Note: there is a graphic bit of violence at the end.
Tent City
The regiment occupied a tent city when we rotated off the front lines. It rained constantly so the ground quickly turned into thick mud. The plywood tent floors disappeared under layers of the brown stuff. It was impossible to walk outside without getting splattered at least waist high with mud. We were still close enough to the front to hear the artillery firing throughout the day and night. But we were out of enemy artillery range so it was just annoying background noise. We were getting two hot meals a day (lunch was still cold field rations) and were issued new uniforms. The most treasured items were the new trenchcoats which actually kept us warm and relatively dry. As a company commander I was assigned my own small tent that served as both quarters and office.
A few discrete inquiries with the regimental staff had turned up nothing about Flanagan. No one seemed to have heard of him. Of course, if he wasn’t assigned the regiment that would explain the lack of information. But it was hard to believe someone from another unit had wandered that far into our sector. And Flanagan had known who I was. The whole thing was getting curiouser and curiouser.
We also received mail the first week in the tent city. Everyone got one or two letters from home. I sat at the small desk in my tent staring at the letter from Tanya. I had been excited when her last letter had arrived a month ago. Now I was hesitant to open this one. I had noticed that my memories of anything more than about a year ago were hazy. Only my time in the regiment was clear in my head. Was Tanya even real? Were my memories of home and my childhood real?
I opened the letter. Tanya’s neat handwriting brought me up to date on the current hometown gossip (Old Man Gunter was calling on the Widow Garvey). She mentioned the shortages of food. Everyone was reusing tea bags three or four times each. But there was no complaining. The sacrifices were for the war effort. She finished the letter with the current war slogan “Kill a Brown for the Home Town.” I wondered how many of the other letters being read in camp said the same thing in the same handwriting.
I found Patel in the mess tent reading his letter over a cup of weak coffee. “How are things in the home front?”
He looked at me curiously. It was considered very rude to ask other soldiers about their personal life. But he answered. “Well, in local gossip Old Man Bakshi is calling on the Widow Gunda. Other than that, same old, same old. How about you?”
“Same here. Tanya told me to kill a Brown for the home town.”
“Anuska wrote the same thing. It’s the new slogan from the War Ministry. We’ll be seeing it everywhere soon.”
“That’s not really much of an incentive to fight. Patel, do you ever think about why we’re really out here fighting?”
Patel looked at me like there was a hand growing out of my forehead. “The Browns want to destroy our way of life. We have to fight them to protect our homeland. What’s the matter with you?” He belatedly added, “Sir.”
“I don’t know,” I lied. I was not ready to confide in him yet. “I guess I’m just a little homesick right now.”
“I know the feeling. It’ll go away soon enough. Just don’t talk like that around anyone else, okay? That kind of talk is dangerously close to sedition.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost time for the regimental command and staff meeting. You had better get going.”
Now that I was a captain and a company commander I was going to more meetings. There were the daily training meetings with the battalion commander. Colonel Massengale, the regimental commander, had a weekly meeting with all the company and battalion commanders as well as all the staff officers.
The regimental command and staff meetings were grueling affairs. They started simply enough with the regimental staff briefing the group on manpower, intelligence, training, operations, and logistics. Then the battalion commanders and company commanders individually briefed Colonel Massengale on their activities for the past week and plans for the next week’s activities. The Colonel would then ask each commander pointed questions that left the unprepared looking foolish.
At this particular meeting I rose when my turn came and delivered my briefing.
“What are your questions, sir?” I concluded.
Massengale took a long last drag from his cigarette and ground it out in an ashtray. “Your company is doing a lot of bayonet training and you have hand-to-hand combat training scheduled for next week. Don’t you think marksmanship is important, Captain Rudko?”
“Of course it is, sir. We need good shooting skills to defend our lines and to get across no man’s land. But once you reach the enemy’s positions the fighting is usually at close range. Surprise, speed and violence of action are more important there. Besides, bayonet and hand-to-hand training instills aggressiveness in the men.”
“So you believe your ideas are better than the tactics our army uses now?”
I could back down and be chewed out for not standing up for what I thought or be chewed out for arrogance. When in doubt, attack. “What we’re doing now hasn’t won the war. Maybe it’s time to do something new.”
To my utter surprise, Massengale laughed loudly. Some of the regimental staff officers chuckled as well. Everyone else was in stunned silence. Massengale rose and addressed the room. “It seems the General Staff agrees. I’ve been ordered to form a storm detachment to be trained in a manner similar to what Captain Rudko is doing. His company will form the core of the detachment with elements to be added as needed.”
The colonel pulled me aside after the meeting. “You have a week before you and your men are sent to Camp Sherwood for training. You have that long to decide who you want replaced. The General Staff is keen on this storm troop idea. If you do well it will help your career, Rudko.”
I had the company assemble when I returned from the meeting and informed them of the news. I announced that I would allow anyone who wanted to request transfer to another company to do so by the end of the day. To my surprise, only three men out of almost a hundred wanted to leave.
“The veterans who’ve been with you for a while trust and respect you,” said the company first sergeant, a big beefy slab of a man named Cochrane. The two of us and Patel, now my executive officer, were in my tent discussing what needed to get done before leaving for Camp Sherwood.
“You don’t have your head up your ass doing stupid shit that gets us killed. The new lads will follow what the vets are doing if they’re smart. Looks like three of ‘em aren’t so smart.” From Cochrane this was the closest to a compliment I would get.
“Well, there are plenty of volunteers from the rest of the regiment, Top. Pick enough men so that we can form a fourth platoon. Lieutenant Dylan from Charlie Company will be coming over to lead it. I want as many vets as we can get.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure we get a proper bunch of lads.”
I stood. Patel and Cochrane jumped to their feet quickly. “That should cover everything for now. Goodnight, gentlemen. I’ll see you in the morning.”
That night I had a strange dream. I was dressed in an unfamiliar dark green military dress uniform with lots of gold braid on the sleeves. I was on a raised platform surrounded by a crowd of similarly dressed soldiers. The crowd was chanting my name. On the platform in front of me was a chained man in a tattered brown uniform. He was dirty and unshaven but I could recognize him as Flanagan. There was a heavy saber in my hand that I raised over my head. The crowd roared. I swung the saber at Flanagan’s neck. The blade bit deeply and blood sprayed over me. I grabbed Flanagan’s hair with my free hand while hacking away at his neck. An adrenaline fueled frenzy overcame me as Flanagan’s blood spurted all over me. I finally cut his head free from his body. The crowd cheered wildly as I held Flanagan’s head high for all to see. Between the adoration of the crowd and the warm blood on my face I was exhilarated.
I woke in a cold sweat. I wanted to dismiss it as a dream but the images had felt so real, more like a memory than a dream. But it couldn’t have been my memory so why did it feel so much like it was? I slept fitfully the rest of the night.
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