other hand held over his heart. His face was white, his mouth open as he gulped in shallow breaths of air.
“You okay, buddy?” I asked as I took his elbow.
“Yeah … yes, sir, I’m fine. The noise, it surprised me, that’s all. I’m fine.” He stood, embarrassment flushing his face red. At least it gave him some color. He tossed me a weak smile and left, glancing around guiltily in case anyone else had noticed.
There were no fine tablecloths in the officer’s mess. The food was warm and filling, even if I had to serve myself, and I didn’t linger. But there was plenty of lingering in the room that served as the officer’s club. A bar was set up beneath a towering gold-relief sculpture of an angel holding a scroll, with two doorways twenty feet high on either side. The floor was inlaid marble, with plush carpets set out in the seating areas to keep the noise down, but that did little to drown out the chatter that rose from every corner of the room. It was a lively bunch, officers of all ranks, nationalities, and services, with a liberal sprinkling of WACs, ATS, and other females, some wearing decidedly civilian outfits. Those ladies were surrounded by senior officers, guys who wouldn’t be questioned about their choice of female companion.
I saw Einsmann and he nodded to an empty table at the far end of the room. I got a whiskey at the bar and joined him.
“How are things, Billy?”
“Better for some than others,” I said, raising my glass in a toast and glancing at the brigadier general with a woman who looked like a movie star on his arm.
“You got that right,” he said. “This war is a real racket for some guys.”
“I saw the senior officer’s mess upstairs. Talk about easy street.”
“I ate there a couple of times. Nice thing about being a reporter is that when the brass wants to butter you up, you eat well. You know the chef they got up there worked at the Ritz in New York?”
“He should’ve brought over his own waiters. Those GIs dressed up in white jackets are lucky they aren’t paid in tips.”
“Better than white coats,” Einsmann said with a sharp laugh.
“Why do you say that?”
“They’re all convalescents from the hospital. Bomb-happy, you know what I mean? They got the jitters all the time. Somebody figured it was a good job for them while they waited to go back up the line.”
“Interesting choice of occupation,” I said.
“How so?”
“Waiting hand and foot on senior brass, watching them devour steaks, knowing they’re the guys ordering you into the mountains, to live on K rations in a muddy hole. Must be great for morale.”
“I never thought about that. Could be a story in it, Billy.”
“Everybody’s got a story,” I said, not certain where Einsmann might be going with this. Some of those convalescent boys had had it tough, and I didn’t want an overeager newshound making it tougher. “Did you find out anything about what I told you?”
“Not much, Billy. Word is Galante was kicked upstairs, sent to the 32nd Station Hospital because he didn’t get along with a senior officer on the 3rd Division staff.”
“Galante was with the 3rd? That’s the same outfit Landry was from.”
“Yeah, but he was with the Medical Battalion. Unless Landry had been wounded, chances are he wouldn’t run into him. There are probably over twelve thousand guys in the 3rd Division right now, especially with all the replacements coming in.”
“Okay, so what was the problem?”
“Shell shock, or nervous exhaustion, whatever they’re calling it these days. Galante had his own ideas about treating it, and he clashed with a colonel named Schleck. Seems Schleck doesn’t buy the whole concept, and blames any GI’s failure of nerve on poor leadership.”
“Combat fatigue,” I said, recalling what I’d heard back in London. “They’re calling it combat fatigue now.”
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty of it going around, whatever the moniker. The boys in the 3rd
“You okay, buddy?” I asked as I took his elbow.
“Yeah … yes, sir, I’m fine. The noise, it surprised me, that’s all. I’m fine.” He stood, embarrassment flushing his face red. At least it gave him some color. He tossed me a weak smile and left, glancing around guiltily in case anyone else had noticed.
There were no fine tablecloths in the officer’s mess. The food was warm and filling, even if I had to serve myself, and I didn’t linger. But there was plenty of lingering in the room that served as the officer’s club. A bar was set up beneath a towering gold-relief sculpture of an angel holding a scroll, with two doorways twenty feet high on either side. The floor was inlaid marble, with plush carpets set out in the seating areas to keep the noise down, but that did little to drown out the chatter that rose from every corner of the room. It was a lively bunch, officers of all ranks, nationalities, and services, with a liberal sprinkling of WACs, ATS, and other females, some wearing decidedly civilian outfits. Those ladies were surrounded by senior officers, guys who wouldn’t be questioned about their choice of female companion.
I saw Einsmann and he nodded to an empty table at the far end of the room. I got a whiskey at the bar and joined him.
“How are things, Billy?”
“Better for some than others,” I said, raising my glass in a toast and glancing at the brigadier general with a woman who looked like a movie star on his arm.
“You got that right,” he said. “This war is a real racket for some guys.”
“I saw the senior officer’s mess upstairs. Talk about easy street.”
“I ate there a couple of times. Nice thing about being a reporter is that when the brass wants to butter you up, you eat well. You know the chef they got up there worked at the Ritz in New York?”
“He should’ve brought over his own waiters. Those GIs dressed up in white jackets are lucky they aren’t paid in tips.”
“Better than white coats,” Einsmann said with a sharp laugh.
“Why do you say that?”
“They’re all convalescents from the hospital. Bomb-happy, you know what I mean? They got the jitters all the time. Somebody figured it was a good job for them while they waited to go back up the line.”
“Interesting choice of occupation,” I said.
“How so?”
“Waiting hand and foot on senior brass, watching them devour steaks, knowing they’re the guys ordering you into the mountains, to live on K rations in a muddy hole. Must be great for morale.”
“I never thought about that. Could be a story in it, Billy.”
“Everybody’s got a story,” I said, not certain where Einsmann might be going with this. Some of those convalescent boys had had it tough, and I didn’t want an overeager newshound making it tougher. “Did you find out anything about what I told you?”
“Not much, Billy. Word is Galante was kicked upstairs, sent to the 32nd Station Hospital because he didn’t get along with a senior officer on the 3rd Division staff.”
“Galante was with the 3rd? That’s the same outfit Landry was from.”
“Yeah, but he was with the Medical Battalion. Unless Landry had been wounded, chances are he wouldn’t run into him. There are probably over twelve thousand guys in the 3rd Division right now, especially with all the replacements coming in.”
“Okay, so what was the problem?”
“Shell shock, or nervous exhaustion, whatever they’re calling it these days. Galante had his own ideas about treating it, and he clashed with a colonel named Schleck. Seems Schleck doesn’t buy the whole concept, and blames any GI’s failure of nerve on poor leadership.”
“Combat fatigue,” I said, recalling what I’d heard back in London. “They’re calling it combat fatigue now.”
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty of it going around, whatever the moniker. The boys in the 3rd
Similar Books
