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Sitting in the torrid sun, feeling hatred for Skorupski, his entire body had been tensed and for the past two hours he’d held both the peeler and potatoes tightly, and he’d also held his jaw clenched and now, feeling the tension, opening his mouth, Mitchell moved his lower jaw to the right… pop… and to the left… pop.
“Jesus, Mitchie, you sound kind’a like popcorn. Does it hurt?”
“Actually, no,” popping again, “it doesn’t hurt at all.”
If he didn’t do it, possibly it would have gone away. But the more he popped the more he was compelled to pop and when he didn’t pop he felt a kind of tension in his wrists and jaw. By the time he finally went to bed that night, humming Yankee Doodle, discovering a new talent, Mitchell was able to accompany himself with his bones.
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July 12, 1950
“Fall in! Tench-hup!”
As though the shadow of an echo, three other voices gave identical commands within a micro-second of each other.
“Dress right, dress! Right shoulder, arms!”
The stocks of their rifles snapped into position on their right shoulders, the barrels all pointed at precisely the same upward angle.
“Riiiight, face!”
Two hundred soldiers turned, their heavy-soled combat boots pivoting to the right, their left feet snapped into place at a 45-degree angle.
“Forward, harch! Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four!”
Four hundred feet lifting in near perfect unison, the fifty men of the third platoon, wearing full field packs, marched from their barracks… “Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four!” with Master Sargent Rafael Martinez counting cadence, “Hup-two-three-four!” as did master sergeants Zeke Potter for the first platoon, Stewart Lipari the second and Kevin Sloan the fourth.
The four platoons separated by twenty paces, each sergeant was positioned precisely three paces to the left of the center points of each of their double column of soldiers.
“Hup-two-three-four! Hup-two-three-four!”
Their voices distinct to the men of their respective platoons, together, the four voices melded into an echoing, harmonious mode.
“Column leeeft, harch!” Potter called as the first platoon reached the bisecting road.
The entire platoon, turning to the left, pivoted at the same point in the road, “Column leeeft, harch!” as did the second, third and fourth platoons.
The voices of the four sergeants and the beat of the men’s feet blending as one, the men of the third battalion marched out of Camp McCoy.
Twelve miles to the south, the three-day bivouac destination was a beautiful open field surrounded by low, sparsely wooded rolling hills.
“You had a good home when you left!” Martinez called.
“You’re right!” the troops returned.
“Your Mama was there when you left!”
“You’re right!”
“Sound off!”
“One, two!”
“Sound off!”
“Three, four!”
“Cadence count!”
“One, two, three, four—one, two… Three, four!”
From the black macadam of the camp onto the dirt road going south, “Hup-two-three-four!” The day was hot, bright and dry, and soon a light cloud of brown dust hung over the marching army
“La-pimp-ski!”
“Huh?” Almost losing his step, “Yes, Sir!”
“Don’t call me Sir, an’ pick up the cadence!”
“Cadence? Me?”
“Your name’s La-pimp-ski, ain’t it?”
“Lipensky!”
“That’s what I said, La-pimp-ski! Pick up the fuckin’ cadence!”
“Uh,” hesitantly, thinking.
“Well, La-pimp-ski, we’re waiting!”
“Uh,” tentatively, “If we go, we’re gonna be,”
If we go we’re gonna be!”
Gaining confidence, “The toughest fighting company!”
“The toughest fighting company!”
Louder, lifting his head, “Sound off!”
“One, two!”
“Sound off!” Louder.
“Three, four!”
Even louder. “Cadence count!”
“One, two, three, four—one, two… Three, four!”
****
As the morning lengthened the heat of the sun became more intense and it radiated and magnified beneath the plastic-lined steel helmets and perspiration streamed down the men’s faces. The snug-fitted field packs did not allow for evaporation and sweat pooled uncomfortably around the back of the belted fatigues.
“Hup-two-three-four! Left shoulder, arms!”
Thankfully, the weapons were shifted from their aching right shoulders to their left.
“Hup-two-three-four!”
Two hours out. After slightly more than six miles on this fairly level road, some of the men were beginning to limp.
“Hup-two-three-four!”
“Fuck, ain’t they never gonna rest us?” PFC, Walt Klickner whispered from the corner of his mouth.
“Hup-two-three-four!”
“My fuckin’ feet are killin’ me,” PFC Stephen Stanislawski muttered under his breath.
“Hup-two-three-four!”
“I’m diein’a thirst!”
“Hup-two-three-four!”
“Jesus, I gotta piss!”
Looking to his right, “Quit your bitchin’!” Martinez yelled
“Oy, gevalt!” Carrying the twenty-seven-pound mortar tube, he was thankful that Norman had suggested pinning folded handkerchiefs—by using safety pins from his Army issue sewing kit—under the shoulders of his fatigue jacket. The weight of the tub felt as though it was in the process of crushing his shoulder, but at least the skin had not been rubbed raw. Norman had also come up with the idea of Doctor Scholl’s cushioned foot and heel pads—that they’d brought from home—so although his feet ached from this forced march he, as of yet, had not worn up a blister.
The two anxiously awaited the words “Platoon halt!” echoed from sergeant to sergeant down the long column.
“Finally!”
“Thank God!”
“No shit!”
“Left face!”
“Oy, vey!”
“Order arms!”
There was a shuffling of feet and the disorganized clunking of steel-covered rifle butts as they’re lifted off aching shoulders and wearily set onto the rock-strewn ground.
“I didn’t tell you fuckers ‘at ease,’ did I!” Glaring at his platoon, Martinez angrily commanded, “Tench hup!”
Bodies stiffened, heels snapped together, rifle butts pressed against the toes of their right boots, faces facing forward, all eyes looked straight ahead.
“You look like a bunch’a goddamned pussies!” Walking the double column from end to end, Martinez looked at each man individually. “Okay, do it right this time! Right shoulder, arms!”
Those of the platoon with rifles went through the four positions of the command.
“Order arms!”
Reversing the positions, the entire platoon stood at attention.
“Parade, rest!”
Left legs moved smartly 30 inches to the left, left arms snapped across the small of their backs. Right arms went straight forward, moving the rifle barrel to an angle perpendicular to their bodies.
Standing at attention, facing forward, the sergeant’s eyes shifted from right to left, then, “Tench, hup!” and before the men could perform the command, “At ease!”
Sighing collectively, the men relaxed.
“Okay, we’re going to take a 15-minute break. Take a piss if ya gotta, an’ light up, but don’t get too relaxed, ’cause we still got…” hesitating, Martinez smiled, “more’n six miles to go.”
“Six miles! We still got six fuckin’ miles to go!”
“We only done less’n half way? Shit, Sarg!”
“I ain’t gonna fuckin’ make it!”
Waiting until the moans and groans stopped, “Like I was sayin’, we still got more’n six miles to go, an’ we ain’t gonna stop again till we get there. Chow’s gonna be there, waitin’! You guys getting’ hungry?”
“Does a whore’s pussy smell like Limburger cheese?”
“Yeah, it sure do!” one of the guys in the line answered.
“Okay, take it easy a couple’a minutes, the rest’a the march’ll be a snap for you. “Tench, hup!” And again, before the troops had a chance to come to attention, “Dismissed!”
