true to thee our hearts will be / our love will not grow old
Up, up, and away it’s going with a pop-up and I’m not thinking about the arc of the ball or anything like that. All I’m thinking is, ‘Jesus, it’s good to be back on the field.’ So the guys aren’t as good as Jackie and the boys back home, but beggars can’t be choosers and it’s baseball. It’s downright American. I feel like there’ll be apple pie and fireworks soon enough.
The ball’s at the peak of its curve and I’m yanking off the mask because even squinting into the sun, I can make this catch. “Got it, I got it!” I promise Johnny over on the pitcher’s mound. You know the most rewarding thing in the world? I’ll tell you, it’s the dust of your mitt when you get a good satisfying catch out of a high-flying pop-up. It’s like kid’s play, but I still make sure to tighten my grip and lift my hand high in the air to signify that it’s good and it’s better than good. It’s sunny, it’s Austria, it’s the end of the war in Europe and there’s a whole new life on the horizon (seeing as I’ve got those points lined up and am ready to ship home whenever I want, but not just yet. I’m not ready to leave these men just yet). I blink and try to peer past the dust and throw the ball back to the mound, but then something happens.
See, the thing is, I’m used to not being ready for a lot. You never know what to expect in combat, but Jesus, I wasn’t fighting. I was just playing baseball. The thing is that when the dust clears and I look for the mound, it just isn’t there. Instead, it looks to me like some kind of tropical jungle, like a bad page out of Georgie’s Pacific fantasies.
For a second, all I can think about are the stories you heard from D-Day of men who landed (and managed to avoid the flooded canals of the deeper areas of the Douve) and had not one weapon to them. I’ve got a baseball in an unfamiliar place. How’s that for prepared? Sure as hell could trade the baseball for a grenade about now. But who says you can’t get creative with what you’ve got? I’m an Easy Company lieutenant and if I come across a Kraut who’s stirring trouble, this baseball of mine ought to wind up just as deadly as any bayonet or hand grenade.
Still, I can’t stop thinking that unfamiliar DZ’s are one thing, but hell, I didn’t even jump this time. All I was doing was sending Web back to the bench.
It’s quiet here, wherever I am. I don’t like it, not like this. Send me in with Easy, with the boys, and I’ll feel safe anywhere, but I don’t exactly have the luxury of that right this second. I swear, it’s starting to cross my mind that maybe I got knocked on the head, shoved out a plane and here I am in the Pacific. Thing is, I’ve still got on the catcher’s gear and I’m still holding the baseball. “Alright,” I mutter to myself, immediately scouting for cover as old (and good) instincts kick in. It might be just about peacetime, but you never know when one of the Germans (especially those SS kids who just spell trouble) is looking for a brawl, half-tucked out on too-strong wine. All I’m really wishing for (besides a gun and a grenade, but a guy can make a lot of wishes) is my cricket, which is sitting somewhere back in England, probably being used by a group of kids by now. It may not be dark, it may not be France, but Christ if it doesn’t feel like the jump all over again. So, no cricket, what can you do?
The only thing an Airborne man can.
“Flash,” I get out, just loud enough for anyone in the general area to hear and respond, but they’re not getting a shot at me, not with the cover I’ve got.
[In the style of traditional debut, anywhere in the woods you'd like him to be. Open to late tags all weekend]
The ball’s at the peak of its curve and I’m yanking off the mask because even squinting into the sun, I can make this catch. “Got it, I got it!” I promise Johnny over on the pitcher’s mound. You know the most rewarding thing in the world? I’ll tell you, it’s the dust of your mitt when you get a good satisfying catch out of a high-flying pop-up. It’s like kid’s play, but I still make sure to tighten my grip and lift my hand high in the air to signify that it’s good and it’s better than good. It’s sunny, it’s Austria, it’s the end of the war in Europe and there’s a whole new life on the horizon (seeing as I’ve got those points lined up and am ready to ship home whenever I want, but not just yet. I’m not ready to leave these men just yet). I blink and try to peer past the dust and throw the ball back to the mound, but then something happens.
See, the thing is, I’m used to not being ready for a lot. You never know what to expect in combat, but Jesus, I wasn’t fighting. I was just playing baseball. The thing is that when the dust clears and I look for the mound, it just isn’t there. Instead, it looks to me like some kind of tropical jungle, like a bad page out of Georgie’s Pacific fantasies.
For a second, all I can think about are the stories you heard from D-Day of men who landed (and managed to avoid the flooded canals of the deeper areas of the Douve) and had not one weapon to them. I’ve got a baseball in an unfamiliar place. How’s that for prepared? Sure as hell could trade the baseball for a grenade about now. But who says you can’t get creative with what you’ve got? I’m an Easy Company lieutenant and if I come across a Kraut who’s stirring trouble, this baseball of mine ought to wind up just as deadly as any bayonet or hand grenade.
Still, I can’t stop thinking that unfamiliar DZ’s are one thing, but hell, I didn’t even jump this time. All I was doing was sending Web back to the bench.
It’s quiet here, wherever I am. I don’t like it, not like this. Send me in with Easy, with the boys, and I’ll feel safe anywhere, but I don’t exactly have the luxury of that right this second. I swear, it’s starting to cross my mind that maybe I got knocked on the head, shoved out a plane and here I am in the Pacific. Thing is, I’ve still got on the catcher’s gear and I’m still holding the baseball. “Alright,” I mutter to myself, immediately scouting for cover as old (and good) instincts kick in. It might be just about peacetime, but you never know when one of the Germans (especially those SS kids who just spell trouble) is looking for a brawl, half-tucked out on too-strong wine. All I’m really wishing for (besides a gun and a grenade, but a guy can make a lot of wishes) is my cricket, which is sitting somewhere back in England, probably being used by a group of kids by now. It may not be dark, it may not be France, but Christ if it doesn’t feel like the jump all over again. So, no cricket, what can you do?
The only thing an Airborne man can.
“Flash,” I get out, just loud enough for anyone in the general area to hear and respond, but they’re not getting a shot at me, not with the cover I’ve got.
[In the style of traditional debut, anywhere in the woods you'd like him to be. Open to late tags all weekend]