Post by 2nd Lt. John P. McCreary on Jun 3, 2012 3:12:43 GMT
John’s eyes opened as he awakened from his restless sleep. It was not as horrible as sleeping in a foxhole, but in all honesty he had not had a good night’s rest in at least a year, due to his exposure to the horrors of combat. It had changed him forever, and not necessarily for the better. Of course now he had a more realistic view of war than he had had when he had enrolled in West Point. How young and innocent he had been then—bright-eyed, hopeful, optimistic. Gone was the boy who had wanted so desperately to be a soldier. In his place was a man who had seen it all. He had seen how good the human race could be and how barbaric.
Barbarism to an extent was necessary for survival. War forced the greatest of men to resort to their instincts, their will to survive. It was kill or be killed. John had killed, and for the moment he was still alive. Many of his companions were not as lucky. He still had—at least of those who had died under his command in the 101st—their names, their faces, and their voices etched into his mind. Not a day went by that he didn’t wonder why he had survived and they hadn’t. He had come to the conclusion that casualties in war were more often than not random. Of course if you ran in front of an MG42 with absolutely no cover or support you were bound to be another statistic. But mortar rounds, stray bullets, and potato mashers just could not be helped.
Yet he still felt guilty for the deaths he couldn’t prevent, the deaths that had occurred under his watch—under his command. An officer had to lead his men, to accomplish the objective with as few deaths as possible—but it still happened. It was just a reality of war—people died. Sometimes his men died. It was something he had had to learn to accept, to learn to push away for the sake of the mission, but even after the mission the thought was still there. How could it not be? He was the one that had to write the letters home to these men’s families.
The lieutenant shook his head and rubbed his eyes, yawning before walking off to the showers. A few minutes later he had changed into his fatigues—complete with garrison cap and tie—and walked out of the officers’ quarters and toward the mess hall. It was empty due to the fact that it was the weekend, and most of the men were either in Paris or London on weekend passes. The cook slapped some bacon and eggs on his plate and he walked over to an empty table with his coffee and ate silently. It was nice, having decent chow—not at all like those days in Holland when their numbers and supplies were spread thin. Even when they did have enough food, he was always gulping it down before they had to move out. Now he could sit and enjoy it in relative peace.
However he didn’t know how much longer this would last. Although John’s unit was in reserve, with the push toward Germany he was certain that they would be called into action. It wasn’t a question of if, but rather when. He had been training and drilling the troops under his command as hard as he could, trying to get them ready for combat, imparting advice from his own experiences whenever he could. Whether or not that advice was taken to heart was up to them now.
He finished his breakfast rather quickly—probably due to instinct—and decided to go out to the range for a bit of practice before doing some writing. He grabbed his cartridge belt and Garand and walked outside again, rifle slung over his shoulder. Stopping once he reached the long range targets, he unslung the rifle and raised it, flipping off the safety and aiming down the sights as he began to fire. The weapon bucked against his shoulder, and he could hear the shots ringing through his ears. It was such a familiar sound by now, and the feel of the weapon in his hands was almost second nature. The rifle was like an extension of his arm. It was a friend, a savior, and a companion. It was often the difference between life and death.
He had emptied his clip—five of the eight shots hitting their mark—and reloaded before kneeling and taking aim again, firing off another few rounds. He couldn’t help but imagine the faces of German soldiers he had killed back in France and Holland. He saw the shock, the fear, the pain on their faces, and the blood oozing from their flesh as the lead made contact. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard a ‘ping’, realizing that he had emptied the clip again. Shaking his head, he reloaded and raised the barrel again.
Barbarism to an extent was necessary for survival. War forced the greatest of men to resort to their instincts, their will to survive. It was kill or be killed. John had killed, and for the moment he was still alive. Many of his companions were not as lucky. He still had—at least of those who had died under his command in the 101st—their names, their faces, and their voices etched into his mind. Not a day went by that he didn’t wonder why he had survived and they hadn’t. He had come to the conclusion that casualties in war were more often than not random. Of course if you ran in front of an MG42 with absolutely no cover or support you were bound to be another statistic. But mortar rounds, stray bullets, and potato mashers just could not be helped.
Yet he still felt guilty for the deaths he couldn’t prevent, the deaths that had occurred under his watch—under his command. An officer had to lead his men, to accomplish the objective with as few deaths as possible—but it still happened. It was just a reality of war—people died. Sometimes his men died. It was something he had had to learn to accept, to learn to push away for the sake of the mission, but even after the mission the thought was still there. How could it not be? He was the one that had to write the letters home to these men’s families.
The lieutenant shook his head and rubbed his eyes, yawning before walking off to the showers. A few minutes later he had changed into his fatigues—complete with garrison cap and tie—and walked out of the officers’ quarters and toward the mess hall. It was empty due to the fact that it was the weekend, and most of the men were either in Paris or London on weekend passes. The cook slapped some bacon and eggs on his plate and he walked over to an empty table with his coffee and ate silently. It was nice, having decent chow—not at all like those days in Holland when their numbers and supplies were spread thin. Even when they did have enough food, he was always gulping it down before they had to move out. Now he could sit and enjoy it in relative peace.
However he didn’t know how much longer this would last. Although John’s unit was in reserve, with the push toward Germany he was certain that they would be called into action. It wasn’t a question of if, but rather when. He had been training and drilling the troops under his command as hard as he could, trying to get them ready for combat, imparting advice from his own experiences whenever he could. Whether or not that advice was taken to heart was up to them now.
He finished his breakfast rather quickly—probably due to instinct—and decided to go out to the range for a bit of practice before doing some writing. He grabbed his cartridge belt and Garand and walked outside again, rifle slung over his shoulder. Stopping once he reached the long range targets, he unslung the rifle and raised it, flipping off the safety and aiming down the sights as he began to fire. The weapon bucked against his shoulder, and he could hear the shots ringing through his ears. It was such a familiar sound by now, and the feel of the weapon in his hands was almost second nature. The rifle was like an extension of his arm. It was a friend, a savior, and a companion. It was often the difference between life and death.
He had emptied his clip—five of the eight shots hitting their mark—and reloaded before kneeling and taking aim again, firing off another few rounds. He couldn’t help but imagine the faces of German soldiers he had killed back in France and Holland. He saw the shock, the fear, the pain on their faces, and the blood oozing from their flesh as the lead made contact. He squeezed his eyes shut and heard a ‘ping’, realizing that he had emptied the clip again. Shaking his head, he reloaded and raised the barrel again.
