Battle Scene By Constantine Gochis

This piece was written in December 1948 for my father's journalism class at New York University which he attended on the GI Bill after World War II. The effort received an "A" by an anonymous grader in red pencil at the top of the paper, but appears also to have been reviewed by two other teachers, whose comments appeared on the back of the submission. They would have given him a B grade. The first, a B.J. Confessore, said "Well handled descriptions, especially to details, except for error concerning a 'medic' using forceps and treating wound portrayed herein."

The other, J.T. Murphy, said, "Good description, but little too much staccato." Someone, I am thinking my father, crossed the word "much" out. It seems that teachers can be as redundant as the students they critique. That was one of the critiques of my father by one or more of these professors. In any case, here it is for your perusal--one man's real experience of war I do believe. And I personally think the staccato works. 

Streaks of gray begin to appear in the blackness of the East. A thick, damp mist hangs low over the area.  In the distance there is the sound of digging--metal scraping against stone. Someone coughs--a racking cough that ends in a whistle. There is a moan followed by a call. . . ."medic!. . . ."medics!"  Nearby a boy sobs quietly.

Shells rustle overhead.  To the rear, showers of orange sparks mark their landing.  From the hills to the rear come the answering booms of artillery.  A flare bursts above--a momentary flash casts a greenish-white over the surrounding hills.  A plane drones high overhead.  The artillery positions cease firing. A pop.  Another flare. Still another. The flashes reveal men huddled face down. The flashes stop. The artillery resumes firing. Machine guns begin chattering. Tank motors roar.  It is dawn.

Some soldiers begins to gather up the dead and the wounded. The bodies are buried in blankets. Four men, each holding a corner of the blanket, half carry, half drag its contents, a heavy, limp body.  In a little clearing the bodies are arranged in orderly lines. The men deposit their burdens on the ground silently, and walk off.  A chaplain goes through the pockets of the dead.  He offers cigarettes he has retrieved to a soldier, who declines them.

The wounded are carried to the rear.  The more seriously wounded go first. Some are carried on stretchers--others limp supported by their buddies.  The less seriously wounded sit or lay on the ground.  A soldier sits on a rock, a blanket draped over his shoulders.  Blood oozes from a chest wound, staining the olive drab blanket almost black.  A doctor tugs with a forceps at a piece of metal embedded in the shoulder of a grimacing soldier.  

The officers regroup their platoons. The men assemble in uneven lines. They are unshaven, and haggard. Their uniforms are bespattered with mud. Belts sag under the weight of grenades.  Shoulders stoop under the weight of ammunition bandoliers.  They are ready to march.  It begins to drizzle.