Purple Hearts (Front Lines 3)

I’ve taken over Stick’s platoon now, but I feel in my heart that any time I don’t know how to handle something I can just ask myself what he would have done and get the right answer.

I guess you don’t need me to tell you, but you raised a very fine young man. We all miss him terribly.

Sgt. Rio Richlin

Dear Pastor M’Dale,

I am writing you because I guess I need to say something that I can’t say to anyone here.

There is so much pain here and so much death. None of it is like folks back home think, none of it is like what they see in movies. We are cold all the time. Filthy and wet all the time. Hungry too.

I look around me and I don’t even see human beings anymore. I see walking sacks of blood and organs waiting to be ripped open, to have all that is inside them shown to the world. They are so brave and so determined, and it doesn’t matter because they just die. Especially the replacements, who so often die within a few hours of getting to the front. The veterans don’t even learn their names because when a replacement dies, you don’t want to know that they have kids or a widowed mother or hopes or dreams or hobbies.

I keep telling myself I am doing a lot of good. I know that I have saved some people who would be dead otherwise. But even then it can be so hard. I send soldiers to the aid station minus a leg or an arm or scarred for life. Some GIs shoot themselves in the foot just to avoid something far worse.

But it’s not even just the blood, it’s what I see happening to the men and women here. They grow cynical, harsh, indifferent. Some have it worse still and lose their minds altogether. Grown men and women just rocking back and forth and sobbing.

It’s seeping into me too, I know it. How many times can you see a human being die and feel his heart stop without losing your own mind? And I ask myself why. Sometimes I blaspheme, Pastor, because I do not know how God lets this happen. How does God let this happen? These GIs live like pigs in their own filth and spill their intestines into mud. How does God let fine young boys and girls be slaughtered, butchered, blown apart, burned to charcoal? Can you tell me that? Because I would really, really like to know that.

Sorry if I sound crazy, maybe I am. I had a man who worked with me, we called him Deacon, who was a conscientious objector. He was a good and brave man. A believer in the grace of Jesus Christ. And he just shot himself in the head because he just couldn’t go on. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t realize how it was for him.

I should probably tear up this letter. You’ll think I’ve gone round the bend. But I am going to send it if only to remind you to pray for me. Please. Pray hard.

Frangie

Dear Rainy,

What is this I hear about you becoming an officer? You’ve gone over to the enemy! My baby sis a lousy brass hat! My God, before I know it you’ll be a general.

Okay, more seriously, congratulations! I mean it!!! I could have exploded with pride when I heard about you. I would never want to compare myself to you, but I have to tell you that I, too—yes, your goofy brother—am now a platoon sergeant, and I am busy all day long spitting nails and chewing on barbed wire as Marine platoon leaders are supposed to do.

I am extremely safe sitting here on this godforsaken piece of coral with about three lousy palm trees. I of course can’t name the island without bringing on the censors, but it doesn’t matter because they’re all the same. Nothing to do but knock coconuts out of trees and play cards with the guys.

I still don’t exactly know what you are doing, although I hear from the folks that you disappeared for a while. But whatever it is, take good care of yourself. You and I have a lot to talk about when this is over. I picture dragging the lawn chairs up onto the roof, having a beer or maybe six, and shooting the breeze. Wouldn’t that be swell?

So be careful and cautious and take care of yourself, little sister.

I mean, little sister . . . SIR!

Aryeh

(I’m saluting right now.)

24

RAINY SCHULTERMAN—CLERVAUX, LUXEMBOURG

Rainy is in uniform once again, with boots and a helmet with the small vertical chevron of a first lieutenant on the front. And for the first time in a very long time, she has an M1 carbine slung over her shoulder. This battle is not one of wits, but hot lead.

GIs to her left and right form a row of fighting holes and log shelters. Behind this line is a second line made of supplies and trash, crates of ammo, empty C ration cans, a dead radio, abandoned packs, and musette bags.

Behind that second line are interspersed pockets of mortar men firing ka-toonk! and pockets of GIs recovering, cigarettes dangling from snoring mouths.

Last, and below the ridge crest on a piece of terrain that is merely steep instead of being nearly vertical, an aid tent has been set up.

Way off to the left on a lower slope of the ridge Shermans blast away.

And where Rainy stands, out of the direct line of fire, is a sad-looking tent with a couple of camp chairs no one can use since the angle topples them over. There’s an MP at the tent flap.