From this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember'd; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile.
-King Henry V
P.O.V.- SSGT Matthew Baker-U.S. 101st Airborne Division, 502nd PIR, 2nd Battalion, Fox Company, 3rd Platoon, 3rd Squad.
What is it that makes a great soldier? Is it his brain, or his heart? My dad asked me that question at the age of seven while I was at the dinner table. I remember it vividly, because he never told me the goddamn answer. But before he died, he did tell me one thing; soldiers have two families, those you raise, and those you raise hell with.
P.O.V. 3rd Person
Ramsbury Air Base
September 16th, 1944
“… And he kept tellin’ me how I didn’t look eighteen!” Baker’s new recruit, Franky LaRoche said.
“You don’t,” Baker replied.
“Heh, I know, yeah,” Franky replied nervously. “Hey you think you can talk to Corrion for me?”
“Sam? What for?”
“He seems to have it in for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Franky. Don’t worry about it,” Baker assured him before Franky was slapped on the back of the head by McCreary.
“You paint that yourself, Beans?” the vet joked, referring to the replacement’s given nickname scribbled in black on the back of his jacket.
“Don’t call me Beans!” he replied in a hushed voice.
Behind them, another replacement and veteran were talking. Private First Class Mike Dawson, born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, England, had somehow ended up in the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment as a Pathfinder for Normandy. The other, PFC Jack Courtland from Richmond, Virginia had fought with the original squad in Normandy.
“So, you’re saying you don’t know bollocks about the pistol?” Dawson asked, his accent sticking out.
“Nothing to tell, Daws. Just a bunch of crap some guys made up,” Courtland replied.
“Would you hold it?”
“People died there, man! Don’t go diggin’ where there’s already holes.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Courtland,” Dawson said before the two split up. Courtland moved towards the opening of a tent where Baker and Corporal Samuel Corrion were talking.
“Hey Corrion, are we still at the range at Thirteen Hundred?” he asked.
“Yea, I’ll talk to you in a minute, Jack,” Corrion replied.
When the U.S.A. had entered the war, Sam signed up early of his own free will and became one of the original members of the 101st. Still, he was just a corporal, and had been passed up for a promotion several times. It was starting to get to him.
“He’s too young,” Corrion told Baker, referring to Franky.
“It’s a bit of a grey area, Sam,” Baker replied, “but he’s a standout if I’ve ever seen one. Excellent shot! The kid hit a quarter at fifty yards. A quarter!”
“But he’s got no combat experience at all!” Corrion argued back.
“Everybody got replacements, but we got a good one. I’ll vouch for Franky personally.”
“I hope you’re right,” Corrion said as the two left the tent.
Walking out of the tent into the bright day, they passed another two soldiers talking. Again, one was a new guy, and the other was a D-Day veteran.
“I need you to find some paint, Jas,” Hartsock said.
Sergeant Joseph Hartsock, affectionately called ‘Red’ due to his hair color, hailed from Laramie, Wyoming where he had worked on a ranch and hunted most of his life. He had fought in Normandy quite a bit under Baker in the original Third Squadron’s roster. Following some distinguished service, he was promoted to the command of Second Squad.
“Sure! I’ll steal some paint for ya, sergeant,” PFC Gary Jasper, the heavy weapons recruit, replied.
“Requisition, private,” Hartsock corrected.
“What’re we paintin’?”
“We’re the tip of the spear, Jas. We need to look sharp when we go in.”
“Wilco!” Jasper said before running off.
Continuting on, Hartsock moved into a tent with four other soldiers inside playing cards. These were Roselli, Paddock, Friar, and Campbell.
“Why would you say that? He’s right there!” Roselli yelled.
“Stand back, Mussolini! Ain’t nobody talkin’ to you!” Paddock insulted the replacement.
“I swear to god, Paddock I’ve had it with that shit!” he yelled as he tried to move forward, only to be held back by Hartsock.
“What the hell is going on in her?” Hartsock yelled before being answered by Campbell, another Normandy vet.
“Well, eh, Paddock was saying some stuff that made him sound like a real dick…”
“If I see one damn bruise on any of you, it’ll be KP and latrines for a week!” Hartsock interrupted. “I know this is getting frustrating. I know we all wanna jump to it. Just know it ain’t that simple!”
“Maybe it should be,” Roselli said.
“Maybe you should bring that up with General Montgomery,” PFC Dean ‘Friar’ Winchell replied.
“Got a pen?” Roselli joked.
“The plan’s the same, guys,” Hartsock interrupted. “We punch through the German line. Punch straight into Berlin. Punch Hitler in the face. Win the war and be home by Christmas.”
“Hey Paddock,” Friar called.
“What you want, small fry?”
“Here’s a thought. If you’re gonna cheat, make sure you don’t use two queens of spades!” he said, dropping his hand on the table for the group to see.
“Aw, you son of bitch, Paddock!” Roselli sighed.
Walking back out of the tent, the troops gathered around the squad’s 4X4 Willys Jeeps. There were four of these, whose four-wheel drive proved useful in moving around quickly over almost any terrain, which was especially important as the squad were part of the recon element.
“Hey Jas!” Hartsock called out.
“Yea Red?”
“You got that paint I asked for?”
“WILCOOO!” Jasper sang out.
Courtland, Corrion, and McCreary were talking in a group, reminiscing about the last fight they were in.
“Is Mac still trailing around with Cole?” Courtland asked, referring to First Sergeant Greg ‘Mac’ Hassay, who led 3rd Platoon, Fox Company during D-Day.
“Well, he made him first sergeant,” McCreary replied.
“Anyone else a little werided out by that?” Courtland asked. “It’s like seeing your old boss.”
“Courtland, Mac’s kept us alive through shit no one should live through. We owe him a lot,” Corrion said.
The men were currently in the process of picking out names. The lead was already decided. Called ‘Those we Lost’ it bore the names of the originals that died in France. The other three were more light-hearted.
“You don’t wanna know what I had to do to get this,” Jasper joked as he set the can of paint on the ground.
“You sure this is okay, Red?” Campbell asked.
“Well, we all picked radio callsigns,” he replied.
“This’ll help keep the jeeps straight,” Baker said.
“And crush the Germans with our scary zoo animals!” Jasper said. “Sheisse! Ein zebra!” he yelled, pointing into the air with one hand and sticking the index finger of his other over his top lip, pretending to have a mustache.
“The zebra is a fierce animal!” Hartsock said, continuing the joke.
“Hey, swordfishes are plenty tough! One time my friend Nathan got speared through his hand with its…is it a beak?” Campbell said before looking at the last jeep. “Wait, what was the other one?”
“Toucan,” Corrion answered, getting a confused look from Campbell. “Hey, it’ll peck your damn eyes out, man.”
“Alright guys!” Baker said as he rallied the men. “Guys, I don’t do speeches, that was always Mac’s thing, but tomorrow we’re heading into Holland and opening up a goddamn highway. So hit the mess and get some sleep; it’ll be the last we get of either for a long damn while.”
P.O.V. Baker
Well, what happened the next day wasn’t exactly planned to happen. It wasn’t something me or Mac or anyone in the whole division could’ve seen coming. It was impossible for anyone to know, but I like to think. Looking back, I ask myself what I would have done if I did know. Would I have gotten off the plane, or decide to go anyway? I guess it doesn’t matter really, cause it still happened all the same. When realization struck me, the first thing I thought was ‘did we just avoid a nightmare, or fall into one?’ I guess everyplace has their own little version of hell.