The K-Rations

He has the Corporal Stripes of a Gunner...

         He has the corporal stripes of a gunner.

         After nineteen weeks of training at Fort Knox (including two weeks of gunnery school), Corporal Dave Baldwin is more than ready to head to the ETO

European Theater of Operations

and kick a few asses - Hitler's included if not exclusively. He holds on to the romantic notion of being a hero in battle, bright-eyed and eager to display his talents as best he can. He's only eighteen years old and the world is his oyster - the concept of death, something that happened to other people and not him. That bubble of immortality is his shield and cannot be dented...yet.

         They are driven across France and Belgium in '40s-and-8s (a World War I vintage) and dumped somewhere in Germany called Stolberg. The depot is a claustrophobic room with barely enough space to move one's legs, where sleep comes fitfully on sleeping bags, bulky equipment and filthy floors. The air is choked heavy with smoke and he can barely breathe. For days, they are left to wait for instructions, rumors of towns and villages being overtaken their only source of entertainment. At this point, they welcome any news at all - or at least a chance to taste combat.

         Redemption comes when their convoy is finally called, excitement coursing through his veins as he realizes he's close to the real thing. The wreckage along the German countryside does not really register in his mind - a turned over tank or shot down plane, bloated bodies in various stages of decomposition, or abandoned artillery. After several hours of traveling, they arrive at an extensive countryside; its ground full of frozen mud and yet littered with various tanks, most of them armored. Several Sherman tanks form a column and all around are doughboys, walking, talking, and leaning against them with cigarettes in their mouth - all waiting to be assigned.

         He joins them with hands stuck in his pockets, in a feeble attempt to keep warm. There's a sense of urgency in the air, only intensified as the commander blows his whistle and orders them to attention. He now belongs to the 3rd Armored Division with the 1st Army and as the Captain stops before him; his corporal stripes noticed, he's all but forced to be a leader.

         "You'll be in charge, and who among you is a driver?"

         No one says anything for a long time, until a reluctant response is heard. "Ah guess ah am, sir."

         "Good," the Captain barks and assigns two others to the tank. "You're all going for the ride and I'm in charge of the convoy until we get to the 33rd Armored Division. You roll out as soon as the mechs say your tank is set to go. The rest of us will make the most of daylight and move out; you catch up in twenty or thirty minutes. Remember, you are in hostile country. There are still SS about ready to create diversions! There are to be no lights, get it? N-O-N-E! Even a cigarette light is more than enough to draw fire. Any questions?"

         He dares to ask, "Will we have to shoot, sir?"

         "I hope to goodness not, especially not with that cannon, for God's sake. Any other questions?"

         None are forthcoming and they are left to watch the mechanics work on their tank in glum silence. He tries to make conversation with his comrades, but it's rather fruitless. Johnson, the driver, is from Georgia, and seems rather jittery and unable to comprehend the weight of now driving an armored tank across hostile territory. The other two, Pirelli and Wayne, seem more content to smoke quietly beside the tank without saying a word.

         In forty-five minutes, the tank is finally ready for action, and he and his crew begin the arduous journey to catch up to the others. With Johnson in the bowels of the tank and fear his companion; the warnings of no lights and the sudden fall of darkness over the land, the trip is a tricky one. They can barely see two feet before them, and in no time, they come to a fork on the road. Which way are they to go now? He's sure the Captain had said left, Johnson swears it's the right. Pirelli and Wayne offer no help and as leader, Baldwin decides they are to stay put for tonight and wait until morning for assistance. There was sure to be another armored tank heading their way too.

         "I'll stay guard," he offers, seeing as Johnson has withdrawn into the tank with no effort to assist him. He has plans to survive this war as long as he can and that includes saving his ass from possible SS fire. Baldwin swallows his resentment, but since he's in charge of this crew, he has to take the brunt of responsibility. It's a cold and miserable watch, but he keeps his eyes open for as long as he can. By dawn, he's cranky and groggy and yet immensely grateful at the sight of two TDs approaching. Unfortunately, the GIs are not heading the same way, but are able to give him directions to the elusive 33rd Armored Division.

         The journey begins again, even slower than before as Johnson's battle with his terror overwhelms him. For hours, they trudge along the muddy road, the heavy machine's wheels grinding and groaning at a measly twenty miles per hour. By nightfall, Baldwin is frustrated again as there seems to be no end to this trip. He wishes they would have at least given him a radio to communicate with the others in his Company.

         "Hold it!" he suddenly cries out in excitement and relief as a few buildings come in view. Most are rubble and ruins, but there's no denying the armored tanks in the distance or the welcome glow of the lone-lit house. Baldwin is sure that the Captain's in there and can't wait to report to him. "I think we're here."

         Pirelli sticks out his head from the turret and glances around with a doubtful eye. "You sure?"

         "Sure, I'm sure," Baldwin replies with mild irritation. "You just wait here and I'll come back and get you guys."

         He hops off the deck of the Sherman and walks up to the house, words ready to tell his command about his reasons for arriving late. He does find it a bit odd that there are no GIs loitering around. It would have been a familiar sight to see a few doughboys on patrol duty, or fixing the tanks or smoking or something. It isn't until he stops before the window and peers through the thick layer of grime and past the lace curtain, that he realizes just what he's looking at. Several German officers lying around in broken down chairs or on the floor with looks of boredom or resignation on their features. Baldwin feels his insides shrivel with fear, his throat suddenly dry and in need of moisture. With his heart somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he takes an unsteady step backwards, trying to be as careful and yet as fast as he can move to his tank. Now, he sees the panzers quite clearly and curses his ill luck at not being more observant. Wasn't that one of the reasons he flunked school a lot? He could never concentrate on one thing without screwing up. Jesus! He's barely in the war and he's already going to be killed or worse taken as prisoner.

         "Ah! You American?"

         A terror so acute seizes his body and almost causes him to pass out at the sound of the voice so close. He turns around slowly with hands raised to his head in surrender, staring at the smiling face of a handsome young German soldier a year or two older than he is.

         With a mouth that seems filled with cotton balls, Baldwin replies with what he hopes is good enough German. "Eh...ja?"

         "So sprechen Sie Deutsch?" He looks pleased and begins to rattle off a series of sentences that make no sense to the American.

         "No, I sprechen English," Baldwin mumbles.

         The German soldier looks smug. "Well, I speak great English."

         Yay, for you, Baldwin thinks. Why don't you just get this over with and make our lives easier.

         "I take you to my leader now, yes? And please do not try to escape or I will be shooting you."

         Thoughts of how he'll be treated runs through Baldwin's mind in jerks and snatches. He wonders if they'll torture him slowly, or just shoot him - at least that will be quick and he won't have to suffer so much. His only regret is that he won't have enough war stories to tell his best pal, Mikey, in the Navy, or share his heroic escapades with his parents and sister back home.

         The room is much smaller than it looks from the outside and Baldwin stands at attention as the leader of the group (who doesn't look at all threatening) speaks quietly to Baldwin's captor.

         "My leader," the soldier says after words have been exchanged, "would like you to take us to your commander so we can surrender. He does not want to surrender to you of the lowly ranks and wants to do it in the...." He seems stumped for a word, so Baldwin helps.

         "The proper way?"

         "Ach, the proper way."

         Baldwin has to be sure he's not hearing things. The Germans are actually surrendering to him and not the other way around! Excitement and triumph fills him as he imagines the looks on the faces of his captain and fellow GIs when he shows up with so many Krauts and panzers in tow. He's going to be hailed as a war hero and he's not even tasted combat yet! He stands a little taller and tries to look in control...and then realizes with a flood of embarrassment that he still doesn't even know the way to the 33rd. With great humiliation, he has to ask the leader of the German platoon to help, which he's all too willing to do (with no hint of ridicule at the clueless American before him).

         When Baldwin explains the situation to his crew, they are wary and justly so. Wayne assumes it's a trick and doesn't trust them, but Baldwin is convinced that the men do not intend to attack at all. If anything, they seem willing to help the Americans in anyway they can. It's almost surreal. By morning, they are leading the way, an unlikely parade of captured German soldiers at the mercy of one lone Sherman tank.

         By mid-day, the first signs of American tanks come into view, and several GIs rise to their feet from whatever they're doing, staring with mingled looks of amusement or bemusement at Baldwin and his companions. Baldwin, who expects a barrage of hollers and congratulatory remarks, is slightly upset at the silence that greets him. He leaps down from his tank and walks up to the nearest GI.

         "Where's the captain? I need to report to him."

         The GI smirks and nods towards one of the ruins. "Be my guest. I'm sure he'd love to see you."

         Still confused at the reaction he's getting, Baldwin walks into the Captain's office.

         "Corporal David Baldwin, 1534127, reporting, sir."

         The captain, who is busy working on the logs, barely looks up as he asks dryly. "Those your prisoners out there?"

         "Yes, sir!" He can barely contain his smug sense of victory.

         "That's nice," the captain murmurs. "Now what do you propose we do with them?"

         "Sir?"

         "Well, Corporal," the captain says, finally looking up with barely restrained irritation on his features. "They are your prisoners, aren't they? You captured them, didn't you? Therefore, you have the honor of figuring out how to dispose of them. Now hurry up with it, I've got roll call in a few minutes."

         Baldwin looks stumped. His mind whirls with conflicting thoughts as he stammers weakly. "I...I don't understand...sir. What am I supposed to...?"

         However, he barely gets finished when the captain tears into him like a rabid dog on a short leash. A slew of very colorful language, some of which Baldwin's innocent ears have yet to be exposed to, fill the small room as he's given one of the longest and toughest lectures in his life yet. Apparently, the Americans had no intention of keeping or taking any prisoners, since there was no place to put them within a hundred miles. They had gotten word about the German platoon willing to be taken hostage and that location had been avoided for that particular reason. Their capture would only slow down the movement of the GIs and tanks.

         Baldwin feels humble and wishes the ground would open to swallow him whole. The captain, now spent (and somewhat glad for some reason to let off some steam) goes easy on the new kid when Baldwin finally mumbles an apology.

         "Fine, fine, just be more careful next time, Corporal. I'll just have to call up headquarters to figure out what we're going to do with this situation. And don't look so fucking scared, soldier. You're not in trouble. Just learn a few facts of life, got it?"

         Baldwin more than gets it as he steps out of the building and is accosted by curious GIs, who are in awe that he's able to survive one of the captain's infamous shouting tirades. However, all he wishes to do is crawl into a Sherman tank and hide until the war is over. It's a bitter lesson learned, and only one of so many more to come.