After lunch, and after a film viewing during which he fell almost instantly asleep, Jim shuffles papers and handles mundane clerical tasks at a desk in a room in a house serving as his company headquarters. Soldiers come and go with questions as he pores halfheartedly over rosters and orders and reports: Sir, could I apply for a leave-pass? Sir, we need a kit inspection. What time would be suitable? Sir, could you help me with a letter to my girlfriend back in England? Never much good at writing, sir, left school when I was nine.
As he puts out a cigarette in an old wine bottle standing on his desk, he hears a flurry of activity outside. Reinforcements arrive in a rumble of trucks outside his window and are dispersed into various platoons and companies. They are pep talked and drilled by their new sergeants and corporals, and they are paraded through the serpentine streets and lanes and along the castle walls to skirl of pipes and beat of drum, along the rows of townhouses, by the churches, by the farmhouses and alongside the rows of vines in the late afternoon sunshine, the mature late summer sun, the last days of summer in its glory, the light pouring down from between the puff-white clouds and between the branches of roadside trees and sun-speckling the heads and shoulders and faces of marching soldiers. As they march they hear incongruous thunder, to the west, to the south, to the north, as at the front mere miles away men fight and die; and they are inspected by the RSM standing on the street side, swagger stick in hand, and as they march by, their shadows lengthen and sharpen into spearpoints in the late afternoon sun, the advance guard of the coming of the night. As the march concludes back in the main piazza where Jim stands after his office duties, many are dismissed and sent to their mess for dinner. Those who are NCOs are sent into the officers’ mess, now crowding with officers and sergeants and warrant officers, to receive the colonel’s orders.
Jim joins the tide of sergeants and warrant officers dismissed from the parade, and he enters the crowded mess for the third time today, accompanied by Witchewski, and by Warrant Officer Albert, Regimental Sergeant Major and senior NCO of the entire battalion. The floor trembles from the concussion of a German shell. Lieutenant Colonel Hobson sits at a dining room table with other officers, including Major Gordon and Battalion Adjutant Major Reynolds, Major Wyler and Captain Van Der Hecke of Dog Company, Captain McCambridge, Major Rowlands and Captain Alward of Charlie Company, and Lieutenant Sachs of the mortar platoon.
“Hello, McFarlane,” says Hobson, shooting a grey-eyed wink at Jim, looking up from his map as Jim steps into the dining room. Mr. and Mrs. Ceci are nowhere to be seen.
“Good evening, Colonel,” Jim answers with a salute, returned by Hobson.
“Grab yourself a seat and help yourself to a cup of tea.” Hobson stuffs a straight-backed pipe with tobacco from a pouch in his pocket, and lights it, puffing sweet, moist roils of smoke into the room like unwinding strands of scented cotton. He moves the portable chalkboard and stand, where would normally be written the daily special, closer to him, and he picks up a well-used piece of white chalk.
“Thank you.” Jim helps himself to a tin cup full of tea from one of several large thermoses set up on the serving table, grabs a broken-backed wooden chair and pulls up to a crowded table. He stirs his tea with the butt-end of a dirty fork as others make their way into the room and take their seats.
Hobson scans the room a moment and says, “I think everyone’s here who needs to be here. Good.” His face becomes serious and he addresses the officers and NCOs gathered in the mess: “Gentlemen: orders. We’re planning our next moves, as you can probably determine.” Jim takes a huge gulp of tea and it kindles a welcome fire within. Hobson continues, drawing on his pipe, its ember glowing with the promise of victory: “This is the moment we have been waiting for. The offensive in this section, as I am sure you are all aware, will continue.” He scans the gaze of his audience with his eyes, intense and steely with confidence and a studied ruthlessness. “That damned ridge that has held up this advance is going to fall. That damned ridge that held us up and shelled us for several days straight while we waited for it to fall, that held off a major British attack, has been assigned to us to take. And take it we will.”
There is a cheer, a loud fists-in-the air “Aye aye!” After the cheering abates, Hobson scans the collected soldiers again, and continues in the ensuing silence. “We will march out and form up once again behind the San Matteo ridge tomorrow night. Not to worry; we will not be sticking around long enough for Jerry to shell the wits out of us this time.” There is a rueful, knowing laugh from some of the men. “The artillery’s going to hammer the hell out of Jerry all night. The gift exchange will start at precisely 2100 hours,” he says, chug-chug-chugging away on his pipe as if he were a locomotive, and he continues: “There will also be massive, and I mean massive, airstrikes on and behind the Jerry lines, carrying on throughout the entire operation. When the guns go off, company and support platoon commanders in battle rotation will meet me at TAC, the location of which is yet to be determined, for any last orders or possible changes. Starting at 1100 hours, the British 1st Armoured is moving in far to our left to secure the southern end of the ridge. At 0100, our brigade goes into action to secure the village of Coriano itself. The Sydney Highlanders will move into the valley and up the ridge to cut the town off from the north. The Stratford Regiment will move across and cut it off from the south.” He draws a map of the battleground, complete with the arrows of the battalions’ movements. The stony scrape and squeak of chalk grates against the silence. “We will move up into the Sydneys’ positions once they have departed.”
There is an expectant silence as the men await the revelation of their role, however unpleasant it may be. “As for us,” eyes darting right to left, left to right, “we’ve been assigned the role of janitors. We pass through afterward to mop up and clear whatever resistance is left in the village itself.” There is some murmuring, both excited and nervous.
“It’ll be a little Ortona,” says Lieutenant Muller. “Won’t it?”
“Silence, please. Dog Company—” He glances at Captain Van Der Hecke, young and baby-faced with a wide Dutch farmer’s face and a protuberant nose, who stiffens up in expected pride in expectation of success, and at Major Wyler, equally young, though tempered with a cool confidence exemplified by his Errol Flynn moustache. “You will be in reserve and protect sappers from the 11th Field Squadron as they bridge the Besanigo River. The Besanigo Creek, more like, but it will likely seem an imposing crossing at the time. This will allow tanks from the Lucky Sevens to cross the river and support us in our endeavour. You will move before dawn, at 0500. Beware German fire from here.” With his swagger stick Hobson points out a map feature. “From this hill on the southwest corner of the village, the Castella, the Germans enjoy an exceptionally fine view. Able, Baker and Charlie companies will move in once the bridging gets underway.” He glances at Jim, and at McCambridge, Rowlands and Alward, to emphasize the responsibility inherent in his order. “Able will move up first and enter the town from the north, followed later by Baker. Charlie will cover the flank from the west and engage with the Castella. After the bridging, Dog must be ready to exploit any successes, and Support Company will be ready to dispatch any possible reinforcements by vehicle as needed. Each company will be supported by representatives from both the mortar platoon and the AT platoon.”
He looks at the congregation of officers and NCOs and meets their eyes, holding his gaze a moment for emphasis in unspoken expectation of success and trust. “Of course you realize, this will probably be a dirty scrap, a hand-to-hand affair. Unless, of course, they’ve retreated or surrendered by then, which is doubtful.” There are small twitters of laughter. In an instant Jim reads the room, looking at his fellow officers, both senior and junior, and wonders what they think behind their masks of professionalism. Sees the relationship these men have with one another, and with where they are, why they are there. All part of a bureaucratic network, a great machine whose purpose is to kill and destroy, passing decisions down, rank by rank, couched in jargon that washes away the bloodshed and suffering that many of these decisions entail. He is chilled by his thoughts.
“Be warned: we expect medium to heavy resistance. By now, I’m sure you know that when you are told to expect medium resistance from the Germans, expect heavy, and when someone tells you to expect heavy resistance from them, expect to be fighting the devil’s own legion. We expect them to have a little of everything, from anti-tank nests to machine-gun bunkers to Tiger tanks, so we’re making good use of our friends in the RAF. Fighter-bombers are supposed to knock out any reinforcements coming our way, especially tanks. Also, they’re going to hit any known minefields on the way to set off the mines to clear paths. Notice I said ‘known minefields.’ Watch where you step, regardless. Any questions so far?” Hobson scans the faces of his officers with his eyes, and sees that there are no questions. He continues.
“I’m going to stay behind and wait for Able, Baker and Charlie to secure a position. Reynolds, it’s up to you to oversee the advance and coordinate the companies in action. I’ll move in along with Dog once these initial objectives are exploited; then, Gordon, you will relieve me. And while we’re all busy removing this thorn from the side of Eighth Army’s advance, 1st Division is going to make a break for it across the Marano. Just like we intended to do days ago. So, the Germans have plenty to keep them awake over the next night and day. The British 4th will pass through us when our objectives are taken.” A shell thuds in the distance to punctuate his sentence.
“Also, you may have noticed if you looked up in the last few days or so, the autumn rain has started. The real fall rain. The terrain may become awfully muddy over the next few days for all we know, and it could become slow-going and uncomfortable, especially in regards to getting tanks across the river. Any questions?” Hobson asks.
“Yes,” Jim pipes up. “When during all this can I get some sleep?” The officers laugh, Hobson included. That was only half funny, Jim thinks. There are no further questions.
“Good. Company commanders, I leave to your discretion who will lead and who will be left out of battle. Rest up—tomorrow night we head out and hopefully send those Panzer-Grenadiers just a little closer to Austria. You are
dismissed. Help yourself to dinner, the kitchen ought to send us in some chow within the next few minutes before the evening’s festivities.”
Jim sips his tea and looks out the ornate picture window facing east toward the Adriatic, out of sight beyond a medieval-looking jumble of buildings built of mortar and stone. The sea. How I long to see the sea again right now. Put a note in a bottle: Dear Marianne, Mom, Dad: SOS.
“This meeting is adjourned, gentlemen,” concludes Hobson with a salute, which is returned by all the others. The meeting over, a hubbub of voices closes over the silence like the breaking of a wave. The NCOs leave to their own mess elsewhere, leaving the dining room to the officers. His stomach growling, Jim awaits dinner. In the wake of the departed sergeants and warrant officers, he now finds himself sitting with a new officer, who by the brass stars on his collar and the name sewn into his shirt, is named Captain Riley.
“Good evening,” says Riley, young, well built for football or rugby, floppy dark brown hair parted over the ears, refreshingly free of an officer’s moustache, nervously and tepidly trying to introduce and ingratiate himself to Jim.
“Good evening.” Jim lights a cigarette. About to put away his silver cigarette case, he checks his impending rudeness. “Smoke?”
“Sure,” says Riley. “Thank you.” Jim lights their cigarettes with his overworked Zippo. Awkward silence. Riley clears his throat to herald words that die on his tongue, and the silence continues.
“Dinner is served!” yells the chief steward, Sergeant Greiner. At the announcement of dinner, Father Maitland stands and leads the congregation in the saying of grace, and then soldiers detailed as mess orderlies, as well as the Cecis, serve the awaiting officers their meals. The servers deliver mess tins and bowls with beef and vegetable stew, and plates with rolls and butter and margarine, and they bring the officers cups with coffee, tea, juice. The crowded dining room fills with a savoury, stewy aroma of food, and the sounds of over two dozen men chewing and talking and scratching their forks and spoons against plates and bowls and tins.
“Hm. Not bad for being so close to the action, I guess, eh?” muses Riley after trying his stew.
“Could be worse.” Jim takes a bite out of his buttered roll. The roll is warm and spongy, and he has to choke back the hiccups for trying to swallow too big a bite.
“Hey, Jim! Are you in for a round of poker with the Lucky Sevens tonight?” shouts McCambridge from the next table.
“Maybe, we’ll see.” Goddamn all these people and their demands, I just want to go home now. He takes a forkful of beef stew. It is passably good, hearty, if a little bland.
“Well Christ a’mighty, that was the funniest damn thing I ever witnessed here!” shouts someone, a Lieutenant Farrell from Dog Company.
“Nah, for me it was when Schneider let off a T-flash to scare Radic when he was napping. You shoulda seen him! He jumped like a flea in a frying pan. Leapt out of his cot, and when he sees Schneider, he chases him down for five full minutes in his shorts and boots! Went right by the officers’ mess tent while we were all gathering for breakfast. Hilarious.”
“This guy Lessage transferred to us from the Van Doos for some reason, I remember he really fancied himself a ladies’ man with his French moustache and all, and back in England he got the clap on I think the only night he was successful outta many attempts. Got it again, and ended up with the name Lovesick.”
“Ha ha! Vinci. Vidi. VD.”
Much uproarious laughter from several tables. Spirits are high tonight. With their meals come one complimentary quart-sized bottle of Molson Export Ale, and two bottles are parked at their tables by Private Chalmers, who bows and winks at them, saying, “Enjoy, sirs.”
“Oh, we will,” says Jim, and Chalmers departs.
“Sounds like a tight unit,” observes Riley, between forkfuls. “You guys’ve been through thick and thin together, haven’t you?”
“Some of us have. Some are newer.”
Riley takes the hint, goes back to eating a moment. He tries again. “So, it’s a big show tomorrow night, eh?”
“That’s what the colonel said.” After a time, Jim feels guilty, and he raises his bottle up and proposes a toast: “Here’s to a successful venture with our regiment.”
“Thank you.” They both take a sudsy, bitter gulp of beer. “By the way, my first name’s Albert, everyone calls me Al.”
“Sure Al, I’m Jim.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Uh huh.” More chewing. “The last time I took it upon myself to introduce myself to an officer, I sent him out to his death.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” A contemplative moment of silence, and then Riley asks, choosing his words carefully, “He was a good man?”
“I wouldn’t know one way or another. Only met him the once. I know he’s a dead man.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So was I.” Another slug of beer. He looks into the distance, eyes unfocused. “Of course, it’s not my fault, you see. It’s just the way things work over here. It’s all just mathematics in the end, isn’t it?” He turns his head, and moves his eyes to focus on Riley, his face tensed. “Isn’t it?”
Riley shifts, and with a blink and a nasal exhalation, he responds, “Yes, I suppose it is. Mathematics.” This last word he utters thoughtfully after a pause, and muses on it as though he were looking at it, as if it were floating in front of him, freed from his mouth.
“To Lieutenant Blake.” Jim raises his bottle, and Riley follows. A clink of bottles, a slug of beer. Cold and bitter, fizzy and filling. A glow, a warm thrumming about the temples. He raises his bottle again. “And to Lance Corporal Fitzpatrick. I can’t get his face out of my mind.”
“What happened to him, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Wounded in the stomach by artillery fire. Didn’t make it past the aid post. They carried him right by me in a stretcher and I knew he was a dead man.”
“I’m sorry to hear about that, too.”
“I was sorry to see it.” Neither of them speaks for a moment, and they surrender their attention to the hubbub of the mess, the sounds of slurping and chewing, the screech of utensils on plates, the chatter and laughter and clink of bottles. Jim looks at Riley, watches him eat uneasily, fitting in awkwardly, trying to make his way through his meal. After a lengthy silence, Jim makes an announcement: “Let’s get drunk tonight, as tomorrow we fight.”
“Okay, sounds good.” More beer. “So, tomorrow we fight, eh?” Riley looks nervous, uncertain, ill-at-ease but eager to please by way of conversation.
“Yes. This rest town is the first time we’ve really been off the line since the last week of August. Pretty much two straight weeks of battle. My CO is out of commission, so I’m running the show alone for some time.” Jim drains his bottle in a long, gassy gulp that reemerges in the form of a deep belch. “Pardon me, Kamerad.”
The two of them are served seconds by Private Chalmers, who heaps their plates and tins with food, and who pours them each a generous splash of diluted army rum in their cups. The two officers greedily gobble up all of their food before beginning their conversation anew.
Riley begins: “You know, I’m a bit nervous about tomorrow.”
“So am I.” Am I ever. Don’t tell me this now, please, I’m just trying to get myself back together today! The two of them are silent for about ten seconds. Then Jim pipes up: “Look at it this way. They’re losing. They really are. We’re winning. The writing’s on the wall. We still have a home to go to. They might not.”
“True.”
“Anyway, just keep focused. Enough horror happens around here to drive you mad if you dwell on it. Save it for Father Maitland. Empathy’s his game. Ours is doing whatever it takes to carry out the mission.” A sip of rum. “Whatever the cost, I guess.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“To the mission!” Clink of glasses, the syrupy sugarcane burn of rum down the throat.
“Gentlemen, attention please!” shouts a voice over the convivial noise of eating and drinking and talking. All are silent as Colonel Hobson stands at his table and addresses the seated crowd. “I would like to propose a toast to all of you seated here tonight on the eve before battle. I have served with most of you before, and I trust every single one of you to see the mission through. Final victory is in sight, gentlemen; it is in sight and it is due to the strength and sacrifice of officers and men such as yourselves, and it can only come through so many battles and campaigns such as the one we are engaged in now—so, let us raise a glass to our success tomorrow night!”
“Here here!” Jim and Riley raise their glasses, clink them and drink along with all the others.
“And now, let’s enjoy some airs played by Pipe Major Mullen. Enjoy, gentlemen!” There are some cheers as Hobson sits down. Mullen, kilted and cobeened in full ceremonial regalia, makes his way to the front of the room with his pipes and begins skirling the airs of “Danny Boy,” and men sing along, some in key, others not, singing the slow, swaying, mournful and longing notes of the song in a deep despairing tone, a sombre soul-laid-baritone, and others sway to the slow rhythm and think of their own loved ones so far away, so long ago last seen:
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so …
And they finish the song verse by swaying verse, followed by “Tipperary” and others. By this time, Italian wine has made its way to various tables, and Jim and Riley find themselves halfway through a bottle of particularly strong and rough, slightly vinegary red, their temples humming, their voices singing along …
After half an hour, Mullen abandons the centre stage. The drinking and conversing and spontaneous singing continues, along with card games. Gordon, Father Maitland, and others who do not drink abandon the party, and the conversation becomes louder and ruder. Maitland and Gordon leave precisely as a group of tipsy officers begin a rowdy rendition of “Sing Us Another One”:
There once was a hermit named Dave,
Who kept a dead whore in his cave.
He said, “I’ll admit I’m a bit of shit,
But look at the money I’ve saved!
That was a great little rhyme.
Sing us another one.
Just like the other one,
Sing us another one, do …
And on it continues, getting dirtier and dirtier as men recall the bluest of limericks from a long compiled list. Jim finds himself playing cards with Riley and Therrien and Major Riordan and Captain McCambridge, slurping wine and smoking cigarettes and losing game after game, by now too drunk to concentrate on his cards, missing opportunities, failing to recognize the winning patterns oft held in his hands.
“Jesus Christ McFarlane, how’d ya let a full house get by you like that?” laughs McCambridge in a loud, booming, booze-hoarsened voice, as he scoops up the aftermath of a hand of five card stud and deftly shuffles the cards like a fan and redistributes them with scarcely a glance.
“Well, I figured I had to let others win for a change,” he slurs, butting out a cigarette as he does so. “Congratulations, Therrien.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Therrien smiles briefly and uncomfortably, and looks down at his cards, all business. Uncertain with his words, comfortable only in action. Young. Tough. Scarred, look at the scar running down his face, bloody shrapnel, ours no less. Misdirected fire knows neither friend nor foe. Poor fellow’s old lady in England upped and left him for a destroyer captain when we shipped out for Naples. Still can’t believe that one. He’s not the only one, though. Lieutenant Therrien, 1st Battalion, Royal Canadian Cuckoldry. In a helmet with cuckold horns. More than a few men have gotten their transfers to that unit since coming here. Dear John. Dear Joe. Dear Jim—not yet, thank God.
Riordan lights a cigar, and a rich, resinous scent of tobacco rises in blue tendrils of smoke.
“Smells good,” says Jim. “I don’t suppose Private Breen gave you that, did he?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. Would you like one?”
Jim laughs ruefully, without a trace of humour. “No, thank you. I can’t smoke a dead man’s cigar. Any more than I can walk in his shoes. My luck is bad enough as it is, this evening.” He finishes his sentence with a burp. “I’ll stick with these.” He slides open his silver cigarette case, and removes a cigarette as though it were a loose tooth from a gapped smile. “I wonder who will next enjoy this case as a trophy,” he ponders dramatically, holding the case out as though it were the skull of Yorick. “Cigarette, anyone?”
“McFarlane, you’re sick,” says McCambridge. “Alright, let’s go. Starting with me. Two rounds, and you can sub up to three at a time. I’ll take two.” He puts down two cards and replaces them with two others from the deck.
“Pass,” says Therrien, looking slit-eyed and suspicious.
“Hit me for one,” says Riordan, replacing a card.
“Two,” says Riley, acting accordingly.
“Three,” says Jim randomly, and he replaces three cards. What do I have here? Three of a kind? A flush? Ah, what do I care anyway. I’m drunk.
“So, Riley, you’re in charge of Support now?” asks McCambridge, making conversation.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You have big boots to fill.”
“Literally,” adds Riordan. He winks at McCambridge. “Turcott was a size thirteen! You’re stuck with them, supply shortages in this theatre and all. Bunch up some newspaper in the toe and they’ll fit like gloves!” Much laughter. Riley looks nonplussed. Though, this is short lived: after the next round, upon the revelation of everyone’s cards, Riley assumes the mantle of victory.
“Welcome aboard,” says McCambridge, whistling at Riley’s flush. “You’ll do well around here—I’m sticking by you tomorrow night!”
After more wine and another lost round, Jim staggers out of the dining room just as a group of officers from the Lucky Sevens arrive to join in the evening’s activities. He nearly trips over one of them.
“Oops, careful there, sir,” says a young lieutenant with a familiar face, as he steadies Jim with his hand. In the cramped lobby, Gordon sits playing a game of cribbage with Father Maitland and Lieutenant Voorhees. All are sober. Mr. Ceci joins in, sipping a glass of wine.
“How are you, Jim?” asks Father Maitland.
“Never better, Padre. Yourself?”
“Care to join us for a hand?”
“Yes, come, Capitano, play a hand, have-a some wine,” entreats Mr. Ceci.
“I think that he has had quite enough of that,” says Gordon sniffingly, though not without a trace of humour.
“I think that you could use some of that, Gordon. It would loosen you up.”
“Careful now, McFarlane. Let us settle this like gentlemen. I think that in your state I could clean you out handily. What do you think, Padre?”
“I think Major Gordon has a bone to pick with you. Join us for a game, if you will.”
“No thank you Padre, I think I’d like to get out for a bit.”
“Understood.”
After a moment’s pause, Jim dismisses himself with a perfunctory, “Gentlemen.” Out into the street. Soldiers mill around in the darkness, shining flashlights to get around, bumping into each other, joking, drinking, smoking. A flash in the sky from distant artillery. The wine is going straight to his head.
“Sir, that’s quite a story.”
“What? What’sss quite a story?” Leaning over on the curb, he feels nauseous. He tries to stand on rubbery legs, but his legs give out as though he were a foal trying to take its first steps and he teeters over into the arms of the two men.
“Careful, sir, I think we’ll have to help you back.”
“What? What’sss wrong?”
“You’ve been drinking with us for too long, it’s time to go back to your billet. You can hardly stand.”
“Huh?”
“And you smoked all of our cigarettes, too. We need to cadge some more.”
“No fucking way! I’m ssstaying here!” He tries to stand again, and he wobbles about on bandied legs, breaking free from their grasp. “You hear me? I’m staying put, right here!” he shouts in the ragged ends of his voice. “Wanna go home! Wanna fuck my wife! Make loooove! My cock is limp, I cannot fuck! The nitrate it has changed my luck!”
“Sir, come with us.” One of their hands reaches out to hold him, and he spins around and lands a punch square in the man’s cheekbone. The soldier drops down, out cold.
“Hey!” yells the other, who takes a swing at Jim.
“What’s going on!” The blast of a whistle. “Halt!” Two shadowy figures emerge from down the winding lane. Provosts.
“Everything here okay?” one of them asks.
“This captain here’s been with us for over an hour. Drunk out of his skull. Crying over his wife who doesn’t write him letters or something. We tried to get him back to his billet, then he knocked my buddy out cold, just like that!” He emphasizes the force of Jim’s punch with a click of the tongue.
Jim sits down, knees up, and puts his hands on the side of his head.
“Right, okay, I see what’s happening here. Come on with us Captain, let’s dry you out.”
“Sir? Sir, is that you?” Another voice, a familiar voice. “Sir? I’ve been looking for you.” A hand on his shoulder. He turns wanly to see Cooley looking over him.
“You know him?” asks one of the military policemen.
“Yes, he’s my CO. I’m his batman.”
“He just hit a soldier, and he’s publicly drunk. He’s in for a bit of a wakeup call. A drunken officer punching an enlisted man … makes for an interesting night.”
At this, Jim moans into his hands. “What have I done? Christ … ” he whimpers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry … ” He looks up to see Cooley speaking quietly with the provosts, lots of nodding, gesturing, bargaining. The irate soldier has calmed somewhat, and is slapping his comrade in the face lightly and is shaking him, trying to revive him. The unconscious man comes to, eyes fluttering and then focusing, and he props himself up onto his elbows, looking about with a dazed and groggy expression on his face.
“Can you get your buddy back okay?” asks one of the provosts.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“We can handle it from here.” The provost goes back to speaking with Cooley. The two soldiers leave, and Jim mutters “Sorry,” to them, though it is doubtful that they hear him. After about ten seconds, the provosts leave, and one of them says over his shoulder, “You take care of yourself, Captain.”
Cooley approaches and pulls him to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you back to the mess. As you are a wreck, sir.”
“What did you do?” he asks in a slur punctuated by a hiccup.
“I offered them your last two bottles of rye from your kitbag. They’ll meet me back at the kit storage in about twenty minutes. Sorry, sir. I had to do something.”
“Ss’ okay,” he says, staggering, supported by Cooley.
“Now, I think you owe me a favour for once.”