Love is a Wounded Soldier (28 page)

~~~

On the morning of the fifth day, I was
awakened by a nearby commotion. I heard garbled shouts and calls for a medic,
so I got half dressed and crawled out of my tent as fast as I could.

The eastern sky was just beginning to
lighten. Ghostly figures of men scurried out of tents like ants and congregated
around a tent a hundred yards from me. I ran toward the crowd and cleared a
pathway through to the door of the tent.

A shirtless Doc Clayton was already there,
kneeling beside a lifeless body in the light of several flashlights and a
lantern. Blood was spattered all over the inside of the tent. The medic shook
his head. “Goddamnit!” he yelled. Anger, sadness, and helplessness pulled his
face in different directions. He grabbed his bag, pushed past me without
acknowledgement, and disappeared into the crowd.

I quickly moved to kneel beside the body.
It was recently promoted Sergeant Donald Rudd. His rifle lay beside him. The
top of his head was blown off.

 “Show’s over,” I told the onlookers,
taking the lantern from a faceless body and closing the front flap of the tent.
I felt the stickiness of blood on my fingers. I looked up at Private Daniel Finch,
a fresh-faced replacement from New York City who shared Donny’s tent. The
stunned look of horror on his face quickly dismissed any possibility that he’d
had any hand in Rudd’s death. He was shaking all over. This was obviously not
how he’d envisioned he’d see his first death in action.

“So . . . what can you tell me, Finch,” I
asked.

“Well, I, uh, s—sir, well . . . he, he,
uh,” he stammered through quivering lips.

“Hang on,” I held up my hand for him to
stop and rifled through Rudd’s pockets until I found a couple of cigarettes and
a lighter. I lit one and handed it to Finch, and lit one for myself.

“Thanks,” he said, and I waited until he
blew smoke in a steady stream instead of ragged puffs before questioning him
further.

“Go on,” I prompted.

“Well, last night, Sergeant Rudd began
muttering strange nonsense as soon as we went to bed. Just talking crazy, about
how he was the toughest motherfucker around, and how sick he was of sitting on
his hands when there were more Krauts to kill. Then he started singing ‘I’m a
fightin’ man that’s what I am’ over and over and over. He must have sung it a
thousand times. Well, I just lay there, listening to it for hours. I didn’t
know what to do. He sounded nuts! Anyway, I finally got so tired, I fell asleep
in spite of it around two hundred hours. Next thing I remember is waking up to
a loud bang, and . . . and . . .” he trailed off, making a spastic gesture
toward the body on the ground, as though he were shooing a fly.

“Thank you, private,” I said quietly. I
picked up Rudd’s pate by the hair, like one would grab a jack-o-lantern lid,
and turned it this way and that until it fit the jagged hole in the top of his
head.

Then I found some twine, looped it
carefully over the loose piece of skull, and tied it tight around his chin like
a bonnet string. A traumatized Private Finch looked on, bewildered, as I wiped
my bloody hands on the sleeve of Donny’s uniform. My own calmness surprised
and, in some ways, alarmed me.

“I like to bury my men with as many of
their parts as I possibly can,” I explained as I opened the front of the tent.
I looked at the blood sprayed on the walls. “I’m guessing you’re going to want
to find different accommodations.”

I stepped into the warm embrace of the
sunrise. My throat knotted up as I thought about how poor Donny Rudd had seen
his last one.

Breakfast went down hard that morning.
Waking up to the bloody carcass of your friend does little to whet the
appetite.

“What was all the ruckus about this
morning?” Private First Class Everett Lane asked through a mouthful of biscuit.

“Yeah, I heard there was some excitement on
the other side of camp, but I’ve gotten about fifty different stories,” Charlie
Reid piped up.

“Fella got killed, is what I heard,” Leroy
Green contributed.

As I gulped down some hot coffee, I felt
all eyes on me, expectantly waiting for me to confirm or deny the rumors they
had heard. I set down my empty cup on the table and flicked it with my
fingernail.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
I picked it back up and stared at its
empty bottom. The men remained silent.

“Yeah, a man died this morning,” I said
finally. The silence hung like a heavy smoke. My tablemates scanned the room,
looking to see if they could account for someone missing.

“Who?” Johnny finally ventured.

“Sergeant Rudd,” I replied. My words fell
with a thud.

“Aw, Christ!” Charlie muttered, shaking his
head.

“What happened?” Leroy asked. I filled my
cheeks with air and slowly let it escape.

“Friendly fire,” I replied. A dozen pairs
of eyes inquired “self-inflicted or homicide?”

“I, uh—I believe Sergeant Rudd felt he’d
made his contribution to the war, so he removed himself from any possibility of
further participation,” I answered the unspoken question carefully. I looked
up. Every man knew what I meant.

“Pussy!” Eddie Gunn snorted under his
breath. Everyone ignored him. No one touched their food for a moment. We all
sat soberly, reflecting on the life and death of Donny Rudd.

“Good for him.” Johnny murmured. “Good for
him.”

~~~

Two days after Donny Rudd put a bullet in
his brain, I was instructed to assemble the platoon. We’d rested for one week.
My heart sank to my knees, and I could instantly feel my palms prickle with
sweat. I would have done anything to get out of telling the men that they were
being sent back to hell. Before I’d even spoken a word, they knew. Some
groaned, some looked pained, and a few looked visibly ill. Faces whose color
had been revived from seven days of rest became ashen. We broke camp in grim
silence. Men put their war faces back on. We became warriors once more.

We assembled on the road and en-trucked
onto troop-carrying trucks, destined for the combat zone.

Dusk settled as we loaded up. Engines
grunted, gears ground their teeth, and the groaning two-ton trucks set off
toward the certainty of bloodshed. Smoking and talking were forbidden, so we
sat hunched over in silence. Each of us knew what everyone else was thinking.
It was worse than D-Day, because this time, we veterans were fully aware of
what awaited us.

I looked at Private Finch. After having a
man commit suicide in front of him three days after he’d been assigned to our
platoon, I assumed his mental bedrock had already begun shifting. He rocked
gently back and forth, muttering some sort of silent mantra. He looked
petrified. I looked away sadly and thought, “You poor fuck! You don’t even
know.”

And so we pushed for Germany once again.
Private Finch demonstrated a steadiness of mind that surprised me, and proved
himself to be a dependable soldier—for the 36 hours he lived before stepping on
a Teller mine.

~~~

September 28th,
1944, Aachen, Germany

Dear Darling,

How are you? I
truly hope you are doing well. I miss you so.

I am faring very well. We have been
making splendid progress in driving back the Nazis, and have now crossed the
French/German border. While in reality it’s only a matter of moving several
feet, crossing that border is very symbolic, both to us and the Germans. It has
filled our boys with so much optimism. Some are talking once again about being
home for Christmas, but most of us have learned our lesson about making foolish
predictions. However, hope is flowing through our veins. We feel like we are
now knocking on Hitler’s door, and it’s just a matter of time before we beat
that door down.

I hope you haven’t fallen prey to the
fear mongering that I’ve heard has been going on in the States. Several fellows
told me their families back home have written and told them that the media has
been giving outrageously horrid reports about our conditions. From the sounds
of it, they have been inflating casualty numbers to the point where it would
appear we soldiers have endured terrible carnage. It’s really quite a travesty.
I myself read an old news article last week that strayed so far from the truth,
I wondered if the reporter who wrote it has actually set foot on the Continent,
because what he described does not in any way resemble the situation we’re in.
Our progress hasn’t been without its challenges, but I think I can safely say
the worst is over, and some of the optimism felt among the lads is indeed
warranted.

How did your garden fare this summer?
Did you get much canned for the winter? I must admit, our rations are edible,
but just thinking about fresh vegetables or canned goods makes my mouth water.
I do miss my ma’s pickles—I haven’t tasted them in years. I’m sure her recipes
must still be around somewhere. Perhaps next summer I’ll be home, and you can
make some of them for me. It’s a heavenly thought.

I remember going into the pantry late in
fall when I was a boy, just to look at the rows and rows of pickled cucumbers,
beans, beets, apples, meat—seemingly everything we could possibly need for the
winter. Having a well-stocked larder made me feel secure, much like having
plenty of hay or firewood stockpiled on cold winter nights. It’s a good feeling,
a comforting feeling. I hope you are sufficiently prepared.

Darling, sometimes I feel I repeat
myself in these letters of mine. The little news I have may change a little
from time to time as my location does, but there is always one constant thing I
always feel I must tell you, and that is that I love you and miss you. I hope
you know how much I delight in your letters, and take strength in the thought
of you. I face no greater hardship than being separated from you. The longer
I’m away from you, the more I seem to think about you and the glad day it will
be when I no longer have to worry about you from across the world.

For the past few days, I’ve had the same
beautiful, persistent fantasy, of me holding you by the warmth of a crackling
fire and stroking your captivating tresses. It’s a simple, but lovely thought,
and it soothes me when my spirit is troubled. Thank you for your beautiful
love. It is as vital to my life as the air I breathe. I love you so much, my
love.

Till we walk
hand in hand again,

Robbie

~~~

In the city of Aachen, we had to adapt to
urban warfare. We fought man-to-man, house-to-house, street-to-street. It was
in Aachen that I finally had enough of Crazy Eddie Gunn.

Eddie Gunn was a thorn in my side. He
simply had no comprehension of the tactical aspect of warfare. He seemed either
unable to calculate risk, or simply couldn’t be bothered. The only strategy in
his repertoire was: Come out with guns blazing. He was fearless, ruthless,
mindless, and at times, it seemed, indestructible. I’d seen him run through a
cloud of bullets countless times as though it was a harmless swarm of flies. It
seemed it amused Fate to allow the feckless to continue their madman routines,
but its relentless scythe cut down the timid prematurely.

Eddie was valuable as a raw weapon, but
there were times he was as dangerous to our side as the Germans’. Twice in
Normandy his overzealous actions had contributed to the injury of one of our
men. As the war progressed, Eddie became more and more of a loose cannon. By
the time we reached Aachen, Eddie was pushing me to my limits. Not long after,
he threw me over the edge.

~~~

“Aahhh, my eyes, my eyes!” Charlie
screamed.

“Do something, you goddamn fool!” Johnny
screamed at Eddie.

“Get a medic!” I ordered Eddie.

“Run!” I barked at him, infuriated by his
lack of urgency. He loped off, and I turned my attention back to the wounded
man on the floor.

“Help me!” I ordered Dick, and we gently
turned the prostrate Charlie over. He was not a pretty sight. I stared into
swollen, bloody eyes I knew would never see again.

“I can’t see, I can’t see!” Charlie
whimpered. “I can’t see!” His bright red lips glistened with blood. What he
couldn’t see is that his eyes were the least of his worries. His chest was torn
wide open on his right side. Ribs jutted out over the entrance of the cavernous
wound. Bits of bone swam in the frothy blood that doubtlessly bubbled from a
punctured lung.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I soothed. “Eddie’s
getting a medic.”

“Do you need some morphine?” I asked,
jabbing the needle into his arm before he could respond.

“W—water!” he gasped. Now his teeth were
bright red, too. I carefully poured a small amount of water into his mouth, but
it set off a violent coughing fit. “I—can’t—breathe!” he rattled.

“Stay with me, Charlie,” I squeezed his
hand. “Help is on the way.” Charlie was beyond help. “Ma—Ma—Ma!” He managed
weakly. His grip on my hand loosened. He was dead. I dropped his hand. I looked
at his almost unrecognizable face for a minute. I looked over at Dick and
Johnny, who were crouched on the other side of him. Anger lit both of their
eyes. I sighed. “Fuck!”