Chapter 14
Rusty had gone quiet. On top of what had happened at the church in Poirier, shooting the little girl and getting smacked around by Murphy had totally taken the wind out of any sails he had left. Sometimes, his non-stop talking had been annoying as all get out. Now that it had stopped completely, I really missed the constant chatter we had become accustomed to. All of us did. I even missed that stupid mouth organ of his. He’d play it in the evening; usually soulful little pieces, peaceful sounds that would remind me of home.
I couldn’t believe Murphy had put him out front. Of course, in Murphy’s eyes, I’m sure he thought nothing more of Rusty than to offer him up as cannon fodder, should we come across any Germans. It was an accident waiting to happen; and happen it did. Rusty had panicked; it was lucky the little girl hadn’t been killed.
The hatred I had for Murphy seemed to be growing like a cancer inside me. Although I hated the prick for the way he treated Johnny and me, I could live with it. Shit, Johnny and I had been dealing with people like that our whole lives. You could tell just by the look on their faces when they heard your name, the same look someone has when they step in a pile of dog shit. Like they want to be anywhere else and not have to deal with the situation they’ve just stepped into—that’s what it was like dealing with Murphy.
But the way he treated Rusty—that was worse. Rusty was just a simple boy with the heart of an angel and Murphy bullied and berated him like there was no tomorrow. I noticed that whenever the captain was around, Murphy sure as hell made sure he never said or did anything that could be inferred as being anything but proper procedure. The conniving bastard sure as hell made up for it whenever the C.O.’s back was turned, though. It was almost like he just waited for the opportunity to call Rusty a “moron”, or his favorite, a “fuck-tard”. I’d been hearing names like “Pollack” and “Uke” my whole life, just as I’m sure Johnny had been called “Wop”, “Guinea” or “Dago” a million times. Hearing Murphy speak to Rusty like that though really set my teeth on edge. I think it was because Rusty never seemed to understand what he had done wrong for the sergeant to speak to him that way. When Murphy spoke to us like that, everyone knew the score. But with Rusty, it was like Murphy revelled in pulling the wool over the young man’s eyes. For some reason it made Murphy feel like a big man to belittle Rusty like that. The more I saw it, the more I hated his guts.
I rolled over on my bedroll, unable to sleep. I punched my knapsack a couple of times as I shoved it under my head, a poor excuse for a pillow. I thought of home, and my own bed thousands of miles and what seemed like a lifetime away. I thought of Helen, and those blessed couple of hours we’d shared dancing at Finnegan’s. I pictured her skirt flaring out from her beautiful legs as she spun across the dance floor, both of us flying in blissful freedom as the beat of the music pulsed through us. It was hard to believe that had only been a short time ago. It seemed like forever since I’d pulled her close and felt her body’s heat next to mine.
I closed my eyes and thought of my family, wondering if the life my parents had fled from many years ago was similar to what these French people were going through right now. I had seen the tired desperate look on so many of their faces here; the same look I knew my mother carried deep inside her. I so badly wanted to go home; but I knew my place was here. I had to be a part of this, to help this insane fight in any way I could so that people wouldn’t end up with that haunted frightened look in their eyes. Rusty now had that look; the look of the hunted. For Rusty and these people who had suffered so much already, I wanted to do whatever I could to make it go away.
“Men,” Capt. Crocker said the next morning as he addressed the whole platoon, “we’ve been assigned to help with the fight in Caen. Tomorrow at O-700 we’ll be moving to the forward base they have there.” He paused for a few seconds before continuing. “I don’t think I need to tell you that casualties have been high. The Germans are really dug in deep in that town and are putting up fierce resistance. Taking that town has been given the highest priority. It is the key to moving forward in France. If we can take Caen, we’ll have them on the run. And once they’re on the run, we’ll keep them running all the way back to Berlin.”
Unlike his inspirational speech back at boot camp, this time his words were met with an eerie silence. We had all seen the dead bodies coming back from the front, the number growing each and every day.
“You may want to take the opportunity today to write to your loved ones back home,” he continued. “Tomorrow, may God be with us.” He stepped off the little podium that had been hastily erected and disappeared back into the building they’d commandeered for use as the base headquarters.
“Well, this looks like it,” Johnny said as we drifted back towards our tent. “Do you think it’s really as bad as we think?”
I continued walking; picturing all those lifeless bodies wrapped in sheets and blankets we’d seen piled one on top of the other, like a chain leading to heaven. “I think it’s worse.”
The letter I wrote to my parents that night was the hardest I’ve ever had to write in my entire life. The words came haltingly as I tried to put down my feelings without alarming them more than necessary. Everything I said seemed insufficient, words being incapable of expressing how much I missed all of them. As I continued to write, the lingering sensation that I might never see any of them again seemed to settle in my bones like a heavy weight. I wanted to reach out and touch them, but the unflinching undertow of the war was drawing me further and further away. I felt weary, helpless, as if I were about to be dragged down by forces much bigger than I could ever imagine. I tried to be optimistic; to let them know I was going to be okay, but in my heart I felt the words I was putting down were nothing more than futile screaming from beneath the waves.
“Alex,” Rusty said as he poked his head into our tent, “would you help me write my letter to my mom?”
Once again, Rusty’s simple request jolted me, pulling me out of the melancholic trance I’d found myself in.
“Sure,” I said. “Just give me a minute.”
I re-read my letter one more time, the words still seeming woefully inadequate, but I knew helping Rusty would take my mind off my own worries. I picked up my pencil and signed off, ‘your loving son, Alex’, and stuffed my letter into an envelope.
While Chester, Harry and Johnny worked on their own letters, I grabbed one of the petrol lanterns and stepped outside to find Rusty patiently waiting. The cool night air felt good after the closeness of the tent. My uniform was dirty and itchy and I longed more than anything for a hot shower; but like everyone else, I’d have to wait.
“Let’s go over here, Rusty,” I said as I led him over to the trunk of a tree that had been uprooted by a bomb of some sort. It would be far enough away from the cluster of our tents so that no one would hear us. I passed him the lantern to hold while he handed me the pencil and paper he’d been clutching.
“Thanks for doing this, Alex,” he said. “I don’t write so good.”
“That’s fine, Rusty. Don’t worry about it. Now, how would you like me to start?”
“Dear Mom and Dad, and Sherman, and Pam…….” He started rattling off all the names of his brothers and sisters. Before he was done with the salutation, he’d even included his dog, Buster, and the cat, Smokey. This was no time for any type of lesson on formatting, grammar or anything like that. I just wrote as he talked, the words pouring out of him like water tripping along a rippling stream.
He hadn’t spoken this much since that day outside the church, and I found myself smiling as I listened to him talk. He told them all how much he missed them and wished he could be home, but he was anxious to stay and help fight. He never mentioned anything about what had happened at the church or when he had accidentally shot the little girl. He said he was trying to be a good soldier and do what his sergeant told him. My hand holding the pencil paused when he talked about what a good man Sgt. Murphy was and that he had learned a lot from h
im.
“What’s wrong, Alex?” he asked, noticing that I had stopped writing.
“Uh, nothing,” I responded. “You were just going a little too fast for me there.” I never said anything about wanting to put down what a sick bastard Murphy was. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“Alright, where was I? Oh yeah….” He went on, and it made me smile to myself as he purposely spoke slower, making sure that I could keep up with him. I put pencil to paper and continued putting down exactly what he said, word for word. His dictation eventually came to a close, the final words being that he looked forward to coming home and taking Buster for a run down by the ‘crick’.
“And then sign it, ‘your son, Rusty’. Okay?”
I wrote the ‘your son’ part and then passed it to him to sign. He reluctantly took the pencil and I watched as he carefully scrawled his name, the writing looking like that of a small child.
“Thanks, Alex,” he said as he hurriedly handed the pencil and paper back to me. “Oh yeah, what do you call that thing where you write a little bit at the end of a letter?”
“A postscript?”
He looked at me questioningly. “No, that’s not it,” he said with a quizzical shake of his head. “I think it’s just two letters.”
“Uh…..p.s.?”
“Yeah, that’s it! Can we add one of those p.s. things?”
“Sure,” I said as I took up the pencil once more. “What would you like to say?”
He reached down to one of the branches of the fallen tree, his fingers plucking off one of the leaves.
“Mom, here’s a leaf from France. When I get home, I want you to show it to me so I can remember this day.”
Jesus Christ. I felt myself getting all choked up as I watched him twirling the leaf by the stem clasped between his fingers. I’m sure all of us would remember this day. I had the feeling that for many, this day may very well be the last one they’d have on this earth.
“Can you write that, Alex? Is it okay to say that in that p.s. thing?”
“Sure, Rusty. That’ll be fine,” I replied as I wrote what he wanted.
I folded the letter and he slipped the leaf between the pages before we stuffed it in the envelope. We sat for a minute, neither one of us wanting to move from this peaceful little spot as the cool evening breeze washed over us.
“Do you smell that?” Rusty asked after a couple of minutes of silence.
“What?” I asked, sniffing the air.
“The ocean; that smell, the salt water smell.” He paused as the tranquil ocean breeze continued, its gentle caress soothing our faces. “I thought it was going to be so different here; like something out of a storybook. I don’t know why I thought that, but I did. But you know, this countryside and the ocean, it….it’s just like home. I’m glad we can hear the waves on the beach from here. Ever since I was a little kid, whenever I’d get scared or feel lonely at home, I’d always go to the shore and listen to the waves. I love that sound. It makes me feel connected to something, like that’s where I belong. Buster belongs there, too. I don’t think I could ever live away from the ocean.”
I looked at him, staring off towards the water, the moonlight flickering on the distant waves. The beach was hidden from view by the sloping ground leading up from it, but the repetitive sound of the waves against the shore clearly reached our ears. I could picture him back home, sitting on a rocky outcropping above the beach, his dog at his side, both of them anchored to their home by the pounding surf that they’d known all their lives. He seemed so at peace as he looked off into the distance, as if he was looking at his destiny.
“Alex,” he said as he continued to stare off towards the dark horizon, “do you think we’re going to die?”
I didn’t know what to say; those same words had been running through my head since early this morning. I could see how scared he was, as if this might be the last time he looked at the ocean he loved so much. “I hope not,” I said. “I’m not ready to die yet. There’s too much I want to do.”
“Me too,” he said before looking out to the sea once more. We sat and stared off into the distance for a few more minutes before he spoke again. “You know, I kissed a girl once. I got a boner.”
“Well, that’s a good thing,” I replied, a big smile on my face.
“She was a real girl too, not my cousin or something. She was real pretty.”
If the one he’d kissed had been a real girl, it kind of made me wonder what his female cousins looked like. I had the feeling I didn’t really want to find out firsthand. “So what happened to this girl? You never got to kiss her again?”
“Nah. They moved away. I think about it a lot though. I’d like to kiss another girl like that someday.”
“I think that’s what we all want, Rusty. Trust me, you’re not the only one who thinks about that.”
We sat quietly again, each of us lost in thoughts of home, and pretty girls.
He turned towards me. “Alex, are you scared about what might happen tomorrow?”
“Yes, I am, Rusty. I’m really scared.”
“What should I do? I’m not too good at this stuff. I don’t want Sgt. Murphy to get mad at me anymore.”
“Well, I don’t think he’ll put you out front on your own anymore.” Even Murphy couldn’t be that heartless. I thought back to the landing on the beach. With machine gun fire tearing up the air and shells landing everywhere, Murphy had come through it totally unscathed. His best friend had literally been blown in two just a couple of feet away from him, but other than pissing himself, he hadn’t gotten so much as a scratch. Johnny had a little something to do with that, a fact that Murphy still seemed oblivious to. Even with Johnny saving him like he did, I still had the feeling that Murphy had some kind of omnipotent power looking out for him. If Rusty could be protected, Murphy was the one to do it. “So like I said before, just stick close to the rest of us. And as much as I hate to say it, stay as close as you can to Sgt. Murphy. I have a feeling he’s one of those guys whose gonna come out of this war without a scratch.”
He looked at me and nodded.
“C’mon,” I said as I got up and shook out my stiffening legs, “let’s take our letters to the mail clerk. I want to make sure this one gets home okay.”
As we made our way back into the assemblage of tents, I prayed to myself that both of us might have the chance to write more letters home. I thought about all those dead bodies we’d seen coming back from the front and wondered if my prayers were nothing more than a useless plea from a foolish optimist. Tomorrow would tell.