Rose of Anzio - Jalousie (Volume 2): A WWII Epic Love Story

by Alexa Kang

  A gentle smile came onto his face. "He misses us, his parents, of course. He misses Leon and Anna too, and Katherine and Alexander. Leon, especially. They are very close. And I'm sure there are many other friends and people he misses. But I also know that far away, wherever he is, if he is feeling lonely or having a particularly bad day, and he really, really needs to think of something happy, it won't be us he'll be thinking about."

  Uncle William's words were a revelation to her. She had never thought of it that way.

  "One day, when they send him overseas, when he'll have to face whatever danger or disaster that comes his way, it won't be us that he'll think of to motivate himself to fight his way out."

  It never occurred to her that Anthony needed her. She held her hands together, trying to understand what it all meant.

  "Because he's in love with you, he has a much greater chance of staying alive. He has something to live for." He turned the glass of brandy in his hand. "Love, it's an extraordinary thing. It's a strong motivator. Of course, there's no guarantee. There are some things nobody can control, but the fact he has you waiting for him, it'll give him the inner strength to go on and come through, if it ever comes to that."

  What an odd turn of events. As improbable as it was, she had become the ray of hope for everyone.

  "So your Aunt Sophia and I feel very fortunate that you love him too."

  Feeling awkward to admit her feelings, yet unable to deny it, she said, "I do." She thought of Anthony, his positive smile and his straightforward ways. "Very much."

  Just then, Aunt Sophia came in holding Muffin in her arms. "Look! I caught the naughty little rascal." She sat down, stroking the kitten on her lap.

  "Sophie," William said, "I've been thinking, now that spring's coming around, why don't we plant a garden?"

  "A garden?"

  "Yes. A victory garden. The ones they've been writing about in the newspapers. We can grow our own vegetables, do our part to help reserve farmed food for feeding the troops. We have a sizable yard. We can convert half of it into a vegetable garden. We might even have extras to give away."

  "I like that idea," Aunt Sophia said, rubbing Muffin's head. The kitten started purring. "Anthony's in the army. It'll be a little something we can do to help with the war effort."

  "Let's make it a family outing this weekend. We'll go look for seeds," Uncle William said. "Does that sound good?"

  "Sounds perfect," Tessa said.

  Uncle William relaxed back into the sofa, sipping on his drink. Aunt Sophia smiled at Tessa, then continued to play with Muffin.

  They all missed Anthony, but life went on.

  Spring was coming again.

  In her room after dinner, Tessa sat on her bed and continued to search for answers in the books she had brought back from the medical library. She still hadn't found any information on Ron's afflictions other than general references to battle fatigue in psychiatric journals. Even those mentions had no information about treatment. Finding nothing that could help him in the books on battle-related syndromes, she moved on to the books on ordinary neurosis. The one she was reading now recommended electroshock, and in severe cases, lobotomy. Halfway through, she couldn't bear the ghastly descriptions anymore and closed the book. She was about to turn off the lights and sleep when the sidebar of an open page of a medical magazine caught her attention.

  … Originated in China in 1368 A.D., the stress balls, also known as Baoding Balls, are used for tension relief and help relieve stress by rotating them in one hand, usually in pairs, which is believed to stimulate acupressure points in the nervous system. Stress balls can be made in flexible forms so that they can be repeatedly squeezed, held closed in the hands and released to relieve muscle tension…

  She put the magazine back down and turned off the lights. Stress balls, she thought as she lay in bed. She wondered how Ron might react to them. She could stop by Chinatown tomorrow and buy some on her way to work.

  III

  Part Three - Boot Camp

  8

  Fifteen miles.

  They had been hiking in the mountains for fifteen miles with their full field packs on their back. Even for Anthony, this was torture. His back ached. His boots rubbed against his heels and his feet hurt.

  Five more miles to go. It would be another two hours at least before they would be done. He felt so thirsty, but he was running low on water. He must reserve the little he had left and make it last.

  He wished they didn't have to carry their full packs. When they went on their last twenty-mile hike, they only had to wear their gun belts, helmet liners, gas masks, and rifles. Why did they have to carry a full load today and not then? He had no idea. If there was any logical reason for how their training was conducted, he did not see it. As far as he could tell, everything was done on the whim of the noncoms in charge of their training.

  And it was best not to ask why. One time, a recruit had the audacity to ask why they were carrying different loads each time they hiked. He wanted to know if there was any system or method behind it all. The recruit was only curious, but the army did not like questions. One was simply to do as he was told. As a punishment for asking, the noncom made the recruit fold and unfold his uniforms over and over again for four hours. When the recruit was finally relieved, the sergeant told him the reason he had to be punished this way was because the sergeant said so.

  Since then, Anthony had learned, it was best to keep his head down and mouth shut.

  Obviously, the military training program was set up to train the recruits to follow orders and to never ask questions. Every drill and exercise they did was to teach them to conform and to break down their resistance. No one could have any deviating thoughts. No one could have any individuality. They were to behave as a unit. Their actions must be uniform and predictable. They must only do as they were told. There could be no surprises.

  Deviation included having special skills or being excellent. Being excellent at anything was an invitation for trouble. He had had to learn that the hard way.

  Right off the bat, Sergeant Hinkle had it in for him. A career noncom officer who had risen through the ranks after he had left behind a glorious career as a kitchen appliance salesman to join the army, Hinkle had a penchant for calling all the recruits "fucking retards" and "pieces of shit." It didn't matter that Hinkle himself had never been in battle. As far as Hinkle was concerned, all recruits were pathetic ninnies who weren't real men because they hadn't been in the army for years like him. Poor him. Now he was stuck with the wretched job of whipping a bunch of milksops into shape. He must perform the impossible and turn them all into real soldiers just like him.

  And he held a special contempt for Anthony.

  Anthony being a university student, or more precisely, a University of Chicago student, irritated him to no end. "You're not special," Hinkle never failed to remind him. "Whatever they taught you at that hoity-toity school's got no use around here. You should be thanking your lucky stars the army made you come here instead. Now you'll learn what it takes to be a real man."

  Sure. Anthony thought. A real man like him. Who wouldn't want that?

  And yet, he had no choice but to put up with Hinkle. One afternoon, Hinkle came to their barracks looking for him. "Ardley. Does that fancy school of yours teach you people anything about art?"

  Unsure of why he asked, Anthony made the mistake of being honest. "Yes."

  "Good. Let's see you do some painting then. We might as well put your education to use."

  Next thing Anthony knew, Hinkle had made him spend the entire rest of the day painting the laundry room's walls. Painting the walls would have been fine, except what he had to paint with was not a paint brush for wall painting, but a small artist's brush for watercolor painting like the brushes Tessa used in her art studio.

  It wasn't only his education. The fact that Anthony didn't smoke was a problem. That Anthony didn't curse like the rest of them was another problem. By Hinkle's standard, he could do n
o right. It was a no-win situation.

  Having to put up with Hinkle was a special kind of hell of its own.

  "… so I got her right where I wanted," Hinkle chortled while gloating about his previous night's conquest at the noncom officers' table in the mess hall. "And let me tell you, she's got a fine pair of titties. You scum would never get your hands onto boobies like that. Not in your wildest dreams…" The more he talked, the more excited he got. His voice was so loud, everyone could hear him. All Anthony wanted to do was to finish eating and get out of there.

  "The way those titties bounced, I tell ya, it got me all hot and going. So I pushed her down and…hey, Ardley!"

  Anthony cringed.

  "What the fuck is wrong with your face? You look like you're gonna puke. What's the matter with you? You don't like girls?"

  Anthony kept his face straight and didn't answer.

  Hinkle got up from his seat and came over to him. With Anthony sitting down, Hinkle, all five-foot-five of him, hovered over Anthony. "You got a problem?"

  "No, sir."

  "Fuck, you need to man up, you lousy scum. Get up. Give me fifty push-ups, now!"

  Anthony got up and did as he ordered. As unfair as this was, it was better than listening to Hinkle's obscene, dirty talk. Hinkle stood in front of him, clearly enjoying having his feet just inches away from Anthony's face.

  "We'll make a man out of you yet, Ardley," Hinkle said while his fellow officers chuckled.

  When Anthony finished, he stood up at attention, hoping to be dismissed so he could get away. Hinkle wrinkled his eyes and scrutinized him. "Where's your button?"

  Anthony frowned. What was Hinkle talking about?

  "Where's your button?" Hinkle poked him at the top of the chest.

  Anthony looked at where Hinkle was pointing. A button was missing. It must have fallen off somewhere.

  "How many times do I have to tell you people to follow the dress code? What am I? Your mother? How dare you show up dressing like a bum? This is the army, not your bedroom. Don't they teach you any respect at that snooty school of yours? Huh? Goddamn it. That's it. You're going to be the one to cut the grass today. Report to me after lunch."

  "Yes, sir." Whatever. Cut grass. Sure. He could mow the lawns.

  Or that was what he thought until he got to the field. Hinkle handed him a small pair of scissors. "I want all the grass on this field trimmed nice and neat."

  Anthony held the scissors. Trim the grass with these? He looked at the field.

  "Fucking faggot," Hinkle sneered and walked away.

  And so went the days at Camp Dover. It did not pay to be someone with a superior educational background.

  Or, one could say, being excellent in any way was a gift that kept on giving. One time, he accidentally showed he was excellent and dearly paid the price.

  An army general had come to camp that day for an inspection. For once, the noncoms had all put on their best behavior. Anthony had hoped Hinkle might be distracted enough to give him a break, but he should've known better.

  "I expect each and every one of you to perform to the best of your abilities," Hinkle hollered before the obstacle course race. "If any of you screw up and embarrass me before the general, you'll all pay for it tomorrow. Twenty-four-mile hike up the mountains, full pack. You all got that?"

  Yes, they got it. Underperform, and there would be hell to pay.

  But the other groups must all have gotten the same warning. Anthony had never seen the recruits take an inter-camp competition so seriously. His own unit was performing well, but others could edge them out anytime.

  "Not looking forward to that twenty-four-mile hike tomorrow," someone in his unit said.

  "We're doing fine," he told the others.

  "I'm not so optimistic," another recruit chimed in. The units were running against each other neck-and-neck.

  When his turn came, all Anthony could think of was to not let his unit down. He would not be the cause for everyone to have to do an all day hike carrying their heaviest load. With that thought in mind, he dashed through the track and came to the six-foot high wall. He jumped, grabbed the top and hauled himself over to land on the other side, then crawled through the mud field. Approaching the end of the field, he grabbed the rope hanging before him and climbed up. He was pulling so fast, his arms burned. The roughness of the rope scraped his hands, but he couldn't worry about that now. After reaching the top, he lowered himself back down, ran past the hurdles ahead and through puddles of water and mud. He felt like a thousand pins were stinging his thighs. By the time he reached the monkey bars, his legs were heavy as lead, weighing him down as he swung from one bar to the next. His entire core hurt.

  One last obstacle to go. He focused on that thought to turn his mind off from the pain. Back on the ground again, he hopped onto the log, doing his best to concentrate and not lose his balance even though his legs now jellied. As he came to the end of the course, the recruits in his units who had finished before him were all shouting and cheering him on. He didn't know why they were so excited, but for a brief moment, he felt like he was back at school at a swimming competition.

  "Ardley, Ardley," one of the recruits yelled out to him after he crossed the finish line. "You broke the time record!"

  He did? He had no idea. But it sure felt good. His fellow recruits surrounded him and congratulated him. He thanked them, but more than feeling victorious, he was glad he probably saved everyone from the prospect of a twenty-four-mile hike.

  On the far end of the obstacle training course, the army general was staring at them. Major General Frank Castile. He had come to inspect the camp's training operations. Anthony could feel the man's imposing presence even from where he stood. Castile remained for only a brief moment before he was driven away.

  Meanwhile, his good feelings from winning the obstacle race lasted only until they returned to their barracks.

  "Great job, Ardley. Great job." Hinkle said as he swaggered in. "A job well done."

  Although Hinkle was giving him praises, from the sarcastic tone of his voice, Anthony knew he was in trouble. The only thing he did not know was what kind of trouble.

  "Everyone, let's give Private Ardley a round of applause for showing the other units what real soldiers are capable of. Private Ardley sure did us proud today, didn't he?"

  The barrack turned silent. No one dared say a word.

  "Well, aren't you proud, Ardley?" Hinkle came up close to him.

  "No, sir."

  "You're not proud then? You're not proud our unit won?"

  "Yes, sir. Of course I'm proud, sir."

  "Ah, I see. You are proud. You think you're better than the rest of us?"

  "No, sir."

  "No? You're sure about that?"

  "I'm sure, sir."

  "Good. That's good. Then you'll take one for the team, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very well. You can report for latrine duty tonight. I'm sure your fellow soldiers would thank you for saving them from having to clean up after the tough race today. We all need a good night's rest, don't we? Now we know we can count on you." Hinkle smirked and left.

  Latrine duty, Anthony thought. The job that nobody wanted and one that he could do without. He took a deep breath and fell back on his bed.

  As if that wasn't bad enough, when he showed up for the miserable task, the noncom in charge gave him a toothbrush and a piece of soap. "Sergeant Hinkle's order," the noncom said.

  He took one look at the toilets. The place was beyond filthy. Everything stunk. How was he supposed to clean these? He threw the toothbrush against the wall.

  When he got back to the barracks, he had made up his mind he would never outperform anyone or show excellence in any way again.

  Do not be exceptional. Do not distinguish yourself. Be mediocre. Be ordinary. If that was what the army wanted, that was what the army would get. He was sick and tired of all the pointless punishments with small tools.

  To his own surpri
se, being mediocre didn't turn out to be such a bad thing after all. All his life, people had expected him to do great things. His swimming coached had wanted him to be the team captain. Uncle Leon had wanted him to lead America First on campus. His father had wanted him to take over their family business. When he was drafted, everyone at home treated him like a hero, even though he hadn't the faintest clue what the army was about and he hadn't fought a single battle. He had always tried to live up to what they wanted of him. He couldn't disappoint the people he loved.

  For the first time, the world wanted him to do less, not more. Here, no one wanted anything from him. He didn't have to think. He didn't have to carry anyone's hopes. All he had to do was to follow orders.

  A new path opened before him like an epiphany. What did he care anyway? He never wanted a military career. Why did he have to be good at anything? From now on, he would strive to be the least he could be.

  A weight of burden fell off him. Happy, he sat back in his bunk and began reading the copy of Timely Comic's Human Torch someone had left in the next bunk.

  9

  The California desert sun beat down on the recruits as they repeated another round of target practice. Sitting on the ground as the temperature approached the high nineties, Anthony waited for his next turn. He felt hot and tired. He didn't feel like moving another inch, let alone getting up to shoot his gun.

  "You think we can fry eggs on our helmets?" the recruit next to him asked. Anthony glanced at the recruit, too dispirited and weary to laugh at his joke.

  His group had left Camp Dover more than a week ago. The noncoms had selected his squad to come out here for a training excursion. Why here? As usual, no one gave them any explanation. They simply had to endure it.

  He loathed this place and so did everyone else. Compared to where they were now, Camp Dover was as good as a luxury hotel. This place was dead. Dry, hot, and dead. Not a single sign of life could be found anywhere, but this was the place where they were told to stay. No information was given on when they could leave either.