Excerpt
Stark, white light glaring from the relentless North African sun nearly blinded him, but Private Morris Rosen charged toward the waiting train at a run. Sweat ran down his neck. It was hot, but at least it wasn’t summer, not yet anyway. He heaved forty pounds of gear and his Springfield rifle over his head before he shinned up the side of the railroad car.
Close to Rosen’s ear one of the other soldiers complained at full volume, “Holy, Jesus. It smells like cow shit in here.”
Rosen looked up at the guy, but the guy wasn’t talking to him, just grumbling to anyone who happened to be in earshot.
And it did smell. Wait a minute. God, it was cow shit. They were transporting the artillerymen of the U.S. Ninth Infantry Division in filthy old cattle cars. The animals were gone, but bits of cow or maybe sheep droppings remained imbedded deep within the cracks in the floor. He kicked at a tell-tale clump of straw and manure that stuck tenaciously to one of the wide planks.
“Move it,” Sergeant Miller yelled. “This ain’t no goddamn Boy Scout picnic. Move.”
Miller was thick set with wide shoulders hunched up so high it looked as if he didn’t have a neck. From the way Sergeant Miller’s face sagged, Rosen figured he’d been in the army a very long time.
Endless columns of soldiers hustled toward the train and pulled themselves aboard until twenty or more guys had wedged into each car. They sat on their packs or stretched out and used their gear as mulish, uncomfortable pillows. Rosen positioned himself next to one of the two open doors so he could breathe easier.
The other men settled down and continued mumbling to no one in particular. They were all brand new recruits. They had yet to learn just how bad things could get in the army. Some were still thinking like civilians and believed it was only natural to feel incensed about the crowded, smelly railroad car. Others complained to fill the void, perhaps to convince themselves they’d signed up for a noble cause even as they were being hauled off to war in a cattle car. Then there were those who simply complained about everything.
“Man, you’re breaking my goddamn foot.”
“So get your goddamn foot out of my way.”
“I gotta have air. It stinks like a sewer in this fucking train.”
“So, it reminds you of your first date?”
Rosen laughed along with the others, but he didn’t join into the conversation. He knew how easy a volley like this could turn on a guy. Next thing he knew, someone would make a crack about him being “The Kid” in the outfit. Or if things got nasty, someone would end up calling him “Jew Boy.” He’d gotten into enough fights to know when to keep his mouth shut, at least most of the time.
Rosen just wanted to arrive at their destination in Algeria or Tunisia or wherever the Americans were pitted against the German Army east of Casablanca and see some action. He’d finished radio school back in Ft. Meade and was shipped out to the Atlantic coast of French Morocco shortly after his eighteenth birthday. The army had conveniently managed to overlook the fact that he’d signed on at seventeen. By 1942, the army recruiters had probably figured that Uncle Sam would need hundreds of thousands of men—of any age—to crush Hitler.
Rosen still hadn’t been issued his radio, but he was ready for action, any kind of action. Like the rest of the guys in his division, he’d volunteered to join the army, and now he wanted to see what this war was all about. He wanted the Germans to know who they were up against. Give them a taste of their own medicine. He’d volunteered to travel thousands of miles from home to battle those aggressive Nazi Krauts, but Rosen was trying not to clash with his fellow soldiers. It would be smarter to keep his fists to himself and stay out of trouble no matter how often they goaded him to fight.
The artillerymen continued to gripe about the lingering smell of manure and shoved as close to the two sliding doors as they could. As the railroad car grew warmer, the men gradually stopped grousing. It didn’t do a bit of good anyway since Sergeant Miller paid no attention to the men or their torrent of complaints. A few men tried to sleep; others sipped water from their canteens and spit out onto the parched, barren land.
In true army tradition, the men had hurried to board the train that would transport them out of Casablanca only to sit and wait and wait for it to pull out. The other railroad cars had been loaded with men and gear. The big artillery guns would go by truck. The cars coupled to the train stretched along the track as far as Rosen could see. It didn’t seem possible that a single steam locomotive could pull this colossal weight, but gradually the wheels began to groan and screech, plunging forward in struggling, jerky leaps. The train was finally moving.
Carlyle worked his way over from his spot by the door on the opposite side of the car and squeezed in next to Rosen.
“Hey, Kid, looks like we’re finally going to get into it.”
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