“Did I tell you that you were finished, dickhead?” Ross thundered. “Now you get down there and finish the job. I will let you know when you’re finished!” Johnny genuflected with rusty joints. He managed to produce a little saliva, and began the procedure over again. The rest of us watched restlessly. You could taste the tension in the air.
“That’s a good girl,” the captain praised him sarcastically. “Yessirree, I want those boots shiny like fuckin’ mirrors. I want to be able to see the bottom side of my pecker in ’em once you’re done.”
Johnny worked up some more saliva, but this time for speaking, not spitting. “Well, captain,” he said calculatingly, “I can shine ’em into mirrors, but it’d take a goddamn magician to make ’em into microscopes. Sir,” he added with a faint smile.
Captain Ross swung his foot back as though he had intentions of punting Johnny’s head. Johnny braced himself with eyes shut, but the captain’s judgment took effect just in time, and he checked his swing.
Now it appeared the captain had many things to say. But they must have gotten piled up on the expressway between his brain and his tongue, so all he managed at first were some incomprehensible vocalizations. Finally, one of them worked itself free.
“Private, you don’t know who you’re fucking with!” he sputtered. In his fury, he spewed out an assortment of things regarding revoking of passes and KP duties. Had he made a casual calculation of his threatened punishments, he would have realized that if he was to follow through, Johnny would have remained on the premises, peeling potatoes, well past the conclusion of the war.
“You—you don’t know who you’re fucking with!” He ended his tirade with no attempt at originality. He wheeled around and stalked off, his face florid with rage and embarrassment. We stood dumbly like sheep without a shepherd. Johnny stood up slowly. He held the handkerchief in front of him, and shook it out with both hands.
“Anyone else needin’ a shine?” he asked dryly. Hearty laughter drove the tension away.
~~~
That night I lay on my cot, reading Mark Twain’s A Tramp Abroad, and the book of Psalms, by turns. Most of my comrades had gone to town on a pass, or were otherwise engaged, and I was happy to enjoy a time of solitude.
“Hey, Mattox,” a voice quietly requested my attention. It was Johnny Snarr.
“Yeah?” I responded, wondering what he could possibly want.
“You wanna play cards?” he asked. I was surprised at the invitation. He wasn’t one to extend himself socially.
“Sure,” I answered, slipping a picture of Ellen in my Bible as a bookmark. Johnny produced a pack of cards from under his cot, walked toward me, and sat down on the cot beside mine, pulling the wooden crate I used as a nightstand in between us.
“Cigarette?” he offered. Playing cards and smoking cigarettes were two of the few things to do in the barracks, and I’d picked up both habits.
“Thanks,” I accepted, and he lit his Lucky Strike and then mine as I leaned forward. He clamped his cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he shuffled the cards.
He dealt, and we played in almost complete silence, making only the occasional comment about the game, if deemed necessary for its progress. I was feeling a little melancholic, and wasn’t about to try to elicit small talk from him to determine if he was in a chitchatting sort of mood.
“How do you like soldiering?” he inquired after twenty minutes of surprisingly comfortable silence.
“It’s taking some getting used to,” I admitted, “but I’m coming along.”
“Humph,” he nodded.
“You?”
He shook his head and made a face like he’d just eaten something distasteful.
“I don’t know,” he said, surprising me with the frustration and emotion in his voice. “I’m tired of being treated like a fuckin’ kid. Tired of them trying to humiliate us. All they’re lookin’ to do is break us down and replace our will with theirs, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let that happen. I’m not cut outta that bolt of cloth.”
I knew precisely what he meant. At times it felt as though my only assets were an able body and motor skills. But I was beginning to make sense of it all.
“I know what you mean. It seems like such bullshit. I mean, will a Kraut or a Jap care how you press your uniform when you run him through? But you know, they have to make us fight like a unit.” I put my cards down, took a drag from my cigarette, and exhaled a cloud of philosophy.
“There is the possibility—God forbid—that we could fight shoulder to shoulder someday, and we all need to know how the man beside us will react. Our training could be the difference between thinking, acting, and getting shot, or reacting instinctively, and staying alive.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you’ve got somethin’ there,” he conceded. We lapsed back into our respective contemplations.
“Got family?” he almost startled me with another personal question.
“A wife,” I nodded. “You?”
“A wife and a little girl,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a picture of a pretty little brunette holding a grinning, curly-headed tot who was maybe a year old. I studied it for a moment, and when I looked up, there was a proud warmth about his face. Eager to share now, I retrieved Ellen’s picture from my Bible and handed it to him. I searched his face for signs he was impressed with my beautiful wife, but if he was, he masked it well. He just nodded understandingly and handed it back.
“Yeah, that’s the worst part of this whole damn exercise,” he vented. “I can handle them bustin’ my ass and eating shitty food, but it’s being away from home that’s the worst of it.” I was stunned at how candid he was. His cards sat neglected in front of him, as he talked without removing the cigarette from the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Some days I’m pretty near worried sick about Ellen. She says she’s fine, but . . . who knows . . .” I trailed off and took a long drag. Our cards lay forgotten on the crate, and we talked for what seemed like hours about life and family and uncertain futures.
Our conversation was still going full steam when a group of eight or ten guys came back from the bar. We weren’t discussing anything particularly personal, but Johnny lowered his voice as though every word was confidential, and I matched the volume of my voice to his.
“Hey, who said you could sit on my bed, asshole?” a voice slurred. We both looked up. It was Barney Clement. He’d been promoted to Private First Class the day before, and had been strutting around like he was the cock of the walk the past day or so. He appeared to be intoxicated with a rank blend of promotion and liquor.
“Oh, didn’t think you’d mind,” Johnny said calmly. His eyes flickered with irritation, but he remained nonchalant, standing up and pulling the sheets straight on Barney’s bed. Apparently that wasn’t a satisfactory response.
“Shut up, you goddamn redneck son of a bitch!” the enraged New Yorker screamed, hoofing the crate our cards lay on, overturning it and scattering the cards all over the floor. His drunken rant brought back too many childhood memories, and rage boiled in my mind and knotted my hands. The thought of potential repercussions was the only thing that kept my rage barely contained. Johnny had heard enough, too.
“Well, well, well.” Johnny was smiling slightly, but somehow he didn’t look amused. “Someone’s got a temper. Alright you little fuck, either you’re gonna pick up every one of those cards off the floor,” he dictated, his voice so composed and bland it almost belied the threat of his words, “or someone is gonna have to pick you up off the floor.”
Now Johnny had the attention of every man on the floor, and a few of them edged over to get a front row view of the proceedings. Several stragglers came in loudly, but when they saw the ruckus, they quieted down and almost tiptoed along, like latecomers to an opera. Barney was red-faced, but had a smile on his face, like Johnny had just said something funny. He was a strapping, fresh-faced kid, and might have had a few pounds on Johnny, but they w
ere soft pounds, while Johnny’s whole body was lean and muscled from working hard.
“Oh, yeah?! Oh, yeah?!” Barney was sputtering now, and confidently began to dance clumsily toward Johnny with ready fists.
“We’ll see who—” Pow! Johnny’s fist drove forward like a piston, and the swaggering private must have thought his face had wandered into the path of a wrecking ball. Johnny’s knuckles hit his forehead with a cracking sound, and Barney didn’t teeter or totter, he just dropped. He lay on the floor like a side of beef.
Private Frankie “Twitch” De Luca, a short, twitchy kid from New Jersey, who was known in the company as always being the first to speak—and the last to stop—lived up to his reputation and blurted out, “Is he dead? I think you killed ’im, Johnny!” almost before Barney hit the floor. If dirty looks were yolks, he would have had egg on his face.
We watched Barney lie still for a few seconds, groan, and stir. Johnny massaged his knuckles with his other hand, and began picking up the cards as though totally apathetic toward whether his opponent ever got up or saw the light of day again. He righted my nightstand, turned, and walked to his cot, not even bothering to look down at a couple of fellows helping Barney up into a sitting position. The woozy private staggered to his feet like a new foal and belly flopped onto his bed. Then everyone split, murmuring like pigeons.
Barney was docile the next day. He looked like he’d like to trade heads with someone. There was a huge goose egg in the middle of his forehead, and for the next few weeks, everyone called him “Unicorn.” I think he was relieved when the nickname lasted only slightly longer than the lump on his head.
~~~
From Odenton we got shipped down to Camp A.P. Hill “Hell” Reservation in Caroline County, Virginia.
Following two months of hot days and muggy nights, our division participated in the North and South Carolina war games. Like real war, we had no idea what to expect day to day; all we knew for sure is we’d be getting a bag lunch with one bologna sandwich, one jelly sandwich, and an apple. And that we’d all sweat until the point of collapse. Ronnie Fisher once commented Camp A.P. must have been selected as overflow for hell, and no one disagreed. No one was sorry to leave, and we were all glad when summer made way for cooler fall days.
In December of 1941, the mornings had become snappy, and most of us were thinking about not being able to go home for Christmas. Many of us were also looking forward to the new year. I was sure the last few months of service would flash by once 1942 rolled around.
On the evening of December 7, we were bivouacked in the woods near South Hills, Virginia. I sat beside a campfire that evening, playing poker with Ronnie Fisher, George London, and Leroy Green. AJ “Honky-tonk” Borkowski sat to my right, riffing on his harmonica. He was a Polish kid from Philadelphia, but he liked southern music; country and western, gospel, bluegrass, blues, so everyone called him Honky-tonk. He seemed to like it, and had even taken to saying “y’all” and mimicking our southern accents, and we all got a kick out of hearing a Philly boy with a slight Polish accent speaking Southern.
The lively notes blew through his harmonica in steamy puffs of breath before vaporizing into the blackness. The air was crisp, the sky clear, and I was enjoying breathing the clean, cold air, and feeling the heat radiate from the fire, when Johnny walked up beside us. He stood for a moment, smoking in silence. We didn’t pay him much heed.
“I was talking to some guys over in 1st Battalion,” he stated.
“Good for you,” George answered in an “I don’t give a damn” tone. George was almost without exception sarcastic, impatient, and would often tell Johnny to get the shit out of his mouth when he was talking.
Johnny wasn’t going to be rushed. He blew smoke at the stars as he looked toward the Big Dipper.
“The Japs bombed Pearl Harbor this morning,” he delivered his news, his voice flat and emotionless. The soft tune Honky-tonk was playing ended in an abrupt, discordant squawk.
“Bullsh . . .” George started, but trailed off. Had any one of a hundred other guys come with that news they would have been met with disbelief, but Johnny wasn’t known to play jokes or mess with your head. Honky-tonk’s mouth hung open, his harmonica suspended in front of it like he was poised to bite into a sandwich. Ronnie and Leroy just sat there with stunned looks.
“How bad?” Leroy finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Johnny admitted. “All I know is we’re at war.” We all fell into a numb silence.
“You know what this means?” Ronnie said finally.
“Yeah, it means we’re at war,” George said, just a little sarcastically.
“No, it means we don’t go home in February,” Ronnie replied, his face downcast. The rest of us were so shocked with the news we hadn’t connected the dots yet. We were soldiers. The country was at war. We were at war.
The game was abandoned for sober reflection. The snap of the fire was all that interrupted the silence. Honky-tonk picked up his harmonica, which had slowly sunk to his lap, and struck up a mournful rendition of “I’ll Be Back in a Year, Little Darlin’.” The rich tones quavered, reminding me of the voice of old Mr. Burnside who led the singing in church before he passed away.
“For Chrissakes, stop playing your goddamn lies!” George snarled at him as the song got progressively slower and more melancholic. Poor Honky-tonk exchanged his harmonica for a hurt look and left.
The following morning discharges were suspended. Germany, Japan, and Italy all declared war on the United States. We weren’t going home for Christmas, and we wouldn’t be going home in spring. Many of us wouldn’t make it home at all.
I couldn’t sleep that night. My restless thoughts kept me flipping from front, to back, to side. I finally sat up, took a pen and paper, and wrote a letter to Ellen, using a flashlight under my blanket.
~~~
December 8, 1941, South Hills, Virginia
Dear Darling,
I was overjoyed to receive your last letter. Every word you put to paper delights and sustains me, sweetheart.
It made me happy to hear you’re doing well, and that your brother supplied you with enough firewood to last the winter. Give him my thanks, for it is difficult for me to be so far from you, powerless to be of any use to you. It saddens me that I am not there to care for you and protect you, but it does hearten me to hear that family and neighbors are helping fill in the gap.
One thing I neglected to mention to you in my last letter is that you should get someone to check to see if the chimney flue needs cleaning. I hadn’t cleaned it for some time before I left, so it could be a fire hazard if it’s too dirty. It would ease my mind if you could get that done.
It is with a heavy heart I write you news you undoubtedly already know. Now that the United States has declared war, our discharges have been suspended. It is almost a certainty that we will be shipped to either the Pacific or European theaters.
It is with pride I will represent our country, and I hope to do Old Glory proud. But it is you that will inspire me to fight if I’m called on to do so. And fight I will! But as noble as the fight against tyranny is, I will fight for something far more important. I will fight for my life above all else, because I must return safely to you. That is the promise I made you, and that is my chief objective, so to that end will I battle.
Ah, my love, fate can be cruel! It was with great anticipation that I looked forward to being home this spring. I couldn’t wait to share with you the sense of awakening and renewal spring brings. I’d imagined it to be the beginning of an exciting new chapter in our lives, a time of promise and togetherness. But alas, Providence had other plans. My eagerness has been replaced with sorrow, yet I will undauntedly hold firm my resolve to fulfill my obligations to my country, and to you.
I may not be coming home in spring, but my heart will be with you until I do, whenever that time may be. Until the time we are reunited, please keep me in your prayers, and think of me often. Only the thought of returning to you
soothes the sting of being apart. Though I am surrounded by people, I still feel an aloneness, because there is a part of my spirit that only your companionship can satisfy. May the very world that surrounds you remind you of me. When the summer wraps the hills in warmth, think of my embrace. When you hear the gurgle of the brook, remember the times my passion gushed like a river. When you see a stone, know that my love for you is a steadfast thing, as sure as the rock of Gibraltar. I love you madly, darling.
Till we walk hand in hand again,
Robbie
~~~
The new year I’d been waiting for came, but the hope that I’d anticipated it coming with did not. I wished someone would put a bullet in Hitler’s head so we wouldn’t have to beard the lion in his own den. It took us all some time to readjust our minds to the fact that it might be years before we’d see our loved ones again—if we were so lucky.
Table of Contents
SIX
GOOD-BYE HOMELAND, HELLO CLAUDIA
It was September, 1942, and we were marching. I loved military maneuvers, and I loved marching. There was something about marching in step with my comrades that made me feel untouchable. It was a feeling of invincibility we shared with locusts, a sense that anything in our path must flee or else be utterly annihilated. Something about us changed when we marched; we became stone-faced, steely-eyed, and unswerving. We usually marched purposefully, as though our exercise were of paramount importance. Today was different. Today lacked some of the stiffness and formality of our usual marching.
We had just been shipped from Camp Blanding, Florida, to Camp Kilmer, at Brunswick, New Jersey. Camp Kilmer was an East Coast processing center for troops being shipped overseas. The inevitable was finally happening; we were being prepared to be shipped to Britain. We were happy to receive new, better uniforms and helmets, and trade the bolt action Springfield ’03 for the semiautomatic M1 Garand. We were somewhat less delighted with being vaccinated so many times we felt like human pincushions.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 12
