by Dean Hughes
“All right, no hands up so far,” Summers said, and he lowered his voice a little. “In the next three days Sergeant Willard is going to put you through the wringer. You’re going to hope to die and get it over with rather than wait for some Kraut to shoot you. You’ll double-time everywhere you go, and you’ll keep going until you think you can’t go any more, and that will be your warm-up. If you think I’m blowing smoke, just wait until tomorrow morning.”
He paused and looked around. “When things get bad, just remember that you do have a way out. Just quit. Any time of the day or night—for three days—just say, ‘I’ve had enough,’ and you’re on the next bus out of here. No problem. We’ll be glad to see you go. But I have one piece of very important advice.”
He paused, and then he walked all the way back along the row of men, who were standing at the foot of their bunks, by their wooden footlockers. He stopped at the end of the long building, and he whispered, “Here’s the secret. Quit now. Or quit tomorrow. Quit in these first three days. I beg you to do that. But don’t come to me for a quit slip after that. If you do, you become . . . listen to me carefully . . . you become a dog.” Suddenly he shouted again. “Did you hear that? We put you in the dog unit. We’ll dress you in blue denim fatigues, and you’ll do KP all day every day. You’ll serve food to the men, but you won’t be allowed to look them in the eye.”
He paced to the middle of the room. “Okay. Let’s see the hands of all those who want out.”
Not a hand went up. But Alex was thinking. All this was insane. He might go in and quit tomorrow—not in front of all these guys, but quietly, when he could catch a bus to some other boot camp. He didn’t need all this gung-ho stuff.
True to the lieutenant’s promise, the next day was the worst of Alex’s life. Twenty-six men from the company either failed to make it through the first run up Currahee or decided to quit afterward rather than face the climb again. Quite a few more dropped out before the three-day deadline, and each day after that others had either been removed or had decided they would rather be dogs than go on with the training. The numbers were down to just over half of those who had begun, and four of the original twelve were gone from Alex’s squad, but something kept Alex in, and part of it was Duncan and a few of the other guys who had started in on him early. They told him over and over that he would never make it, that he was too old, too soft. Alex simply couldn’t stand to let them be right.
It was a stupid reason to stay, but every time he thought of walking to Summers’s office to ask for a quit slip, he thought of Duncan’s pleasure, and he couldn’t do it. The truth was, he had held up better than Duncan—as well as anyone, in fact—and he told himself he could make it through if anyone could.
But now, lying on his bunk and wishing he could sleep—but feeling too tired ever to be truly rested again—he knew he had stayed for all the wrong reasons. He would survive the physical challenges, no matter how bad they were, and he wouldn’t become one of the degraded “dogs” he saw every day in the mess hall, but he hated the attitudes of the other soldiers. He was sick of their harassment. He had pictured an elite unit, with everyone pulling together, but these men resented him, disliked him, and he saw nothing to admire in them.
Alex did drift off to sleep before the lights were out. And then, suddenly, it was morning—if four o’clock could be called morning. The day started with calisthenics and a long run before breakfast. The men were already in much better condition than they had been the week before, and the run was not so bad. At least there seemed to be no Currahee climb today. But by the time they had showered and shaved and sat down to breakfast, they were already tired.
Combining basic training with jump training meant that airborne techniques—and the mandatory five jumps to receive paratrooper wings—had to be compressed into the same time that a normal boot camp would take. All the regular close-order drill, weapons instructions, and combat training were done quickly, and the sergeant had to assume that the men were sharp enough to pick things up fast. Never a minute, all day, was lost. Even during break times the sergeant would call out questions and expect immediate, accurate answers. Any mistake, even a hesitation, always brought the same punishment. “Hit it for twenty-five,” Sergeant Willard would shout, and the soldier would drop to the ground, on the spot, and begin doing push-ups.
Sometimes Willard went out of his way to think of excuses to punish people. When Dale Huff, a soldier in Alex’s squad, listed the parts of the M-1 rifle correctly one day, he smiled with satisfaction. Willard howled, “Huff, there’s not one thing funny about your M-1 rifle!” and told him to hit it. Tom McCoy, a buddy of Huff’s from Ohio, smiled in response. So he got twenty-five of his own.
The first or second set of twenty-five wasn’t so bad, but as the day continued and bodies became weary, the men dreaded any mistake that would force them to drop for another go at it. And sometimes, for no reason at all, just when everyone was almost dead, Willard would shout, “Leaning rest position. Move!” That meant the whole squad dropped to their chests immediately, and then, with the command, “Ready—exercise!” another twenty-five would begin.
One other little game Willard played was to require an automatic response to the word jab whenever it was spoken. Every soldier had to strike his left breast with his right fist—quickly and in unison with the others. If anyone failed, or didn’t move quickly enough, everyone did push-ups again.
After breakfast, when the men thought they had their run in for the day, Willard told them to prepare for a march. That meant full gear—forty-pound packs, steel helmets, rifle, gas mask, canteen, and all the rest. They set off on a forced march, not at double-time but steady hiking for fifteen miles across the dusty countryside.
For ten minutes, at the end of each hour, Sergeant Willard let the men take a break, but during the breaks, he grilled them on the subjects they had been studying in afternoon classes. It was during one of those breaks that Willard said, “All right, Thomas. I want you to try to kill me. Show me what you’ve learned about hand-to-hand combat.”
Sergeant Willard was not as tall as Alex, and he was slight of build. He looked more like a schoolteacher than a fighter, with his solemn, straight-line of a mouth and wire-rim glasses. But there was also an intensity about him, a focus in his dark eyes and a fervor in his raspy voice.
The last thing Alex wanted to do was fight this guy, especially with everyone watching. But Sergeant Willard pointed his rifle at Alex’s chest, and he dared him to take it away. So Alex moved suddenly, slammed the rifle aside, as he had been taught to do, and grabbed . . . but he was on his back before he knew what had happened. And all the men were laughing.
“Leaning rest position . . . move!”
Alex jumped up and then dropped again, and he did his push-ups with the others.
When the men were finished, Willard shouted, “All right, Thomas, act like you mean it this time.”
Alex leaped at the sergeant this time, tried hard to get to him, but he ended up on his chest in the dirt—with Willard kneeling on his back.
When Alex climbed to his feet, Willard stood nose to nose with him and yelled, “You can’t come at me like I’m your trainer. You have to kill me—or I’ll kill you. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Then get me this time.”
Alex stood up and stepped back. He was not going to be made a fool of again. He rushed Willard, got past the rifle, but when he grabbed the man’s shoulders to thrust him over his hip, the sergeant drove his forearm into the side of Alex’s neck, and Alex went down hard. Everything spun for a moment, and Alex felt a searing pain in his neck and head.
“You don’t hate me enough,” Willard screamed. “You don’t care about your own life, either. Do you think some Kraut or Jap is going to give you a break?”
Alex pulled himself up. He glanced around and saw that the men in his squad were grinning, fully enjoying this. “Do you want to live or do you want to die?” Willa
rd was shouting. “Both the Germans and the Japs are fanatics. They kill without a second thought. Do you understand that, Thomas?”
Alex decided not to answer. He didn’t want to get into all that.
“Do you understand that?”
Alex glanced away, tried to think what to say.
“I asked you a question, soldier.”
“Sergeant Willard,” Alex finally said, “I don’t know about the Japanese, but most Germans are just like you and me. They’ll kill because they don’t want to be killed. But they aren’t killers by nature.”
Alex expected a loud response, but what he got was shock—silence—not just from Willard but from the men in the squad.
Alex felt a need to explain, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it. “Look, I’m opposed to everything Hitler stands for,” he said. He glanced around at the other men, tried to appeal to them for understanding. “But you have to understand, I lived in Germany. Some Germans are devoted to the Nazi cause—but many of them are just—”
“Hit it, Thomas. Give me fifty.”
Alex dropped to the ground in the dusty road, and he pumped out the first forty push-ups fairly easily. The last ten got hard, and it was during those final ten that Alex realized how stupid he had been to say anything other than what was expected of him. But he hated the things he kept hearing about Germans. It made him sick, and he didn’t want to be any part of it.
Alex made it to fifty and then jumped to his feet. He stood at attention in front of Sergeant Willard. “Thomas, don’t talk to me about Germans being this way or that.” He cursed and then spat in the dirt. They’ll shoot a prisoner if it’s not convenient to take him along. They hate Americans, and the only way you’re going to stay alive is to hate them more.”
Alex nodded, knowing that he had to comply, at least outwardly. But he was not going to change his mind about the German people. Willard knew nothing at all about them.
“It’s time for your quit slip, Thomas. You’re not one of us. You show that every day. You need an office job somewhere, away from the action.”
Alex stood his ground, said nothing.
“Do you want a ride back to the barracks right now?”
“No, sir.”
“We’ll see about that. Come to my quarters tonight, right after dinner.”
The march began again, and Sergeant Willard said nothing more to Alex all day. But Duncan, when he got a chance, told some of the men, “This thing with Thomas ain’t so funny to me no more. What he said about the Krauts made me sick to my stomach. What do the rest of you boys say about that?”
Most of the men mumbled one thing or another, but a guy named Lester Cox, a young kid from Texas who had become Duncan’s buddy, said, “I’m not going into battle with a Kraut lover. I’ll kill him myself before I fight next to him.” Then he added a string of obscene oaths to his vow.
Alex said nothing. He spoke to no one the rest of the day. The only thing he was sure of was that he wasn’t signing a quit slip. He wouldn’t give these guys that satisfaction. If the brass wanted to kick him out, that was another matter.
That night, after supper, Alex knocked at the sergeant’s door. Sergeant Willard appeared in a moment, but then he said, “Follow me. We’re going to see Captain Morehead.” When they reached the captain’s office, Alex stepped up to Morehead’s desk, saluted, and stood at attention until Morehead told him to stand at ease.
“Sergeant Willard tells me that you’re not cut out for the airborne,” Morehead said. “How do you feel about that?”
Morehead was a polished man, with an eastern, Ivy League background. Alex stared into his eyes. “Sir. I think I’m doing just fine, sir,” he said.
“Sergeant Willard says you handle the training all right, but he says you have the wrong attitude for a combat soldier.”
“Sir, I lived in Germany. I don’t believe all the propaganda about Germans. But I hate what Hitler has done to Germany, and I’m willing to fight against that, sir.”
Morehead smiled. He leaned back in his chair. “So you want to fight the Nazis—fight Hitler—and not fight the soldiers who’ll be trying to kill you?”
“No, sir! I didn’t say that. I’ll do what I have to do, sir.”
“That’s not good enough, Thomas. A soldier doesn’t go into battle ready to kill if necessary. He goes there expecting to kill, and what’s more, eager to kill. That’s the only way we’re going to turn the tide of this war.”
Alex didn’t say anything.
“Thomas, you’re a nice young man. You’ve got some education—some good background—but we don’t want you. I want you to sign a quit slip.”
“No, sir. I’m not a dog, sir.” He looked intently into Morehead’s eyes, and he said, in a measured cadence, “Sir. When the chips are down, you’re going to wish you had more men like me. It’s some of those loud-mouthed braggers back at the barracks you should worry about.” Alex took a breath, and then he added, “You can kick me out of the airborne if you want, but I’ll never quit, sir.”
Morehead smiled again. “Well, now, that’s the first sign of some mettle I’ve seen in you.” He stood up. “All right. You go back to your unit. But I’m going to ask Sergeant Willard to make your life miserable. I want to see whether you’re all talk. You can start by getting your rifle and pack, and then by double-timing around the compound until Sergeant Willard thinks it’s time for you to stop.”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
Alex was already dead tired, and the thought of double-timing now was devastating, but he preferred it to spending the time with the men. So he walked to his barracks and, without saying a word, grabbed his equipment and headed outside. He heard some laughter and some mumbled comments, but he left too quickly to catch any more than that.
For a solid hour he double-timed without stopping. Early in the morning that wouldn’t have been so bad, but at this time of day, it was agony. His conditioning was good enough that he handled the breathing all right, but gradually his legs were giving out, and the humidity was sapping his energy. He had no idea how long Sergeant Willard would keep him going.
The men in his squad had soon discovered what he was doing, and most of them had come outside to watch. Each time he passed, they worked him over. What they didn’t know was that they were keeping him going. Alex found new energy every time he came near those guys.
Finally Sergeant Willard walked into the compound, and he watched as Alex approached. Alex lifted his knees a little higher, held his rifle up firmly in front of him. He wasn’t going to let the man see how tired he was.
“Halt,” Willard called out. “Thomas, how do you feel about Krauts about now?” he asked.
Alex hardly knew what to say. All this wasn’t really about Germans; it was about the army. It was about Morehead and Willard and the airborne.
“I asked you a question, soldier.”
“Sergeant, some of the finest people I’ve ever known are Germans,” he said.
Willard stared at Alex. He called him a filthy name, and then he said, “You’re not going to survive this camp. I’ll guarantee you that. You haul your butt off to bed now, but don’t look forward to morning. You’re looking at the longest day of your life.”
“I’ll do what you ask of me, Sergeant, but I won’t quit,” Alex said, and he knew the truth. Willard was letting him off the hook tonight because he wanted to get to bed himself. And that was the clue that this guy didn’t have as much will as Alex did. Willard was not going to beat him.
When Alex walked into his barracks, the men were getting ready to go to bed. Some were already stretched out, asleep with the lights on. It was Duncan, of course, who said, “Hey, Thomas, did you have a nice little run?”
Alex put his helmet and rifle away. Then he sat down to take his boots off. He didn’t want this tonight. But Duncan was walking over to him, and so was Lester Cox. Cox was half the size of Duncan, but he liked to strut about in his undershirt and show that he had some muscles.
&n
bsp; Alex looked up at them. “What do you want?” he asked.
“We don’t want to go into battle with you,” Duncan said. “Maybe you can understand that.”
Alex stood up. “Okay. What do you want to do about it?”
“Oooh, ooh, the missionary boy sounds a little angry. Maybe he doesn’t like you, Duncan.” This was from a guy named Austin Campbell, a boy from Minnesota and a nice-enough guy most of the time.
“No, no. Don’t say that,” Duncan said. “Thomas is a religious boy. He even loves his enemies. So I know he loves a sweet little fellow like me. Ain’t that right, Thomas?”
“Duncan, I’m tired. I want to get a shower and go to bed. Just leave me alone.”
But Duncan took another step closer. “Thomas, we want you out of our squad—out of the paratroops. A pansy like you won’t just get himself killed; he’s going to get other guys killed too.”
Alex stood up. “I’ll tell you what, Duncan. I think the real worry for our squad is that we have a big blowhard like you in it. You’re the one who’ll put us in danger.”
Duncan came at Alex, reached for him, and suddenly the new training kicked in. Alex knocked Duncan’s arm aside, and he drove the heal of his hand straight at Duncan’s face. He caught the big guy flush on the nose. Duncan staggered backward, and Alex was on him again. He drove a fist into his sternum and then hammered a forehand blow into the side of his head.
Duncan went down. He lay on his side, holding his face. Blood was oozing between his fingers. Alex was standing over him, waiting, but Duncan didn’t get up. The room was silent, and Alex was already humiliated.
