Description: DECEMBER 8, 1944 When Hackermeyer joined the second squad of the third platoon of C Company, the first thing he heard was Sergeant Cooley blowing his top. Hackermeyer had been sitting in a crowded truck all night and most of the morning and he ached. His legs and arms were stiff. His feet were almost numb. He hobbled to the tent of the company commander who passed him on to Assistant Platoon Sergeant Wadley. Wadley escorted him across the bivouac area, telling him what a rugged outfit he was joining. "We're fighting men," said Wadley. "We ain't got no room for yellowbellies, understand?" Hackermeyer grunted. "Give ' em hell 's our motto," Sergeant Wadley said. "Yeah," said Hackermeyer. Wadley reminded him of his Uncle Geor the pretentious authority, the unconvincing bluster. "Another thing," said Wadley, "I don't want to see you dumping gear, understand? I see you dumping gear, I'll put a bullet through your brain. Understand?" Hackermeyer sniffed and limped along beside the barrel-chested, long-armed Wadley. Wadley's newly shaven cheeks were red and puffy while Hackermeyer's were colorless and flat. Wadley's helmet liner sat too high on his skull so that his head and helmet formed a giant egg shape. Hackermeyer's helmet rode too low. His inanimate black eyes were shadowed by the rim. Wadley moved in short, swaggering paces, one hand gripping the machine pistol hanging at his side. His expression was alertly grim. Hackermeyer plodded, his right thumb hooked beneath the sling of his rifle, his lean face emptied of expression. As they neared the hollow where the second squad was, they began to hear the raving voice of Sergeant Cooley, who was talking to another soldier. Cooley saw them approaching and came striding over. "What's this about leaving our overshoes behind?" he demanded. Wadley bristled instantly. "Orders, Cooley," he said in a quietly dangerous voice. "What idiot would give orders like that?" said Cooley. "Christ's sake, ain't we had enough trench foot? Take away our overshoes and every man in the outfit'll be crawling back to the aid station!" "I don't give the orders, Cooley!" Wadley shouted. "I just see they get followed out and, by Christ, they'll get followed out, understand?" Cooley turned his head and spat tobacco juice. "Watch it, Cooley," said Wadley in a threatening voice. "Watch it yourself!" raged Cooley. "They know damn well it rains two days out of three up here!" "Cooley!" "They know damn well we got to walk through water! They know damn well we got to sleep in foxholes filled with rain! They know damn well it's going to snow soon!" "Goddamn it, Cooley!" bellowed Wadley. Hackermeyer stood by sleepily while Cooley and Wadley called each other names. He had slept an hour and twenty minutes on the truck and had been taken from the replacement depot two hours after arriving there from a three-day trip across France in a crowded boxcar. He was not interested in what the sergeants were arguing about. Sniffing, he watched them with heavy-lidded eyes. Cooley appeared to be in his middle-forties. He was a man of medium height, chunky but not oversize. Wadley loomed gorilla-like next to him. Cooley's features were undistinguished except for his eyes which were a livid blue in the grimy, sun- and wind-burned, beard-stubbled leather of his face. He was wearing a mud-spattered overcoat without stripes. The netting stretched across his helmet was torn and there was a single, dried-up leaf under it. Across Cooley's right shoulder hung a carbine. Suddenly, he turned from Wadley's apoplectic bluster and looked at Hackermeyer. "What's this?" he asked. "What do you think?" sneered Wadley. "A replacement." Cooley chewed his tobacco reflectively. "How old are you?" he asked. "Eighteen," said Hackermeyer. Cooley spat. "Swell," he said. He turned to Wadley. "I ain't running a rifle squad," he said. "I'm running a kindergarten." "T-S," said Wadley through his protuberant teeth. He turned away, looking ominous. "We're not through talking," said Cooley. Wadley glared across his shoulder. "Maybe you think we're not through, but we're through, understand?" "You tell Captain Miller for me-" "I ain't telling nobody nothing!" Wadley raged. "And, by Christ, them overshoes better be stacked high before we leave this area! Understand?" "Up yours," said Cooley. Wadley spun around, red cheeks mottling. He looked at Cooley with assassin's eyes. "Something on your mind?" asked Cooley. Breath hissed out between Wadley's clenching teeth. "Watch your step, Cooley," he warned. "Just watch your step, understand?" Cooley spat tobacco juice. Wadley glared at him, fingers whitening on the handle of his machine pistol. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away. After two strides, he looked across his shoulder. "Remember what I said!" he ordered. He glowered at Hackermeyer. "You too, soldier!" Cooley turned to Hackermeyer. "What'd he tell you?" "Don't dump gear," said Hackermeyer. "That's up to you," said Cooley. "Just make sure you don't dump that entrenching tool and maybe you'll see Christmas. Where you from?" "Brooklyn," said Hackermeyer. "When were you drafted?" "June." Cooley exhaled dispiritedly. "And here you are," he said. "Yeah." Cooley rubbed his face tiredly. "They must think this is a Boy Scout jamboree," he mumbled, looking around. "Dave!" he called. The soldier to whom he'd been talking looked up from a book. Cooley beckoned to him and the soldier stood and came walking over. He was tall and well built with a pleasantly handsome face. "Replacement," said Cooley. "What's your name, son?" "Hackermeyer." "This is Corporal Lippincott," said the sergeant. "My name's Cooley." Hackermeyer nodded twice, his face impassive. Cooley sighed. "Take him over to Wendt," he said. "All right." Lippincott looked at Hackermeyer. "Let's go," he said. "Take over in case anything comes up while I'm gone," said Cooley. "Where you going?" asked Lippincott. "To see Miller. This overshoes crap has got to cease." "Why knock yourself out?" asked Lippincott. "That dumbass of a colonel has got to see some light," said Cooley, starting off. Lippincott shook his head and smiled without amusement. "Let's go," he said again. They started walking. "Something wrong with your feet?" asked Lippincott, noticing Hackermeyer's limp. "Cold," said Hackermeyer. "Better warm them up," said Lippincott. "Yeah." "Try to keep your feet dry," Lippincott told him. "Otherwise, you'll wind up getting trench foot. I don't suppose you've had any combat experience." "No." "How old are you?" "Eighteen." Lippincott nodded gravely. "How many eighteen-year-olds in the squad?" asked Hackermeyer, remembering Cooley's remark that he was running a kindergarten. Lippincott thought a moment. "Four including you," he said. "Out of twelve?" "Ten," said Lippincott. "We're short." They walked up to a short soldier who was lying on a spread-out raincoat, head pillowed by his helmet. A cigarette jutted up from his chapped lips and his brown, woolen cap was pulled down over his eyes. His features were stubby, his beard a reddish-blond fuzz. He had a brown towel wrapped around his neck for a scarf. "Wendt," said Lippincott. Wendt lifted the edge of his cap from one eye and looked up groggily. "Uh?" he muttered. "This is Hackmeyer," said Lippincott. "Hackermeyer." Lippincott nodded once. "Wendt can tell you most anything you want to know," he said. "We expect to move out tomorrow morning." He patted Hackermeyer's shoulder. "Glad you're with us," he said. Wendt watched sleepily while Hackermeyer unslung his rifle and pack and sank down with a tired sigh. Hackermeyer blew his nose, then started to take off his overshoes. "Seen much combat?" asked Wendt. "No." "Oh." Wendt blew out smoke which faded into the cold air. While Hackermeyer rubbed his feet, he saw a bazooka and rocket shells beside Wendt. "You a bazooka man?" he asked. "Yeah," said Wendt. "I got the only one left in the squad. You can lug the shells. I got a buddy did it but they're using him for comp

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