pronto, lieutenant.”

“Sergeant, sir,” I said while gingerly re-wrapping my hand.

“No, I had it right the first time. You’re a lieutenant now and I’d consider it an honor if you would allow me to pin your insignia at my command post when you’re in better shape.”

“Yes, sir.” I saluted, respectful of the ceremonious gesture.

Colonel Flanary faced the troops. “Can I have your attention, men? I know you’re anxious to shower and get a hot meal, so I won’t keep you. But for now, I wanted to personally greet your arrival and see to your needs. My command is extremely proud of this outfit. You did one hell of a job and I assure you such exploits have gone all the way up to Ike himself. Thanks to such unparalleled courage and tenacity of soldiers like you, we have the Jerries on the run.” Colonel Flanary’s sincere morale boost is met with cheers and a few handshakes.

“As for you, lieutenant, a debriefing can wait. I’ll check back after you’ve seen to that wound. Until then, I’ll leave these with you.” Flanary again glanced at my hand and motioned his aide to pass mail pouches and a parcel of merit citations to Pvt. Presto standing next to me.

“Uh, there’s one more thing, lieutenant.” The Colonel retrieved a single envelope and two cigars from a breast pocket. “Captain Fairchild asked me to deliver this letter to you personally; said it was his way of assuring I’d find you, uh— let’s just say in good form. And which of your men is Mosconi, the one they call ‘the lucky one?’”

I pointed to Tony and the Colonel handed him the cigars while grinning at Tony’s quizzical expression. “Chase said these are for you, to celebrate your ‘getting lucky in love’ as he tells it. Seems word from Army censors is there’s a gal in New York who’s been looking to get in touch; claiming you’re going to be a Da-a-a-a-dy,” he teased, mimicking a bleating ewe. “Chase said you’d understand.”

“Hey, Tony!” one of the men blurted. “I betcha them sheep ain’t the only one’s ‘noivous’ now!”

Tony ignored scattered snickers while accepting the cigars with silence.

“That’s it for now, gentlemen. Showers and hot meals are ready when you are. Then you’re to get some rest and plenty of it. My staff has orders to see to your every need or they’ll have hell to pay. So speak up. I’ll let you know when you’re to depart for England.”

Before parting, Col. Flanary faced me, and this time his expression was stern. “I’ll give you a moment to unwind with your men, Zecca, but you’d better be in medical within the hour. One hour; not a minute longer. And that’s an order, lieutenant. Are we clear on that?”

Yes, sir.”

“Good. As you were, gentlemen.” He flashed a casual group salute and abruptly left.

Presto left the citations with me and immediately began passing out mail as I claimed a small space in the back of the shop where it felt good to lean back against the wall and close my eyes for a bit.

Ah, dear old England in two days. I envisioned stretching out in a lush meadow, basking beneath a warm summer sun. On a nearby hillside, sheep were grazing between fields of dense yellow rape flowers. In the distance I can see gingerbread cottages lining the streets of a small village. Shopkeepers are chatting with townsfolk as rosy-cheeked youngsters munch on Hershey treats we’ve left behind.

Things sure are different here in Normandy, I sighed.

Serene daydreams of England vanished, replaced by disparaging images of once-thriving French towns reduced to smoldering ruins. Acres of rich farmland were strewn with the bloated bodies of soldiers and farm animals rotting amidst twisted remains of war machinery.

Town after town, we encountered pockets of tattered elderly and orphaned children, many of them homeless and living like field mice within the ruins, their only meal a scavenged potato or K-rations pilfered from the dead.

Besieged villagers may have greeted us with tears of joy, but as corks popped from champagne bottles and Normandy’s more potent apple brandy the locals call ‘calvados,’ toasting gaunt and forlorn faces numbed from four years of Nazi occupation were bittersweet celebrations.

I suppose D-Day will mean we’ll be memorialized as liberators, the redemption of a Nazi-free Europe. Perhaps for my English cousins the invasion will be seen more like a vengeance for the Blitzkrieg and bitter memories of Dunkirk; or maybe help erase the blind apathy and ill-fated political decisions that led to such atrocities in the first place. But for me, the invasion will mean something more of a personal payback.

I’ll never forget my first night bivouacked in England. Air-raid sirens not only woke me from a sound sleep, but to the stark realities of war. All the while I was peeking through blackout curtains, I realized just how naive and complacent people tend to be in the States. At that moment I became incensed with rage. My eyes remained fixed on the glowing horizon as tons of German bombs rained down on ill-fated civilians, many trapped beneath burning rubble as each explosive whumph was close enough to rattle my window.

To many folks in the states, this is a distant war, a newspaper story— a foreigner's problem. They have no idea what it's like here. Aside from rationing, they have been spared the horrors of what Europeans have been going through for five years. Americans have enjoyed civil stability and couldn’t begin to fathom having their homes invaded, their neighborhoods shelled, or of pleading for the life of a kneeling loved one about to be shot in the head by a smug, luger-wielding executioner.

And speaking of fate? I've learned she can be quite the indiscriminate, temperamental wench at times. I thought more about the landings, of how such an improbable task of planning and logistical nightmares were kept secret for so long only to have the invasion teeter on the brink of disaster after a freakish mother nature nearly scuttled the biggest armada in history.

Severe weather forced the first invasion fleet to turn back. A British Coxswain said it was the roughest channel he’d seen in over twenty years at sea. We got underway the following day but continued poor weather and faulty planning still caused massive losses of critical support armor, supplies, and so many lives. I saw fully manned landing crafts capsize a mile from shore. Several of the sorry s.o.b.’s who did manage to pop to the surface were passed by, their outstretched arms and desperate pleas for rescue were ignored, leaving them to drown like jettisoned vermin.

We were part of the second assault wave steering toward assigned sectors on Omaha; thirty trembling greenhorns huddled together in a small LCA, fighting sea sickness and abject fear knowing that ramp was about to drop and expose us to our own fates.

Previous landings along the five-mile strand ran headlong into fierce resistance. Obscured by haze and thick acrid smoke, the skipper turned our craft parallel to the shoreline and cruised for several hundred yards, looking for a gap between mined obstacles. He finally eyed a suitable spot, but a much larger seagoing LCI cut us off, heading for the same opening. We were closer, but our CO ordered the skipper to throttle back.

‘Let ‘em go!’ Lt. C.B. Estes yelled, ‘but cruise up tight on her ass and wait ‘til she’s about to lower her ramps, then gun your engines and peel away from her flank as fast as you can.’

The moment that LCI hit the beach, artillery and mortars opened up. We watched in horror as pinpointed shelling exploded amongst the wading men. Three more direct hits disintegrated the LCI’s bow and mid-sections; two-hundred men lost in the blink of an eye. We never saw any of those poor bastards again. Under C.B.’s instinctive leadership, he kept his wits about him when others hadn’t. He used the LCI as a shield, its 20mm cannons drawing fire so we could make it to the beach intact.

Dozens of landing crafts, artillery, and tanks were sunk or burning. The beaches were awash in the blood and bodies of dead and terribly wounded, many writhing in agony as we scurried past. The number of casualties was appalling.

We lost about a third of our company during the first forty-eight hours. It was a sickening, grotesque carnage I could not have imagined. I saw boots with partial legs still in them, organs and lengths of intestines hanging from obstacles. Big strapping men near Woofie’s size were so terror-stricken, they were leaning against sandy berms, unable to move, convulsing and crying open-mouthed like month-old babies.

Enough of this! I scrunched my eyes along with rising emotions while trying to expunge such horrific images from my mind. Fingering Chase’s letter in my good hand helped bring relief. I thought of Chase while opening the envelope, especially remembering the day when C.B. announced Chase was to report to General Bradley's staff; the same day I was upgraded to sergeant. Chase’s opening words mentioned how busy they keep him, and that he really enjoys knowing and working with the General. Moving on to the next paragraph, my heart began pounding. I couldn’t believe what I was reading; my eyes renewing its battle with tears of euphoric joy.

“Everybody, listen up! I have great news about our Little Mackie— he’s alive! The tough little rascal's alive and recovering well, Chase says!”

Ah, for the wondrous resilience of youth, I paused for a second to reflect, blessing Little Mackie's soul before reading more of Chase’s news aloud to the men.

“Chase says: ‘I’ve been checking in on him. The docs say he’s still in guarded condition but is going to make it. When my CO had relayed Kirk’s radio message that Mac was on his way in but warned to expect him DOA, I took leave and rushed to meet them anyway. When he arrived, doctors were flabbergasted and said the field medics should be given a medal just for keeping him alive. Except for the weakest pulse, Little Mac was all but dead. Then, the strangest thing happened, Zeck— as if it were a blessed miracle. When I held his hand on the way into OR, he could barely open his eyes but seemed to recognize me, and though faint, he managed that silly impish grin of his. I have to admit, Vince. I couldn't help myself; seeing Little Mac as he was; hanging on to life by the thinnest of threads brought me to tears.

“‘Docs said Mac was miraculously lucky, that one bullet missed his spine by a quarter inch that would have killed him instantly. After multiple operations and a blood transfusion, they say he’s recovering nicely. He's propped up in bed and was just awarded the Medal of Honor by Bradley himself. It appears he’s regained enough of his old spunk to keep the nurses in stitches, too. In fact, I think he’s in love. I’m told the wily rascal has a lovely British nurse fussing over him every day. She’s a tiny, but frisky little blonde with an unusual first name of “Sterling”. He’s always pulling puns with everyone in the ward, saying: ‘pound for pound, Sterling’s a keeper, and y’can take that to the bank.’”

“Hallelujah!” and “God bless our Little Mackie,” several shouted, aware they owe their lives to the pint-sized Scotsman. Somewhere amongst my doleful emotions I managed to find a welcomed smile while finishing the rest of Chase’s letter alone so the men could get back to their own mail.

‘I got more good news and some bad,’ Chase continued. ‘First the bad. Pensive failed to take the Triple Crown, costing me a double C-note and two bottles of good scotch on the Belmont. And that goes for your "Triple Crown" omens, too, because none of us will be going home anytime soon, that I can promise. But the good news is, you boys weren’t here this time, or you’d have kissed your money goodbye, too.

‘Yes, Pensive, our can't-miss sure thing that we were so fixed on, got beat a half-length by a long-shot called “Bounding Home.” And talk about long-shots, Zeck, get this. A small horse called “Bull Dandy” took third at a whopping 120-to1. He was a nobody, a pure sprinter touts said defied all reason he was even entered in the race, that he’d never handle the Belmont's 1 1/2 miles. But illogical as it seems, the speedy little horse hung in there and nearly won it only 2 lengths back. Turf writers said that when the gate opened, he ran like a horse possessed; “the little horse with the biggest of hearts,” they said.

Well ‘gotta go now, my friend. I better get back to duties. Take care of yourself, Vince, and give my regards to the squad. PS: Assuming the Lucky One is true to form, I’m dying to know how Tony reacted to my note and the cigars. Ha ha.’ Stay well, Chase.

Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Unbelievable. Tony’s chance pick of 'Bounding Home' from my hat won the Belmont— beating Pensive with Little Mac’s pure sprinter finishing only two lengths back at over 100-to-1 odds? It may seem crazy to you, Chase, but let me tell you something, son, I do indeed believe it! This was beyond crazy— more like a supernatural omen as Tony always used to say when allowing more recollections to creep into my head.

A few of us went for drinks at the Red Lion the night before we learned the invasion was on, each of us having a good time while getting to know the squad's two new guys when talking up the weekend's Triple Crown. Presto’s sobering words still haunt me: ‘think of it, fellas,' he said. 'Man O' War broke his maiden in his first start on June 6th, and it looks like we're gonna do the same. You know, become men o’ war in our first mission where we'll be leaving our youth behind forever.’

I also remember making Frazer our banker as everybody tossed five quid into a blind betting pool and picked horses from my cap. When Little Mac caught Bull Dandy as the longest shot in the field, everyone needled him. Tony especially, who goaded him into making a side bet against Tony's Bounding Home, although another hopeful at 30-to-1. 'I ain't worried, chump,' Tony boasted. 'Ain't no way your Mac-a-Doodle-Dandy will get the distance. He’ll be lucky to make it through his warm-up gallops without spittin' the bit, for crissake. By the time your bum comes ploddin' home with his tongue draggin' in the doit, the war will be over.' The rest of us burst into laughter when Tony added his quirky blessing, 'Dominic's for biscuits' for finality when feigning a priest's anointment of Mac's forehead.

Taunts and bantering aside, at the time there was no doubt in my mind each of us had silently identified with our equine counterparts. We were young trainees as well, our bodies hardened and our psyche abuzz with naïve but bated confidence. Perhaps even a tad envious of Frazer who flaunted his coveted Pensive— convinced he would be the certain victor to capture the year's Triple Crown.

We may have had the glint of battle in our eyes, but I guarantee each of us were silently troubled, our minds secretly calculating what our personal odds would be of finishing, let alone of hitting the board when that LC gate busts open. Mac countered Tony's teasing by boasting, 'go ahead and laugh, cuz all you guys are gonna see will be my ass and elbows sprinting across the beaches of Belmont over yonder. And wouldn't y'know it I reflected; Tony's 'Bounding Home' wins it with Little Mac's 'Bull Dandy" only two lengths back with the rest of us looking at Mac’s backside to the wire... just as Mac predicted.

I glanced at Tony, now sprawled on his back, his head atop a helmet and sucking on a cigar while reading his mail. A sudden spike of dizziness tested my ability to remain conscious. The nausea seems to be getting worse, forcing me to steady myself to keep from fainting. I closed my eyes and resumed thoughts of Chase’s words.

Kiss our money goodbye, you said? If you only knew, Chase; if you only knew. We lost a hell of a lot more than a bundle bet on Pensive, my friend— all of it wrapped in Army drab.

My emotions again whirled, this time failing to prevent a few tears from slipping beneath my eyelids when visioning gruesome images of Frazer’s head, an arm, and chunks of bloodied uniform scattered everywhere. The poor soul never heard the fluttering sound of a mortar that followed him into an old shell hole. In retrospect, maybe it was best he held our betting pool— a little bit of us all to forever remain at his side.

All Frazer ever wanted was to entertain, to make people happy with his extraordinary talents. Courtesy of Ann Miller, a Cinderella promise awaited him in Hollywood, a chance to fulfill dreams of a better life for his family, and to vindicate his mother's sacrifices. Their only testament now? A lousy gold star pinned to a flag in some rundown row-house in Philly. I can picture his wife with their newborn in her arms, the doorbell rings and the dreaded telegram is placed into a trembling, denying hand.

I opened my eyes a tad when I heard Presto approaching and hurriedly smudged embarrassing tears mixed with a layer of grime on my cheeks. He handed me two letters from home and a third from Tony’s sister, Alyssa. That one made my heart swell.

Letters from home are more than news, but more like medicine to help erase the insanities of war. Yet mail can also be a double-edged sword— death letters we called them in the field. I’ve seen ‘Dear John’ letters tear the heart out of the toughest men in the Army, even endanger lives of buddies if crucial focus is torn from anything but the task at hand. I’m dying to know what the raven-haired beauty has to say, but decide to read it later, after I’ve seen the Docs as ordered.

I again glanced at Tony. I can’t imagine if losing him, of failing my promise to Alyssa. There’s no denying it. I love my Tony— my surrogate little brother, my best friend who I've been really worried about lately.

For the first time since Picauville, I'm pleased to see him grinning. He’s been distant and listless, a sullen soul far removed from the glib ‘Joisey’ devil I’m so fond of. Though Mac earned the Medal of Honor that day, Tony is unaware I’m holding a Silver Star and Purple Heart for him. I’ve heard it said: ‘hell knows no fury like a woman scorned,’ but I beg to differ after witnessing a personal rage I’d never thought possible in human beings.

After crossing the Elle River, we approached a tiny village with few buildings. Normally, we could have walked through town in minutes, but a pocket of Germans opened fire in ambush and pinned us down. We were caught with little cover and only the river to our backs.

Mac was at the point and had been hit. Though seriously wounded, he refused evacuation and waved us back. Firing his machine gun, he single-handedly repelled more than one assault, giving us all a chance to seek cover and regroup.

During a brief lull, Mac spotted a downed man exposed to sniper fire and crawled to his aid. Stalling yet another assault, Mac managed to apply a tourniquet and morphine, saving the soldier’s life. Weak from loss of blood himself, he struggled with dragging a man twice his size to safer ground when two German riflemen deliberately took aim at a wounded man, shooting Mac twice more in the lower back. We watched with fervid horror as Little Mac’s body snapped from the impact, his face twisted with agony as he fell limply into the dirt.

But it was Tony who exploded with satanic fury. He sprang from cover and rushed the Krauts, darting from building to building, tree to tree, dodging bullets while tossing grenades into windows, or blazing his BAR at anything that moved.

I had been shot in the hand and could only use my .45 when following Presto to mop up after Tony’s onslaught. Unfeeling, and at point blank, I plugged every son-of-a-bitch I found still alive.

Zirger’s bazooka first silenced snipers firing from the church steeple. Under covering fire from the rest of us, he then angled across the street and scored a bull’s-eye on the light machine gun emplacement Tony was charging, killing all except for two riflemen who had turned and fled. But the enraged Tony did not stop.

Driven by a demonic fury and despite the Browning’s heavy weight, Tony ran in an all-out sprint until he caught the fleeing bastards who had shot Little Mac, cutting them down before they could even think about surrendering. He stood over their bodies, wild-eyed with tailings of tears on his cheeks, uttering only guttural sounds through clenched teeth like a crazed fiend from hell. Moments later after regaining his breath, he walked away without saying a word to me or anyone.

After making sure Mac and the other wounded were evacuated, I spotted Tony sitting on a chunk of concrete, shivering as if he were squatting naked in an icebox. I knelt beside him and tried talking to him, but nothing I said seemed to register, so I only held him until he stopped shaking.

I noticed a sleeve and both pant legs were perforated, but his only injuries were a superficial graze to his neck and a deep open gash where a bullet had torn through his forearm. Still silent and emotionless, he never winced as I gently cleansed his wounds and applied sulfa powder and bandages. I passed my hand before his eyes, but they remained blank, his stare fixed on the horizon. I didn’t know where in his mind he had disappeared to, but thought it best to leave him there.

Until seeing him grinning now, Tony had been different ever since, barely saying two words to anyone— including me. He’d withdrawn into a lifeless humanoid possessed by a frenzied hatred for Germans. He’s not alone. Many of the men seem driven beyond emotion, reduced to a bevy of blank faces with sunken eyes drained of every ounce of human spirit. All of them are my responsibility— my men ever since C.B. was killed.

His death was a terrible shock. Fear and confusion were hard to overcome, but I kept true to my promise and picked up the baton, somehow managing to maintain cohesion when recalling the value Cy had placed on good CO’s. I prayed to be at least half as good as C.B. had been for us.

And what a godsend you turned out to be, Cyrus Clemens. I can still picture that old geezer sitting on his favorite barstool at Doogan’s, stuck on yet another crossword and mumbling to a mute Murphy, Doogans' bartender, with no idea how many lives are in his debt. I learned more from him in that morgue-of-a-bar than from any lectures proffered by puffed-up peacocks from West Point. Cy’s WWI exploits taught me to pay keen attention to physical clues in the battlefield, like the differences in tracks made by local farm machinery versus military.

Heavy rains prior to the landings had softened the ground. It was dusk as we crept along hedgerows near the coastal village of Colleville when I spotted several broken branch ends, trodden grass clumps, and an odd width of wheel tracks running parallel to old wagon ruts.

I showed C.B. and we carefully followed until they veered off across a small paddock and into a dense grove of apple trees. C.B. ordered us to fall back and to lay rock-still under brushy cover until after dark. We welcomed the chance for rest until well into the gloom of night before C.B ordered Kirk to radio for a rolling barrage of huge fourteen-inch naval guns.

We were lucky to have Kirk. Aside from his talents, I admired his guts and unfailing stamina for keeping up with seventy pounds of radio equipment strapped to his body. To the enemy, radiomen with their give-away antennae meant ‘officers attached,’ prime targets for concentrated machine gun and mortar fire.

Kirk’s radioed coordinates were brilliant. C.B. was so confident in Kirk’s reports, he had us following artillery salvos so close I could feel the heat flashes from shell bursts silhouetting our movement.

We scurried across the glade and found a battery of nine murderous 88s unattended under camouflage. As the Jerries cowered under cover pending a cease fire, we slipped in and planted noiseless thermite grenades, welding every breech and traverse mechanism useless. We got out undetected, but C.B. saved his best ‘Kilroy-was-here’ kiss for last.

He had Kirk radio a cease fire but told the Navy to stand by with precise coordinates. We dug in, counting the minutes. When C.B. figured the Krauts were convinced the shelling had stopped, the first thing they would do upon emerging would be to check on their precious 88s. Once he figured the timing was right, C.B. ordered the Navy to ‘light ‘em up,’ we picking off stragglers trying to flee.

During the remaining hours of darkness, we hunkered down along a hedgerow to steal much needed rest. The bombardment had ceased, but to say it had been a quiet night would have been to ignore the relentless moans from German casualties begging for medical relief that never came.

Destroying unmanned artillery was one thing, but taking out a heavily fortified pillbox was another, the one earning C.B. a posthumous Distinguished Service Cross. Driven by pure guts and his cool and collected calm during the heat of battle, C.B. led our human mule, Woofie, and four others hefting fifty-pound beehive charges and gallons of gasoline up an embankment while under fire. After setting the fuses against the bunker, C.B. braced to cover his men until they could scramble to safety. It was then he caught a machine gun burst in the face. Moments later, the pillbox went up like Mt. Etna. After the flames had dissipated, it was charred but still intact with no sign of damage to the concrete.

We cursed failure, but Woofie was manic seeing C.B.’s headless body in the distance. He chanced a second run at it alone, spraying the structure with machine gun fire, but received none in return. We followed, and after Zirger blasted an opening, we encountered an entire German squad inside, twenty-three men literally cooked to death. Recalling the ghastly scene, the stench of burned and twisted bodies with eyes and mouths locked in silent screams is making me gag— just like Cy said it would.

Words, Cy? They’re all meaningless over here, my wise and grizzled friend. Oh, you tried, but there are no words to prepare a soldier for what I’ve witnessed. Cold, unfeeling words can be erased, but I’ll never forget the vile coating war leaves on the palate after a blazing sun has begun its work on bodies left to rot like road kills.

Glory? Victory? Ha, more empty words. We never felt any emotional rush of glory or victory. Not even remorse, only numbed indifference weaving our way through senseless carnage and dying men crying for their mothers with nothing ahead except more of the same.

How does one describe the insanity— of what it’s like to crawl over a dying buddy, of feeling his breath feather your cheek while ignoring his futile pleas for life as he lies there, holding his innards in blood-soaked hands trying to keep them from slopping into the dirt?

Can simple words convey the heart-stopping jolt of a bullet pinging off the side of a helmet, only a head-bob from going through an eye? What words could possibly relay the bowel-loosening terror of lying in a foxhole trying to curl a six-foot body into a six-inch ball, bouncing with the heaving earth as horrendous concussions are raining closer to your four-foot patch of real estate?

Impossible, Cy— there are no words.

Wooziness and hot flashes were getting worse as I looked about the room at my men— my comrades-in-arms. Damned good buddies with whom I’d laughed, partied, ate, and drank. I remember them as once bright, young faces… now aged three decades in as many weeks, their furrowed brows testament to having been pushed to the limits of human endurance.

We met as strangers, yet have become brothers for life. They’re my family now— my frazzled, battle-weary bunch of siblings I’ve come to know and love. I now understand the soulful look in Cy’s eyes when he impressed upon me the unique feeling of a ‘battlefield love’ he said is never talked about.

Good ol’ Cy, bless his heart. If I do manage to make it home alive, I too can see myself as a fat-and-forgotten old veteran, sitting in some rat-hole tavern doing a crossword while sipping a lonely beer. Some smart-ass kid in uniform will then barge in, offer to buy me a beer and prod me to open my satchel of war stories. Yeah, I’ll oblige, but pray to God the perky little bastard will have enough sense to listen— to both of us, Cy.

A chill violently rattled my body for a second time. My face and forehead are covered with perspiration, now a mass of muddy slime since I’ve given up trying to stop the tears from flowing. I can’t help it. I keep seeing their faces— faces of young Schmidt’s with terrified eyes pleading for life as I snuffed them from a foot away.

Oh God! Please forgive me! I retched but couldn’t vomit; my throat clogged with false bile. I barely managed to pull my knees to my chin and openly wept— my soul reeling from absolute disgust and shame. What kind of repulsive creature have I become? I hate myself. Do you hear that, God? I hate myself! Please— please save me from this damnable madness.

I’m trembling and having trouble breathing. I tried curling tighter against my knees to muffle the sobs, fearing the others will think their leader is falling apart. But it’s no use. Another suppressed sob squeaked out when suddenly, I felt an arm slide across my shoulders as a familiar voice intoned softly in my ear.

“It’s okay, paisan,” Tony whispered, pulling my head to his chest. “Go ahead, let it out... let it all out. Youse got nuttin’ to be ashamed of. You never failed us, boss— especially me ever since we first hooked up at Grand Central.”

Reaching up with my good hand, I squeezed Tony’s arm with all the affection I could muster as he cradled my head against his chest.

“Jesus, ya burnin’ up.” Tony gently pulled my arm over his shoulder, and slowly lifted. “Come on, ya big galoot. Y’gotta get up. Come on, easy does it.”

Presto had joined us and supported my other side. I was feeling really dizzy and needed steadying, my hand and forearm throbbed with intense pain. My vision blurred from a mix of tears and nausea, but do think I saw Tony smiling. Is my Tony back to his old self, I wonder?

“Easy, Vince, one step at a time.” Tony whistled to Zirger as he guided me through a maze of bodies. “Find a jeep and on the double,” Tony barked, “even if ya hafta yank the driver from behind the wheel.”

Filthy and unfed, Zirger is one of the few still awake. He’s been absorbed in his packet of mail but on Tony's order, he was on his feet and out the door before I could take another step. I had to smirk at Zirger, knowing the gruff and rugged Private as I do. The all-business s.o.b. will likely take pleasure in Tony’s order and wait for an occupied jeep while standing in a lot of empties.

“What are y’grinnin’ at now, ya big slug? Jesus, will ya look at that mug? Looks like ya been eatin’ mud pies, f’crissake.” Tony’s smile widened. “We’re almost there, big guy. We gotta get that hand taken care of— and pronto, or my kid won’t have an uncle to brag about and Alyssa will surely fry my tail along with her next batch o’ meatballs.”

My body twitched to the sudden warmth of the sun as I crossed the threshold. While waiting for the jeep, I noticed a column of transports loaded with replacements about to leave the village.

They’ll be breaking their maidens next, the poor slobs. “Keep yer heads down and asses even lower,” I mumbled, recalling the last words Ol’ Cy had said to me when leaving Doogan’s.

“Jeep’s here,” Presto announced.

The three of them ignored my feeble protests and hoisted me atop a litter across the rear deck. The moment I was prone, every ounce of energy seemed to leave my body. I closed my eyes to savor the scent of the sea carried inland from the channel, the sun’s rays refreshing my dream of an English meadow. I’m lying among blankets of yellow flowers wavering in a gentle breeze. My muscles feel as if they’re sliding off my bones when suddenly, a sharp fiery pain jarred me alert.

“Sorry, Vince. I had to tuck ya hand in.” Tony smiled and gently feathered mud from around my eyes and cheeks. The instant our eyes met, I was overcome with a wondrous sense of peace flooding my body. I know now without an inkling of doubt, that at some point I too will be ‘bounding home’ myself— and to hell with any crazy odds, cuz where my ‘lucky' Tony goes, I goes too.




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