Streaks of gray begin to appear in the blackness of the East. A thick, damp mist hangs over the area and penetrates the walls of the grave-like trenches, making them moist and clammy to the touch. In the distance there is the sound of men digging--the scrape of metal against unyielding stone grates painfully on raw-edged nerves. Other sounds lend themselves to the discordant, predawn symphony of death; a racking cough that ends in a half-suffocating wheeze; a low moan of pain followed by the inevitable, pleading, "medics. . . .medics"; and nearby a boy sobbing--quiet, terrible, despairing sobs of loneliness and fear.
Overhead, shells whisper--like the sound of wind caressing autumnal trees. The ground vibrates with muffled explosions. From the rear come the answering booms of heavy artillery--unrealistic reverberations like the thunder of monster drums in a cavern. Bursts of orange-red sparks light up a distant hill--thuds trail leisurely behind the lightning flashes. Suddenly silence.
A fare bursts above, outlining in its greenish-white brightness the surrounding, ghost-like hills. A plane drones overhead and the hum indicates it is circling. A pop. Another flare. . .another, and the eerie fluorescence reveals a tableau of men clinging fearfully to the ground. Then it is gone. The booming recommences; chattering machine-guns lend their staccato monotones to the deadly cacophony; tank motors roar their readiness to move; the area is alive with motion. It is dawn.
They begin to bring up the dead and wounded. The bodies are carried in blankets. Four men, each holding a corner of a blanket, half-carry, half-drag a huge hulk, its limp feet trailing the ground. In a little clearing they lay the bodies in orderly lines. No attempt is made to lend dignity to the attitudes sudden death has given. The men lay the bodies down and walk off silently to gather more of last night's harvest.
The wounded are carried to the rear. The more seriously wounded to first. The less seriously hurt sit or lie on the ground. A soldier sitting on a rock shivers, despite the blanket draped around his shoulders. Blood oozes from a chest wound staining the olive drab blanket, almost black. From time to time he looks up and hate glares from blood-shot eyes.
The officers regroup their platoons. The men assemble in tired, uneven ranks, unshaven, haggard--exhaustion lines their faces. Uniforms are caked with mud; belts sag with the weight of grenades; shoulders drop under extra bandoliers of ammunition. They are ready to march again.
It begins to drizzle.
I am puzzled by the comment of the teacher, appended to the A given for the story--"But remember, the starkness is hard to live, easy to write or talk about." It seems to me that my father lived this or some similar experience. The starkness, and frankly, my Dad seems unduly restrained in his writing of the two pages, comes from what he saw, what many men saw, what probably is pretty much on target in "Saving Private Ryan". I get no sense that this was easy to write, although it might have poured out of him, in a way. I wonder if the teacher was ever in the service. I find I am a little annoyed by the comment; it feels patronizing. I wonder how Dad felt about that guidance after four years in the hell made by human evil. Yes, the starkness must have been hard to live. And I don't think it was ever easy to write about. He wrote about it so rarely, unless I find a cache somewhere I know not about. That is unlikely.
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