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Sergeant
Saunders straightened from his leaning position over his Thompson machine
gun. Rolling his neck around and hearing the vertebrae crack, he relieved
the tension that had been slowly building. Placing the freshly cleaned and
oiled Tommy gun on the empty cot besides him, Saunders leaned back in his
chair. It felt good to be able to rest for a while, when the only matter
of importance was to clean equipment. Retrieving his crumpled pack of
cigarettes from a pocket, Saunders surveyed the room he was in and its
other occupants. Before
the war and its destruction had started, the hotel lobby the squad was
billeted at had been charming, graceful, and chic. Now, the wallpaper hung
in scattered shreds, the rug had been worn to the floorboards, and the
brass fixtures were tarnished. Instead of customers filling the lobby,
men, gear packs, and rifles were tumbled in and among the few remaining
chairs and the army issue cots. A fog of tobacco smoke rose from
cigarettes that dangled from nearly every man’s lips. On
the far side of the room, Kirby, wiping down his BAR, was balancing a
chair back on two legs while his feet were propped against the battered
concierge counter. Close by, Caje had finished cleaning his Garand and was
methodically pulling his knife across a sharpening stone. Flanking the
hotel’s main entrance were Billy and Littlejohn. Littlejohn had claimed
the worn velvet couch, where he sat meticulously repairing a rip in his
gear belt. On the other side of the double doors, Billy had commandeered
and pushed together two chairs for his abode as he carefully cleaned his
gun with grease and rag. Along the next wall, Doc sat in the middle of his
cot as he finished restocking his medic bag. The last person in the room
was the new replacement, Anderson. The
newest private to join the squad was seated on a shabby chair not far from
Saunders. Quickly, Sarge reviewed the facts he had gathered when Anderson
arrived on yesterday’s afternoon. He was young, no more than twenty
years old, and just out of basic training. While the young man seemed
friendly, he was also shy. So intent on cleaning his gun, Anderson
didn’t notice the sergeant’s gaze. Shaking
a cigarette out of his pack, Saunders noticed that the private’s hands
were shaking slightly as he finished checking the rifle bolt. The
kid must be nervous; we are going out on patrol tomorrow. Saunders
thought. Holding a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, Saunders leaned
over to Anderson with the pack extended. “Cigarette?” Anderson
looked up, gave a slight smile, and accepted the offered smoke. Snapping
out his lighter, Saunders held it out and then lit his own. “Nervous?”
“Yeah,
I guess so.” Anderson truthfully replied after inhaling. “Everyone
here is also,” Sarge assured the new recruit. Rising and moving the
Tommy gun off his cot, Saunders settled onto the thin mattress.
Contentedly smoking his cigarette he, tried to let his thoughts wander
away from the coming day’s mission. Glancing back down at Anderson, he
saw the private was mulling over the fact he had been given. “Thanks
Sarge,” Anderson slowly said. He returned to inspecting his rifle with
steadier hands. Saunders closed his eyes and leaned his back against his balled up jacket. “Uh-huh. Get some rest.” |
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