The idea that he was unable to go somewhere to influence at least one of the chains of seemingly disjointed battles that the brigades of his corps were engaged in wore on Big Al's nerves as staff officer after staff officer stood up to brief him and the primary staff officers. The staff, in turn, was beginning to feel the pressure of having their commander standing about with nothing to do, watching them or staring at the operations map. They were used to receiving Big Al's guidance and then being left to deal with it while he visited units or division command posts. It was, one staff officer commented, like having a bear watching campers cooking their dinner.
Though Big Al tried hard to stay out of his staff's hair, the corps chief of staff felt the need to keep his commander entertained. This resulted in a steady stream of staff officers pulled from their normal duties and sent to update the corps commander on one thing or another. Though the staff officers did keep their commander informed and did receive some additional guidance, the wear and tear on each other's nerves was telling. Some of the staff officers were even betting how long it would take before Big Al finally blew a gasket and dumped on someone.
The victim of that eruption, quite innocently, turned out to be an artillery major. Midway through the evening briefing, while the major, an assistant fire coordination officer, was briefing, Big Al caught the attention of the chief of staff. Using the index finger of his right hand, Big Al made a small circular motion, indicating that he wanted the chief of staff to speed up the briefing. The chief shifted in his seat and cleared his throat in an effort to catch the fire support officer's attention.
The young major, caught up in his briefing, failed to notice Big Al's signal to the chief of staff and missed the meaning of the chief's cues. So rather than speed up or skip to the summary, the young major continued to dump hordes of numbers and heaps of data and information onto his reluctant audience like a tenured professor delivering a stale lecture. Though Big Al had no doubt that all the information being delivered had some importance to someone somewhere, the parade of digits and the major's monotone voice grated on Big Al's worn nerves like a child dragging his fingernails across a blackboard.
When it became obvious that the message had not gotten through, Big Al, unable to hold himself back and unwilling to give his chief a second chance, stood up, gave the chief a perfunctory "Thank you," and began to walk out of the van. Though he knew his actions were rude and that the young major who had been briefing would catch hell for pissing off the old man, Big Al had bigger concerns on his mind. With his face distorted in anger, anger at his inability to do something more positive, more active, Big Al made his way through masses of staff officers who practically beat each other to death as they tried to get out of his way. Followed by his aide, who had been caught off guard and was trying to keep up with his boss while fumbling with helmets, jackets, and a notebook, Big Al fled the corps command post and out into the night.
When he caught up to Big Al, the aide found him outside the protective wire that surrounded the command post. Standing on the side of the road, Big Al stood alone watching a convoy of trucks and field ambulances go by. Moving around to the side, the aide made his presence known simply by placing himself so that his movement would be caught by Big Al's peripheral vision. Aides were trained to do that, to make their presence known without interrupting or interfering with conversations or reflective moments. Stopping a few paces short, the aide waited for Big Al to reach out and motion for the parka and helmet that the aide carried. But there was no movement, no beckoning call. There was only the silence of the bitterly cold night punctured by the steady grinding of trucks passing by and generators humming about the corps command post. In the faint light of dimmed headlights, the aide could see that Big Al's face was still screwed up like a twisted mass of raw nerves. He stood there alone, intently watching the trucks go by, one after the other, as they slowly inched their way north. Though the aide had no idea what was going on in his commander's mind, he knew that Big Al had come here to escape.
After being in the warm vans that made up the corps command post all day, crunched in with other people and unable to go outside much, the cold night air sent a chill through the aide. Concerned that his boss was also cold, the aide moved closer to Big Al and prepared to hand him his parka. But at the last minute he stopped short. When he saw that Big Al's expression didn't change, the aide stepped back and waited. Though Big Al was cold, the aide also knew that there was something that was bothering his commander and that he was deep in thought. Good aides learned quickly when to say something and when not to. They learned when their commander wanted them and when they were expected to melt away into the background and wait quietly for their commander to summon them. It was time, the aide realized, to become a shadow.
The string of ambulances moving north did nothing to calm Big Al's concerns or feelings of inadequacy. In fact they only served to heighten his depression, for here, right in front of his face, were the by-products of his actions. The ambulances and trucks of a hospital unit were a terrible reminder that what he was doing in the command post behind him was no training exercise, no drill. The decisions that he made and the orders that his staff issued in his name were paid for in blood by the soldiers that his government and country had entrusted into his care. How terrible, Big Al thought, if after all was said and done his best intentions didn't measure up to their sacrifice. How terrible.
From the cab of the truck where Hilary Cole sat she could see the figures of two men standing on the side of the road. One man, a very short one with no helmet or jacket on, just stood there and watched as her truck went by. Though she couldn't see his face, his stance, with his arms folded across his chest, made him look important. The second man, holding a parka in one hand and a helmet in the other, stood a few feet away from the short man, as if he were waiting for the short man to notice him. Though she didn't know who the two men were, it was obvious that the short one was important.
But, Cole thought, he wasn't important to her, especially not at that moment. What was important was that she had an opportunity to escape the horrors of the day for a little while. There in the heated cab of the truck the steady hum of the engine served to drown out the screams that still rang in her ears. Though not the most comfortable seat she had ever had, Cole found it good enough. She rolled a blanket that she had brought along with her and placed it against the window beside her. When she had it set the way she wanted it, Cole leaned against it and folded her arms. With luck she would be asleep in a few minutes. It was important, she knew, that she take advantage of this opportunity to sleep, for she knew that once they stopped there would be much to do. Not only would the wounded they had taken along from their last site still need care, but there would no doubt be new wounded waiting. The battles, she had been told, had yet to reach their climax. That, for her and the other nurses, translated to more wounded, more suffering, more nightmares.
As she slowly drifted off to sleep, Cole wondered if the short man on the side of the road had anything to do with the battles. And if he did, she wondered if he really understood what his orders really meant to the soldiers who suffered as a result of those orders. Probably not, she thought. After all, if he did and he could see the suffering that his orders caused, he couldn't possibly issue them. No one could send men to their death or certain mutilation if he had seen it himself. No sane human that had seen what she had seen all day could continue to send men into battle. No, Cole thought as she drifted off to sleep, General So-and-So back there, warm and pampered in his little command post, had no idea of what his great plans cost. None.