Post by 2nd Lt. John P. McCreary on Jun 19, 2012 18:50:24 GMT
October 26th, 1944
John walked along the sidewalk, once again taking in the sights and sounds of Paris. He had been here once before the war, as a graduation gift from his parents. It had been so lively then—almost like the place the greats of the ‘Lost Generation’ went to hone their muses. He had only been there for a week—not long enough to truly drink in and experience the city—but from what he had seen it was every bit as wonderful as his father had described it. Having fought in the Great War, he had gotten the chance to visit the city when he was about his age.
Although he was sure it was a drastic contrast to occupied Paris, the fact that there was a war going on was certainly not overlooked. There were several other men in uniform besides him, and even though he was certain that the people of Paris were ecstatic over their liberation, there was still a solemn tone in the air. There was, after all, plenty of fighting still going on in the outer regions of France. Even though Overload had been a success, as well as the Breakout Campaign, Market-Garden had been FUBAR and the Allies were currently trying to find a way to push into Germany.
He knew for certain now that the war would not be over by Christmas. That was what he and the other members of the 101st and the rest of the forces that had invaded Holland had been told. He had been skeptical. After days of hard fighting in Normandy, he had been prepared for the worst case scenario—and it indeed had been the worst case scenario. Even though the 101st and 82nd had taken their objectives, the British paratroopers hadn’t, and the plan had simply collapsed. He had been pulled out just before it had and reassigned to the 3ID by his own request. The only other option was a desk job that accompanied his promotion, which he wasn’t about to have while the rest of his men were fighting and dying on the front lines.
He had yet to see battle with this unit, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long until he was called back to the front. The wiser part of him was dreading it—for good reason. Combat was nothing like it was represented in books and movies. It was hell. Complete and utter hell. And he would have to march a platoon of men into hell once more. The other part of him had a sort of anticipation. He would prove that he wasn’t simply a replacement, that he knew what he was doing, that he could take charge and truly lead these men. But would he get all of them home? Back to their wives, their mothers, their children, their families? It wasn’t guaranteed. Nothing in war or life was guaranteed.
For now he tried to push those thoughts aside. He was here to relax. The lieutenant was dressed in his olive drab dress uniform with garrison cap and trousers bloused over his Corcoran jump boots. On his left shoulder was his 3ID patch, and on his right the Screaming Eagles patch. He was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair was neatly kept. Unlike many of his colleagues he was not here to get drunk and pick up a few women. He was here to indulge himself in the culture of the city. He planned to have a glass of champagne and maybe some nice lobster bisque from a café before going to see an opera.
There was a nice little café not too far from the Garnier that didn’t seem to be too crowded—most likely because most of the servicemen preferred the bars and taverns, no doubt—and took off his hat as he entered. He paid for a newspaper—in French, of course— and sat at a table next to the window, paging through it as he waited for the waiter to take his order. Most of it was news from the front—the last thing he needed right now. Quickly he found the entertainment section and started reading the review of Carmen.
John walked along the sidewalk, once again taking in the sights and sounds of Paris. He had been here once before the war, as a graduation gift from his parents. It had been so lively then—almost like the place the greats of the ‘Lost Generation’ went to hone their muses. He had only been there for a week—not long enough to truly drink in and experience the city—but from what he had seen it was every bit as wonderful as his father had described it. Having fought in the Great War, he had gotten the chance to visit the city when he was about his age.
Although he was sure it was a drastic contrast to occupied Paris, the fact that there was a war going on was certainly not overlooked. There were several other men in uniform besides him, and even though he was certain that the people of Paris were ecstatic over their liberation, there was still a solemn tone in the air. There was, after all, plenty of fighting still going on in the outer regions of France. Even though Overload had been a success, as well as the Breakout Campaign, Market-Garden had been FUBAR and the Allies were currently trying to find a way to push into Germany.
He knew for certain now that the war would not be over by Christmas. That was what he and the other members of the 101st and the rest of the forces that had invaded Holland had been told. He had been skeptical. After days of hard fighting in Normandy, he had been prepared for the worst case scenario—and it indeed had been the worst case scenario. Even though the 101st and 82nd had taken their objectives, the British paratroopers hadn’t, and the plan had simply collapsed. He had been pulled out just before it had and reassigned to the 3ID by his own request. The only other option was a desk job that accompanied his promotion, which he wasn’t about to have while the rest of his men were fighting and dying on the front lines.
He had yet to see battle with this unit, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long until he was called back to the front. The wiser part of him was dreading it—for good reason. Combat was nothing like it was represented in books and movies. It was hell. Complete and utter hell. And he would have to march a platoon of men into hell once more. The other part of him had a sort of anticipation. He would prove that he wasn’t simply a replacement, that he knew what he was doing, that he could take charge and truly lead these men. But would he get all of them home? Back to their wives, their mothers, their children, their families? It wasn’t guaranteed. Nothing in war or life was guaranteed.
For now he tried to push those thoughts aside. He was here to relax. The lieutenant was dressed in his olive drab dress uniform with garrison cap and trousers bloused over his Corcoran jump boots. On his left shoulder was his 3ID patch, and on his right the Screaming Eagles patch. He was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair was neatly kept. Unlike many of his colleagues he was not here to get drunk and pick up a few women. He was here to indulge himself in the culture of the city. He planned to have a glass of champagne and maybe some nice lobster bisque from a café before going to see an opera.
There was a nice little café not too far from the Garnier that didn’t seem to be too crowded—most likely because most of the servicemen preferred the bars and taverns, no doubt—and took off his hat as he entered. He paid for a newspaper—in French, of course— and sat at a table next to the window, paging through it as he waited for the waiter to take his order. Most of it was news from the front—the last thing he needed right now. Quickly he found the entertainment section and started reading the review of Carmen.
