TDTLBU Chapter Twenty-Six

 

Andy always walked quickly, with jerky movements as if permanently nervous about something. He seemed more stiff and awkward in the unfamiliar green uniform and combat boots than he ever had in the overalls and checked shirt with which he had arrived. He kept to himself as he moved through the crowded mess hall, a loaded tray in his hands. For such a scrawny kid, he sure ate a lot.

As he passed loaded tables, searching for an empty spot, a few of the other guys laughed at him. One stuck his foot out as he walked by. Andy stumbled, his arms flailing as he sought to break his fall. His plate flew from his hands, landing squarely on a pair of broad shoulders belonging to a man seated at the opposite table. 

The man jumped to his feet and whirled to face them, the empty plate falling with a clatter to the floor as green beans and mashed potatoes trickled down the front of his uniform shirt. His green eyes flamed with rage, the thin scar along his forehead and running up into his hairline seeming to grow white as his face turned red with anger. He slammed one big hand down on the table so that the tin plates rattled and the forks and cups danced in place. His other hand he curled into a fist. Andy backed up slowly, as far as he could go, until he ran smack into Ronnie and stood still, shaking in his boots.

"Hey. Easy there, buddy." Ronnie pushed Andy gently aside, stepping forward to face the angry soldier. "He didn't mean it."

Slowly the rage melted from the man's face and his eyes softened. "I know he didn't," he answered in a deep voice just vaguely touched with a faint Scottish lilt. "But I'd like to know who the coward that tripped him is."

"Who wants to know?" The culprit spoke up with a jaunty grin. The rest of his words were choked back as the soldier grabbed him by his shirt collar and shook him until his teeth rattled.

"I suggest you keep your feet to yourself. And leave this kid alone, or you'll answer to me, you wee scunner." He dropped the man like a sack of rags and turned to Andy. He grinned… a sudden flash of friendly good humor… and stuck out his hand. "Name's Mac Scott. Don't mind me, they always said I got more'n my share of the Scotch temper." 

"Ronnie Stewart. We met before," Ronnie grinned back, shaking his hand.

"Aye. This morning. And I've had to re-lace these damn gaiters twice since. I know what you said, but still. Ain't fair. Fishing buddy of mine from Manitoba joined up with the Canadian army and he says they've got real boots."

"Aw, you'll get used to it."

"Here's hoping," Mac glanced past Ronnie and jerked his head in the direction of the empty seats across from him. "C'mon, kid, there's a spot for you here. What's your name?"

"Andy… Noble."

"Glad t'meet you, Andy Noble. And Ronnie, there's room for you too. Where's that crazy friend of yours?"

"Oh, he's around here somewhere," Ronnie shrugged. Now that they were situated, the only thing he could think about was getting some kind of word to Lissie, and soon. He wasn't giving up on her. Not yet. Maybe the little store he had seen about five buildings down from his barracks would have stamps and paper. He'd get a letter in the mail that very night.

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In the brief time of rest before the call for lights out, the new recruits did their best to fit in and pretend they were used to barracks life. They had already sensed somehow that boredom was to be a continual part of their new lives and were fortifying themselves for it. Two men sat cross-legged on the floor in the corner, raffling off cigarettes in a game of cards. One lank, sandy-haired boy was doing chin-ups from a ceiling beam while a dark, short young man pored over a lengthy hand-written letter that he had been carrying in his pocket. Andy was writing home, homesickness already pooling in his eyes and spilling over in a silent aura of nervous fear. Mac was whittling aimlessly on a chunk of scrap wood with his army knife, watching in amusement as Josh turned cartwheels down the center aisle.

Welcome to the monkey house," Josh flipped to his feet as Ronnie stepped inside and reeled dizzily a moment before regaining his balance by slinging an arm around a support pillar. Ronnie looked at Josh sideways, then shrugged and shook his head. 

"Yeah, you're the only monkey in it," a tall man in the corner called out, clenching a cigarette between his teeth as he pulled out a match. As Ronnie crossed over to his bunk, the man sitting on the one next to his glanced up from the letter he was reading.

"You know this guy?" He jerked his head in Josh's direction.

"Him? Nope. Never saw him before in my life." 

"Well, if you know where he came from, send him back," the man with the cigarette interjected. "I've got a headache from all his racket."

"Haters will be haters," Josh shrugged carelessly as he flopped face-down on his bunk.

"The headache is probably from all those cigarettes you're smoking, Ken," the man doing chin-ups dropped lightly to the ground and folded his hands behind his head. 

"Don't smoke anymore 'n the rest o' you, Sandy."

"Well, that friend of yours is right about one thing," the man with the letter laughed as he leaned forward to offer his hand. "It's a madhouse in here. I'm Daniel Asher, but call me Dan. I hail from Indiana. Ran a hardware store back there."

"Ronnie Stewart. I live on a farm in Ohio. Everyone around here from mostly different places?"

"Ralph Stirling, New York. I was a clerk in a department store," one of the card players spoke up. 

"I'm from Louisiana," Ken shifted the cigarette to the other side of his mouth. "Ken Stevens. Family owns a bait and tackle shop out by Caddo Lake."

"That explains the funny accent," the sandy haired boy grinned. His hair was tan, his eyes were tan, and every inch of his face was scattered with tan freckles. "I'm Jack Marshall, but also Sandy, for obvious reasons. My family’s sharecroppers back in Cottonwood Falls, Kansas."

✯✯✯

Letter from Ronnie to Jim and Donna

January 3, 1942

Just about everyone here is from a different place and does a different thing. We've got college graduates all mixed up with average farm boys and illiterate factory workers. And new guys arrive by the hundreds daily. We're a strange, mismatched lot. 

There are twelve men in our squad, including the sergeant, Donald MacFarland. Not as bad as I thought he would be, he seems pretty fair. Corporal Stanley Bryce is the assistant squad leader. He taught highschool math in Virginia. There's Mac Scott who lives on a honey farm in Minnesota, but also is a carpenter, and Andy Noble who is a farmer from Iowa. There’s Ken Stevens, he’s from Louisiana, and Ralph Stirling is from New York. Looks like he never put in a hard day’s work in his life. John Marshall, everyone calls him Jack or Sandy, is a sharecropper from Kansas. Dan Asher is from Indiana, owns a hardware store, and Sam Ross worked in a factory in Pennsylvania. He’s got bright orange hair and we mostly call him Carrots. And then there’s Jimmy Bly, who used to work at a soda fountain in Illinois. He’s smaller than everyone else and acts twice as tough. I’ve got a feeling he isn’t as old as he says he is. He looks like a kid. 

Funny to see how different kinds of people react to the kind of stuff they make us do. This morning we started off the day with an obstacle course. I tell you what, no matter what kind of crazy things we did back on the farm, it never came close to this. We had to climb ladders and ropes and platforms that went straight up and crawl through mud pits and do monkey bars and all sorts of other torturous things, while Drill Sarge screamed at us to hurry up and move. Some of us made it through no worse for wear but some of the guys couldn’t hardly make it. That one from New York… he collapsed halfway through. I made it through, but it was awful. I tell you what, my entire body is aching all over now. We're sure in for a rough time of it.