by Frank Ananicz
Nineteen is a tender age to go to war; but it’s probably the best physically and emotionally if you have to go at all. The experience a youth lacks, he makes up with nerve. Far from old age and its accompanying illnesses, I’m sure youth gives young people the feeling of indestructibility, if they think of death at all.
I went into the Army at eighteen. I trained at Camp Polk, Louisiana, for a year. We learned to kill or be killed. I was nineteen when the Army felt I was ready and sent me overseas as a replacement.
On the British ship, the Aquitania, I didn’t think much about the word “replacement.” It didn’t sink into my brain that replacement in the Army means to replace a dead man. And to the Army, a GI who becomes a replacement is called an Army bastard because he’s not attached to any particular outfit. So, I went overseas as an Army bastard. But I was nineteen and had other things to think about.
Rumor had it that movie star Ann Sheridan was also on board, going to Europe to entertain us GIs. So, me and a lot of the other ‘bastards’ on board spent our time looking for Ann Sheridan, hoping to bump into her. We soon learned she wasn’t on board. Oh, she was going to Europe all right, but not with us; she was on another ship. Anyway, Spike Jones and his novelty band was on board and they entertained us and we forgot about Ann Sheridan.
We landed in Glasgow, Scotland. The American Red Cross was there waiting for us and they gave us coffee and donuts. Then we boarded a train and went to Birmingham, England. A week or so later, we boarded a Polish ship at Southampton and landed on Omaha Beach, France. The invasion happened a month earlier and we saw its remains. It clearly defined the word replacement to me. We boarded trucks and headed for a replacement depot near St. Lo. On the way, some of the French people waved to us and we waved back. A GI remarked, “I wonder if it’s true what they say about the French… that they’re sexy.”
Another GI said, “We’re gonna be too busy thinking about krauts to be thinking about frogs.”
Apple orchards grew everywhere. Farms surrounded the replacement depot. It wasn’t until September that I was assigned to a company in the 6th Armored Division, Patton’s Third Army. One good thing about being a replacement is you have no time to get to know anyone, that is, to form close attachments. So, when someone is killed, it’s like seeing someone killed in an auto accident, you’re sorry, but glad it’s not a friend.
My first day of war I was in a tank riding slowly toward a village when I heard a couple of explosions. “What the hell was that?”
The lieutenant in our tank looked at me and said, “You’re not green anymore.”
It was in November that the Army ran out of gas. Our company was in a field. Farm land stretched around us. The lieutenant told us gas would be trucked to us in a couple of days. He said all we could do was to just stay with the tank and wait for it. Then he got out of the tank and walked over to our company commander’s tank. The three of us got out, sat on top, lit cigarettes, and looked about. Off in the distance, we saw a farmer and a young girl. Both were bent over doing something on the farm. They were too far from us to tell whether they were planting, picking, or what. The three of us sat there on the tank and watched them.
First soldier said, “I wonder what the French people are like.”
Second soldier said, “I just wonder what they’re thinking now.”
I said, “We’re all people. We’re all pretty much the same.”
First soldier said, “Well, I hear the French are a sexy breed.”
Second soldier said, “I wonder if we’ll ever find out.”
I said, “Maybe after the war we’ll get passes and we’ll find out then.”
The farmer straightened and looked at us.
First soldier said, “I wonder what he’s thinking.”
Second soldier said, “He’s probably wondering what we’re like.”
I repeated, “We’re all people. We’re all pretty much the same.”
First soldier repeated, “Well, I hear the French are a sexy breed.” The chubby farmer put whatever he was holding on the ground and headed toward us. Bow-legged, he swayed as he walked.
Second soldier said, “He’s comin’ here.”
I said, “I wonder if he speaks English.”
None of us said anything now. We just sat there and watched him coming toward us. The short man appeared to be in his middle or late fifties. His white hair blew with the wind. A black belt and black suspenders held up his loosely fitted dark brown pants. And his too-large brown shirt jacket fell over his shoulders. When he reached our tank, he looked up at us and said in broken English, “I think you like to sleep with my daughter, huh?” Then, without another word he turned around and headed back to his daughter.
Agape, the three of us silently watched the farmer walk away. Noses wrinkled, our expressions turned to puzzlement as we looked at each other, first one then the other.
Then, as if just understanding the farmer’s words, the first soldier’s blue eyes widened and sparkled. Then he smiled and exclaimed, “Man, this is the place for me.”
No comments:
Post a Comment