Having a Drink [Hobbar]

[Jeremiah Welsh]

Date: 2nd of June
Time: 2300 Hours
Weather: Night/Overcast

Jeremy Welsh sat on a bar stool in a local pub. He was on leave for a little bit and was in England. It was not the best pub in the world, but it wasn't the worst. He had a bottle of whiskey sitting next to him and a shot glass full of the amber alcohol. He was dressed in his dress green uniform. His green uniform has his Private Insignia on the right shoulder. His shoes were neatly polished and the uniform was crisp and clean. He had worn it a select few times, but it wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing in the world.

He drank the shot and poured another one. He got a cigarette from a regular at the bar and lit it. The crisp tobacco popped a little as the flame on the lighter touched it and he inhaled the sweet smoke. He exhaled and drank another shot. He was used to drinking, so two shots barely did anything to him. He had been stuck on base for quite some time and it had gotten him stir crazy. He was supposed to be a replacement for the 3rd Infantry Division. He did not know what to expect in the unit, what to expect out of combat, all he knew is that he was a fresh draftee, and replacements usually got killed. That was a prospect that he did not like.

The only thing he was good for was speaking German and shooting his rifle, maybe they would keep him around long enough to do some good. As he put the cigarette in a nearby ash tray, he took another shot.

" 'Ey barkeep, you got the time?"

"Well lad, its Eleven O'clock, got somewhere to be?"

"No, just wonderin'," said Jeremy.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

Hobbar was just taking a late... LATE night walk through the streets of England, he'd just been shipped from the States. "4 Years in College, and no commission." Michael grumbled quietly to himself. He was wearing his Service uniform; his chevrons were fresh from supply, stitched on just yesterday. "Oh well," Hobbar sighed, "At least i'm getting decent pay as a First Sergeant."

The night air was cool, much to Hobbar's disliking. He grew up in the sunny scenes of California, warm rays and late night strolls were in 90F weather. Michael passed by a few soldiers, and a few civilians, he didn't mind them all too much. He just enjoyed his time alone... wanted to relax a little bit before he was sent off to War.

Michael was holding a piece of paper in his hand, new orders to the 3rd ID. He'd been in the states way too long, weekends off base with friends, no late night curfew...now in Britain, weekends were mostly spent on base under watch with a strict curfew enforced on the general English populace.

"Well lad, its Eleven O'clock, got somewhere to be?"

Hobbar heard the bartender conversing, and he noticed an US Army Private sitting around. Hmm... Hobbar wondered, he walked on over and looked at the young Private, "Hey there Private, what are you doing out here late at night eh?" Hobbar took a seat across from the young Soldier.

[Jeremiah Welsh]

"Hey Sarge, just havin' a drink. Want some whiskey?" he asked.

Jeremy looked over the NCO, he saw the 1st Sergeant insignia on his shoulder, they were both in the 3rd ID.

"So you new to the unit? I am a replacement, I ship out not too long from now," he said.

Jeremy had no friends in the unit, since he was new, he hadn't even met any of them. Replacements had a low life expectancy on the battlefield, and he knew this. Jeremy was afraid to die, but he knew at least he would die serving his country. Jeremiah's uncle had fought in the Royal Army during The Great War, and he had heard stories from the older Irishman. They had been entertaining as a child, but now that he was about to enter combat, he was terrified.

Some people say that growing up in New York was just like fighting in a war, Jeremiah was used to screaming Germans, after all his mother was a German and her family was loud and drunk. He only had met his German family once while he was growing up. He knew some of his cousins were in the Wehrmacht, and one was in the Luftwaffe, he just hoped he never shot any of them, even though he didn't know them, it would be a very bad thing to shoot a cousin of his.

The Private's role in his outfit would be rifleman, but also translator. He would translate anything the Germans that were captured would say, and also translate anything he came across, like papers and messages. He hated the Nazis, knowing they disgraced the German half of his family with their totalitarian dictatorship, and antisemitism. But Jeremiah did not look like a German, or have a German last name. He looked Irish, and he was proud of that. His Irish side accounted for many things, including his way of speech. The inflection in his voice sounded very Irish, since his father did teach him to speak.

"So Sarge, where you from?" he asked.

Jeremiah wanted to start a conversation with the 1st Sergeant, and hoped that he could make friends with him. Because he knew from his uncle's stories, that the only people you had in combat were the guys next to you. The battlefields had no time for family, and he knew he would see very little of his family. He had not seen his mother or father since he was kicked out of his house for being expelled from school, he had written to his mother a lot since he had been in Europe, his father would not speak to him.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

"Hey Sarge, just havin' a drink. Want some whiskey?" he asked.

Hobbar nodded, "hehe" Hobbar chuckled, "No thanks, I don't drink." Hobbar looked at the bartender, "I'll just have a glass of water. The bar tender nodded and poured out a glass."

"Here you go Soldier."

"Thanks." Hobbar said in a steady voice. Michael looked at Welsh.

"So you new to the unit? I am a replacement, I ship out not too long from now," he said.

"Yup." Hobbar paused as he quickly chugged his glass. "I just got orders to the 3rd ID, thought I'd come in looking shipshape." Hobbar brushed some lint off of his blouse. "I can't wait to meet the rest of the men.

Hobbar wanted to make a good impression when he arrived at base. He didn't want to look like a half-ass, piece of crap soldier. His uniform was freshly pressed, and his patches and chevrons were perfectly sewn. Any "Irish pennant" was burnt off and the few awards pinned to his chest were squared-away. Hobbar pretty much fresh out of college, fresh from regulations, fresh from the keen teachings of the ROTC instructors. Hobbar was pretty much regulations. The mere fact that he graduated college was the sole reason he was an NCO. At least the pay wasn't undesirable.

"So Sarge, where you from?" he asked.

"I'm from the beautiful state of California." Hobbar thought of home, warm summer's air, calm blue oceans, it was lovely; "Up near the Bay Area. How about you private?

[Jeremiah Welsh]

"Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, got drafted into this mess, haha" replied Jeremiah.

The private took another shot of whiskey. He was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, only slightly though. He had been drinking since he was fifteen. His father had given him his first drink. A lot of his Irish family were alcoholics, including his dad, but Jeremiah was not an alcoholic, that was something he was proud of.

"So Sarge, whats California like? I hear its all sunshine and bouncin' titties, haha, that true?" he asked.

Jeremiah had never been to California, but he had heard about it on the radio and people who had been there that were in New York. Most of tourists in New York were from over there, and a lot of them had been very naive. Jeremy had wanted to see the Pacific Ocean, he thought the Atlantic was a boring and cold. The beaches in California were clean, while the beaches in New York were filled with trash. Jeremiah poured another shot of the the amber alcohol into the glass and drank it. The burn in his throat was ignored, the whiskey was cheap, but it would get the job done.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

"So Sarge, whats California like? I hear its all sunshine and bouncin' titties, haha, that true?" he asked.

Hobbar chuckled inside, the young private’s interest made him think even harder of home. He missed his parents, even though they didn’t support his joining the military, and his missed his brothers. Hobbar looked at the young Private and said, “Well,” Hobbar started, “That’s not entirely true, I mean, I live more inland, takes a while to get to those beaches.” Hobbar remembered his home, it wasn’t the best and richest house wasn’t the biggest or highest, but it was home, cozy and relaxing. Summers were hot, but springs and falls were nice, and winters weren’t Artic Shock and were mostly on the good side. “But…” Hobbar continued, “What I’ve seen of those beaches…” Hobbar perked his lips and nodded “Mhmmm.”

Hobbar laughed out loud as he motioned for the bar tender to pour him another glass, Hobbar was getting parched. Hobbar picked up the glass and chugged it down his throat. Hobbar looked at Welsh, “So Private, I never actually got your name…”

Hobbar questioned the young Private, “So how long have you joined the army?” For Hobbar it was only a while ago, he was full of experience… ROTC experience. “And why did you join the army?”

[Jeremiah Welsh]

"Jeremiah Welsh, but you can call me Jeremy, or Welsh," said Jeremiah.

Jeremy looked over to the bartender, he was about to close the bar up. This made the private a bit uncomfortable, now he and the Sarge would have to walk back to the base.

"I got drafted a year back, and I joined because I got drafted. If it was my choice I would be back in New York at my construction job and not in this fuckin' mess," said Jeremy.

Jeremiah walked out as the bartender ushered everyone out, taking his bottle of whiskey. He had the Sergeant follow him to a small train station bench. It was a brisk night, not too cold, not too hot, just perfect. The streetlights of London were great, there were still ruined buildings from the Battle of Britain. The Germans had bombed a lot of England a few years earlier, but the English had held strong. Jeremiah loved England, it was quiet at night, and the cobblestone streets gave it an old style look.

"This is a good place to sit," said Jeremiah.

The private now smelled terribly like liquor and was quite buzzed. He took a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes and packed it against the bench. He lit it and took a drag.

"Nice night, eh Sarge?" asked Jeremiah with a slight slur in his voice.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

"Jeremiah Welsh, but you can call me Jeremy, or Welsh,"

"Alright, right on." Hobbar could use a friend. Especially one in his Unit that he could count on one day. The worst thing that could happen on the battle field was to NOT have someone at your back ready to cover you, it was pretty much asking to get killed.

"I got drafted a year back, and I joined because I got drafted. If it was my choice I would be back in New York at my construction job and not in this fuckin' mess," said Jeremy.

That last sentence Jeremy spoke sent a shiver down Hobbar's spine. Shit... a draftee? Hobbar thought for a second, losing himself in a short gaze, This boy is going to get me killed... or worse, get a lot of troopers killed. Michael looked at Welsh, "But now that you're here, you'll do the best you can do right? Give it your all?

The Bar tender closed up his shop and Jeremy and Michael left the bar. The two roamed the streets of London for a while, before coming to a stop at a bench. The scenery was beautiful... except for the crumbling buildings reminiscent of the recent bombings of the German Luftwaffe. A few flowers were starting to grow in the dirt, a sure sign that the world was going to be alright after the war... how ever long it may be.

"This is a good place to sit," said Jeremiah.

"Yeah" Hobbar started, "I sit down right about now." Michael though about what life at home was, if the blackouts were in effect yet, if those damn Japs attacked California. He tried to push it out of his mind, but every time he tried, it came back stronger.

Welsh took a cigarette from a pack of Lucky Strikes and packed it against the bench. He lit it and took started smoking it.

"Nice night, eh Sarge?" asked Jeremiah with a slight slur in his voice.

"Sure is."
Hobbar didn't like smoking much, odd for a military man, but he never understood killing your lungs with that nasty smoke. Hobbar coughed twice, the second hand smoke was filling his lungs, and he didn't like it. "Stow that smoke trooper."

[Jeremiah Welsh]

"Yes Sarge, I'll do my best, any Kraut on the business end of my rifle is gunna catch hell," he said.

The Private took another swig of whiskey and set the bottle on the ground next to him. He was starting to feel drunk, his senses dulled and he began to feel like he was swaying. The soldier had not been drunk in a while, it was relieving.

"Yes, Sergeant!" Jeremiah said with a laugh, he stood up and snapped to attention with a salute and dropped it on the ground, smashing it with his foot.

Jeremiah sat back down. The First Sergeant looked very uptight. His father was like that sober, he knew the type, he had seen them on the boat over here. Regulations types, they wanted everything prim and proper, he had a dislike for people that had to be so uptight, but he figured that he could probably get the man to lighten up a little.

"Sarge, ya' gotta lighten up, ya' just gotta. Ya' can't go inta' this thing all stick up your ass, ya know? Drink with me, it will calm ya' up," said the Private.

Jeremiah was not sure what to expect from the man. It could be an angry response, hell maybe even a Court Marshall threat. All he knew was that the Sergeant was gunna either get himself killed being all up tight, or go crazy out there. His uncle had told him all about combat, it wasn't pleasant, but you had to make the best of it. Like any bad situations he knew that making the best of it was the only way to get through it without going nuts. Jeremiah sat there staring at the man, waiting for a reply.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

"Yes Sarge, I'll do my best, any Kraut on the business end of my rifle is gunna catch hell," he said.

"Good" Hobbar responded, "Whats worse than soldiers who can't fight, are those who don't want to be there and whimp out." Hobbar was glad this trooper was going to give all he had. Hobbar was intent on giving the Germans hell, they started this damn war, they're going to pay for it.

"Yes, Sergeant!" Jeremiah said with a laugh, he stood up and snapped to attention with a salute and dropped it on the ground, smashing it with his foot.

Welsh dropped the cigarette, to Hobbar's pleasing, but he made it a big deal. Hobbar shook his head and smirked to himself. I bet he thinks I'm being a dick. Michael thought to himself. Oh well, I can do it, I am after all a First Sergeant.

"Sarge, ya' gotta lighten up, ya' just gotta. Ya' can't go inta' this thing all stick up your ass, ya know?

I was right. Hobbar chuckled to himself briefly and then looked the young private in the eyes. "I'm not uptight. He paused to gather what he was going to say, "I just don't like smoking, never did and quite frankly, I could never understand the pleasure of inhaling toxins into your body. Hobbar shifted his posture on the seat.

Drink with me, it will calm ya' up," said the Private.

"I don't like drinking all that much either. Hobbar said steadily. Like his brother, he wasn't an avid drinker, heck, he didn't even like alcohol, he'd much rather stick with a soda like coke or something. mmmm Hobbar thought, A soda could do good right now. He was still thirsty, those 2 glasses of water didn't fill him up enough, which was a bit funny Hobbar thought. Hobbar looked at Welsh, "So yeah," Hobbar calmly said, "I don't drink or smoke, and i'm not uptight." Hobbar grinned.

[Jeremiah Welsh]

"Wait a minute....So you're tellin' me you never hadda' drink before?" asked Private Welsh.

Jeremiah highly doubted that the man never had a drink before. Everyone their age had at least a sip in their life time, or so Jeremiah thought. He could be wrong though. The Private really pondered this. He thought it would be really odd for a guy to never have a drink before. He could understand not having a cigarette, but he couldn't possibly fathom someone never drinking in their life by the time they were twenty. Jeremiah laughed at the thought.

"Sarge, not ever havin' a drink is like never fuckin' a broad," he said with a smile.

The private took another swig. This time, it didn't go down as smooth and his throat clenched. The privates face turned white and he leaned over the bench and puked. The splashing sound, accompanied by the belching sound of vomit coming up from his stomach unsettled the private. After he finished, he washed down the taste with another gulp of whiskey.

"Didn't go down right, haha" said Jeremiah hoarsely.

He put the bottle down and walked a few feet away from the First Sergeant. He took out another Lucky Strike and packed it against the sidewalk. The private put it in his mouth and took out his lighter. He lit it and puffed, then inhaled. The smooth smoke was a welcoming feeling for Jeremiah as he exhaled. He hated not being able to smoke, and if he the Sarge was going to stop him, he would go off a little ways and do it.

"Sarge, ya still got your issues? I am runnin' a little low," he said with a smile.

The issued cigarettes were of horrible quality, but it was better than nothing. Jeremiah had burned through his issues in a week, and had to look for an hour around London to get a decent pack of American cigarettes. It was not pleasant, but he was glad he did. It was the first thing he did when he came to England. The boat ride over had been painfully boring and played on Jeremiah's nerves. He had heard about U-Boats sinking troop ships, and figured he would rather die in Africa or where ever they were going than die on a "god damn boat".

Jeremiah stared up at the moon, it was only a tiny sliver right than, and he wondered if his parents saw the same moon, or if his brother over in the Pacific saw it. He remembered getting the news his brother had willing joined the Marine Corps. Jeremiah himself had thought about trying to dodge the draft when his number came up, but he wondered why in the world his kid brother would join the Marines and fight those "lunatic Nips".

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

"Wait a minute....So you're tellin' me you never hadda' drink before?" asked Private Welsh.

“Sorta” Hobbar started, “Never did have a drink, just a taste when I turned 18. I didn’t like it much, puked it all out.” Hobbar smiled. He could understand the private’s interest, most people by their 21st birthday have already been wasted at one point in time. Hobbar just never did like drinking, it sickened him sometimes. He didn’t like it, but he could stand it, or at least well enough to be around someone longer than 10 minutes.

"Sarge, not ever havin' a drink is like never fuckin' a broad," he said with a smile.

Hobbar laughed, “Now that… I’ve done.” Hobbar said with a young grin on his face. “College in California… now that’s what’s up” Hobbar couldn’t help but laugh out loud, he remembered his college years, good ol’ days, especially in the great state of California; warm sun, cute girls, warm beaches, ah, it was heaven on earth.

Welsh chugged another gulp of his drink. Quickly, he turned over and puked it all back out.

“Damn private, it seems to me that your body doesn’t like alcohol either.” Hobbar wanted to laugh, but he knew it wasn’t proper. He just kept his mouth shut for now.

"Didn't go down right, haha" said Jeremiah hoarsely.

Obviously Hobbar thought to himself, If it had, you wouldn’t had puked it all back out… Hobbar turned to Welsh, “What ever you say private.

Welsh pulled out another smoke again, it bothered Hobbar, but this time he let it pass. He didn’t want to seem like an asshole and yet again order the young lad, he was after all off duty.

"Sarge, ya still got your issues? I am runnin' a little low," he said with a smile.

“You know those things’ll kill you?” Hobbar pointed at Welsh’s cigarette, “Why do you smoke that? I mean I don’t want to be killed because of lung cancer…” Hobbar grinned.

[Jeremiah Welsh]

"Its the Irish way haha, drink 'til ya puke, and then drink again!" Jeremiah said with a loud laugh and a very toothy grin.

"But for the sake of not being hung over in the mornin', I am gunna' stash this bottle in my footlocker and save it for the long road to wherever we are goin'," Jeremiah said with another dimpled grin.

He still had half a bottle of the strong, cheap whiskey, he wanted to save it for a rainy day out on the line. After all, how many chances was he going to get a drink out there? He replaced the cork in the dark glass bottle. He finished his cigarette and decided it would be a good idea to look for a diner that was open this late.

"Sarge, wanna see if London's got any places open this late for food?" Jeremiah asked.

The Private's stomach was rumbling since he threw up, if they were in Ireland, there would probably be a bar open. But they were in England, he thought it was a nice country but it was pretty uptight, too much tea drinking for his liking. The streets were virtually empty at the time except for a few cabs.

"Sarge, maybe we can call a cabbie, he pro'bly knows a good place to get food this time o' night, what ya' think?" he asked.

Jeremiah took out his wallet and counted how many Pounds he had. Most of his money was American money, but the cabbies around London bitched at him for paying with American money. This was all from his paycheck. He had turned fifty American dollars into Pounds. There wasn't a whole lot left now, but there was enough to pay for the cab fare. He also looked around in his wallet and found his ID card. It looked decent for an ID picture. He also had his Driver's License, something a lot of the guys he had met from the rural parts of The States had lacked. He wished he could have requested a Jeep off the base, but he had decided against it, for drinking and driving was not always Jeremiah's strongest feat.

"I will pay the fare if ya' want Sarge," Jeremiah Offered.

[1st Sgt. Michael Hobbar]

"But for the sake of not being hung over in the mornin', I am gunna' stash this bottle in my footlocker and save it for the long road to wherever we are goin'," Jeremiah said with another dimpled grin.

Hobbar grinned, the young Irishman seemed very inthusiastic, hopefully, he was as gung ho as he was when they went under fire. Hobbar hadn't been under fire, but he thought he was pretty prepared, 4 years of college ROTC should have prepared him enough, or not. Hobbar re-thought about it, What am I kidding? ROTC and college won't prepare me for combat, from those WW1 stories, we have tons more to learn, to practice, to experience. Hobbar was just thinking to himself for a littlebit when he heard Welsh speak up.

"Sarge, wanna see if London's got any places open this late for food?"

"Sure." Hobbar responded, "I wouldn't mind getting a snack, I am feeling a bit hungry." Hobbar nervously chuckled as he rubbed his stomach. "But I don't know any food joints here. Hobbar wished he knew London better, but since they were only there for a little while, he didn't have time to snoop around and find the local joints and local hot spots.

"Sarge, maybe we can call a cabbie, he pro'bly knows a good place to get food this time o' night, what ya' think?" he asked.

"Sounds like a plan." Hobbar said, nodding in agreement. Hmm, Hobbar thought to himself, I wonder if there are cabs running around this late at night, especially since there's a blackout in effect and a war going on just across the channel. Sure enough a cab pulled up and stopped for the two.

"I will pay the fare if ya' want Sarge," Jeremiah Offered.

Hobbar nodded. Good thing, Hobbar didn't carry that much with him at the time, surely not enough to pay for the cab, he just had enough to get a few drinks(sodas and such, no alcoholic, he doesn't like that stuff) and maybe some chow.
"Sure thing Private." Hobbar said. The cab pulled up and the two got in and then drove off.

[Jeremiah Welsh]

The cab drove them to a small diner in Old Town London. It was called Old Greg's Fish and Chips. The place was small, but it was open twenty-four hours. Jeremiah paid the cabbie five pounds and the two got out. Jeremiah had fish and chips very sparingly in his time and considered it a nice meal. They walked inside the nearly deserted restaurant. It smelled of deep fried fish and bitter vinegar. There were some old men, some drunks, a few police officers and a rather sleepy-looking Royal Air Force pilot. There was a waitress walking around, and the place was thick with tobacco smoke from cigars and cigarettes alike. It reminded Jeremiah of bars in New York.

"Ever had fish and chips, Sarge? Its pretty good, and places like this usually got the best," he said with a smile as they walked to a booth near the front windows.

"Can I take your orders boys?" said the waitress that was on duty.

She was a young, pretty brunette with a soft voice. She was wearing a dark green skirt and a dark green blouse, the colors brang out her pale blue eyes and pale skin nicely. She wore little make up, but was still very pretty.

"I'll just take a basket of fish and chips with some vinegar and a coke," said Jeremiah with a smile.

There were a lot of pretty girls in London, and since being there he had had his way with a few of them. Mostly because he had a nice smile and looked pretty good in his dress greens. A lot of women seemed to go nuts for a man in uniform, that didn't bother Jeremiah at all though. Occasionally he would make up some fake story about combat he had never seen. This would really get ladies going, but he didn't do it too often. Jeremiah sat awaiting the what the Sergeant First Class would order.