“I thought about taking him out. I laid down on the ground and put him in my sights, but then I thought, ‘Wait a minute, where there’s one Jerry, there are more!’ So after he traipsed back into the woods, I ran like hell over the bridge and to the woods. I thought if I could catch up and spy on him, we’d know exactly where they were.”
“So what happened?” asked Morelli.
“I’m gettin’ there!” said Oily, all agitated. “Just calm down and let me tell the story, will ya? So I come up to the woods, and I’m lookin’ all over the place for where that damned Jerry disappeared. I only had probably thirty rounds of ammo on me, plus my pistol. So I was real quiet, crouched in the weeds. I couldn’t see shit for a trail. I don’t believe for a second those Indians in the movies can track someone. I was probably ten minutes behind this guy, and there was no footprints, no bent twigs or grass, nuthin’. So’s I just started crawling and looking, right? I was bein’ really quiet. And I was getting lower and lower, and the brush was getting higher and higher. I’m laying there, scratching my head. How in the hell CAN’T I see this guy? Then, I hear a twig snap. But it was behind me!” Chartelli slapped his forehead.
“I’m thinking, ‘Jesus! I passed him!’ I’m thinking, ‘How in the hell did I walk right past him?’ But then I hear voices. There’s TWO krauts, not one. So I move under some heavy brush. Man, that’s some nasty stuff in there. All pokey. Look at this!” He held up his right hand, which was raw with fresh scratches from thorny weeds.
“I’m still picking thorns out of my clothes. So I just laid down there for a long time—that whole night. Man, I was getting fed up with it. They were walking all around me. I couldn’t tell how many of them were there. Maybe ten? I had some chocolate on me, but that’s it. And no water. So by the end of the night, I was gettin’ real uncomfortable.”
“So, I’m getting pretty pissed off by then, you know? ’Cause I know old Cap here is going to be chewing my ass hard for not being in camp.” Cap shook his head and smirked. “So once it got a little bit of daylight, and I got hungrier, I got a little more brave and started to move around the area. I had to be real quiet—super quiet, man. Because there was Jerries on patrol. Hell, they were only ten feet away some of the time. But as I was crawling around under that brush, I saw them setting up them two big guns. I knew you guys were screwed. I didn’t know if I should try to weasel out of there, or if I should hunker down and help from the inside.”
“But them fucking Jerries wouldn't stop moving around! They were walking by on patrol ALL THE TIME! It was really pissing me off, because I was getting hungrier, and I was about dying of thirst. I ended up laying around like a rabbit, not moving. I figured I’d just have to wait until dark to get out of there.”
“Just then!” He put his hands up in fists, and started shaking them. “Them big guns lit up, and they was like thunder! They was only about thirty feet apart, and there I was right between them and a little behind them. So all the krauts are watching you boys in the foxholes. I counted them. Eleven! And none of them guarding the forest. Well, you boys know what a great baseball player I am, right? I had two grenades. That was it, just two. So I knew if I was gonna use them, they had to be perfect. I pulled the pins on both at the same time, chucked one left and one right. With all the noise, they didn’t even hear them roll in right next to them. I hit the dirt.” He paused for a minute.
“Then it got crazy! Those grenades went off. Boom! One went off. And before all the shrapnel sprayed, boom goes the other one! I didn’t even look—just crawled back into heavier brush. It went quiet, and I could hear them Jerries talking. I thought it was strange that their voices were all coming from the same area. I peeked, and there were five of them all huddled up together real close. Real close. I didn’t even think. I just pulled my rifle and fired. Hell, I bet I only moved the barrel a few inches because they were so close together, and I emptied my clip. Then I hit the dirt again. I don’t understand why they were standing so close together. Maybe they thought the grenades came from you guys? They sure acted like rookies. Anyway. I was scrambling around in that brush, in case anyone saw me. It was real quiet again. I knew there was at least two more guys, because I saw them take off running when I gunned down the other five. They probably thought I had a whole company with me! So then it was cat and mouse for about fifteen minutes. I ended up catching them behind a tree. They didn’t even see me coming, so I knocked those two Jerries off and grabbed their rifles. I ran back to the machine guns and counted the bodies, just to make sure I didn’t miss anyone. Sure enough, it was eleven.”
The whole company burst out talking at the same time. Everyone was complimenting Oily, or talking with each other about what he’d done. Cap walked up and slapped him hard on the shoulder, nodding at him. Then he shook his hand. We all started taking turns walking up to Oily and shaking his hand, congratulating him and thanking him. For the first time ever, he actually got modest, and was even speechless for a while. That was it for the celebration, though. We knew krauts were in the area, and we’d lost three men. But at least later on, Chartelli got a Silver Star for that fight at the bridge.
Most of the guys were in pretty good spirits, but me and Morelli were pretty sad. I couldn’t speak for Morelli, but I had that image in my head of Paul Taylor laying dead in the foxhole, and I couldn’t shake it. Death was getting closer every damn day, and now it was touching people that were close to me. It felt like we were on a suicide march.
Chapter 2 - The Card Game
When I came home from the war, everyone always asked for war stories. I used that battle at the bridge as my main story. Kind of a canned story that I whipped out at cocktail parties or barbecues to entertain people. I didn’t tell all that personal stuff about Paul. They just wanted to hear something exciting or heroic, and it was a great story. But there was a lot that happened other than that battle. To really understand Buzz Company, and how we were more than just a bunch of guys fighting Germans, you have to know the story from the beginning. So I’m going to tell you about our time in Europe from start to finish.
Buzz Company didn’t just come together all at once. We weren’t pre-assigned to the company. During the Allies’ preparation for the invasion, there was a ton of logistics that had to be handled. Remember that a million men were involved with D-Day. A million men! So things shifted around a lot.
We were stationed at a camp in England. It was just a farm field with tents and lots of big simple buildings. Hundreds of men were there—maybe thousands. Command gave us additional training, outfitted us, and assigned us to companies. They were working on the battle plans for D-Day, so they were somehow mapping out which companies went where.
We in Buzz Company were called mutts back then—Brass assembled us out of small groups from several different areas. This was a lot different than most companies, because most of the companies were assembled in the States and then they came over together. But Buzz Company wasn't like that. It was just the way the logistics worked out.
But in training camp, we were the red-headed stepchildren. People called us “the Leftovers” or “the Liberties.” I didn’t understand the “Liberties” name. I thought maybe it had something to do with having some company members from New York City. But Morelli clued us in. There’s a sign on the Statue of Liberty that says “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses...” So the other companies weren’t being complimentary. They were saying that we were the rejects from all the other companies. That really pissed us off.
We had only been in camp for a week or so. I didn’t really know many of the guys. Me and Petey Anderson went to basic training together back home, so we stayed pretty close. He was from Michigan too—Battle Creek. Back then I was kind of timid. I didn’t like to talk much, and I usually let other folks lead. I just didn’t have any experience at it and didn’t really have any desire. Hell, I was only eighteen years old. I learned a lot just by listening and watching everything around me. Petey used to razz me pre
tty good about being so quiet.
Every evening, we had some downtime in the mess hall after the day’s drills. We couldn’t leave the camp, and there wasn’t much to do. We played cards all the time. There were lots of tables, and groups played different games.
I was a really good card player. I liked Hearts and Pitch, and I could hold my own at poker. Petey and I wandered around the hall, pausing to watch games. I imagine there were about a hundred men in the hall, and I recognized five or ten from our platoon.
We watched a few minutes at one table because there was some excitement. A guy from Buzz Company named Harry Trumbull was hauling in some serious winnings. He was from somewhere back East, but I don’t remember where exactly. I want to say Maryland. Trumbull was kind of a strange guy. He was real quiet—probably the quietest guy in Buzz Company. See, I was quiet because of inexperience. Trumbull seemed to be turned inward, like he was more interested in his thoughts than in other people. He was real small. Skinny, short, real puny. I remember we used to give him a hard time when we had to move on foot. It didn’t look possible that such a puny little guy could carry so much gear. But he handled it somehow.
Trumbull was on a streak with seven-card stud, and you could just see his eyes ticking off cards as he saw them on the table. He could really count cards! There was some asshole from another company playing at the table. He was fat and he smoked cigarettes constantly. He had a big mouth. He jawed constantly during the hands, commenting on other player’s dealt cards, or cussing when he lost. And he lost a lot. He cussed louder and louder as he lost hands.
We watched for probably ten minutes while this guy got more and more agitated. After he'd lost all of his money, he stood up.
“You’re a dirty cheating son of a bitch!” he yelled.
Trumbull didn’t look up, just slowly gathered the money from the pot.
By that time, quite a crowd had gathered around. There were about ten men standing around the table. I couldn’t tell if they were buddies with Fatty, or just curious. Petey ducked out for a minute and roused Kozlowski. Petey was a big guy, stood probably around six foot two. I don't know, he might have weighed about two hundred pounds. He was easygoing enough, but if there was a scrap, you wanted Petey with you. But Kozlowski. There’s one thing you have to know about Kozlowski. He liked to fight more than anyone I ever met.
The loser had been yelling for a few minutes, and he was real red-faced, spitting as he yelled.
“Just take it easy,” said Petey, as he returned to my side.
“This son of a bitch your friend?” Fatty shouted.
“Yeah, he is,” replied Petey. “What’s the problem?”
“The fucker’s cheating!”
“How do you know that?” asked Petey.
“Because no one can win every hand! No one! And he just won every single hand since I sat down!”
A couple of guys snickered in the crowd. I'm sure they were thinking the same thing as me—he must really stink at cards. I bet there were about twenty guys standing around the table now. I didn’t like the way this was going, because I recognized only one guy in that crowd except for Petey, Kozlowski, and Trumbull.
Petey shrugged. “Maybe you’re just a bad card player,” he said.
Well, that made the guy REALLY mad. He kicked his chair back and sent it flying behind him. “You got a really big mouth, pal!” He started around the table toward us, and Kozlowski met up with him halfway around. Kozlowski kept closing his hands into fists, and then opening them again. I could tell he was getting real excited because he tilted his head back and forth, cracking his neck joints. He was smiling this big goofy grin. The loser pulled up short, looking at Kozlowski.
“What the hell is wrong with you, halfwit?”
Kozlowski lost his goofy grin. He clenched his jaws and his fists. I’d been on the receiving end of a scrap with Kozlowski a few days before, and I knew what was coming next. I looked around the room. Several guys stepped up next to the loser. This was shaping up to be a lot more than a fistfight between two men.
“This is going to be trouble,” I whispered to Petey.
“Twins are here,” he whispered back, nodding toward the door. That made me relax a little bit.
“Whaaaaat? Yous goombas got nothing better to do than fight each other?” asked Morelli. “Come ON! We got all the fucking krauts in the world to fight. Save it for them bastards!” He waved his hand, like he was waving off a bad thought.
“Yeah,” replied Chartelli. “You know, we got a saying back in the Bronx. Why smash each others’ heads when you can smash someone else’s?”
They just kept talking as they walked. It was clever, because it bought them time to get up to the table in case a scrap broke out. And, since everyone was watching their little comedy show, people didn’t really notice another five or six guys from our platoon walk into the hall a minute later, and join in around the table. If the fight dispersed, no one got hurt. But if it turned ugly, they'd stalled long enough that they were now in the middle of the crowd, and Buzz Company had people all around the circle.
“So, what’s the REAL problem here?” asked Chartelli.
“This son of a bitch cheats at cards,” said Fatty, pointing at Trumbull.
“Nah, he’s just some kind of card genius,” said Chartelli. “He wins all the time. I think I’m paying for a new car for him back home, all by myself.”
“He doesn’t win every hand. No one wins every hand.”
Chartelli’s eyes got real wide, and he dropped his chin in astonishment. “You sayin' this guy beat you at EVERY hand?”
“Yes!” nodded the loser.
Morelli’s eyes got real wide too. “How many hands?” he asked.
“Probably twenty,” said the loser.
Chartelli slapped his forehead in disbelief.
Morelli let out a whoop. “Jesus, you’re right! No one can win that many hands. Unless they are playing one hell of a dumb son of a bitch!”
About half of the room erupted into laughter. The rest cautiously eyed each other. Several guys used the laughter as an excuse to turn and walk away.
But the twins’ cracks were more than the loser could handle. His head shook and his face got all bright red. It looked like he was holding his breath, trying to keep it all inside. He looked around the table and made eye contact with three or four guys. They must have been in his platoon, because I watched them nod at him as he looked at each of them. He looked at the twins, then looked back at Kozlowski, who was just itching to get started. Then he looked at Petey, who stood a good four inches taller than him. Then he looked at me, and then Trumbull. He was really frustrated. I imagine he was trying to figure out if he and his boys could kick our asses.
Trumbull's squeaky chair broke the silence as he stood up. He cleared his throat, and everyone turned to watch him. He looked like one of those bankers you see in old Westerns—a puny little guy with glasses. He looked up over his glasses, making brief eye contact with the loser. “Could you empty your pockets? It appears some cards are missing.”
Have you ever seen a tire spring a fast leak? One of those times where it's not instant, but over the course of a few seconds it goes flat? This guy was the tire. All his bluster disappeared instantly, and his eyes widened a little bit in surprise. Then he tried to cover it up by sticking out his chin and sneering.
“I ain’t never been so offended in my life!” His voice was much quieter now, and there was just a little bit of tremble in it. His eyes panned the room. “First I’m cheated, and then I'm accused of cheating?”
“Oh, I see, I see!” Chartelli nodded vigorously.
“Yeah, me too!” said Morelli. “Yeah, I get it, man. That’s just offensive!”
There was a really long pause. It felt like a couple of minutes. No one said anything, and the silence became real uncomfortable. Fatty just stared at Trumbull, his lips pursed tight and his head shaking. Trumbull stared back, unblinking. Finally, the loser snapped out of it, and turn
ed away from Kozlowski, toward the door.
“Well!” he said. “I apologize to you, pal. I know that no good American here would cheat at cards. I just was a sore loser, and I’m sorry to have raised a stink about it.”
We looked back at forth at each other, trying to decide what to do. Do we make the guy empty his pockets or let him off the hook? After a few seconds, all of our eyes fell on Trumbull. He looked around the room at us and then just barely shook his head. The loser, his nose high in the air, nodded slightly as he passed the twins and left the tent. We all relaxed, and the crowd broke up. We gathered around Trumbull.
“So was he cheatin’?” asked Kozlowski.
“King of diamonds has been missing for about the last six rounds. King of clubs disappeared two rounds ago. I haven’t seen the ace of hearts at all.”
“Why didn’t you call him on it during the game?” I asked.
Trumbull looked up at me and flashed a mischievous look. “I figured it was a good handicap. I wanted to beat him even though he had a pair of kings in his pocket. He really IS a lousy card player.”
“So did he play the kings on the last round?” asked Kozlowski.
“Yes. He had two pair, kings and sevens,” said Trumbull.
“What did you have?” asked Kozlowski.
“Full house. Threes over... kings.” He winked at us.
We all laughed about that one for days.
Chapter 3 - Buzz Company Olympics
I should explain what the ACTUAL Buzz Company really was. The company included nine platoons. My platoon was the Ninth. So, I guess we were the leftovers of the leftovers. I think that’s how we ended up with Cap Reynolds as our CO, instead of a lieutenant. Looking back, I don’t understand that at all. Cap was a master tactician in battle. He saved our asses more than once, and he had a keen insight into human nature. He probably could have run the whole damn company or even the division, but I’m glad he didn’t. Being in the Ninth Platoon didn’t make us any less valuable or lower-ranked in the company. We had the right mix of fellas to set the tone for the whole company. In fact, we named it!
My Honor Flight Page 2