A Devil Dog in Baggy Pants 3/4
Title: A Devil Dog in Baggy Pants 3/4
Author:buffyaddict13
Crafter 1: fishandcheese
Crafter 2: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Generation Kill, Band of Brothers
Characters / Pairing: Gen, Josh Ray Person, Brad Colbert, Tony "Poke" Espera, William Dukeman, Skip Muck, Donald Malarkey, Eugene Roe, Joe Liebgott, Bill Guarnere, Richard Winters, Albert Blithe, George Luz, Frank Perconte
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 31,800 total
Summary: Josh Ray Person is a US Marine. He thinks he knows what war is. He thinks he knows what friendship means. He thinks there’s no such as time travel. Ray is about to find out he’s wrong on all three counts.
Link to Craft 1: Ray's photograph by fishandcheese
Link to Craft 2: Music Mix by buffyaddict13
Betas: rain_1975 , entwinedangels , foofighter0234
Notes: Thank you so much for your beautiful art, fishandcheese . ♥
Comrades known in marches many,
Comrades, tried in dangers many,
Comrades, bound by memories many,
Brothers let us be.
~ Charles G. Halpine
Ray's back in a foxhole with Dukeman. He's halfway through another long night of listening and waiting. The Germans are behind one hedgerow, the 506th first battalion is behind another. Ray can hear a few of the Krauts singing softly, smell coffee and what might be soup or stew. It's surreal to be this close to the enemy and do nothing but wait for morning.
Person gnaws on something from his own ration kit. It looks like the great-grandfather of the granola bar and it tastes like shit. Ray never thought he'd miss Pop-Tarts, but he does. He misses everything. He misses his M-16. He misses decent toilet paper and handiwipes. He misses Kevlar and NVGs and Reporter's endless questions. He misses driving, the feel of the Humvee's steering wheel in his hands, the static-y sound of Fick's voice on comms.
Dukeman's cradling his rifle like a long-lost girlfriend, eyes closed. Ray's considering waking Will, trying to get some sleep himself, when the screams start. They're distant, but they cut through the darkness like a razor. Person sits, eyes wide, trying to gauge the direction they came from. Not German, one of their own is hurt. Fuck, are they under attack? Ray leaps to his feet, looks around, heart pounding in his ears.
Everyone else is wondering what's going on, but there's no panic, just confusion. There's the sound of running feet, a steady voice that's too distant to understand, but Ray recognizes the muted, soothing cadence of Doc Roe.
When Ray looks back at Dukeman, he's sitting up.
"I'll check it out," Will says softly, climbs out of the hole.
Minutes pass.
The Germans are quiet.
Dukeman doesn't come back.
The men in the surrounding foxholes return to their duties of sleep, bitch, or watch.
"Hey Percy."
A whisper directly behind him. Jesus Christ. Ray turns, rifle raised.
It's Bill Guarnere. Ray lowers his weapon.
"You hear what happened?"
"No. What the fuck's going on?"
Bill laughs. "Turns out some of these guys are pretty fuckin' jumpy. Smith thought Talbert was a Kraut cuz of that stupid poncho, poked Tab with his bayonet. What a dumbass." Guarnere laughs some more. "Tab'll be fine in a couple a weeks." He grins. "Heh, I bet nobody volunteers to share a foxhole with ol' Nervous Nelly for a while."
Ray relaxes. Turns out there's some retard here after all.
"I gotta take a piss," Bill says, heading toward a tree. "I dunno who the bigger threat is, Smith or them Krauts." Still chuckling, Bill disappears into the darkness.
"Psst. Pers."
Christ. Ray's Mister Fucking Popular tonight. He looks up to see a short guy glaring down at him. Ray doesn't take this personally; Johnny Martin always looks like he's boiling at a constant level of pissed.
"Will you switch with me?" Martin asks. "Blithe is driving me nuts. I gotta get some fucking sleep."
Ray nods. "Sure." He's tired of waiting for Dukeman and he'd like to see how Blithe is doing anyway.
Martin lowers himself down, smiles grimly at Ray. "Thanks a lot. You know where to go?"
Ray has a general idea. It's not like he can get lost, he's knee deep in paratroops. It takes him less than five minutes to find Blithe sitting alone in a hole at the east end of the hedgerow.
Ray doesn't feel like getting gutted by another nervous soldier so he calls a warning to Alby. "Hey Blithe, it's me, Ray." He jumps down, sits beside Albert. "How's your vision? Can you still see okay?"
Blithe nods, but he doesn't look at Ray. He sniffs hard, wipes his nose, like he's about to cry.
"Ray?" Albert asks, his voice hoarse. "Can I...can I ask you a question?"
Person settles back, clasps his hands behind his head. "Sure."
"Do you think...do you think we're already dead?"
Ray sits up, lowers his hands. He stares at Blithe, stunned. He opens his mouth, shuts it with a snap. Is Blithe out of time too? Is it possible he--
Albert continues talking before Ray can get a good theory going.
"Lieutenant Speirs says we're already dead. He says we're dead so there's nothing left to be afraid of."
Ray glowers. Fucking Speirs. Sure, he gets where Speirs is coming from. He'd have probably made a good Marine. But Speirs should lay off the fucking pep talks.
"We're not dead," Ray says. "We're trained to do this shit, Alby. You're trained. This is the same shit from Basic Training on up. Only this time, the Haj--uh, Krauts aren't guys you know playing dress-up. You're not alone out here, Alby. You've got your brains, you've got me." Ray taps Blithe's rifle. "You have this. You have to let the rifle think for you, be part of you. This isn't a rifle, it's part of your goddamn arm, you understand?"
Blithe nods, eyes wide.
"Listen," Ray says. He still knows the words by heart. They're always with him, like his mother's face or Sadie's smile. "My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me."
Blithe's eyes grow even bigger. "What is that?"
"It's called the Rifleman's Creed." Trombley probably has it tattooed across his chest. "It's something the Marines say, but I think it works pretty fucking well for us too."
"Thank you," Albert whispers and wipes his face with his sleeve.
"Anytime," Ray says. He'd really like to be done with this day now. There's going to be a fuckload of fighting tomorrow according to Winters and he's tired.
"You mind if I get some shut eye?" Ray asks. His eyes feel gummy, sore. So does the rest of his body.
"Go ahead," Blithe tells him. "I don't think I can sleep."
Blithe is whispering I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me when Ray finally drifts off.
* * *
If he dreams, Ray doesn't remember. He wakes up to a sky the color of cement; the sun is a white streak of graffiti. His arm aches, his muscles are stiff.
Albert's watching him with red-rimmed eyes. He smiles tremulously.
"Morning, Ray."
Ray pulls out his Lucky Strikes, yawns, looks at his Kraut watch. It's 0430 hours. Time to push the German forces back from Carentan once and for all. He holds the pack out to Alby.
"Want one?"
"No thank you, sir."
The sir freaks Ray out but he's careful not to let it show.
"Fall out, fall out," Martin yells, running past. He points at Ray. "Get your squad moving, hubba hubba."
Men are on the move all around him, packing shit up, following orders, separating into platoons and squads, smoking. Ray blows out a long breath, lights his cigarette. Okay then. Time to figure this shit out. He can do this. He's sergeant of one of the first platoon rifle squads. Take that, Brad.
"Round up the guys," Ray orders Blithe.
"Yes, sir." Albert climbs out of the hole, his usual fear replaced with purpose. "Second First Platoon Rifle Squad on Sergeant Person, now!" Albert calls.
Within minutes, Dukeman, Liebgott, Alley, Perconte, Hoobler, Shifty and Blithe are gathered in a semi-circle. Ray makes sure everyone has plenty of ammo, then falls out behind Guarnere's squad.
Easy Company digs in on the outskirts of Carentan, along the edge of a small forest. New foxholes are dug, mortars and machine guns set up.
Liebgott sits on a pile of dirt, digs in a pocket. He pulls out a pack of godawful Charms. "Hey, guys, got any smokes? You want some of this candy shit?"
"Nah," Luz says, "I'm all right."
Ray throws his Luckies to Liebgott. "Here. Keep your goddamn candy."
Bull comes up, his helmet full of ammunition. "The outpost got ammo,” he says around his ever-present cigar. “Take what ya need."
Welsh stands in front of Ray's group clutching his rifle. "We don't know what they've got. We may be attacking a weaker force. Possibly more paratroopers."
Hoobler grins. "And you know how they can be."
Welsh nods toward the field in front of them. "Fire and maneuver. That's the name of the game: Fire and maneuver." He points west. "Dog and Fox Companies will be on our left flank, moving with us. Any questions?"
Ray's got plenty of questions, but he doesn't think Welsh can answer any of them.
Welsh nods, pats Ray on the shoulder. "Let's make them holler."
Ray holds his rifle ready. Stay frosty.
Frank checks his watch. "It's 9:30 in the evening back home. Must be---"
"Mortar!" Shifty yells.
And then it begins. To a civilian, it might look like chaos. To some degree, it is. The falling shells, the criss-crossing bullets. It's the choreography of war. This is Ray's job, whether he's in a Humvee, a jeep, firing at Hajis or Krauts. Some men carry a fucking briefcase to work. Ray carries a rifle.
"Incoming!" Ray shouts at his men. "Everybody in the hole! Down, down, down."
Ray can see Skip, Malark and Penk firing their own mortars further down the line.
Winters walks past, shouting encouragement. "Watch for silhouettes on the horizon! Find your target! Muzzle fire!" He shouts over the sound of incoming shells. "Nail it! Mortar, keep it low! Keep low! Go! Go! Go!" He turns to Ray. "Person! Person! Get your men in order! Stay low! Pour it on then, Person! To your left!"
Ray pours it on. His men are in order. Shifty's dropping Krauts left and right. Every shot Shifty takes hits a German. It's like Shifty Powers doesn't know how to miss. Still, even as they fall, the enemy infantry comes closer.
Wild Bill waves a hand. "Sergeants, reverse! Cover the crest of that hill!"
And there, at the top of the hill, come the tanks. Soldiers flank the ass as it moves forward. It's fucking insane. This is like some old video game. Both sides line up in their uniforms--no flak jackets, no kevlar--just waiting to get blown to fuck. It all looks so fucking organized. Christ, why can't the Hajis get with the program and wear a goddamn uniform?
Get some, Ray thinks, and fires.
The Krauts fire back. They just keep coming, like there's some kind of magic German VW clown car back there, filled with a never-ending supply of fucking soldiers.
"Holy shit!" Welsh yells, gaping. "There goes our left flank!"
Sure enough, Dog and Fox are retreating like fucking pussy losers.
Fuck them, Ray has bigger things to worry about. Like impending death. He has no idea how long the battle lasts. Time has no meaning here. He's aware of nothing but his heartbeat, the sound of his rifle, the steady stream of curses coming from Liebgott. Ray aims and shoots. A hundred times. A thousand. He doesn't feel the ache in his arm, the cramp in his hand.
Blithe is still in his foxhole, freaking out. Everyone else is on the ball, especially Liebgott and Shifty. Winters stands over Blithe, coaxes the kid out like he's a fucking groundhog and it's time to see his shadow.
Adrenaline pulls every leaf into sharp, crystalline focus. Ray can count the silver buttons on the Kraut uniforms. Each empty shell casing from his rifle seems to spin forever, like a brass pinwheel. Around him, men scream and swear and bleed.
Blithe is up now, firing along with Winters. He's clearly afraid, but his fear of disappointing Winters trumps his fear of death.
Welsh and some pasty-faced private are aiming a bazooka at an oncoming Panzer. Ray's afraid they're gonna get crushed or blown to bits, or both, when the rocket fires. The tank rocks with the explosion, bursts into fire, grinds to a halt. Fucking-A.
The air is full of heat and dirt and light. It's full of sweat and fear and noise. It's full of rage and death and smoke. Ray squints through the smoke, rubs his eyes, checks his men. Everybody's okay. Some of the guys are bleeding, but none of his men are seriously hurt. Thank Christ.
Blithe turns to look at Ray, eyes wide with shock. "I...I did it, Sarge."
Ray grins. "You sure fucking did."
There's a huge metallic boom.
More, the guy who likes to steal shit, looks around. "Jesus! What was that?" Relief smoothes the tension from his face. "Shermans!"
Nixon laughs. "Well hello, Second Armored."
"That's right, you sorry asses!" Frank yells at the retreating German soldiers. "Run!"
Germans fall in the thick green grass. They lie face up, face down, on their sides. Ray doesn't think about the fact he's killing men who've probably been forced into the Army, men who can't surrender because their own NCOs might shoot them. He doesn't think about how the only thing that separates these men from himself is a threadbare uniform.
The Shermans roll forward, a dozen of them, forcing the remaining Germans to run back to their fucking clown car and drive away.
Duke and Lieb and Blithe pat each other on the back, smile at Ray. Hoobler whoops, informs everyone within hearing distance the first Luger they find is his. Liebgott throws Ray's cigarettes back, flashes a little salute. Ray catches the pack in one hand, pulls a Lucky out, lights it. These men treat Ray with respect. No one makes fun of him here. Nobody calls him white trash or fag or asshole.
For the first time since Ray found himself in this place, he feels something besides fear and trepidation. He feels pride. Pride in his men. In himself.
* * *
Ray spends the next three weeks doing his job. He stops obsessing over how long he's going to be trapped here. He accepts the fact he's not in the middle of some whacked Ambrose Bierce story, that the last twenty days haven't simply been his final breath as he bleeds out onto a Baghdad street.
He's a paratrooper, stuck in a France-shaped box. That's fine. That's fucking great. He's got food and water. Hell, he's got friends. Luz hasn't said anything else about Ray acting "off," thank God. Ray's scared shitless the first time he leads a patrol to check out an old barn. He's scared shitless the second time he leads a patrol. By the third time, he's reached a level of fear he can deal with. His men are okay. Ray's been living with fear long before he ended up in the Twilight Zone. He owns the fear now; it doesn't own him.
Until Blithe gets dropped by a fucking sniper.
Martin and Dukeman are with him.
Welsh and Nixon are leading an expedition to check out an abandoned farmhouse. Only it's not abandoned. Blithe, the newly-minted badass, volunteers to be on point. Johnny and Duke go with him. Ray's watching an ant crawl up the side of his boot when he hears the shot. He can't see Blithe, but he knows. He knows. And then he fucking runs, shoving Shifty and Bill and scaredy-cat Smith out of his way.
Martin's screaming for a medic, Duke's got his hand on Alby's neck as they drag him back, back, away from the farmhouse. Blithe's eyes are open, his mouth is a perfect "O" of surprise. Ray can see splinters in Alby's neck. At first he thinks it's bone and his stomach lurches, but no. It's wood. These stupid fucking Krauts are so retarded they still ride around on fucking horses, they use fucking wooden bullets like this is the fucking War of 1812.
Blithe's neck is a mass of red, wet splinters, blood leaks like a faucet. Roe's trying to bandage Blithe's neck as best he can, looking into Blithe's eyes, telling him to stay with me, goddammit but there's a lot of blood. Roe's hands keep slipping.
Please, Ray almost-prays. Please let Blithe be okay.
Blithe's eyes are the color of a perfect sky. His eyes are still focused upward, on the clouds, as his body shakes. Albert Blithe has the same blond hair, the same blue eyes as Brad, the same slow, crooked smile. But that's where the similarities end. Blithe is soft-spoken, overly sensitive, shy. He's fragile where Brad is hard, impenetrable ice. But Blithe is one of the few men here Ray felt like he'd actually known. Maybe it was the accent, the shy smile, the way Alby actually thought Ray knew shit. Maybe it's because Ray's desperate and lonely and he recognized a kindred spirit Blithe. Whatever it was, it's too late now.
Guarnere is standing behind Roe, face drawn. Bill talks like he's a fucking tough guy, but he'd been fond of Albert too. They take turns telling Blithe he'll be okay, he's going to make it, this is his ticket home, hoo-fucking-ray. Albert just stares the whole time, face blank, like he's already gone.
Ray helps strap Blithe to the hood of the jeep. This is so much worse than Pappy's foot, than Q-Tip's leg. The dead Hajis are bad, the dead civilians worse, but this is the first person Ray knows--likes--who might not make it.
Roe pulls himself into the jeep, face hard.
Ray puts a hand on the door. "Doc, is Albert going to make it?"
Doc looks at Ray. He looks exhausted. He shakes his head once, starts the vehicle. "I dunno, Pers."
Ray stands there, helpless, and watches Roe drive off. In that moment, he feels a surge of hate for the Krauts. For himself. He should have volunteered to go with Blithe. He should have trained the kid better. He should have done something. Ray pulls his helmet off, throws it on the ground.
"Fucking shit cocksucking fuck." He kicks the helmet, watches it bounce feebly after Roe's jeep.
"Those fucking asshole dildo fuckheads!"
Ray rubs his hands over his head, sniffs. He exhales loudly, works to get control of himself. When he looks up, Skip's staring at him like he's speaking in tongues.
"What's a dildo?"
Ray frowns. He has an image of himself telling Muck it's a kind of dill pickle. Then he sees Skip having Thanksgiving with his family and Faye, asking his father to please pass the dildos. As pissed as Ray is, he can't do that Skip.
Ray rubs his eyes, reaches for his canteen, takes a drink.
Now Luz and Bill are staring at him too.
"Do you guys know what the fuck a dildo is?" Skip asks.
Luz shake his head, Bill smirks.
Ray sighs. He recites in a voice with no inflection: "A dildo is a vibrating device that substitutes for an erect penis. You put it up--"
"Holy shit," Skip says, clapping one hand over his mouth. He looks horrified. "Are you--is that--are you kidding me?" Skip's voice actually squeaks on the last few words.
Bill chuckles. "He ain't kiddin,' Skipper."
"Huh," Luz says with an eyebrow wag. "Nobody better tell the girls or we're fucking done for."
"Is yelling about dildos part of that Tourette's thing?" Muck asks curiously. He still looks a little green around the edges.
Ray nods. Him and his fucking big mouth.
"What's Tourette's?" Bill asks, holding out his hand for Luz's lighter.
Luz tosses the lighter over. "It's when you can't help yelling random curse words and shit." He looks at Ray for confirmation. "Isn't that right?"
Ray nods morosely. "Something like that."
"Ha," Bill says, "I guess I got that too. So did my old man." He lights his cigarette, casts a sly look at Ray. "What I wanna know is, how the fuck does a Southern gentleman such as yourself know what a fuckin' dildo is?"
Ray thinks fast. It's difficult since Bill just called him a Southern gentleman, but he does his best. Chaffin's crusty old catalog pops into his head.
"Uh, a friend of mine--" which is stretching the truth by about a thousand miles "--had a catalog of all kinds of crazy sex shit. There was this one dildo made out of crystal and the little slogan said 'adds elegance to every fuck.'" He can't help grinning at the memory. Christ, how retarded can you get?
Guarnere brays with laughter. "Jesus Christ, Percy." He pats Ray's cheek. "I think I fuckin' love you."
"Shit," Skip says, "and here I was thinking candlelight would do the trick."
They laugh some more. Eventually the laughter turns to silence, heavy as lead. Ray goes to get his battered helmet, wipes it off on his jacket.
"Glad you guys are having such a great time," Welsh calls. "Now get the fuck over here, hubba hubba."
They head back to the rest of the platoon. They still have a farmhouse to secure. Ray has a Kraut to kill. He puts his helmet back on, takes a final drag on his smoke.
"Hell of a thing about Blithe," Guarnere says softly, tossing his own cigarette butt to the ground. "Hell of thing."
Ray elbows Bill, trying for one last moment of levity. "Maybe we can send him a get well dildo."
Luz smacks the back of Ray's helmet. "Shut up, Ray," he says affably.
George sounds so much like Brad, Ray has to look away. He doesn't want anyone to see him cry like a fucking pussy.
* * *
Aldbourne looks like a fucking postcard. Or maybe a Norman Rockwell painting of what a quaint mid-nineteenth century English village is supposed to look like. Ray feels like he's in the middle of some period movie, every one around him in costume.
The phone service sucks. Not just because all the phone numbers Ray knows don't work, but because some retarded operator keeps coming on the line to inform him in over-friendly tones his numbers don't work. Like he doesn't already know. Thanks for nothing, bitch. There are no computers, no internet, no malls, no superstores, no Mountain Dew, no Rudy with a pot of fine November Juliet. Even the porn is super lame. Where's Jasmine when you need her?
Some of the guys go on leave. Bill and Johnny try to get Ray to come to Scotland. Skip and Malark want Ray to come to Paris. Ray's mildly interested, but he feels like he should stay at the barracks. He has no idea if his grandpa went on leave, or with whom. He'd rather play it safe.
Besides, what Ray really wants is to be alone.
If he's supposed to accept this as his new, unimproved reality, that means everyone he knows is gone. None of his friends have been born yet. Neither has Sadie. His mother isn't even around. The only person he knows is his grandma and she's 17 years old. There's a part of him that wants to write her, wants to tell her he misses her, that he loves her, but he can't bring himself to do it. What if he accidentally Marty McFlys himself out of existence?
Ray spends the next month getting jerked around. The Brass says there's gonna be a jump, then there isn't. There's gonna be a jump, then there isn't. It's almost like Godfather's back in charge.
He runs every morning. It's not like there's anything else to do. Sometimes he passes Winters running too. Dick always nods hello. Once Ray asks Duke if he wants to come along.
Dukeman makes a pissy face. "Christ, didn't you get enough running at Toccoa?"
So much for company.
New guys come in. The Easy men call them replacements and treat them with the same amount of respect you'd give a cockroach. Well, not quite. Once Bill gets back, he falls in man love with a red-haired kid named Edward "Babe" Heffron. Heffron's from Philly, so they spend hours yapping in their retardo accent. Ray doesn't pay too much attention to the new kids. Most of them end up on Bull's squad. Ray has trouble keeping the original Easy guys straight, he's not about to worry about the replacements.
When he's not shooting targets, running, doing calisthenics, sleeping, or feeling sorry for himself, he looks through his grandfather's things. At first he feels creepy, like he's spying on Grandpa Ray. Until he finds a box of Agatha Christie novels. Thank Christ. At least he can reread And Then There Were None.
Ray also finds a thick stack of letters from Grandma Arlene. He doesn't want to read them, but he does anyway. He's hoping to find some clues about who his grandfather was, how he behaved, who he was friends with. Arlene's letters are filled with newspaper clippings, lots of info on how the Toccoa guys are badass. They run up a fucking mountain, Easy Company runs circles around the other eight companies. Colonel Sink makes Easy Company march a million miles just because some Japanese troops marched a million miles. The 506th beat the Japanese record, although Ray Henry had blisters on his feet for two months.
At first, Ray thinks Dukeman and Liebgott are going to give him shit for reading Arlene's letters, think he's some kind of perv. Then he remembers the letters are technically, sort of, his. They'll just think he's lonely and pathetic instead. Which is pretty fucking accurate.
Ray wishes he'd known his grandpa better. He wishes he'd asked Arlene about the war. In the dim, flickering light, Ray sits on his bunk surrounded by his grandmother's pristine handwriting. He scratches his arm absently. It's mostly healed now. There's a mottled pink line above his elbow. Ray has a fleeting memory of rubbing his small child's thumb over this very scar. It used to remind him of Silly Putty.
Ray drops his head in his hands, overwhelmed.
He can't imagine writing his grandma, pretending to be her Ray. Not only is it fucking gross, it's a lie. Ray has no idea what the proper letter writing etiquette is for when you've swapped consciousnesses with your dead grandfather. Ray glares, rubs the back of his neck. Thanks for nothing, fucking Ann Landers.
It's not that he doesn't know what to say, he could fake his way through a few paragraphs. It's that Arlene is alive. She's only 17. She's got her whole life in front of her, but to Ray, she's been dead for less than three months. He hasn't even had time to grieve, and he's not going to start now.
Guarnere walks in. He's doing his usual pimp walk, like he's on the prowl to find his girls. If Bill had been in Bravo, Ray's pretty sure he'd be in charge of the whole fucking company, have himself a harem of hot Haji action, or be in the brig. Maybe all three. At once.
Bill's jaw comes up. "What's eatin' you?"
Ray tidies the letters to a pile, reaches for his bottle of warm beer. "Do you believe in time travel?"
Guarnere's brow creases like he's trying to learn fucking Calculus.
"What, like HG Wells and shit?"
"I don't know. I guess."
Wild Bill sits down on Dukeman's empty bed. "Percy, I believe in what I can see. I believe in cheap cigarettes, the buddy on either side a me, my goddamn rifle. I believe there's no such thing as too much beer. I believe you should never pay more than five bucks for some female companionship and you should never play cards with Malarkey." He taps a front pocket, pulls out a rosary. "And I believe in this." He drops the black beads back into his pocket, spreads his hands, smiles. "No more, no less. What about you?"
Ray doesn't know how to answer. "I...I don't know what I believe," he finally says. "Not anymore."
Bill purses his lips, blows out a trumpet sound of air. "Up and at 'em." He grabs Ray by the shoulder, pulls. "Come on," Guarnere says, putting an arm around Ray. "You need somethin' stronger than beer."
Bill and Johnny proceed to get Ray wasted. Ray can't remember much about his night at the pub, but he remembers just enough to feel like vomiting long after the nausea passes. He lies face down on his bunk.
Bill, Skip and Dukeman are horrible, evil ratfucks because they're in Ray's room. They're breathing. Loudly.
Ray rolls onto his side, tries to glare Bill into silence. Or suffocation. "You motherfucking asshole shithead. I can't think of an Italian slur bad enough right now, so I'm just going to say you talk like a fucking retard and I hate your fucking guts."
Guarnere grins at his friends. "This one's a real bundle of fuckin' sunshine when he wakes up."
"A regular Pollyanna," Skip agrees.
Dukeman tries to keep a straight face, fails. "He sounds like my mom."
"I gotta tell ya, you said some interesting things last night, Pers."
"I didn't know the war started cuz Hitler didn't get laid enough. If I knew you could start wars over that kind of shit, I'd have started one a long time ago," Dukeman says, laughing.
"No kiddin.'" Bill punches Ray's leg. "Here. Take your goddamn medicine, ya baby."
Ray looks at Bill's offering. He's holding a canteen and two aspirin. "I told Doc Roe I had a headache. Ain't I a pal?"
"Yeah. If pal is British for asshole."
Ray sits up slowly, cursing the world, Bill, himself. Guarnere instantly plops down next to Ray.
"Christ, I didn't know you were such a fuckin' lightweight."
"Stop saying words," Ray mutters, "and get the fuck out of my face."
"What's Rip Fuel?" Skip asks, lighting a cigarette.
"Ripped Fuel," Ray corrects. "And it isn't anything. Never mind."
"Guys, I sense Ray ain't in the mood for our witty repartee." Bill pronounces the word ray-par-tee.
Dukeman and Skip make exaggerated we're sad faces.
"No, I'm really not," Ray says. He swallows the aspirin down, hands the canteen back to Gonerreah. "I just need to sleep."
Bill barks a laugh. "Good fuckin' luck. PT starts in 30 minutes. Get your ass up."
"Fuck you," Ray says. "Next time you want to take me drinking, just shoot me instead. It'll save me a lot of fucking misery."
Guarnere nods, extends a hand. "Deal."
* * *
Ray stays away from hard liquor after that. He goes to the pub and has a few beers, gets a buzz on, but that's it. He doesn't need to start rambling about how he belongs in the future and wake up in a straight jacket. No thanks.
Ray tries not to think about his old life. He packs up thoughts of Brad and his Marine brothers, Sadie, his mother, and shoves them to the back of his mind. Those thoughts don't do him any good here. The only thing thinking about home does is make him feel worse. He's here whether he wants to be or not. He doesn't want to be responsible for getting someone killed because he's too busy weeping into his cammies. Scratch that. His ODs.
Something better fucking change before the war ends, because Ray is not going home to fuck his grandma. Brad made plenty of jokes about Ray being an inbred sister-fucking hick, but Ray's not about to prove Brad right. Ray's interested in a lot of sick shit, but incest doesn't make the list.
He tries to distract himself by tinkering with Luz's radio, playing Poker with Liebgott and Alley, sparring with Joe Toye who's got muscles like iron. Skip and Malark are always going on and on about Glenn Miller, but Ray just can't get into the music. Ray misses singing, but there's nothing but big band and folk songs or gay-ass ballads. Fuck, he'd even take the Beatles over this shit.
Ray has trouble sleeping. He's losing weight, and he's a skinny fuck to begin with. He reads his grandfather's books, rereads Arlene's letters. He smokes so much he can feel his lungs turning black. He still runs most mornings; now he and Winters run together. They don't talk, just keep each other silent company. Ray expects it to be awkward, but it's not. He figures Dick runs to stay in shape. Ray runs because it gives him the illusion he's actually getting somewhere.
By the beginning of September, there's talk of another jump. The operation consists of two parts, codenamed Market and Garden. According to the rumors, this operation has little chance of getting scrubbed. Ray spends a fair amount of time watching replacements jump from the lumbering C-47s in preparation of the mission. Christ, it's an amazing sight, the sky is filled with a hundred white umbrella tops. Against the solemn blue, they look like perfect clouds. It's like flying.
Ray finds that he's actually looking forward to jumping, going back into battle. Kicking the Krauts out of Holland should be more interesting than sitting around here. Christ, there isn't even any pizza. Ray's working on a rudimentary drawing of the barracks when Doc Roe comes in. Ray's not exactly an artist, but everyone learned depth perception and perspective during the endless Recon training.
"Feeling any better?"
Person nods half-heartedly. "My arm's all healed up. My ankle's fine." Ray points to his bunk. "I even have a new helmet."
Eugene sits on Ray's bed, picks up his helmet, sets it back down.
"I'm glad to hear it, but that's not what I meant."
Ray continues sketching. Maybe he'll send the picture to his grandmother. He hasn't decided.
"What's this about you telling everybody you have Tourette's Syndrome, Ray?"
"I can't help it," Ray says. "It's genetic."
"No, it's a psychiatric disorder. And just because you swear a lot doesn't mean you have it. What kind of motor tics do you have?"
Ray sighs. "What do you want from me, Doc?"
"I want you to tell me the truth."
"Okay then, Tourette's isn't a psychiatric disorder, it's a neurological movement disorder. I'd tell you to look it up, but you'll have to wait another fifty years."
Roe's eyes go cold. He stands, ready to leave.
"Wait," Ray says. "I'm sorry. I--I don't know what to do."
Eugene slowly sits back down. He looks at Ray, his anger replaced with concern.
"Sergeant, are you trying to get a Section 8 or do you think something is really wrong?"
There's something pretty fucking wrong all right. "I'm not trying to get a Section 8," Ray tells Roe. "I'm not crazy." He reconsiders. "I mean, not much. But there is something wrong."
"You still think you don't belong here." It's not a question.
Liebgott walks in. He's holding a bottle of beer and he's clearly drunk.
He glares at Ray, sneers. "Listen asshole, I don't care if you're a fuckin' nutcase or not. I don't care if you think you're from the future, Mars, or the Wild Fucking West." He pokes a finger at Ray's chest. "What matters is, you do your job and you protect your men. You belong with us. We fucking depend on you, Pers. If you can't fuckin' take the pressure, then get the fuck out before you get us or yourself killed."
Ray stares at Liebgott, mouth agape.
This skinny punk-ass Jew just called him Captain America. Ray is a lot of things: white trash, immature, skinny, wordy, annoying, short. But he is not irresponsible. He was a damn good Marine in Afghanistan and Iraq, and he's a damn good soldier now. Okay. So Brad and Walt and Poke and everybody the fuck else is gone. Ray doesn't need them. He'll get his grandfather through the war just fine. And not just Ray Henry Person. He'll get his men through safely. His men. Damn, that has a nice ring to it.
"I'm not gonna get you killed," Ray says. "You're gonna die of alcohol poisoning long before some fucking Kraut gets a chance to shoot your lazy ass."
Lieb glowers at Ray for another moment, then bursts out laughing.
Ray looks at Eugene. "I'll be okay."
Doc nods. "Good. Cuz from what I hear, we're out of here in less than a week."
* * *
Ray stands up, hooks up, counts off with the rest of the paratroops in his stick. It's a good thing he's toward the back of the plane, or he'd have no fucking clue what was going on. Person gets up to the door, watches the light turn green. The wind whistles past him. He's a devil dog in baggy pants. Ray grins and steps out into the early morning light.
The fall is exhilarating. Turns out jumping is way cooler 1) when you can fucking see and 2) when you know what the hell is going on.
The descent isn't too fast or too slow, it's perfect. If this is how Ray got to start every morning, maybe he'd actually want to get up. This time he lands on his feet, the buckle doesn't stick. He's out of the chute in less than three minutes. Bull and his squad are already off the field. Men scurry to get clear of troopers still on their way down.
Ray gathers his men. Babe Heffron's replaced Blithe. Babe's a good soldier, Ray tries not to hate him just because he's here and Alby isn't.
Person figures the people of Eindhoven might be happy to see the cavalry come to their rescue, but happy doesn't even begin to cover it. The whole city is celebrating in the streets, dancing, waving, greeting the American and British soldiers like the second coming. And Jesus brought fucking tanks and chocolate, yo.
Most of the women hug soldiers, plant lip-sticked kisses on everything in a uniform. Perconte gets his face stuck in some woman's ginormous tits and comes out looking like he just learned the secret of the whole fucking universe. Perco looks so retarded Ray half expects to see a ring of chirping tweety birds circle the guy's head.
It feels weird to be welcomed this openly. Old men call them angels and heroes, children throw flowers. Women hand them plates of food. For fuck's sake, three different kids ask for Ray's autograph. It's fucking insane. Ray's used to the veiled hostility of Iraq, the weary resignation of Afghanistan. This reverence bullshit makes him fucking nervous. It reminds him of the Bible story where Jesus rode into town on a donkey and everybody threw palm branches and did the fucking wave. It looked like a goddamn party, but if memory serves, things didn't end so well for Junior Christ.
The Krauts attack outside Eindhoven. It's a hard, fast battle. The Brits are too retarded to do much good. Mostly they drink tea and blow up with their tanks. Bull goes missing. Compton gets shot in the ass. One of the baby-faced replacements gets killed. Bill and Johnny do some macho hand wringing over Randleman, but he's back the next morning. Turns out Bull's a regular fucking Rambo. Bull's return is good news, but the sight of Eindhoven burning puts a damper on the celebration. Easy Company didn't get crucified after all. The Dutch did.
* * *
Ray's good mood is gone by the time they're back on the highway. His seat from atop a tank provides him a good view of the countryside. It's beautiful here. Except for the emaciated women trudging along the road with freshly shaved heads and swastikas drawn on their foreheads. Invariably, they hold crying babies. Ray wishes he had a pallet of humrats for these hopeless women and their children.
They've been branded Nazis and Nazi-lovers and traitors and whores. It's easy to be a traitor when you have a gun to your head, or a knife to your throat. Sure, maybe some of the women did like the lifestyle, thought their Nazi boyfriends were hot shit. But he'd wager most of them were wooed with fists and threats, not flowers and fucking candy.
The smell of smoke is still thick in the air. Eindhoven still smolders behind them. Ray wonders how happy the Dutch would be to see them now. It's a different century, a different people, but the Iraqis and Dutch both got fucked the same way. What good is liberating a town like Eindhoven or Baghdad when there aren't enough troops left behind to protect it when the parade's over? Why doesn't anybody plan for this shit? Does Montgomery think the Krauts are going to go willingly? Wave goodbye to their former pseudo-slaves and just skip off? Doesn't Godfather realize the Iraqis only barely tolerate the American military as it is? Christ, talk about history repeating itself. And Brad's not here to dig up the undetonated
shells dropped in Eindhoven gardens.
It starts to rain. A steady downpour that soaks everyone through within minutes. The sky is a mass of thick gray clouds.
They dig foxholes in the rain.
They sleep in the rain.
They go on patrols in the rain, shoot Krauts in the rain, eat shitty British rations in the rain.
Ray hated Iraq. There was so much fucking heat and humidity it was like living in Sadaam's crotch. But at least the desert cooled down at night. There were times Ray's allergies made him feel like shit, but at least he was dry. Within a week of the constant rain, half the men are sick with pneumonia or the shits. Ray's feet smell like rotting garbage and look worse. His fingers are pale and wrinkled; he has the skin of an old man.
He flexes his fingers one September night, grinning. Now he really does have his grandfather's hands.
"What's so funny?" Bill asks, shoulders hunched against the downpour.
"Nothing."
Bill and Ray just finished their watch, but there's nowhere to go to dry off. The thought of his foxhole holds no appeal; Ray's sick of sitting on branches to keep his ass out of mud and water. Even if he covers the top of the hole, water just leaks in down the sides, bubbles up through the dirt and roots. Fuck that.
Luz stomps up to Ray and Bill, boots sinking deep into mud. "I'll tell you what's fucking funny. We're all gonna drown out here. What's the point in keeping Hans and Fritz off the fucking bridges? This whole place is gonna be under water. We're gonna float into goddamn Berlin on an ark."
"Maybe that's Monty's secret weapon," Bill jokes. "He's buildin' an ark."
"Wish I was already on it," Luz says dejectedly. A limp cigarette hangs dolefully from George's mouth. He throws it down in disgust. "I can't even keep my damn cigarette dry. This is bullshit."
Ray nods in agreement. "Word to the motherfuckin' street, yo."
Luz laughs, imitates Ray. "Fuckin' yo, man. Yo." He rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "What the fuck, Pers? You sound like a mentally deficient pirate."
Bill grins, covers his eye with one hand. "Avast me mateys, let's plunder them goddamn Krauts for better fuckin' rations."
Luz tilts his head, gives Bill a dour look. "Sometimes you make me really fuckin' sad," he says. "Christ, you call that a pirate?"
Guarnere beams, unfazed. "That there's a South Philly pirate."
"Arrgh," Luz says, sweeping an imaginary sword through the rain. "Shiver me timbers and chatter me teeth in this devil's gale. Fifteen men on a dead Hun's chest. Yo-ho-ho, let's find some rum," he growls in an imitation good enough to impress Robert Louis Stevenson.
Ray can't believe he's standing in the rain listening to these morons pretend they're pirates. The fucking World War Two history books left this part out.
"You are fucking retarded," Ray tells Luz fondly.
"What," Luz demands, affronted, "like you wouldn't sell your own ma for some rum right now."
"I'd sell the both a ya for some rum," Bill says. He shrugs. "No hard feelings."
"I'd sell you both for a cup of fucking coffee," Ray says. Why couldn't he have jumped back in time with Rudy's espresso maker? "This fucking tea is shit, and the coffee's worse."
Luz's eyes glaze. "Coffee," he murmurs reverently.
"I hear Smokey has some coffee, ya imbeciles," Bill says. "Maybe he'll share with ya if ya ask real nice."
"Don't worry," Ray says, "I'm gonna trade him."
Bill scoffs. "What the fuck do you have to trade?"
Ray grins. "It has to do with a dildo and your ass."
The smile drops off Bill's face.
For a long, sickening moment Ray thinks he's gone to far. Shit. Easy Company hasn't exactly embraced homoerotic bullshit the way Bravo Company has. Now they're all gonna think Ray's gay or queer or a fucking fairy. Which wouldn't that bad except gay rights are currently at an all time low. If you're a dude in the closet, you better stay there and lock the fucking door.
But then Bill laughs like Ray's just told the funniest joke in the whole fucking world, and who knows, maybe he has. Guarnere slaps Ray's back, beaming.
"I cannot believe the fuckin' shit that comes outta your mouth, Percy. And here you are, lookin' like such an All-American Boy. You, Ray Person, are one deceitful fuck."
Ray grins. "I've been called much worse, my friend," Ray says, breathing a sigh of relief. He makes a mental note: no more ass jokes.
"Come on," Luz says, pulling Ray's sleeve. "The radio's fucked up again. Can you give me a hand?"
Ray nods. Luz is playing his goddamn song. Hell to the yes he'll help. "Here's a thought. Maybe the fucking radio shouldn't sit out in the rain for two weeks straight."
"Nah," Luz says with a wink. "I'm sure ain’t it."
Bill frowns after them. "Oh fine," he snits. "Just leave me out here by myself, why don'tcha."
Dukeman peers out of his foxhole, yawns. "What the fuck, Bill? I'm still here."
"Yeah, yeah," Bill mutters. "Goody for you."
Luz and Person head for the OP, where Luz has his radio stashed.
"I'm starving," George says irritably. Water drips off his helmet.
Ray steps around a large puddle. "I'd kill for a Pop-Tart."
"What's a Pop-Tart?" George's mouth curves into a faint smile. "Sounds like a fancy French dame who jumps out of a big fuckin' cake."
"Actually, that's a lot cooler than what it actually is," Ray says. "It's a kind of pastry."
"A pastry?" Luz cries. "Thanks for making me feel even worse."
Ray grins, almost content. "My pleasure."
* * *
By October 5 the sky is still overcast, but the rain's stopped.
First and second platoon are bivouacked in a barn near Opheusden. The barn is nice and dry and there's plenty of soft straw. After the previous weeks of rain, it feels like a four-star hotel.
Everybody's sitting around talking, goofing off as much as they can get away with, considering Winters is sitting right there. Talbert's got himself a stray German Shepherd named Trigger. At least it's not another fucking poncho. Ray and Luz spend too much time feeding the dog their own meager rations, trying to teach him to fetch stuff. Ray spends one night trying to get Trigger to steal packs of Charms and bury them in a corner where the roof leaks.
Right now everything's pretty calm. Most of the guys are catching a little shut-eye. Luz is eating crackers, Winters is taping his grenades so he doesn't accidentally blow himself up. Ray's helping Smokey come up with dirty lyrics to Oh, Susannah when everything goes to shit.
The doors smash open and Liebgott and Lesniewski are standing there supporting Jim Alley. Alley is semi-conscious and covered in blood. His face, neck, his entire left side are bleeding from a dozen wounds.
"Alley's hurt, we need the Doc," Les says. Lipton runs up, helps Les and Lieb get Alley on the table.
Alley's eyes are open, but Ray doesn't think he knows what's going on.
"Where am I?" he mutters. "Something happened." He tries to focus, rolls his head. "What happened?"
Winters is staring down at Alley, face pulled tight. Luz looks stunned. Lip is the calmest, he dispatches Tab to get Roe.
"They got us with a grenade," Lieb says. That's when Ray notices there's blood on Lieb's neck too.
Roe arrives, gets down to business. He checks Alley's pupils, smoothes the hair off the soldier's blood streaked forehead, speaks softly.
Lip and Winters are already directing the men to get their shit together.
"It's gonna be okay, Alley," Doc says. Roe points to Lieb's neck. "You get that taken care of."
Lieb nods. But it's obvious there's only one thing Joe wants to take care of, and it's not his fucking neck.
Winters leads the patrol. He's stoic, silent, grim. Everyone is pissed, adrenaline is high. The patrol is like something out of a text book. Winters gives orders, the men follow. They make their way to the crossroads below the dike. Winters is a natural leader. If Ray ever does get back to Iraq, he's bringing Winters with him. Put him charge of the war and maybe there'll be an actual plan of some kind.
It's 0400 hours. There's a cluster of German officers gathered around a MG-42. They're shooting the thing off for no goddamn reason, it's an open invitation to get fired upon. The retards just stand there, blathering like they're in the middle of a fucking book club instead of a goddamn war. Ray takes his squad down the hill after Winters. He's first, then Lieb, then Dukeman, then Perco and the rest. Ray looks back once; Liebgott winks.
Skip and Malark send over a mortar. That ends the book club. Winters divides the two squads into three segments. Between the suppressing fire, Smokey's machine gun, and Malark's deadly aim, they've got a good start. Winters calls for the rest of first platoon while Muck and Malark take out the MG-42. The Krauts fight back, but only one of them gets off a lucky shot. Dukeman goes down.
Goes down.
It's a fucking retarded expression.
Like the dude's about to go to town on his girlfriend's pussy.
Like he's about to ride a fucking elevator.
Or, and this is stretching it, he's feeling a little blue.
It's just like all the other bullshit euphemisms that are supposed to soften the blow, dull the truth. As in, Dukeman got hit. Dropped. Schwacked. Fucked. Nailed. Kicked the bucket. That's a good one, like Will was pissed or looking for a little exercise. Or maybe he made an investment: he bought the ticket, the farm, the ever popular "it."
It doesn't matter. They all mean the same thing. No matter what words Ray uses, William Dukeman is still dead.
The sun is up. The sky is clear. Ray blinks up at the clouds, confused. Today is a day for rain. A morning for mourning. The sky should be black, the sun hidden behind a fucking burqa.
Winters is on the radio with Welsh. The rest of the guys are sitting in a ditch, smoking, napping, waiting. The way Winters is talking, they're going to cross the Island and take out a platoon of Krauts before the Krauts take out Easy.
Dukeman's lying in the ditch too. His silence feels like a scream. Liebgott is beside him, oblivious, busy rifling through Duke's pockets like he's a fucking convenience store instead of a corpse. He pulls a pack of smokes out of Duke's jacket.
Fury propels Ray forward, turns his limbs stiff, his face numb.
"Knock it off, you fucking asshole," he says. His voice sounds like someone else's.
Lieb looks up, misunderstands. "Oh, sorry." He throws the pack to Ray. "Here. You can have 'em, Sarge."
Ray stares down at the red and white box. It feels heavy, like he's holding a stone. Or grief. He doesn't want the cigarettes. He wants Duke.
Duke and Skip are the ones who found (saved) him.
Ray walks away, leaves Joe and Dukeman behind. He sinks down onto the trampled grass, puts his head in his hands.
He whispers his litany. "Dicksuck cockfuck, fuckstick." It doesn't help. He says it again, this time inside his head. He says it until the words are meaningless, but he doesn't feel any better. He feels like crying. There’s no way to joke this away. A bullet hole in a windshield is one thing. A bullet hole in Dukeman is another.
He senses movement but doesn't look up. Someone sits on his left, someone else on his right. He feels smooth metal tap his knuckles.
"Hey, Pers."
Ray scrubs at his face, looks up. Skip's watching him, twirling his fucking spoon around like it's the world's tiniest, most retarded baton. Malarkey’s on his other side.
Person shakes his head. He has nothing to say.
Skip slings an arm around Ray's shoulders. He smells like sweat and smoke and grass and oil and gunpowder. Ray closes his eyes, inhales. He hates that smell. He loves it. This is the smell of home, of belonging. Not fucking hot dogs or apple pie.
"You're sitting here thinking what the fuck," Skip says quietly. "Why Dukeman? I know, because I'm thinking the same thing."
Malark reaches for the Lucky Strikes still clutched in Ray's hand. He pulls three out, puts them in his mouth, lights each one. He hands one to Skip, one to Ray, keeps one for himself.
"That's your problem right there," Don says, cigarette bobbing. He rubs his nose, shrugs. "You think there's a reason for this, that this--" he gestures around them vaguely "--is supposed to make sense. Let me tell you pal, none of this makes sense. Don't act like it does, or you're gonna go fucking nuts."
Winters calls the men over, crouches in front of Ray's squad. What's left of it. Bull and Peacock are behind Ray.
"Here it is," Winters says. "Bull, you'll take ten men along the dike. Peacock, you'll take ten men along the left flank." Winters points at Ray. "I'll take ten up the middle." He regards them all, solemn. "Fix bayonets."
Christ. Now Ray really does feel like Captain America. He fits the blade onto the end of his rifle. Everyone's quiet, all you can hear is the click of metal against metal.
"Go on the red smoke," Winters says. He surveys the men a final time, smoke canister in hand. He takes a deep breath, throws the canister, and runs.
He runs like a goddamn superhero. Ray tries to imagine Encino Man or Captain America doing anything remotely like this. He can't. The smoke starts, it hangs in the air like a red veil. The men jump up and follow Winters. Ray can't see for shit, it's like running through a cloud; it feels unreal, like he's dreaming. He half expects to find Brad and Poke waiting for him on the other side.
The only thing waiting is Winters. And a platoon of Nazis. Shit, these are the real deal, SS troops in black boots and silver insignia. The Republican Guard might be a bunch of motherfucking shitheads, but at least they don't burn Muslims by the oven-full.
Ray drops down on his belly between Babe and Johnny. He hums, then starts singing under his breath, as he fires. God, he misses Metallica.
Blood will follow blood, dying time is here, Damage Incorporated.
Johnny shoots; a German falls. "What the fuck are you singing?" he asks.
"Nothing," Ray says, "I'm just telling the Krauts what they have to look forward to."
Martin's eyes narrow. "They can look forward to a fuckin' bullet to the head," he mutters.
Ray keeps singing, aims. He figures Johnny doesn't even need his M-1, he can probably just glare a few of these fuckers to death.
Once the artillery starts, it's not even a battle. It's a rout. The earth geysers upwards, the ground shakes, the noise is deafening. Dirt rains back down, smoke and dust drifts thick above the trees. There are so many dead Nazis they fall in piles, their long black coats like shrouds.
Sweat pours down Ray's face. He's no longer singing. Martin and Winters are collecting POWs, Roe's treating Easy Company wounded. Winters looks stunned at the carnage. His gaze keeps drifting back to a specific dead German soldier. Not even a soldier, a boy. He can't be more than 16. He looks like he's playing dress-up in his uniform. Jesus.
Ray sits on the edge of the road, clutching his rifle, watching everyone move around him. Some of the Germans that litter the field aren't dead. They cry out for their mothers, each other, God. Their only answer is another bullet from Liebgott.
Person wipes the dirt from his face. Bravo's gone, all he has left is Easy Company, these step-brothers in arms. Dukeman's dead, Alley's hurt bad, Gonorrhea's leg is busted, and now Lieb is picking off wounded Nazis like he's playing some weak-ass carnival game. He's not even putting the bastards out of their misery. He's aiming at legs, arms, shoulders. Lieb's smile looks like something Trombley would wear.
Ray's torn between helping Joe and beating the shit out of him. Christ, they already got some, they've killed at least 50 guys, wounded twice as many. But this, right here? Isn't war. This is bullshit torture at worst, fucked up revenge at best. Punishing these dying men isn't going to bring back Blithe or Duke, or fix Alley. It's not going to make up for Dachau and Auschwitz. Ray gets Lieb's anger, he does. But that doesn't mean he wants to watch.
Neither does Winters. The captain stops Joe; even takes his ammo.
Ray wishes he'd have had the guts to do it.