Post by 2nd Lt. John P. McCreary on Jun 28, 2012 17:19:38 GMT
( OOC: So sorry this took so long to get up! It took me a while to figure out what to write. )
November 8th, 1944
His unit was camped at a small French village in its pursuit of the German forces toward the Rhine. The Krauts were on the run—down, but certainly not out. The optimism that the war would be over by Christmas of that year had already proven to be unfounded. Overlord’s success didn’t mean immediate victory. A jump into Holland was supposed to secure that victory, but it had simply been one of the military’s largest disasters. The casualty rate had been astronomical, and the mission had ultimately failed in the end. All it had done was cost lives and resources, and had showed that winning the war wouldn’t be as easy as the brass seemed to think it would be.
He just wanted it all to stop. However he knew that it wouldn’t. He knew that it wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t just wake up one day and the war would be over. It seemed to drag on forever. Would it drag on forever? No…it would stop once one side got tired of sending men to the slaughter. But God knew when that would be…
John rubbed his temples, shaking his head and taking a sip of his bourbon. He couldn’t think that way, it wasn’t good for his head. All he could do was keep doing his job. That was all that all of them could do. He was just a little piece in the big picture. A little piece that may not seem like much, but when combined with the other pieces and working in tandem could accomplish a great deal. He just had to keep his head, and do what he had to do. That’s what he told his men who were close to cracking under pressure. He sent the particularly bad cases to HQ as runners, as far away from combat as he could for not only their benefit, but those of the men he was with. The phenomenon known as ‘shell shock’ and ‘combat fatigue’ was like a cancer—it needed to be caught early and stopped at the source, or else it could prove deadly.
But he didn’t think about that now. This was one of his last opportunities for some R&R prior to being shipped out to the front again. He hoped he wouldn’t be sporting any scars like the last time. He had spent the last several days in a hospital bed. After returning from the front lines with a bullet wound treated by an Austrian nurse, he was taken to a field hospital for surgery, and after they had taken out the bullet he had been ordered to rest until they cleared him for combat. That hadn’t taken long, as the wound was not as severe as it could have been thanks to the nurse’s help.
The division was steadily moving through France—its final destination would be the Rhine. They had been meeting plenty of resistance, which was why their movement was stalled. In one respect, he was grateful—that he was here and not on the front lines and dying. On the other hand, the sooner they reached Germany, the sooner the war would be over. That day couldn’t come sooner for him.
The young lieutenant sat at the bar, half-eaten ham sandwich sitting beside his ale and a sheet of paper next to it. The letter read:
Dear Liesl,
If you recall, I promised you that I would write every day. They didn’t let me write the day I had surgery, so I’m behind one day—so, today I am writing two letters to make up for it. I am not fighting right now, but am in reserve. I have a feeling that this period of relative peace will not last, as I can hear the shelling from the front line even as I sit here writing this letter.
However I can’t say that I’m particularly afraid…I’ve been in combat before, I’ve seen how horrible it is, and what it does to a person. All of us have a bit of fear, jumping out of that plane for the first time, but we push it aside because we don’t want to let the others down. We don’t want to let our family, our brothers-in-arms, down. I feel an unearthly calm thinking about experiencing battle again…I don’t know what it is…perhaps I have convinced myself that somehow you are my guardian angel. I like to believe that, as it does keep me calm—it doesn’t make me overconfident, but it helps me. It gives me hope that when this is over we can have that dance.
He paused to read over what he had written before continuing. He found writing a sort of solace—which was why he wrote so many letters home to his family. This letter, was different. It was to his supposed enemy, an enemy who had selflessly saved his life. He owed her a great deal, and he was afraid that a dinner and a date after the war wasn’t going to make up for it, but he was intent on keeping his promise to see her then. She had in turn promised to write to him, and he had given her his gloves and handkerchief to remember him by. Sometimes he thought about the likelihood of them meeting again. Though he didn’t want to admit it, the chances were slim—yet he gladly kept writing, kept hoping…because if he didn’t have anything to hope for, then what was the point of fighting?
He finally finished the letter and folded it, tucking it into the front pocket of his Class A dress uniform. He then took a bite from the ham sandwich, washing the hot meal down with a sip of ale. As his eyes swept over the small tavern, he could see servicemen dancing with the locals, and others quietly sitting down and enjoying their dinners like he was. The men were all unique, from different walks of life—but war was the great equalizer. He knew what was running through each man’s head—could this be their last meal? Their last drink? This was simply the calm before the storm.
November 8th, 1944
His unit was camped at a small French village in its pursuit of the German forces toward the Rhine. The Krauts were on the run—down, but certainly not out. The optimism that the war would be over by Christmas of that year had already proven to be unfounded. Overlord’s success didn’t mean immediate victory. A jump into Holland was supposed to secure that victory, but it had simply been one of the military’s largest disasters. The casualty rate had been astronomical, and the mission had ultimately failed in the end. All it had done was cost lives and resources, and had showed that winning the war wouldn’t be as easy as the brass seemed to think it would be.
He just wanted it all to stop. However he knew that it wouldn’t. He knew that it wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t just wake up one day and the war would be over. It seemed to drag on forever. Would it drag on forever? No…it would stop once one side got tired of sending men to the slaughter. But God knew when that would be…
John rubbed his temples, shaking his head and taking a sip of his bourbon. He couldn’t think that way, it wasn’t good for his head. All he could do was keep doing his job. That was all that all of them could do. He was just a little piece in the big picture. A little piece that may not seem like much, but when combined with the other pieces and working in tandem could accomplish a great deal. He just had to keep his head, and do what he had to do. That’s what he told his men who were close to cracking under pressure. He sent the particularly bad cases to HQ as runners, as far away from combat as he could for not only their benefit, but those of the men he was with. The phenomenon known as ‘shell shock’ and ‘combat fatigue’ was like a cancer—it needed to be caught early and stopped at the source, or else it could prove deadly.
But he didn’t think about that now. This was one of his last opportunities for some R&R prior to being shipped out to the front again. He hoped he wouldn’t be sporting any scars like the last time. He had spent the last several days in a hospital bed. After returning from the front lines with a bullet wound treated by an Austrian nurse, he was taken to a field hospital for surgery, and after they had taken out the bullet he had been ordered to rest until they cleared him for combat. That hadn’t taken long, as the wound was not as severe as it could have been thanks to the nurse’s help.
The division was steadily moving through France—its final destination would be the Rhine. They had been meeting plenty of resistance, which was why their movement was stalled. In one respect, he was grateful—that he was here and not on the front lines and dying. On the other hand, the sooner they reached Germany, the sooner the war would be over. That day couldn’t come sooner for him.
The young lieutenant sat at the bar, half-eaten ham sandwich sitting beside his ale and a sheet of paper next to it. The letter read:
Dear Liesl,
If you recall, I promised you that I would write every day. They didn’t let me write the day I had surgery, so I’m behind one day—so, today I am writing two letters to make up for it. I am not fighting right now, but am in reserve. I have a feeling that this period of relative peace will not last, as I can hear the shelling from the front line even as I sit here writing this letter.
However I can’t say that I’m particularly afraid…I’ve been in combat before, I’ve seen how horrible it is, and what it does to a person. All of us have a bit of fear, jumping out of that plane for the first time, but we push it aside because we don’t want to let the others down. We don’t want to let our family, our brothers-in-arms, down. I feel an unearthly calm thinking about experiencing battle again…I don’t know what it is…perhaps I have convinced myself that somehow you are my guardian angel. I like to believe that, as it does keep me calm—it doesn’t make me overconfident, but it helps me. It gives me hope that when this is over we can have that dance.
He paused to read over what he had written before continuing. He found writing a sort of solace—which was why he wrote so many letters home to his family. This letter, was different. It was to his supposed enemy, an enemy who had selflessly saved his life. He owed her a great deal, and he was afraid that a dinner and a date after the war wasn’t going to make up for it, but he was intent on keeping his promise to see her then. She had in turn promised to write to him, and he had given her his gloves and handkerchief to remember him by. Sometimes he thought about the likelihood of them meeting again. Though he didn’t want to admit it, the chances were slim—yet he gladly kept writing, kept hoping…because if he didn’t have anything to hope for, then what was the point of fighting?
He finally finished the letter and folded it, tucking it into the front pocket of his Class A dress uniform. He then took a bite from the ham sandwich, washing the hot meal down with a sip of ale. As his eyes swept over the small tavern, he could see servicemen dancing with the locals, and others quietly sitting down and enjoying their dinners like he was. The men were all unique, from different walks of life—but war was the great equalizer. He knew what was running through each man’s head—could this be their last meal? Their last drink? This was simply the calm before the storm.
