BOUNDING HOME

BOUNDING HOME

Twenty-three days have passed since we stormed the beaches at Omaha, Fox Red sector— three brutal weeks before we're finally relieved. Though losses were heavy, my outfit has accomplished every mission with not a single yard of ground given back since we pushed inland.

Transports squeal to a halt within a regimental command post set up in Ste-Laurent, a coastal village we helped liberate during opening days of the invasion. Woofie is first to spring from the truck, his 6’-6” body no doubt screaming for nourishment. I have to grin at the big lummox whose charge toward chow lines is second only to the one he made taking out a fortified pillbox. God pity any mess cook who tries to deny him extra portions.

Though we’re famished and sick of skimpy field rations, many have put a hot shower and clean clothes ahead of real grub. Days ago, our duffel bags had been shipped across the Channel and were here waiting for us, though several will go unclaimed. Reeking of sweat and plagued by diarrhea, the men begin rifling through them, eager to be rid of raunchy uniforms.

I’m feverish and feel nauseous from a festering bullet wound crippling my left hand, but put off seeing the docs expecting I'll be called for debriefing at any time. A field medic said I needed one of the new intravenous penicillin drips, but I'd gladly swap it for shut-eye. I feel far more fatigued than wounded. Sleep is next to impossible on the battlefield. There were times I'd have traded my soul for a few hours nap.

Exhausted, the men drop wherever they find space within the crumbled remains of a small shop complex in the village center. Word from HQ has it we’ll be in Ste-Laurent for only a couple days. The men are delirious with anticipation of much deserved R & R, many fearing if passing out now, they’ll miss the shuttle to England, even if scheduled two days hence.

“Ten-hut!” A major enters the room.

“At ease, gentlemen. Which of you is Zecca?”

“Here, sir.” I must smell like a gorilla's behind, and likely resemble one, too, but try smoothing my dirt-encrusted beard to appear at least somewhat presentable.

“I’m Major Whitt.” He ignores my slovenly appearance, but does order me to remove the disgusting bandage covering my hand. Two knuckles are broken and the hand is bloated to twice normal size. The Major gently eases the rotation to better study the damage, cringing at the rancid, foul-smelling pus draining from the fetid hole.

“Jesus, son, that’s nasty. I think you have blood poisoning. As soon as we’re through, you get that seen to, and I do mean pronto, lieutenant.”

“Sergeant, sir,” I said, and wince while rewrapping my hand.

“No, I had it right the first time. You’re a lieutenant now, and I’d consider it a personal honor if you’d allow me to pin the insignia at HQ when you’re in better shape.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute, respectful of the ceremonious gesture.

Major Whitt smiles and faces the troops. “Men, I know you’re anxious to shower and get a hot meal, so I won’t keep you. But for now, I wanted to personally greet your arrival and see to your needs. My command is extremely proud of this outfit. You did one hell of a job, and I assure you, such exploits have not gone unnoticed all the way up to Ike. Thanks to such unparalleled courage and tenacity of soldiers like you, we have the Jerries on the run.” Major Whitt’s sincere morale boost is met with cheers and a few handshakes.

“As for you, lieutenant, a debriefing can wait. I’ll check back after you’ve seen to that wound. Until then, I’ll leave these with you.” The major motions his aide to pass mail pouches and merit citations to Pvt. Presto standing next to me.

“Uh, one more thing.” Major Whitt retrieves a letter and two cigars from his breast pocket. “Captain Fairchild asked me to deliver this to you. He said it was his way of assuring I’d find you, uh— let’s just say in good form. And which of you is Mosconi, the lucky one?”

I point to Tony and the major hands him the cigars.

“Chase said these are for you, to celebrate getting lucky in love.” He grins at Tony’s quizzical expression. “Word at HQ says you’re going to be a Da-a-a-a-dy,” he teased, mimicking a bleating ewe. “Chase said you’d understand.”

“Hey, Tony! I betcha them sheep ain’t the only one’s noivous, now,” someone yells, mimicking Tony's strong Brooklyn accent. Tony ignores the sniggers and accepts the cigars with silence.

“That’s it for now, gentlemen. Showers and hot meals are ready when you are. Get some rest and plenty of it. My staff has orders to see to your every need or they’ll have hell to pay. So speak up. I’ll let you know when you’re to depart for England." The major faces me. “I’ll give you a moment to unwind with your men, Zecca. But you had better be in medical within the hour. That’s an order, lieutenant. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. As you were, gentlemen.”

As Presto sorts the mail, I close my eyes and lean back against my elbows propped atop a wall shelf. Ah, dear old England in two days, I sigh.

I envision I'm stretched out in a lush English meadow, basking beneath a warm summer sun. A flock of sheep are grazing on a nearby hillside between fields dense with yellow rape flowers swaying in the breeze. I can see gingerbread cottages lining the streets of a village, its shopkeepers chatting with townsfolk as rosy-cheeked youngsters munch on Hershey treats we’ve left behind. Things are sure different here in Normandy.

My serene daydreams vanish, replaced by dismal images of once-thriving towns reduced to smoldering rubble. Hectares of rich farmland are strewn with the bloated bodies of soldiers and farm animals amidst the charred and twisted remains of war machinery. Town after town I saw scores of emaciated people, even children left homeless to fend for themselves living like field mice within the ruins; their only meals a scavenged potato, or K-rations pilfered from the dead.

In larger towns, besieged villagers may have greeted us with joy, but as corks popped from stashed bottles of champagne and their more potent calvados, they were bittersweet celebrations toasting to gaunt faces numbed from four years of Nazi occupation.

I suppose D-Day means we’ll be memorialized as liberators— the redemption of a Nazi-free Europe. Perhaps for my English cousins, the invasion will offer vengeance for the Blitzkrieg and memories like Dunkirk; maybe help erase the hapless political decisions and blind apathies that led to such atrocities in the first place. But for me, it felt more like a personal payback.

I’ll never forget my first night billeted in England; of seething with rage while peeking through blackout curtains, my eyes fixed on the glowing horizon knowing innocent people were engulfed in flames from German bombs, each explosive whump close enough to rattle the window. I remember thinking of folks back home; of how easy it is to be lulled into an isolationists' sense of security replete with freedoms and civil stabilities still intact.

We’re not an insensitive nation. The homefolk simply can’t fathom what I’ve seen. To them, it’s a foreign problem; a distant conflict to be personally affected by the real horrors of what these Europeans have endured. They cannot possibly imagine their homes invaded, heirlooms stolen, and neighborhoods shelled— or of begging for the lives of kneeling loved ones about to be shot in the head by smug, luger-wielding executioners. Despite what fate may be in store for me, I’m convinced we must be here; this war had to be fought.

Yeah, she can be a selective, temperamental wench— fate. To think of all the planning and logistical nightmares kept secret for so long, only to have the invasion teeter on the brink of total disaster after a freakish mother nature nearly scuttled the biggest armada in history.

Our first night, severe weather forced the entire fleet to turn back. A British Coxswain said it was the roughest Channel he’d seen in over twenty years at sea. We got underway the following day, but poor weather and faulty planning still caused massive losses of critical support armor and supplies. I saw fully-manned landing crafts capsize miles from shore. The sorry S.O.Bs who did manage to pop to the surface were passed by, their yells ignored and left to drown like jettisoned vermin.

We were part of a second assault wave steering toward assigned sectors on Omaha; thirty trembling greenhorns huddled together in a small LCA, fighting sea sickness and abject fear knowing that ramp was about to drop.

Previous landings along the five-mile strand ran headlong into fierce resistance. Obscured by haze and thick acrid smoke, our skipper turned the craft parallel to the shoreline and cruised for several hundred yards looking for a gap between mined obstacles. He finally eyed a suitable spot, but a much larger, seagoing LCI cut us off heading for the same opening. We were closer, but C.B. ordered the skipper to back off.

‘Let ‘em go,’ Lt. Estes yelled, ‘but cruise in close behind and wait ‘til they’re set to lower the ramp, then gun your engines and peel away from her flank as fast as you can.’

The moment that LCI hit the beach, artillery and mortars opened up. We watched in horror as pinpointed shelling exploded amongst the wading men. Three more direct hits disintegrated the LCI’s bow and mid-sections. Two-hundred men lost, none of those poor bastards were seen again. Under C.B.’s instinctive leadership, he kept his wits about him when others hadn’t, using the LCI as a shield with its 20mm cannons drawing fire so we could make it in.

Scores of landing crafts, field artillery, and tanks were sunk or burning. The beaches were awash in the blood and bodies of dead and terribly wounded, many writhing in agony as we scurried past. The number of casualties was appalling. We lost about a third of our company during the first forty-eight hours; a sickening, grotesque carnage I could not have imagined. I saw boots with partial legs still in them, organs and lengths of intestines hanging from obstacles. Big strapping men near Woofie’s size were so terror-stricken, they leaned against a sandy berm unable to move, convulsing and crying open-mouthed like month-old babies.

Enough of this crap. To shake off such flashbacks, I decide to open Chase’s letter. Only a few words into it, my heart begins pounding. I can’t believe what I’m reading, my eyes filling with tears. Ah, for the wondrous resilience of youth!

“Men! Listen up! I have great news about Little Mac— he’s alive!” and continue reading the letter aloud.

“Chase says: ‘I’ve been checking up on him. The docs say he’s still in guarded condition, but is going to make it. My CO had relayed Kirk’s radio message that Mac was on his way in, but warned to expect him DOA. I took leave and met them anyway. When he arrived, doctors were flabbergasted and said the field medics should be given a medal just for keeping him alive. Except for the weakest pulse, Mac was all but dead. Then, the strangest thing happened, Zeck— as if a miracle. When I held his hand on the way to O.R., he could barely open his eyes but seemed to recognize me, and though faint, he managed that impish grin of his that brought me to tears.

“‘After several operations and blood transfusions, he’s propped up in bed with the Medal of Honor pinned to his pajamas by Bradley himself. It appears he’s regained enough of his old spunk to keep the nurses in stitches, too. In fact, I think he’s in love. I’m told the wily rascal has a lovely British nurse fussing over him every day. She’s a tiny, but frisky little blonde with an unusual first name of “Sterling”. He’s always joking with everybody in the ward: “pound for pound, she’s a keeper, and ya can take that to the bank.”’

“Hallelujah!” and “God bless our Little Mackie,” spout the men, acutely aware many of us owe our lives to him.

I'll read the rest of Chase’s letter alone so they can get back to their own mail. Chase continues: ‘I got more good news and some bad. First the bad news. I pissed away a whole C-note on the Belmont, but the good news is— you boys weren’t here this time, or you’d have kissed your money goodbye, too. Pensive failed to take the Triple Crown. Yes, our sure-thing was beaten a half-length by a long-shot called, Bounding Home.

‘And talk about long-shots, Zeck, this will floor you. A pure sprinter called Bull Dandy ran third at a whopping 120-to-1. He was a nobody, a pure sprinter who defied all reason he was even entered in the race. But when the gate opened, turf writers said he ran like a horse possessed. Can you believe it? Well, so long for now and take care of yourself, buddy. Regards, Chase.’

Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. Bounding Home takes the Belmont— and Little Mac’s Bull Dandy runs third at over 100-to-1?

Well, Chase did say crazy things can happen in horseracing, but this was beyond crazy— more like supernatural. I remember like it was yesterday; the bunch of us carousing and carrying-on at the Cock 'N Bull Pub, touting a Belmont betting pool and pulling horses names from my cap. Since it was the same night we learned the invasion was on, we identified with our equine counterparts, each anxious to snare the Belmont's heavy favorite— the sure-thing. Quiet speculation then turned to who might have a chance for an upset, yet we dismissed the more somber grumblings, like: what were the odds of us finishing, let alone in-the-money.

We roared at the platoon's beloved little leprechaun, Mac plucking the longest play in the field. 'Go ahead and laugh,' he shot back. 'You two-bit tinhorns can kiss my ass, cuz its all y'gonna see when that gate opens. There ain't horse or man alive on the planet that'll out-sprint little Mac-a-doodle-Dandy up them beaches of Belmont over yonder.' In good fun, we hoisted a long-shot of whiskey in his honor, but it was Tony’s uncanny luck that proved best; he nabbing the winning ticket after a gloating Frazer had been flaunting the coveted Pensive. Humph, the 'lucky one', I glance at Tony, now sprawled on his back, his head atop a helmet and sucking on a cigar while reading his mail.

A sudden bout of dizziness causes me to swoon, testing my balance. The nausea seems to be getting worse, forcing me to plop my butt down against the wall. Leaning back, I resume thinking of Chase’s comments. Kiss our money goodbye, you said? If you only knew, Chase, if you only knew. We lost a hell of a lot more than a bundle bet on Pensive, my friend— all of it wrapped in Army drab.

My eyes again blur from tears, fighting back images of Frazer’s head, half an arm, and chunks of tattered uniform scattered all over Little Mac’s ‘beaches of Belmont’. He never heard the fluttering sound of a mortar that followed him into an old shell hole. Maybe it was best he held our bets— a little bit of us all to forever remain at his side.

All Frazer ever wanted was to entertain, to make people happy with his talents. A Cinderella chance awaited him in Hollywood, to fulfill dreams of a better life for his family, and to vindicate his mother’s sacrifices. Her only testament now: a gold star pinned to a flag in some rundown row-house in Philly. I can picture his wife with their newborn in her arms, the doorbell rings, and the dreaded telegram is placed into her trembling, denying hand.

I quickly smudge embarrassing tears from my cheeks as Presto interrupts my thoughts, handing me two letters from home and a third from Tony’s sister, Alessa. My heart swells. Letters from home are more than news to us; more like medicine to help erase the insanities of war. Yet mail can also be a double-edged sword— death letters we call them in the field. I’ve seen ‘Dear John’ letters tear the heart out of the toughest men in the Army, even endanger the lives of buddies if crucial focus is torn from anything but the task at hand.

I’m dying to know what Alessa has to say, but I’ll read it later after again glancing at Tony. I can’t imagine if losing him, of failing my promise to Alessa to bring him safely home to his family. There’s no denying it. I love my Tony— my surrogate little brother, my best friend.

My emotions soar. For the first time since Picauville, he’s grinning. Lately, I’ve been worried about him. He’s been distant; a listless, sullen soul far removed from the glib New Joisey rascal I’m so fond of. Though Mac earned the Medal of Honor that day, Tony is unaware I’m holding a Silver Star and Purple Heart for him. I’ve heard it said: ‘hell knows no fury like a woman scorned’, but I witnessed a personal rage I’d never thought possible in human beings.

After crossing the Elle River, we approached a tiny village with few buildings. Normally, we could have walked through town in five minutes, but a pocket of Germans waiting in ambush pinned us down. We had little or no cover and only the river to our backs.

Mac was at the point and had been hit. Though seriously wounded, he refused evacuation and waved us back. Firing his machine gun, he single-handedly repelled more than one assault, giving us a chance to seek cover and regroup.

During a brief lull, Mac spotted a downed man exposed to sniper fire and crawled to his aid. Fending off yet another assault, he managed to apply a tourniquet and morphine, saving the soldier’s life. Weak from loss of blood, he struggled with dragging a man twice his size to safety when two German riflemen took deliberate aim at a wounded man, shooting Mac twice more in the lower back. We watched in horror as the little guy's body snapped from the impact, his face twisted with agony as it fell limply into the dirt.

Tony exploded with satanic fury. He rushed the Krauts, darting from building to building, dodging bullets and tossing grenades into windows while blazing his BAR at anything that moved. I had been shot in the hand and could only use my .45, but it didn’t stop me from following Presto; the two of us mopping up after Tony’s onslaught. Unfeeling, and at point blank, I plugged every son-of-a-bitch I found still alive.

Giltner’s bazooka first silenced snipers firing from the church steeple. Under covering fire from the rest of us, he then angled across the street and scored a bull’s-eye on the light machine gun Tony was charging, killing all except for two riflemen who had turned and fled. But Tony never stopped.

Filled with a demonic rage, and despite the Browning’s heavy weight, Tony ran in an all out sprint until he caught the fleeing bastards who had shot Mac, cutting them in half before they could even think surrender. He stood over the bodies, wild-eyed and uttering only guttural sounds through clenched teeth like a crazed fiend from hell. Moments later, he walked away without a word.

After making sure Mac and the other wounded were evacuated, I spotted Tony sitting on a chunk of concrete, shivering as if he were squatting in an icebox. I knelt beside him and tried talking to him, but nothing I said seemed to register. I merely held him until he stopped shaking.

I noticed a sleeve and both pant legs were perforated, but his only injuries were a superficial graze to his neck and a deep gash where a bullet had torn through his forearm. Still silent and emotionless, he never winced as I gently cleansed his wounds and applied sulfa powder and bandages. I passed my hand before his eyes, but they were blank, his stare fixed on the horizon. I didn’t know where in his mind he went, but thought it best to leave him there.

Until seeing his grin now, my Tony has been different ever since, barely saying two words to anyone. He’d withdrawn into a lifeless humanoid possessed by a frenzied hatred for Germans.

He's not alone. Many of the men seem driven beyond emotion, reduced to a bevy of blank faces with sunken eyes and drained of every ounce of human spirit. They’re my responsibility now— my men ever since C.B. was killed.

His death was a terrible shock. Fear and confusion were hard to overcome, but somehow I kept true to my promise and managed to maintain cohesion and morale. Recalling the value old-man-Cy had placed on good COs, I pray I’m at least half as good as Estes. And what a fateful godsend you turned out to be, Cyrus Clemens.

I can picture the old geezer sitting on his favorite barstool at Doogans Pub in Brooklyn, doing his daily crossword and stuck on yet another word, mumbling to a mute bartender with no idea how many lives are in his debt. Thank God I listened. I learned more in that morgue-of-a-bar than from any of those ninety-day wonders fresh out of OCS; puffed-up peacocks from West Point assigned to lecture us at Fort Hamilton. Cy’s exploits in the Great War taught me to pay keen attention to physical clues in the battlefield, like the differences in tracks made by local farm machinery versus military.

Heavy rains prior to the landings had softened the ground. As we crept along hedgerows near the coastal village of Colleville, I spotted a number of broken branch ends, trodden grass clumps, and an odd width of wheel tracks running parallel to old wagon ruts.

I showed Estes and we followed until they veered off across a small paddock and into a grove of apple trees. Lt. Estes ordered us to fall back and lay rock-still under brushy cover until after dark. During the gloom of night, Kirk radioed for a rolling barrage of huge fourteen-inch naval guns.

Kirk’s radioed artillery placements were brilliant. Estes had us following salvos so close I could feel the heat flashes from shell bursts silhouetting our movement. We scurried across the glade and found a battery of nine murderous 88s unattended under camouflage. As the Jerries cowered pending a cease fire, we slipped in, planted noiseless thermite grenades that welded breech and traversing mechanisms useless, and then got out undetected. Estes saved his best ‘Kilroy-was-here’ kiss for last.

He had Kirk radio a cease fire, but told the Navy to stand by with exact coordinates. We dug in, counting the minutes. When Estes figured the Krauts were convinced the shelling had stopped and emerged to check on their precious artillery, he ordered the Navy to ‘light ‘em up’, we picking off stragglers trying to flee.

During the remaining hours of darkness, we hunkered down along a hedgerow to rest. The bombardment had ceased, but to say it had been a quiet night would have been to ignore the relentless moans from German casualties begging for relief that never came. Destroying unmanned artillery was one thing, but taking out a heavily fortified pillbox was yet another, the one earning Lt. Estes a posthumous DSC.

Driven by pure guts and his cool and collected calm during the heat of battle, Estes led our human mule, Woofie, and four others hefting fifty-pound beehive charges and gallons of gasoline up an embankment while under fire. After setting the fuses against the bunker, Estes braced to cover his men until they could scramble to safety. It was then he caught a machine gun burst in the face. Moments later, the pillbox went up like Mt. Etna. After the flames had dissipated, it was charred but still intact with no sign of damage to the concrete.

We cursed failure, but Woofie was manic seeing our leader’s headless body in the distance. He chanced a second run at it alone, spraying the structure with machine gun fire, but received none in return. We followed, and after Giltner blasted an opening, we encountered an entire German squad inside, literally cooked to death. Recalling the ghastly scene, especially the stench of burned and twisted bodies with eyes and mouths frozen open in silent screams is making me gag— just like Cy said it would.

Words, you say? You tried, Cy, but there are no words to prepare a soldier for what I’ve witnessed. We never felt a sense of glory, no emotional rush of victory or remorse— only death and destruction as mutilated bodies piled up around us; nothing else ahead except more of the same.

With numbed indifference, we wove our way through dying men crying for their mothers. Cold, unfeeling words can be erased, but I'll never forget the vile coating war leaves on the palate after a blazing sun has begun its work on bodies left to rot like shapeless road kills.

How does one describe the gruesome insanity— of what it’s like to crawl over a dying human, of feeling his breath on your cheek while trying to ignore futile pleas as he holds his innards in blood-soaked hands to keep his organs from slopping into the dirt?

Can words convey the heart-stopping jolt of a bullet pinging the side of a helmet, a mere head-bob from going through an eye? What words could possibly relay the bowel-loosening terror of lying in a foxhole trying to curl a six-foot body into a six-inch ball, bouncing with the heaving earth as horrendous concussions are raining closer to your four-foot patch of real estate? Impossible— there are no words.

Wooziness and hot flashes are increasing as I look around the room at my men, my comrades-in-arms. Damned good buddies with whom I’d laughed, partied, ate, and drank. I remember them as once bright, young faces— now aged three decades in as many weeks, their furrowed brows testament to having been pushed to the limits of human endurance. They’re my family now— my frazzled, battle-weary bunch of siblings I’ve come to love. I now understand the soulful look in Cy’s eyes when he impressed upon me the unique feeling of a battlefield love he said is real, but never talked about.

Who would have thought world affairs would have collapsed into such a global conflict that put us here, relentlessly beating back an entrenched infantry no different than ours— a country’s youth forced to come of age learning how to kill.

Hmm, infantry; yet another word from old Roman— infanteria, meaning young boys. How appropriate— Hitler's obedient kids hurling themselves into the senseless fray at the command of maniacs in Berlin. Yet they must be special to someone in Hamburg, or Munich, and every little hamlet in between. The only difference between us and them is allegiance. Each side obeying orders in defense of different ideals; the order-makers and order-takers both praying the other was up for the task.

Fifty years from now, I’ll bet a month's furlough we'll meet again. Only instead of squaring off with bayonets, we’ll embrace as repentant, snowy-haired old men— crying in each other’s arms on the same ground we left littered with the bodies of our buddies.

Nothing changes. Each generation seems to go from one war to another; its youth destined to mature in battle at the direction of an older, supposedly much wiser generation who had once condemned the very lunacies they will likely have orchestrated anew; and the cycle continues. The way I see it, only the dead ever get to see the end of war. I'll be damned if I can figure it out.

Again I study my unit— America’s latest gladiators only weeks out of training. I'll never forget what Frazer said the night we left: "you know what's really eerie, Vince, we're just like them thoroughbreds we just picked. We're young and fresh trainees today with bodies hardened and the light of battle in our eyes, but come dawn of June the 6th, we'll be breaking our maidens as men o’ war— the same day Man ‘O War broke his during the first World War. Yep my friend, one way or other, in a matter of hours we'll be leaving our youth behind forever."

He was right— dead right. If I do manage to make it home alive, I can see myself as a fat-and-forgotten old veteran sitting in some rat-hole tavern, likely stuck on my own crossword when some smart-ass kid in uniform will barge in and buy me a beer. He'll prod me to open my satchel of war stories. Yeah, I’ll oblige, but pray to God the little bastard will have enough sense to listen— to both of us, Cy.

A chill rattles my body. My face and forehead are covered with perspiration, now a slimy mud as I’ve given up trying to stop the tears from flowing. I can’t help it. I keep seeing their faces— faces of the young Schmidt’s I'd snuffed from only a foot away.

I retch, feeling a need to vomit but can’t, my throat clogging with false bile. Pulling my knees to my chin, I cave in and openly weep. My soul is reeling from absolute disgust and shame. I hate myself. What kind of animal have I become? Do you hear me, God— I hate myself! Oh, lord, please— please forgive me. Save me from this madness!

I’m trembling and having trouble breathing. I try curling tighter against my knees to muffle my sobs fearing the others will think their leader is falling apart. But it’s no use. Another sob squeaks out when I feel an arm slide across my shoulders, and a familiar voice softly intones in my ear.

“It’s okay, paisan,” Tony whispers, pulling my head to his chest. “Go ahead, let it out; let it all out. Youz got nuttin’ to be ashamed of. Y’never failed us— especially me ever since we hooked up at Grand Central.”

Reaching up with my good hand, I squeeze Tony’s arm with all the affection I can muster as he cradles my head against his bosom.

“Jesus, ya boinin’ up.” Tony pulls my arm over his shoulder. “Come on, ya big galoot. Y’gotta get up. Easy does it.”

Presto supports my other side. My hand and forearm are throbbing; I’m dizzy in need of steadying. My vision is blurred from tears and nausea, but I think Tony's smiling. Is my Tony back?

“One step at a time, paisan.” Tony whistles to Giltner as he guides me through a maze of bodies. “Find a jeep and on the double,” Tony orders, “even if ya hafta yank the driver from da wheel.”

Filthy and unfed, the gruff and rugged Giltner is one of the few still awake. He’s been absorbed in his packet of mail, but is on his feet and out the door before I can take another step. I’m smirking, knowing Giltner would likely take pleasure in that chore; he'd wait for an occupied jeep in a parking lot full of empties.

“What are y’grinnin’ at now, ya big slug? Jesus, will ya look at that puss? Looks like y’been eatin’ mud pies f’crissake.” Tony’s smile widens. “Easy boss, we’re almost there. We gotta get that hand taken care of— and pronto, or my kid won’t have an uncle and my ass’ll be fried along with Alessa’s next batch o’ meatballs.”

Crossing the threshold, my body twitches to the sun’s warmth clashing with the spiking fever. While waiting for the jeep, I notice a column of transports loaded with replacements leaving the village. They’ll be breaking their maidens next, the poor slobs.

“Jeep’s here.”

Ignoring my feeble protests, I’m hoisted atop a litter across the back. Once prone, every ounce of energy seems to drain from my body. I close my eyes to savor the scent of the sea carried inland from the channel. The sun’s rays renew my dream; I’m back in my English meadow, blankets of yellow flowers are wavering in a gentle breeze. My muscles feel as if they’re sliding off my bones, when suddenly, an intense, fiery pain jars me alert.

“Sorry, Zeck. Had to tuck ya hand in,” Tony said, smoothing mud from my forehead.

The instant our eyes meet, a wondrous sense of peace floods my body. I know now, without a doubt, that at some point I’ll be ‘bounding home myself— ‘cause where my Tony goes, I goes too.