So many men were crammed into the ship that only by shifts could they be allowed up into the fresh air topside, there to gather in clumps or to walk the narrow ways around and between the vehicles lashed to the decks; and even these few brief forays into natural light and clean, .crisp air were only allowed in daylight on clear, calm days without deckwashing seas, lest any of these landlubbers be lost overboard.
On such a day, a rare day for the season and the location—the sky of a silvery blue and utterly cloudless—the troopship plowed through a sea almost as calm-looking as a pond. Far away on either hand could be discerned other ships of the convoy, but to the naked eye these were merely large dots; only with magnification could details of them be seen. Headquarters and Headquarters Company of Milo’s battalion were taking their brief sojourn upon deck. Leaving his subordinates to maintain order and discipline among the troops, Milo had sought out a secluded spot—actually, in the cab of a truck—to converse and confer with his commander and old friend, Lieutenant Colonel Jethro Stiles.
“Milo, certain of the staff feel that we—I—ought to make regular inspection circuits down below decks. John Saxon demurs, but then he seldom agrees with much of anything the staff decides. What do you say?”
“I say John’s right… as usual, Jethro. Remember, he went to France on a troopship back in the Great War, so he knows just what kind of hell it is. No, best to let us no’ncoms handle it alone,” was Milo’s solemn reply.
Stiles regarded him narrowly. “That rough down there, is it?”
Clumps of muscles worked at the hinges of Milo’s clenched jaws. “Jethro, whoever designed that slice of purgatory down there was not only utterly sadistic but a certifiable lunatic, as well. How in hell are you supposed to keep up the morale and the self-respect of men who have to wallow, day in and day out, in their own filth? The so-called showers are an insult to the intelligence— the hot water lasts just seconds, you have to soap up fast as blazes before it turns into live steam, then you have to rinse yourself in cold, salt seawater, which leaves you feeling sticky, tacky all over; you may be clean, technically, but you sure as hell don’t feel clean.
“The latrines have round-the-clock lines of men waiting to use them, and what with the cases of seasickness and diarrhea and whatnot, a lot of the men in those lines are unable to wait as long as necessary, so there are mop details at work damn near any fucking time or place you look.
“The men are without exception bored, damnably uncomfortable, irascible and getting stiffer by the hour from a lack of decent exercise. Classes are an unfunny joke. They nod and sleep through them.”
“Why don’t they sleep at night, Milo?” demanded Stiles.
“My God, Jethro,” Milo expostulated in heat, “you saw those racks down there before the troops moved in, didn’t you? There’s only a foot or less of space between each one even when they’re empty; At night, a man has to slide in either on his back or on his belly, because after he’s in, there’ll be no room for him to turn over all night long. The only thing they wear at night is dog tags and jockstraps, and still they stream sweat. A man would have to be utterly exhausted to sleep under those conditions, Jethro, and they have nothing to do to exhaust them and no room to do it in.
“So under every light there’s an all-night poker game or crap shoot, and the noise they generate just adds to the echoing snores of the lucky few who have been able to sleep. We feel it would be most unwise to try to break the games up, for at least when the men are gambling-the nights away, they’re not contemplating the wretched conditions under which they’re forced to live, the swill they’re expected to eat, their complete helplessness inside the fucking steel torpedo target, their sexual frustrations, the nonavailability of booze and beer or even fucking Cokes, the suffering to be ended, maybe, by their deaths where we’re sailing to.
“One of the few good things I can report is that there’s been damned little theft reported down there, but that’s most likely just because there’s simply no place to hide anything and a thief would be found out very quickly … and probably killed or seriously injured on the spot, despite us NCOs. As it is, for the best we can do or try to do, the fights down there are frequent and vicious. We’ve locked up issue weapons, bayonets and every other item that looked like it could be used to kill or badly incapacitate a man, of course, but as you and I both have reason to realize, fists and feet and fingers and knees and elbows can do more than enough damage if a man knows precisely how to utilize them in fighting … and that’s exactly what instructors have been drilling into most of those men since their basic training.”
Stiles frowned through most of the monologue. “Well, Milo, I can do nothing about the shower facilities. Ours are no better up here, you know; the ship simply does not —could not—ship aboard sufficient fresh water to give fresh-water showers every day to so many men. For your information, I did lodge a strenuous objection to all these fucking trucks and jeeps being jammed onto the deck of this ship, but my objections were overridden by higher authorities. If these vehicles were not here^ taking up space, we could have organized physical training classes up here in the air and the light … but then if a bullfrog had wings, he’d not have a sore ass most of the time, either.
“You and the other NCOs and the men will just have to put up with the latrines and the sleeping accommodations until we get where we’re going. There’s nothing anyone aboard can now do to change or ameliorate those conditons, unfortunately. But what’s this about the food?”
“These cooks of ours,” said Milo, “are virtually without effective supervision. The head cook, Sergeant Tedley, has been ill since the day we set sail, so much so that off and on, the medics have thought he might die of dehydration. His second-in-command is so inefficient, so weak in leadership, that most of the cooks do absolutely nothing to speak of except stay drunk on lemon extract and the like and keep well out of the reach of the men.”
“Well, Jesus Christ, Milo,” snapped Stiles, “why hasn’t Lieutenant Jaquot either set this matter straight or reported it to me or John Saxon?”
Milo shrugged grimly. “Probably because he’s unaware of it, Jethro. I don’t know of anybody who’s seen the mess officer below decks since we left New York Harbor. Although the scuttlebutt is that he’s won himself a fucking pisspotful of money in some high-stakes poker game up in officer country.”
Stiles nodded, a hint of anger smoldering in his eyes. “So he has, Milo, so he has, some of it from me, too. He’s won so consistently, the Belgian bastard, that some of us are beginning to wonder just what he did for a living before the war. Of course, the fucking money doesn’t matter to me, I don’t have to try to live on what the Army pays me, after all, but, by God, I’ll have that fucker’s hide for neglecting his duties to have more time for his precious fucking cards.
“I’ll also talk to the ship’s captain and see if there’s some way we can get more ventilation down into those spaces you inhabit, particularly at night. As regards all of the rest of your many tribulations, old pal, all you and any of us can do is to just keep on keeping on until we get landed, wherever. Then if we’re lucky we’ll have the time and space and the opportunity to whip the company back into shape before we have to fight.”
The battalion landed in England one cold, wet, blustery day, and that weather remained with them for months, so that many a man and officer was soon looking back to warm and often bone-dry South Carolina with fondness and real longing. So easily did the heavy soil on which their camp was set retain water that most of those who knew anything about such matters were dead certain that the area had been a swamp in the not-too-distant past; moreover, though not within sight of the sea, the land lay sufficiently close to the coast to be buffeted by every storm or gale that chanced to come boiling in from off the North Atlantic Ocean as well as to be pervaded by each and every one of the incredibly damp and icy-cold sea fogs of that season. Nor, in the flat and almost treeless countryside, was there any natural break against the frigid winds and storms that winter brought lashing down from the Highlands of Scotland, Iceland and the arctic wastes of Ultima Thule, far to the north. But in the rare good weather or in the usual foul, the hard training had to continue, day in, day out, night in, night out, week after week, month succeeding month. Big and bloody operations were now afoot, aimed at Fortress Europe, and everyone, from generals down to lowliest privates, knew it for fact.