Chapter 5
“Are you sure you want to bet all those cigarettes?” Johnny said to Bill.
“Don’t give me any of your bullshit, Russo. I know you’re bluffing. I’ve put everything I’ve got out there. Now are you gonna call my bet or not? Or what is that I’m smelling? Kind of smells like chicken.” Bill had a big shit-eating grin on his face as he sat smugly across from Johnny. Bill had been a big-time pitcher on his high school baseball team and hated losing. Apparently he’d been real good. Some American scouts had even come up to give him the once-over. He’d told us his dream was to get a tryout with a big-league team once the war was over.
“What do you think, Alex?” Johnny turned to me and raised his hands questioningly in the air.
“Don’t ask me; I stink at poker.”
“Hmmm,” Johnny knitted his brow as he stared intently at his cards. “Well Bill, I don’t think I can throw this hand away. I call.” He shoved a matching stack of smokes towards the center of the bunk that was doubling as a poker table.
“Three ladies,” said Bill proudly, showing the three queens. A series of backslaps and hoots of derision slung Johnny’s way occurred, the guys happy to see him get a taste of losing, which rarely happened.
“Nice hand,” Johnny said, calmly laying down his cards, a splash of pointy red spreading out over the sheets. “I’ve got nothing, just a bunch of diamonds.” He looked up, mock innocence on his face.
“A flush! You’ve got a goddamn flush?” Bill’s pain was echoed by the rest as a series of groans filled the air.
“Gee, is that what they call that?” Johnny was laughing now, calmly raking in his take.
“Better pack it in guys,” George said as he stood up. “It’s almost lights out.”
“Same time, same place tomorrow night, guys,” Johnny said as he carried his load of cigarettes over to our bunks and opened his footlocker. I saw him add the pile of smokes to an already impressive hoard.
“How do you do that?” I asked.
“Skill, my friend, pure skill.”
“If you keep beating them like that, they’re gonna beat the crap out of you one day.”
“Ah, it’s just cigarettes, don’t get your bra strap all in a knot.”
We packed it in, wearily climbing into our bunks to get some well-deserved shuteye.
The poker game had become a nightly occurrence, Johnny always eager to show the guys the numerous varieties of poker possible. Of course, he was skilled at every one. One morning at breakfast, Sid, who had lost about half a pack to Johnny the night before, offered to play for some of his food.
“Hey Russo, get those cards out. I’m quite happy to play for my army strawberries against your smokes.” A round of laughter echoed around the table, including Johnny, who reluctantly refused to play for Sid’s bowl of prunes.
The weather turned cold, but Murphy and Riddick kept driving us. We’d hump our asses across the obstacle course, go for lengthy runs, and practise on the rifle range for hours on end, no matter what the weather. Our only respite was the quick breaks we had for lunch and dinner, and our nightly free time in our barracks, which we had dubbed The Palace, after Buckingham Palace.
I was able to spend time working with the communications equipment. A guy named Jessen from another squad had also been selected to be a signaler, and we worked together testing and re-testing our radios and walkie-talkies until we had it down pat.
The letters from home arrived regularly, and it was always a great day when the post clerk called your name. My sister wrote for my mother, who could get by with passable English when speaking, but when it came to writing, that was a different cup of tea altogether. I missed them terribly as I read the words on the paper over and over again, that annoying lump seeming to find its way into my throat each time.
The other guys were the same; I could see both smiles and solemn looks of sadness cross over their faces as they read their letters, words from loved ones touching them.
Johnny and I would often read parts of our letters to each other. Most of his came from his kid sister, Maria. I could tell he adored her; his eyes would just light up as he talked about her. His mom was still having a tough go of it, but she was happy that Johnny was able to send home whatever money he could. Between what his older brother was making and what Johnny was able to send from our meager wages, they weren’t getting rich, but it looked like they’d be able to keep their house. Johnny was relieved.
My 20th birthday came and went, as did Johnny’s about a month later. It was nice to get a card from home, everyone wishing me well and good luck. My mother had drawn a little heart next to her name. I almost cried when I saw it.
Weeks passed with little news about the war. Germany was slowly spreading its dark cloud over Europe while the Allies prepared. The longer we waited, the darker that cloud seemed to grow. We grew anxious waiting, and the nervousness buzzing through us started to make itself felt.
“I’m getting sick of this shitty cigarette soup,” George said one night, pushing his bowl to the center of the table.
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.
“Look at this shit,” said George, pointing to his bowl. “They call this onion soup, but it looks and tastes like they just poured hot water into an ashtray. It wouldn’t be so bad if we had it once in a while, but it seems like we’re getting this about four times a week.” I hesitantly finished my soup, my wary eyes searching the bowl for any butts floating amongst the strands of onion. The rest of us agreed that George had hit upon an apt description, and it was known as cigarette soup from that moment on.
This was just a sign of the men getting restless, looking for things to complain about. We were informed regularly on the developments of the war, and you could feel that the time for our involvement was slowly creeping up on us, but we’d not heard of any specific dates or expected orders. Tempers were getting short, the guys just spending too much time in close quarters, literally. As the weeks turned into months, The Palace wasn’t the cheery place it had once been.
One Thursday morning on the parade square, we got an unexpected surprise.
“Listen up, you cry-babies,” Sgt. Murphy hollered out at morning roll call. “It seems as if the captain heard you girls are getting your periods and can’t stop complaining, so he’s giving you a night of R and R.” A cheer went up amongst the squad, but the look on Murphy’s face shut that down faster than shit through a goose. Once the hubbub died down, he spoke again. “You’ll have tomorrow night off. There’ll be a bus to take you into town and back. It leaves here at precisely 18:00 and it’ll be there to pick you up in town at midnight. If any of you douchebags miss that bus; you’ll have the MPs to deal with. And then when the MPs are done with you, you’ll have to face me.” He looked right at Johnny and me when he said this. “Alright, drop and give me twenty; then hit the obstacle course.”
It was amazing how that little dose of good news affected everybody. You would have thought the war was over, the sun had come out and butterflies were dancing on stars. I never saw the squad beat their faces through twenty pushups that quickly before. The obstacle course seemed like a walk in the park, and our daily run reminded me of running with my pals when I was a little kid, when you did it just for the fun of it. To the surprise of everyone, I even managed to wing a target during shooting practice. The fish sticks we had for dinner that day seemed like a gourmet meal. George even downed his cigarette soup, which once again seemed to magically appear on that day’s menu.
The next day seemed to move as slow as molasses. It felt like watching paint dry until we were finally dismissed at 16:00. Everybody hit the showers and pulled out their dress uniforms in preparation for the night on the town.
“Hey Uke, I can’t see my reflection in those black Cadillacs,” Sam said to me as I polished my boots. He puffed himself up and grimaced, doing his best Sgt. Murphy. He turned to Johnny, continuing his impersonation. “What are you looking at, Russo, you stupid Dago? I
shit bigger meatballs than your mother makes for Sunday dinner!” A look of panic appeared on Sam’s face as he clutched his rear end with both hands. “Speaking of which, I think I just shit myself.” The men roared, the nickname of S.B. ‘Shit-Britches’ Murphy having become well-known by this time.
The lightened mood was infectious, everybody ribbing and joking with each other as they got ready. Things were a complete turnaround from the way they’d been just a few days before. We were busting to get out of there, but had been instructed to stay in our barracks until further notice. Finally, just before 6:00pm, Murphy and Riddick entered. I don’t know why it surprised me, but they were in their dress uniforms as well. For some reason, I never pictured them going with us.
“Listen up,” Murphy’s booming voice filled the room. “You guys have six hours to have your fun. Just remember who you are and what you represent. I don’t want to see or hear of any of you swinging dicks getting out of line, you understand me?”
“Yes Sir!” numerous voices sounded off.
“Alright, the bus is by the gate. Now move it, and whatever you do, don’t miss it coming back.” He stepped aside and the men quickly flooded the exit. When it was my turn to go past him, he stuck his arm out. “Hang back for a minute, Nuzurka,” he said, stopping me. “You too, Russo.” We stepped aside, wondering what the heck this was all about. The final few hurried past, giving us a sympathetic look. I was praying that the sergeant wasn’t going to be crazy enough to work up some lame excuse that would prevent us from going. The last man passed, leaving the two of us alone with Murphy and Riddick.
“Now listen to me,” Murphy said menacingly under his breath as he stood right in front of the two of us, Rat-face Riddick close behind him. “The Corporal here and I are going into town as well. Now we plan on relaxing, drinking a few beers and having a good time. Now this is going to be a night off for all of us; but let me tell you right now, I don’t want to have to deal with a couple of dog fuckers like you two embarrassing the whole squad, are we clear on that?”
We nodded, anxious to get out of there.
“ARE WE CLEAR ON THAT?” he yelled right in our faces, drops of his spit spattering my face.
“YES SIR!”
He looked at us, that seemingly permanent scowl etched on his face. “Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight and you better pray I don’t have to talk to either of you until tomorrow.” We scurried out of there like rats from a sinking ship.
“Jesus Christ,” Johnny said to me as we double-timed it towards the bus. “What the hell is Murphy’s problem?”
“Just be quiet until we’re on the bus.”
“I hate that bastard,” Johnny said under his breath as we mounted the bus, Murphy and Riddick strolling casually towards us, looking for all the world like their shit didn’t stink.
“Just simmer down,” I said quietly as we took our seats. “I think anybody with a last name like ours is automatically at the top of his hit parade. Look at the names of the other guys that he never picks on: Ferguson, Thompson, Gallagher.” I paused for second as the similar names of the others ran through his head. “Maybe we should change our names,” I continued. “What do you think of that, you can be Mr. Smith and I can be Mr. Jones?” He chuckled. “Now forget about that son-of-a-bitch for tonight. Hey, I hear Errol Flynn has been delayed in Hollywood and isn’t going to be there tonight, so it looks like Mr. Johnny Russo won’t have any competition when it comes to picking up broads.”
This brought a smile to his face. He reached around me and grabbed my shoulder, giving me a playful shake. “You know it brother, you know it. Just stick with me and see how it’s done.”