Yeah, all the arguments about letting others do their part kept rattling in his brain but he was good at being a soldier. He liked the simplicity of military life. You knew what to expect and if you kept your nose clean and did your job you got rewarded. Three square meals a day, and everything else was taken care of. No insurance or mortgage problems and you met girls; and then you shipped out, with no attachments.
College girls were always looking to get married. They wanted to tie you down. The kind of girls that hung out in the bars near the base weren’t like that. They lived like you did: one day at a time. No plans for tomorrow; just do your job and have some fun while you can. The rest will fall into place. He hated to plan ahead. He guessed that’s why he was still a corporal when he got out, despite a fistful of medals and commendations.
Luckily he didn’t get the Medal of Honor. Those poor schmucks had to put on a show and lived in a fish bowl every time they were stateside. Everyone watched their every move. Not many of them made very good civilians. The Silver Star was just fine; prestigious enough to get you a good job and a drink or two but not overwhelming, like the Medal of Honor was.
He wondered if you can turn it down. Well, hopefully he won’t ever have to worry about that. He was going to join up again; not only for his country, and all that other patriotic stuff, but for himself. He loved being in combat. The rush some called it. Something to do with adrenaline he read somewhere. He didn’t care what it was; he just knew he needed it. He craved it, and nothing like fighting for your life and hunting other human beings provided it. He was a natural-born killer he guessed. He had been thinking about the French Foreign Legion, when the Reds attacked. Now he had an excuse to do what he loved.
The Japs were easy to kill. Being so different and all. He wondered how it would feel the first time he looked into a white man’s face as he shoved a knife in his chest. Would he have regrets or feel sorry for the guy since he looked like him? He doubted it, but who knew for sure until it happened?
He like using a knife, close in. He was very lucky that there was another war to fight, otherwise he might have done something stupid in some bar fight or something. Better to fight for your country and get medals, than to kill some drunk in a bar.
What a thing to be good at; killing another man. Maybe he should have gone into the boxing game. It was similar to combat. Oh well too late now. He’d go see the recruiter tomorrow. He was actually looking forward to going to sleep tonight. Maybe the demons that plagued his dreams would be slain by his decision to join up again. Then again maybe he would just create some more.
He didn’t know how many more sixteen-hour days he could take. They had been at it for three long weeks and they were all running on empty. Just yesterday Collins had slipped and fallen under the wheels of that grader. Crushed his left foot and messed up his back badly. You just can’t work these long hours and not expect to have some major accidents.
The Soviet attacks weren’t expected until October. At least that was their stated deadline. That overflight last month was a wake-up call as to how this battle was going to be different from 1940. The Soviet planes were faster and had the range to reach all of the British Isles. A huge change in strategy by the RAF was in order. Yes, they would know ahead of time when and where the Soviets would show up but what did it matter when they could blanket the whole country; a blanket bristling with guns and bombs.
Thank God they had no equivalent to the Boeing B-29, or the Avro Lincoln. The Reds were masters of low-level combat and no matter what the papers said about the Spitfires and Meteors advantage in speed and height the battle would be at low to medium altitudes. The Spit pilots were going to have to learn how to ‘boom and zoom’ in a Spit. That was something they, and the plane, were not meant to do. You get into a turning fight at low-level when you’re outnumbered and you will not last long. Not according to his brother-in-law the pilot.
He was saying that the Reds were a different kind of animal than the Krauts. He mentioned something about a special anti-aircraft round that would take care of many a Red pilot. The Brit fighters were supposed to lay off the initial attacks and let the AA gunners do their job because of the possibility of friendly-fire problems. The plan was to catch them before they hit land and then mess with them as they ‘egress.’ That was some fancy word for heading back home to your base.
He was having many second thoughts about coming back to England and marrying Betty. Oh, he loved her and all that, but it sure would be safer in the good old U.S. of A. It looked like the Brits were going to fight and at least that was a relief. But where in the hell were the Yanks? His countrymen were not stepping up to the plate, and from all the newspaper reports, they were having trouble finding enough guys to join up.
Yet, every vet he knew was signing up again. I suppose I’m doing more good here getting these airfields ready again then going through basic training again and all that paperwork. According to Ma, all the neighborhood boys were signing up and had already left so he sure didn’t know where all this shortage talk was coming from. Maybe it was a propaganda ploy. If it was then, where were they? They weren’t here in England that’s for sure.
Every night he caught hell in the pub on the subject, “Where are your bloody Yank friends?” He didn’t have an answer for them so he stopped going to the pub. Saved a lot of money but he missed the old days when everyone treated us like kings. No more, though. The Brits were pissed at us for not coming to their aid.
Oh well, that was way above his pay grade. All he could do is to hang on and do his best at his job. At least Betty was still the same girl he married and loved him. I guess that’s about all you can ask for in a war. He was home in bed every night with a gorgeous woman, who loved him, and he loved her. Much better than the last time he was here. Before they were married he never got past second base, and then he had to go and fight in those goddamned hedgerows.
Holy crap! That Limey idiot is going to tip that crane over!
“BACK IT OFF, JACK! IT’S TOO HEAVY!”
Man that was close. You just can’t lift something that big, not without the proper backfill on the base. I’m glad the Seabees trained me well. That could have been fatal.
“William, get over here and fix the footing for Jack… Thanks mate.”
Thank God, he’s not my mate. How does he chew his food with those teeth? I don’t see how he can close his mouth with those teeth pointing every which way. I should have become a dentist. I could be raking it in here. Maybe not they seem to just have them pulled. Modern dentistry is simply not a priority for folks who are fighting for their lives and freedom.
Sergo peaked through his small window, looking down on the production floor. Thousands of hand-picked workers danced around giant machines in a well-choreographed ballet, all designed to make the weapons that would save many civilian lives. Yes, they would take many enemy lives, as well, but they were still instruments of destruction.