Christ, Knott! Haven’t you gotten those fucking stripes sewn on yet?’
‘The supply sergeant says he doesn’t have any buck stripes in right now, sir. They’re waiting for a new shipment.’
‘Hell, get some staff stripes and cut off the rocker.’
‘That’d be destruction of government property, sir. I suggested it to Sergeant Lucas.’
I’m hoping that’s ambiguous enough. What happened was Lucas tried to push off staff stripes on me to be cut up and I suggested it would be destroying government property and we’d need to make out a Statement of Charges. This scared Lucas; he’s from the original division and somewhat slow.
‘Well, I just hope to hell that son of a bitch Love doesn’t notice.’
You’d be surprised how much profanity goes on in the army when you’re tuned to hear it. At first, stopping cold was like going on a crash diet. For a while there, Father Mundy was running his private Profanity Anonymous Therapy Clinic.
At the S2 tent Ware goes in first. Just inside the flap, we snap to attention. It’s the usual setup. In the center, by the tent post, is a field table with a map covered in celluloid. At the rear tent wall is an extra-large cot and a down sleeping bag, already neatly arranged by one of Love’s orderlies.
On the left wall of the tent, Major Love is shaving in front of his portable sink and portable mirror. He’s wearing his tailored trousers (no other kind, even his fatigues) and a tailored OD undershirt.
We stand there at attention; I know he knows we’re there. Pfc. Tucker, his first orderly, is playing altar boy, standing beside him, holding out towels and a soaping dish. Tucker tailors his uniforms, too; he does this on his own and gets away with it, thanks to Love.
Finally, after we’ve watched some rigorous efforts to get a few last hairs from under the nostrils, Love glances at us, first using the mirror, then turning his head.
‘At ease, men.’
Ware and I slouch, giving correct submission signals. Tucker hands Love a steaming towel from a bowl. Love sinks his face in it, rubbing strenuously. He continues to the top of his head, massaging with even greater vigor, then hands the towel to Tucker and takes a fresh, dry one. All our towels are army OD, so you can never tell if they’re filthy or clean, except by the smell; but these look fresh off supply.
Next, we have the privilege of watching Major Love comb his hair. First, he rubs in a few drops of Vaseline hair tonic. He has the kind of hair in which the mark from each tooth in the comb is left like a plowed clay field.
I think of the latest Squad Spoonerism Award. Gordon took it. Question: What’s the Bible? Answer: A fine couth tome. How in Saint’s name am I ever going to make it as sergeant with a mind that’s scattering all over the landscape like this? I’ve got to concentrate!
Now Love slips his fresh, orderly-ironed, tailored shirt over his sagging shoulders and turns to face us in his combat pose, shined combat boots about two feet apart, rocking slightly on his toes and buttoning. The tucking of shirttails is a prolonged ritual.
Lord, he’s got on his ‘recon patrol’ face. We’re going into combat, yes, sir, stand up to the Huns. My slouch gets easier to hold. I can feel that sausage where my heart’s supposed to be.
Love walks around behind the map and leans on it. It’s angled slightly toward him. He looks up at us and smiles. Here it comes. Three of us on a tiger patrol sneak behind the Siegfried Line and take a prisoner – preferably an officer of staff rank, one who speaks English.
Love picks up a marking pencil and points at the map.
We are in for one of Love’s briefings. It’s usually a rehash of what’s been funneled down from division which some creative soul dreamed up at G2 or army intelligence from aerial photos taken fifteen months ago. I must admit, though, Love has the dramatic flair; probably comes from selling all those expensive coffins to grief-stricken little old ladies.
‘Lieutenant Ware, Sergeant Knott, as you know, here in this sector of the Ardennes, we have a fluid and, at the same time, static front.’
He looks to see if we’re comprehending the big words.
‘It’s fluid because of these large forest tracts, virtually without roads.’
He circles some fuzzy parts of the map with his pencil.
‘It’s static because nothing has happened here for several months.
‘We’re here. And they’re there.’
Again some pencil twirling to show the lines.
‘Neither side wants to set up a line without clear fields of fire, and nobody’s moving.’
He snaps off another of his Robert Taylor glances up from under the eyebrows. By God, that’s it! I knew Love looked familiar; he’s a sort of faggy Robert Taylor. I need to check this with the squad; it could be only personal prejudice.
‘Right here is a five-hundred-acre forest.’
He traces, again on the celluloid, the forest. This time he makes real marks, so we’re getting serious. My eggs have put themselves back together and are a whole egg, shell and all, just behind my belly button.
‘There’s an intersection of two tertiary roads, not paved, almost in the center of the forest. At the intersection is a château.
‘At the eastern end, here, is a hunting lodge.’
He gives us another conspiratorial – up from under eyebrows – steely glance.
‘We strongly suspect Jerry has an observation post or outpost there.’
Oh boy, the plot sickens. Just snuggle up behind those guys and capture a few. I think I’ll faint here in the S2 tent. Or maybe I’ll dash over and tear at Tucker’s fly, while working up a proper drool. Sorry, Father Mundy, I know not what I do; just testing out a possible quick Section Eight.
‘Sergeant Knott, I want you to move into that château with your reduced squad. Take two jeeps, one with the fifty caliber mounted; also a week’s rations. Take a 506 radio and keep in contact with us here at regiment.’
Is this it? Is Love telling me we’re going to live in a château? I wait.
‘Lieutenant Ware, you maintain radio contact with Sergeant Knott. We’ll hold the other recon squad here at regiment for any additional patrol work.
‘Sergeant Knott, your squad will either be relieved by the end of the week or additional rations will be sent out, according to operational conditions.’
Ware sort of halfway pulls himself to attention.
‘When do you want these men sent out, sir?’
‘Tomorrow morning at o-eight-hundred. They’re to keep an eye on any enemy outposts in the area and man posts to surveil the bridge and road going past the château.’
Love turns to me.
‘Well, Sergeant Knott,
