Mahoney and Cranepool walked toward the pup tents of Charlie Company. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was shining. Charlie Company was bivouacked in a field south of Valognes.
“I don’t think we’re gonna like it here,” Cranepool said, shifting the weight of his pack on his shoulders.
“I don’t give a shit,” Mahoney said.
“That’s what you keep saying, but I don’t believe you.”
“I really don’t give a shit whether you believe me or not.”
“You haven’t been right since old Bulldog Boynton got hit.”
“Shut up about Bulldog Boynton.”
They came to the line of pup tents.
“I guess this is where we split up,” Mahoney said. “Good luck in the third platoon.”
“We shoulda stayed with the Twenty-third Rangers,” Cranepool moaned.
“Fuck the Twenty-third Rangers.”
“At least we didn’t have any pricks like Tugwell and that first sergeant.”
“We might have got one to replace Bulldog Boynton.”
“Yeah, I guess we might have.”
“I told you that you didn’t have to transfer just because I was transferring,” Mahoney said.
Cranepool looked at the ground. “The old outfit wouldn’t have been the same without you and old Bulldog.”
“Then stop bellyaching.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
“I’ll see you at chow, tonight.”
“Right.”
“Good luck.”
“You too.”
Cranepool walked to the right in the direction where the third platoon would be, and Mahoney headed to the left. Logically, the platoon farthest on the left should be the first platoon. He walked into that area, seeing men cleaning their rifles and sharpening their bayonets in front of their tents. They joked and smoked cigarettes, talked about the girls they’d left behind. Mahoney asked a young buck sergeant where Lieutenant Andrews was, and the sergeant pointed toward the rear rank of tents. Mahoney headed in that direction, being careful not to trip over tent pegs or guy lines. When he reached the last rank of tents he asked a pfc for Lieutenant Andrews and the pfc pointed to a pup tent. Mahoney walked to it and kneeled down.
“Anyone home?” he asked.
“Who’s there?”
“Sergeant Mahoney looking for Lieutenant Andrews.”
“Come on in.”
Mahoney pushed aside the tent flaps and hunched inside. He saw a youthful clean-cut lieutenant lying down reading the Bible. The cover said it was the Douay version, and Mahoney realized that Andrews was a Roman Catholic like himself.
On his knees, Mahoney saluted. “Master Sergeant Mahoney reporting for duty, sir.”
Lieutenant Andrews sat up and returned the salute. He wore new green fatigues and Mahoney realized he hadn’t been around for long.
“You mean you’re in the first platoon?” Andrews asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Since when?”
“Since about five minutes ago.”
“But you’re a master sergeant.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I’ve already got a platoon sergeant.”
“What’s his rank?”
“Sergeant First Class.”
“I guess he’s gonna have to become a squad leader.”
“He won’t like that.”
“Tough shit.”
Andrews nodded sadly. “I guess it is. How long you been in Normandy, Sergeant?”
“Since around March, sir.”
Lieutenant Andrews blinked. “March? But we didn’t land here until the sixth of June.”
“I landed here in March, sir. You see, I was in the Rangers and they parachuted me behind the lines to work with the Maquis and get things coordinated with them.”
Lieutenant Andrews blinked again. “No kidding?”
“It’s all in my records, sir.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I just got transferred here.”
“How come?”
“My CO. got killed and I felt like transferring to a regular line company.”
Lieutenant Andrews looked away. “I’m sorry to hear about your CO.”
“Well,” Mahoney said, “when the bullet comes with your name on it, there’s not much you can do about it.”
“No, I don’t suppose there is.” He looked at Mahoney. “I’ve never been in combat.”
“You will be before long, sir.”
“I’ll probably have to rely on you a lot, because you have a lot more experience than I do.”
“Rely on me all you want, sir. That’s what I’m here for.”
Andrews smiled and held out his hand. “Good to have you with me, Mahoney.”
Mahoney shook his hand. “Good to be here, sir.”