Love is a Wounded Soldier (18 page)

I don’t think as many men felt as deeply as
I did about leaving America. I wondered how many of us were seeing the last
glimpse we’d ever see of our homeland. It seemed a lot of my comrades didn’t
grasp the possible finality of it. Leaving my country was a turbulent feeling.
It felt like my insides were fixed to an invisible, elastic tether that was
fastened to the shore. The more distant the land became, the more tortured I
felt inside.

I watched Lady Liberty begin to become
obscured by mist and distance. She held her torch of freedom unwaveringly. She
symbolized all we would be fighting for, and I hoped to carry that torch with
me to Europe and bring some hope to those “huddled masses yearning to breathe
free.”

The land looked like hardly more than a
thread now, a line of demarcation between an ocean of water and a vast sea of
sky. The Lady became a speck. The upheaval in my gut crested. Heedless of those
around me, I stood at attention and saluted the evanescent Statue. Haze drew a
curtain on the shore, and it felt like the line that caused my inward turmoil
and attached me to home snapped. I wouldn’t fight fate. Whatever my destiny, I
would greet her graciously. I waved thanks and good-bye to the departing harbor
escort vessels, and went below the deck.

~~~

“You hungry for smoked fish?” Johnny Snarr
grinned at me and held up an over-achieving flying fish that had soared up onto
the deck. He’d put his cigarette in its mouth, but it didn’t look like the fish
was taking too well to smoking. I smiled wryly.

“It would be an improvement on rations,” I
agreed.

“Yeah, and we could even cook it if we
wanted to make it a special treat,” Johnny added, walking over to the rail to
toss it overboard. The British food was horrible. The war had taken its toll on
food supplies, and everyone suffered because of it, including us.

Johnny held the fish by the tail and tried
to drop it down headfirst into the water. He watched it fall, and wiped his
hands on the rail.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, looking up
toward the bow and clutching the railing with both hands. I felt a bump, and
ran drunkenly toward the rail as the ship shuddered and the deck tilted back
and forth. A throng of men gathered along the rail, and I threaded my gaze
through the heads and shoulders in front of me. I stared in stunned disbelief
at what was left of the HMS
Curacoa
, an antiaircraft light cruiser that
had been escorting us. It had collided with our vessel, and its bow, which had
been severed from the rest of the ship, scraped the side of the
Queen Mary
with its nose up. Some men watched in hushed horror, while others shouted in
terror.

“Jesus Christ, stop the ship!” a voice
screamed.

“Lower the goddamn lifeboats!” someone else
ordered.

“Life preservers!” I shouted, pushing my
way to the rail.

I flung a doughnut in the direction of a
half dozen thrashing sailors. Three of them saw it and frantically lunged for
it. Two of them were able to grab a hold, and several fellows assisted me in
pulling them to safety.

A frenzied effort to throw life preservers
to drowning sailors ensued. Men bobbed like toys in the water, screaming for
help, screaming for us to stop. But the
Queen Mary
steamed on ahead. It
was strictly a military decision. They wouldn’t jeopardize twelve thousand men
for several hundred, so all we could do is try to save as many as we could.

Ninety-eight were eventually rescued, but
332 perished in our wake, just a few hundred miles from our destination. We
watched, stunned, as clouds of black smoke billowed into the clear sky from the
bisected craft. The point of its bow reared up toward heaven, like the snout of
a mighty sea monster in the throes of death giving one last, valiant struggle
for life. The sea subdued it, and the mortally wounded half-vessel sank
backward into the Atlantic, the ocean inhaling ship and smoke, and burping up
bubbles and steam.

“What the hell happened?” Leroy Green asked
nobody in particular. His eyes mirrored the horror felt among the hundreds of
men that watched the
Queen Mary
churn ahead, leaving the ocean to lap up
the living, the dead, and the dying.

Frankie De Luca stayed true to form,
working himself into a panicked frenzy. “We’ve been hit!” he babbled to me.
“We’re gonna sink!” I ignored him.

“Are we sinking? I think I can feel it
sinking!” he latched himself onto the next available ear.

“Jesus Christ, Twitch, give your head a
shake!” Tech Sergeant Pete Santos snapped at him. Frankie simmered down a
little. We were all worried about meeting the same fate as the
Curacoa
’s
crew, but there was nothing to be gained from hysterical fits.

“Gentlemen!” a voice thundered from behind
a wall of men. I stood on my tiptoes to try and put a face to the voice, but to
no avail. “Our ship has sustained damage to a portion of her hull. However, the
hull is compartmentalized, and so there is no reason to fear that her
seaworthiness has been compromised. We expect to dock safely in Scotland in
several hours. In the meantime, all B-A-R men stand watch on the deck. May God
have mercy on the souls of the perishing.”

While we were relieved to hear our safety
was in no immediate danger, our minds were still consumed by the tragic blunder
we’d just witnessed.

~~~

The mood was still sober and reflective
hours later when we docked in Greenock, Scotland.

“Would you look at that!” Private First
Class Jedidiah Hankins stopped dead on the gangplank as we walked off the
Queen
Mary
on wobbly legs. He pointed to a gash in her bow you could have driven
a tank through. We all looked at the yawning hole, mouths agape, each of us
probably thinking it was a miracle we were still alive.

“The Lord was watching over us, that’s for
sure!” the preacher from Georgia said fervently, shaking his head.

“Damn rights!” Private Alistair McPhail
concurred with feeling. Looking at the extent of the damage, it seemed
difficult to believe that we’d just safely sailed for hours on the vessel.

We were greeted by a thin, damp wind, and a
British army band playing a lively tune. Smiling NAAFI (Navy, Army, Air Force
Institutes) girls provided us with small doughnuts and coffee. We warmed our
fingers around the steaming mugs of coffee as the blades of wind stabbed
through our uniforms, down to the bone. We marched on the spot to stay warm,
and many of the lads got their blood moving by flirting with the girls, who
seemed as happy receiving the attention as the fellows were in giving it.

Later that day, we boarded the London,
Midland, and Scottish Railway train, bound for the English midlands. I fell
asleep easily, waking up only a few times when my poker-playing compatriots
became a little raucous. I was becoming so used to change and transition, I
could sleep almost anywhere, under any conditions. This would be helpful on the
battlefield.

Our train pulled into the station in
Andover, England, about the same time daylight did. The sky was gloomy and
overcast, as though grudgingly complying with every stereotype of English
weather, so as to not disappoint us visitors.

We detrained, and the British
troop-carrying trucks that they called “lorries” transported us to Tidworth
Barracks on the Salisbury Plain. These barracks were a sorry sight compared to
what we were used to. The imposing red brick and wrought iron buildings made
the place look like a penitentiary, and the inside was stark and cold. A straw
mattress and a couple of GI blankets were all we had to sleep with on bunks
that were clearly designed for men shorter than me. It was perpetually cold in
there too, and sometimes I almost welcomed our bi-weekly, twenty-five mile
hikes. It seemed to be the only time we really warmed up.

We settled into the monotony of hard
training, sleep deprivation, and poor food. It seemed the British meals
consisted of anything meager and tasteless. We knew it couldn’t be helped, but
that didn’t stop us from complaining about the repetition.

Whenever we’d get to grousing within
earshot of a Limey, we’d be sure to get a bitter reprimand. “You know there is
a bloody war goin’ on, don’t you, Yank?” The whole country was weary of war.

As for us, the only bright spot in our
lives was when the mail came in. A letter and a package of food and sweets from
home provided a huge morale boost for a homesick soldier. Both were ripped open
and devoured, and fellows bartered and traded treats. The sugar seemed to
produce a state of gleeful magnanimity in us, and we lucky ones passed out
sweets to the boys that were less fortunate than us.

~~~

January 12,
1943, Tidworth Barracks, England

Dear Darling,

I pray you had a
blessed Christmas. I was glad to hear your family was holding Christmas at your
parents’ place. I hope it went well.

Did you get any snow for Christmas? My
English Christmas was bleak, drab, and dreary—much like any other day here,
except we were fed a Christmas feast, which I did thoroughly enjoy. Otherwise,
it was a lonely time for most of us. One could sense most of the lads were
wishing they were elsewhere for the holidays, and I suspect no one felt that
yearning more strongly than I did. I do hope and pray that it was the last
Christmas we must be apart, but I suppose what will be, will be.

Thank you for the package you sent. It
arrived just days before Christmas. The scarf you made me is beautiful and
warm, and is a much-appreciated defense against the damp chill of the English
winter. Moreover, it’s a beautiful reminder of you, a token of your love that
warms my heart whenever I see it. You also did a splendid job of sealing the
package of fudge. It was still quite fresh when I received it, and it tastes
heavenly. I’ve consumed most of it myself, but I allowed a few fellows some
small pieces of it, and word got around pretty quickly that Corporal Mattox’s
wife makes some mean chocolate fudge, so I’ve found it to be worth its weight
in gold for bartering with.

There have been some recent developments
in my life as a soldier. Last month, I applied to join the newly-formed U.S.
29th Ranger Battalion, and both Private Johnny Snarr and I were the only ones
from our company who were selected. It is an elite fighting force, and that
attracted many applications, though I think most of the fellows who applied had
visions of playing the hero. I was asked startling questions during my
interviews like, “Have you ever killed a man?” and, “Could you stick a knife in
a man—and twist it?” I presume questions like that prompted many to
second-guess their involvement with the Rangers. I, on the other hand, view it
more as an opportunity to develop my survival skills, should I, God forbid,
ever be put in a combat situation. Staying alive is more important to me than
any medal or commendation I could win, and so I hope this training may help me
to that end. I haven’t seen anyone die from training too hard—yet! I pray I
will never have to use the training I am receiving.

Last week I dreamt that Hitler had died
of tuberculosis. In my dream, I remember jubilantly celebrating with my mates,
ecstatic that the war was over, and that we wouldn’t have to fight. We were
hooting and hollering and firing our rifles in the air, and above the mayhem, I
shouted over to Johnny Snarr, “I can’t wait to go home. I can’t wait to see
Ellen.” I recall thinking, “This is too good to be true.” Well, it was. When I
awoke, I felt like crying. It depressed me for days. Even now, not a day goes
by that I don’t think, “Maybe today the war will be over. Maybe today Germany
will surrender. Maybe today Hitler will be killed.” Thus far, that day hasn’t
come. It may sound cowardly, but I hope that day comes before our training
ends.

Darling, it seems strange to think that
since we’ve been married, we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together. We
were married for such a short time before I left, yet I feel my life with you
is the only life I know, the only life I want, the only life that feels right.

It is said absence makes the heart grow
fonder. Whether that is true or not, I cannot tell, but what I know is that
being apart has made me yearn for the things about you I took so for granted,
all the things I love about you. I love the way you give selflessly of yourself
to me. I love your teasing smile when you’re playful, and the sound of your
laughter. I love the way your eyes can sparkle like the sea one minute, and the
next, draw me in with their smoky blue sultriness. I love seeing you let down
your hair in the dusky glow of candlelight, and watching it spill over your
bare shoulders with a tousled wildness that arouses a savage sort of love in
me. I love feeling the warmth of your skin when we lay together after you’ve
drained every drop of passion from my body. I love hearing you whisper, “I love
you, Robbie” in the darkness. I love you. And I miss you.

Till we walk
hand in hand again,

Robbie

~~~

As freshly-minted U.S. 29th Rangers we
began our training at Tidworth Barracks, and in 1943, we trained in numerous
locales, including the British Commando Depot in Scotland, and in Bude,
Cornwall. We were introduced to a whole new level of training intensity; half
of the men couldn’t cut it and dropped out. Some of them were kicked out, quite
literally. Each time I saw a fellow Ranger bite the dust, I just bore down a
little bit harder. Failure meant punishment and humiliation.