TDTLBU Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ronnie clenched his teeth to keep from grimacing as he laced his boot over his swollen ankle. Grateful for the extra support, he tightened his gaiter over it as hard as he could. He stood, tentatively putting more and more weight on it until he was standing straight. Attempting a few steps, he was relieved to find he could do it without limping, although it hurt terribly.

“Hey, you okay?” Mac glanced up at him as he sat on the edge of his cot, lacing his own gaiters. 

“I’m fine,” Ronnie shrugged. He was still angry at himself for being stupid enough to slip on the obstacle in yesterday’s run. He was lucky he hadn’t fallen all the way or it would have been worse. As it was, he had managed to run it off yesterday, enough to finish the obstacle course, so he was confident that he would be fine. Even though it had gotten worse during the night, he could handle at least the basic training exercises they had been doing daily. No need to raise a fuss over a little sprain. 

“Ten-shun!” 

The soldiers rose quickly, standing at attention in two straight lines at the foot of their cots. It was obvious that Sergeant McFarland was not in a good mood from the moment he stepped into the barracks. The tension could be felt. He marched stiffly down the center aisle, his boots clipping angrily in short, staccatoed steps. When he reached Mac, he stopped, facing him with narrowed eyes.

“What excuse do you have for that mess, soldier?” he snapped, indicating Mac’s sloppily-made cot. “Is that how they teach you to make beds in Minnesota? Didn't your mama teach you anything? Or maybe she's as lazy as you are, eh?"

Mac offered no answer, but his lips tightened and the scar on his forehead seemed to grow whiter. 

“This is the second time I’ve called you out for this offense, Scott. KP for you tomorrow. And if I ever see you leave your area like that again…” 

He left the threat hanging in the air as he turned to the rest of the men.

“Alright, fall out, men. Gather your full gear and meet in five minutes for a twenty mile hike. Helmets, rifles, packs, everything. Go, go, go!!” 

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March 3, 1942

Letter from Ronnie to Jim and Donna

KP is the threat that hangs over everyone's head and yet no one seems to take it seriously. Even when they get it. The first day Mac got it for not making his bed, the second day Josh got it for cracking a joke during morning workout. Sandy laughed at him for that and the next day found him doing KP because his helmet mysteriously went missing. Well the next day, the helmet was found… under Josh's cot… and Josh and Andy did KP together, Andy for falling out of line during a drill. Mac got it next day for not making his bed again and that night, he nailed his blanket to the wall. I got it once myself for not moving fast enough on a twenty mile hike. I should say twenty mile run. Never been so exhausted. But you can bet I ran fast as I could on the next run we went on. As bad as that is, at least you can have mess and then bed afterwards instead of peeling five million potatoes and scrubbing the kitchen floors. Sarge is tired of dishing out the KP though and today he threatened Josh… Josh didn't even do anything, Sarge just called him out because he's sure Josh is at least concocting mischief. He threatened him with having to scrub down the entire latrine with a toothbrush. Now that I've got to see...

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March 3, 1942

Letter from Josh to Rob and Myra

Ronnie is crazy. He tripped on the obstacle course yesterday and sprained his ankle. He never told anyone about it and they made us run twenty miles today with all our gear. There’s nothing worse than running twenty miles with full gear. It’s the training exercise that comes from the pit of hell. Most of us would rather die than do it again. And Ronnie did it with a sprained ankle. Sarge yelled at him for not running fast enough and he had to do KP. He never told Sarge why he was running slow either. 

They teach us how to fight without weapons here too, just in case we ever lose or break our guns. Wrestling, boxing, that kind of stuff. Don't tell Emma, but I got totally creamed yesterday. Cat tried to make kindling outta me. Don't worry, I'll make up for it soon's I can. I know what to do now. Ronnie and Cat are lucky… they did the best, although they had a pretty tough time with Ken and Sam. And then they fought each other but they were completely matched and after a while, Sarge made 'em stop so they wouldn't kill each other.

Speaking of Cat… that's Mac… I found out why he's got such a bad temper. His middle name is Isaac, which I know is an acronym. It's gotta stand for I Saw An Angry Cat. Thus he is an angry cat and we are all going to call him Cat from now on. He's got a temper that could cause explosions all by itself, we don't even need any grenades. We got ourselves a secret weapon.

We’re getting pretty anxious now. We’ve been here for over two months now, with no sign of going anywhere, anytime soon. They won’t even tell us where we’ll be going… I could end up either in the jungle or some random place in Europe, and I probably won’t even know it until I get there. Don’t think I want to go to the jungle, even though it’d feel awful good to blow up the Nips after what they did to us. 

They say the motto of the army is “hurry up and wait” and we sure are doing our share of waiting right now. We do drills and marching and target practice and push-ups and chin-ups and weight-lifting and jumping over all kinds of crazy obstacles, but mostly we wait. And we’re all getting pretty darn sick of waiting. 

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“Hey, Scott! You’re like… a Scot Scott, right?”

Mac frowned at Sandy, raising his eyebrows in question. He stared at him for a moment, then calmly continued to wipe the stock of his rifle. After a moment of silence, he answered, without looking up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like… you’re a Scott who is a Scot!” Sandy grinned, obviously very pleased with his wit. Mac, however, was not.

“Och, away an’ boil yer head.”

“Well, that’s discreet,” Dan chuckled. “He’s a Scot Scott alright, Sandy!” 

“So, you gonna play the bagpipes while we march triumphantly into battle?” Sandy pressed. 

“Not every Scot plays the pipes,” Mac slid the barrel of his rifle back into the stock. “That mud today was something else. Never had to clean any hunting gun the way I have to clean this thing.”

“Does anyone play an instrument?” Sam scraped together the cards he had laid out on the floor and wrapped a rubber band around the deck. “Wish we could have some music or something. Even those blamed pipes. These weeknights get dull when the USO isn’t around.”

“Mom forced me into piano lessons years ago,” Ken made a face. “I quit those fast as I could.”

“Got a harmonica,” Mac shrugged. “Not much good at it.”

“C’mon, get it out. Let’s hear it.”

“Yeah. You play and Josh here can tap dance.”

Josh, who had been stretched out on his cot scribbling out a letter to Emma, closed his eyes and snored loudly. Mac shrugged, reaching for the duffle bag under his cot. After a few moments of rummaging, he came up with an ancient-looking harmonica with an oddly-shaped dent in the front.

“Saved my dad’s life in Ypres,” he offered by way of explanation. “It was in his shirt pocket. Surprised it still works.” He started off with a jaunty Scottish jig, stumbling over a few misnotes before he got into it. Josh began snoring in rhythm and Ronnie kicked him. Josh rolled over until he hit the floor, on the opposite side of the cot and out of reach of Ronnie’s boots. The snoring continued to escalate. 

“Hey, toss me that thing,” Ken shoved his cleaned rifle aside. “I know a few tunes.”

Mac hesitated a moment before throwing the harmonica to Ken. He caught it neatly and started in on Dixie, accompanied faithfully by Josh. 

“Hey! I’m not having that here,” Sandy cried with mock indignance. “The Confederacy is dead, Ken, you gotta get over it.” 

Ken glared up at Sandy and transitioned smoothly into “God Save the South”. Sandy started in on the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” in a warbling, off-key voice. Ken switched back to Dixie, playing louder. Within moments, half the barracks was shouting Dixie while the other half shouted Battle Hymn of the Republic back at them. Josh just kept on snoring. The door of the bunkhouse suddenly opened with a bang, sending the room into an instant dead silence. 

“Ten-shun!” Ronnie cried, jumping to his feet as the rest of the men followed his example and snapped to attention. Ken quickly pocketed the harmonica and all managed to assume an air of great solemnity. Even Josh.

Sergeant McFarland glared at his recruits, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

“I think you boys are a mite confused,” he drawled. “This is not the Civil War. You’re all on the same side. Sabe?” Crossing his arms, he strode down the center aisle of the bunkhouse. 

“It’s ten minutes to lights out,” the sergeant added gruffly. “You should all be making like Private Hayes here was when I walked in, except you ought to hit the sack instead of the floor. Long day tomorrow, PT at o’six-hundred hours, sharp!”

“Man, I hate PT,” Ralph groaned after the sergeant stepped out and the lights went out. “Only eight hours till morning. What a drag.”

“You just hate it cause you’re an old softy, Ralph.”

“Shut up, Sandy.”

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Ronnie slipped a nickel into the slot beside the phone and bit his lip, hard. He tasted blood, but he didn't care. 

"Operator? I need long distance to Jefferson, Ohio, Ryan-54424." 

As the phone rang, he leaned against the wall, staring out the window of the army store. Rain was streaming down the pane and a thunderclap sounded in the distance.

"Hello?" a voice came on the other end of the line. "Ryan residence."

"Mrs. Ryan!" Ronnie cried eagerly, leaning forward and bracing his hand against the wall."This is Ronnie…"

"Why, Ronnie Stewart! It's sure good to hear your voice… why didn't you call sooner? How've you been?"

"Not bad," Ronnie grinned weakly. "But the food's not great. Hey… is Lissie there?"

"Oh, she's around here someplace…"

"I need to talk to her," Ronnie said abruptly, cutting Mrs. Ryan off. He could hear her calling to Lissie in the background and the brief conversation that followed.

"Ronnie's on the phone, says he wants to talk to you."

And there was Lissie's voice in the distance… it brought tears to his eyes to hear her voice. He clutched the receiver to his ear, desperate to catch her words.

"Ronnie?" Her voice faltered. "I… I… don't want to talk to him."

"What in heaven's name is wrong with you, girl? You've been acting strange for weeks… wouldn't even talk to Emma before she left... Lissie? Lissie! You come back here…"

In another moment, Mrs. Ryan was on the phone again.

"I'm so sorry, Ronnie, she…"

"I heard," he said dully.

"What's happened between you two anyway? Lissie won't talk to me about it. She's been moping about ever since you left, I just assumed she was missing you. But… why won't she talk to you?"

"I wish I knew…" Ronnie dug his fingernails into his palm. "Mrs. Ryan?" His voice broke and he pressed his forehead against the wall. His last words were spoken between sobs. "Will you tell her I love her? And that I'll wait as long as I have to…" he couldn't say anymore and so he hung up the phone without waiting for an answer.