Buddies

The young lieutenant slept on a litter. The older sergeant sat beside him on the stony beach shingle. The sergeant watched the wave-tossed, angry sea and the boats skittering in and out from the invasion armada offshore. He craned his neck at the swarms of black-and-white striped airplanes overhead.

The lieutenant had been his Ranger Buddy since they joined the platoon four months before. To the US Army Rangers, the buddy system was all-important. Your Ranger Buddy was your legs when yours had given out; your eyes when yours were tired. Your shared rations, missions, tents, money between paydays. You were a part of one another.

Behind them rose a hundred feet of sheer rock called Pointe du Hoc. Allied planners decided that the bunkers on top of the cliffs contained large coastal guns that could shoot up the D-Day landing forces. So in went the Rangers.

A moan rose from the litter. "Sir?" the sergeant asked, straining to hear over the din of the surf.

"Hello, Sergeant," the lieutenant answered softly, his speech thick from morphine. "How's the platoon?"

"Why, they're just fine, sir. Just fine," the sergeant replied cheerfully, not looking at him. "I just thought I'd keep you company until the medics evacuated you."

"That's very good of you, Sergeant, but you really should be with the men."

"They're in good hands, sir. Sergeant Westphall is in charge of them now. We're beach security, you know, sir. You do remember that from the briefing, don't you, sir? Nothing in particular to do for the time being."

"Yes, I remember, Sergeant." He was quiet again. His breathing was slow and shallow.

A breeze picked up a part of a rope ladder on the cliff, battering it against a hollow rock. The sergeant turned and looked back at it, then back to the sea.

"How did the platoon do, Sergeant? Did we get up the cliffs first?"