Rumors of War (A Band of Brothers Story)

3: Countryside

"I followed the war wherever I could reach it." – Martha Gellhorn

I don't tell Sgt. Peggy Dixon of Shreveport, Louisiana what she really wants to hear; the things that haunt, and hurt at all hours of the day are kept down deep, undisturbed but still lumbering like great giant beasts that threaten to swallow me whole at any given moment. Everyone who's never been in the field always wants to be a voyeur of violence without getting messy. Nobody has to worry about stepping back from the blood because they're never close enough for it to touch them. I won't ever give anyone the satisfaction.

Instead, I tell the jokes, of the moments before and after the mortars have fallen, and the guns have gone silent. I tell my truths, as I know them. The classic story about the two Marines drivers on Guadalcanal, supposedly a true story—very true, Hoosier had sworn—where someone listening almost always knew someone who knew the drivers.

"And the two jeeps," I explained while being rattled around in the back of the canvas truck. "They're passing in the night somewhere on Guadalcanal, one's got the proper air raid dimmers, and the other's without."

I'm pretty sure this never, ever happened.

"And the lights are just glaring, so bright that Japs could spot'em from Tokyo. So the driver of the dimmed jeep, he can't let that pass, you know?"

Sgt. Dixon nodded, enrapt. "Obviously."

"So, he leans out the side and yells, 'Hey put your fucking lights out!'" I'm gesturing wildly by then, really trying to sell the story. "But the other driver doesn't, the Marine, he doesn't even blink, just shouts back 'I can't, I've got a fucking Colonel with me!'"

And then the Sergeant is laughing, and even though I've been told and told the story myself a hundred times over, I find myself laughing too. My cheeks hurt by the time I stop, and my lungs got a bit of a burn, like when you're running in winter.

"I haven't laughed like that in awhile," I admitted, leaning back. "That story never gets old."

"I know what you mean," Sgt. Dixon agreed before pausing, then—"What was it really like though? Over there?"

Any feeling of warmth immediately dies; they drop like lead in my stomach, and my throat constricts. Everyone always, always wants to know the carnage. I can't help it when I sigh, taking out another cigarette (leaving only three left) to chew on. I fidget with my zippo, the cool metal and its engraving pressing into my skin.

I'll need a new pack by the time I finally reach the village if I keep getting debriefed.

"Hot," I decide. "Miserable too, but mostly boredom highlighted with death and gunfire."

My tone is one of finality, the subject is closed, and thankfully she understands it because she suddenly becomes incredibly interested in her clipboard, not that there was much for her to do. I was the last on the list. There had been three others, not counting myself, and they were all so green. They had never seen combat, never been in such a situation—Hell, I'm pretty sure two of them hadn't even begun to shave.

As I looked out the open end of the truck, watching the lush English countryside roll by, I absentmindedly light my cigarette before sliding my Zippo into my breast pocket. I was the last of the correspondents on the truck, the last gift out for delivery via the US military.

The other correspondents had made no effort to speak to me, and based off what Dixon had said, they knew who I was. They knew where I'd been—North Africa, Guadalcanal, and Husky—and unlike the WAC Sergeant, smart enough to leave me well alone. They'd been tasked to cover various arms of the service; one was Navy (he'd bragged loud enough for the Kriegsmarine trolling the Atlantic to hear), the other the Rangers, and the last had spoken relatively softly of the infantry of the 3rd Army. They had all sounded so optimistic, and excited.