“As he should,” Dottie confirmed. “And he seems to think the same of his friends too. How nice for the three of them to have been assigned together. From what John tells me in his letters, he thinks he’s bunking with the best two guys in the 101st Airborne.”
“Still,” Gladys continued, waving the paper in the air. “It’s not inconceivable that a romance could bloom on these flimsy little pages. Am I wrong?” She held them up to the light, and indeed, they were quite translucent. “Wow,” she said. “Let’s hope this friendship—or whatever you’re calling it—is built on something stronger than these. I couldn’t blow my nose on paper like this.”
“Don’t be crass, Gladys,” Dottie admonished. “You know that they have to be light because of the cost of air mail.”
Margaret shifted in her seat, eager to deflect the direction of the conversation. “I, for one, think Gladys is stalling from answering the more important question.”
“Which is?” Gladys raised her eyebrows.
“Are you or are you not going out with Oliver on Friday?”
“For a woman in a weakened condition, you sure are unrelenting.”
“I learned from the best.”
Gladys folded the letter and gave it back to Margaret. “Margaret, tell our friend that I’m not the sort to have a man lead the dance.”
Margaret grinned. “If the right one comes along, you just might.”
Dottie threw her hands in the air. “Hot off the presses! The Sock ’Em Club to welcome Oliver on Friday night! Check out the evening edition for details.”
Chapter Seven
The weather was too foggy for a jump, so some company commanders let their men have the day off to explore the town of Swindon. Others ordered their men to perform maintenance on Littlecote. But not Easy Company. Sobel saw it as a matter of pride that his troops worked longer, harder hours than anyone else.
So despite not being able to see two feet in front of them, William, John, Tom, and the rest of the company endured a ten-mile march through Hungerford. Full gear. One canteen to last for the day.
“Because water is for weenies,” John said halfway in, paraphrasing various forms of misery that Sobel seemed to enjoy putting them through.
“I’m hunger ford a sirloin steak right now,” William joked.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Is it too late to exchange roommates?”
“If you do, we’re keeping the Browns. I’m not giving up her puddings just because you can’t handle a pun.” John patted him on the shoulder.
“Nah, I’m not giving them up either. I guess I’m stuck with you two.”
“Hey, save your breath,” huffed William. “If Sobel hears us talking, he’ll double the hike.”
“Sobel can—” John started.
“Don’t say it. You’re better than that.” Though Tom conjured several words that could have easily followed that sentence.
They kept walking. Tom felt the sharp pain of a pebble in his boot, but he knew better than to remove it. If he stopped, Sobel would make them all pay by adding miles, and he couldn’t do that to his fellow soldiers.
At last they came to the end, finishing up at Aldbourne, exhausted and feeling chilled as their sweat mingled with the crisp air. Tom hoped they’d be able to spare a Willys Jeep to take them back to Chilton Foliat.
“Easy Company,” Sobel barked. “Now that you have finished the hike, a hike you did in record poor time, I might add, we are going to test your skills on the range. We will split up into two teams. The team with the highest combined accuracy will be able to join the other lazy companies in Swindon for the remainder of the day. The losers will be on latrine duty at Littlecote. I asked them to save that job especially for Easy.”
Groans could be heard throughout the company.
“Any complaints will automatically put you with the losing party.”
Tom swung his rifle around and sighed. There was no use arguing, as much as he wanted to. He looked at First Lieutenant Dick Winters, hoping for a flicker of dissent. All the men agreed that Winters would make a far better leader, and Tom wondered what had been said when Winters had gone up the chain of command to complain on their behalf. But, excellent soldier that he was, he would never publicly disagree with an order.
The three of them were put on the same team along with Malarky, Muck, and several others who were good marksmen, so Tom felt confident that they would earn the night off. He’d not yet been to Swindon, but he’d heard that it had some good dance clubs, and he could use a beer.
“William, what about your hand?” It had not yet healed and, in fact, had swelled into something worrisome. The long hike surely hadn’t helped.
He held it up and shrugged. It was red and puffy, and the strain on William’s face showed that he was in a lot of pain.
“You can’t shoot like that. You really need to see a medic.”
“And let the team down and have Sobel revoke the leave for everyone? Not on your life.”
“It could be your life if you’re not careful.”
William walked past him and took his position at the range. He balanced his rifle on his bad arm and used his left hand to pull the trigger.
He was off, hitting the outer rim of the target.
John stepped in. “Tom is right. You need to go see a medic. Today. Now.”
He ignored them and switched hands. He pulled the trigger with his bad one.
Almost a bull’s-eye. Even with a bum hand, William was a decent shot.
Malarky was about to take his place on the line when William suddenly fell back in pain. The recoil had been the last straw. He curled up, holding his hand to his chest.
“Easy Company, back to your places,” Sobel barked.
Dick Winters ran over.
“He needs to see a doctor,” Tom offered. “I can drive him.”
Winters patted him on the shoulder. “You do that. There’s a Willys to the right of the range. Take that.”
“I can go with you,” said John.
“You know Sobel’s not going to let both of us go. Shoot your best. Go to Swindon. And have a pint for me.”
* * *
The medic’s station in Aldbourne was a brown bricked building, one story tall with a steep roof. It looked like all of the other structures nearby and it could only be identified by the small white sign with black letters indicating what it was. The military was not known for its creativity nor for its architecture. Uniformity and cost were its values. Tom wondered what the British do with these when the war was over. They certainly held none of the charm of the surrounding towns.
He pulled the brake on the Willys Jeep and hopped out, coming around to the other side to help William down. The fog had lifted in the afternoon sun and it had been an easy drive over.
“It’s my hand, not my legs,” William complained. “I can get there on my own.”
“Suit yourself.”
Tom walked closely behind him, though, as they approached the door.
Once in, he saw that it was an orderly space. Few patients were waiting to be seen as Airborne had not yet been in combat and were only experiencing training scrapes. From what he observed, William was in the worst shape, a conclusion agreed upon by the register nurse.