by Len Levinson
He saw Longtree with a bandage on his thigh. “Good fighting,” he said, shaking Longtree’s hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
Colonel Stockton walked past Longtree and saw more men from the recon platoon with their torn uniforms and haggard faces. I love these men, Colonel Stockton thought. They’re the greatest soldiers in the world.
His eyes fell on Bannon and Butsko, standing side by side, looking at him. Bannon’s hands were bandaged and Butsko wore a bandage that covered the left side of his face. Their uniforms were mangled and they’d taken their helmets off so they could get some cool air on their heads.
These men have bled for me. Colonel Stockton thought as he walked toward them. They’ve bled for me many times, and I’ve repaid them by taking away their stripes because they got in a little trouble in Honolulu.
He walked up to Butsko and held out his hand. Butsko hesitated a moment, then reached out and shook hands with Colonel Stockton.
“I know this attack couldn’t have succeeded without you, Butsko,” Colonel Stockton said.
“I just did my job, sir,” Butsko replied.
“You did it well, Butsko, and I think you should be the platoon sergeant here, just as you used to be.”
Everybody nearby was looking at Butsko, and he shuffled his feet self-consciously. “If you say so, sir.”
“I say so. You’re a master sergeant again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep up the good work.”
“Yes, sir.”
Their eyes locked on to each other, and the old warmth and friendship returned. It was based on the mutual respect of two old soldiers who’d been to hell and back, and nothing could interfere with it for long. Colonel Stockton turned and held out his hand to Bannon.
“You’re a corporal again, Bannon. You’re starting with a fresh slate as of now.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They shook hands, and Colonel Stockton’s fingers wrapped around the bandages on Bannon’s hands.
“Hands okay?” Colonel Stockton asked.
“I can still pull a trigger,” Bannon replied.
“Good man. Carry on.” Colonel Stockton looked meaningfully at Sergeant Butsko. “I’ll be talking with you again soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stockton turned and walked away, shaking more hands, patting more backs, chatting with his men, happy to be with them in the trenches, deeply moved by the gallantry and steadfastness of these ordinary American young men who wore Army uniforms and gave their all for their country.
These are my soldiers, he said to himself, and I never want to leave them. General MacArthur can take that star and shove it up his ass.