A Thoughtful Christmas Gift
Copyright© 2025 by Paladin_HGWT
Chapter 3: Exchanging Favors
Camp of the 82nd Airborne Division, near Reims, France
1112 Hours (Local) [11:12 AM] Sunday, 17 December, 1944
I was just concluding inspecting the weapons of my squad, when Technical Sergeant Coffey entered the area of the barn where our squad was quartered. He looked at our weapons, some partially disassembled, and all of our gear laid out atop our cots. My uniform was squared away, because just a couple of hours ago I had to report to my new Company Commander, and Platoon Leader, and then introduce myself to my new squad. Several of the soldiers in my squad looked like hobos, unshaven, their uniforms slovenly.
Technical Sergeant Coffey said, “Sergeant Hamlin, Corporal Lisle, we have some new replacements, and a veteran, Private First Class Bishop was wounded while were were crossing the Waal canal. He kept fighting until the British tanks got across the Ninjmegen bridge. Get them settled in. Remember that the Mess Hall closes at thirteen hundred hours.”
I said, “Walsh, Coogan, go grab some serviceable cots for these men. Corporal Lisle, designate areas for the new men to set up their cots. Betts, and Jenkins, you go take a quick smoke break. Be back here in ten minutes. Betts, I will hold you responsible for both of you to be back here on time. Understood.”
“Uh, yeah, okay Sarge,” Betts said as he started to hustle away.
I said, “Did you mean to say. Yes. Sergeant. Private Betts.”
PFC Betts said, “Uhhh. Yeah. Thas’ right.”
I gave him a glare, and he straightened up and said, “Jeez! Yes. Sarh-gent.”
I opened my notebook to a new page, and prepared to write, as I asked, “Private First Class Bishop, what is your first name, and your service number?”
PFC Bishop looked at me, an expression flitted across his face, then he said, “Sergeant, my first name is Nicholas. Service Number Three-five, three-five-two, seven-five-three.”
As I wrote the information, I said, “Thank you Bishop. As soon as you get your cot set up, lay out your gear, like the rest of the squad has done. This isn’t a formal inspection. We are verifying that every soldier has their essential gear, and that it is serviceable. When I call out an item, just hold it up so that, or Corporal Lisle can see it, and confirm that it is serviceable. Any questions?”
“No. Sergeant,” PFC Bishop said.
To a blond kid that looked like he might be fifteen, I said, “You. What is your last name, first name, rank, and service number?”
The kid said, “Kringle. Rudolph. Private. Three-six, five-two-five, two-two-four. Sergeant.
I said, “Thank you Private Kringle. Did you, uh. Misplace your rifle?”
Private Kringle said, “No. Sergeant. We were told we would be issued weapons after we got to our unit.”
I shook my head, turned back to PFC Bishop and asked, “Where did you get that Browning automatic rifle? Or should I not ask?”
Bishop grinned, then said, “I was issued this baby at Camp Bragg, and have held on to it ever since! This one is more reliable than some, and I have tinkered with it so it is just the way I like it. When I was wounded, I was only wounded bad enough to be sent back to France, not even to England. I didn’t get a ‘Million Dollar Wound’ so I’d be sent back home. Figured I would be sent back to my unit, so I hung onto ‘Ole Reliable’ ... I was in First Platoon. Top told me that Third Herd has lost more men, and you guys needed a few more veterans.”
I said, “We are glad to have you Bishop. Let’s get this knocked out, and then we can all go to lunch.”
To a brown haired kid with a round face, I said, “Last name, first name, rank, and service number?”
He looked at me, his mouth gaped like a fish, and he blinked twice before he said, “Uh ... uhhh ... Kenny Smith Suh-sargent ... uhhhh...”
I said, “Individual, are you trying to tell me that you are a Sergeant?”
His face turned pink, and he tried to speak several times before he managed to say, “Yes Sergeant! I ... Uh, I mean. No! Sargent. I am Private Kenny Smith! Sargent!”
I said, “Take a breath. I have written down your name. Recite your service number, so I may write it down.”
Kenny was sweating as he blurted out, “Threefivefivefourthree! Uhhh ... onethreeseven!”
I shook my head, and said, “Corporal Lisle, read that Leg’s dog tags, and write down the information I requested.”
As Corporal Lisle took the replacement in hand, I said to our fourth replacement, “Last name, first name, rank, and service number. Speak clearly, and slow enough that I may write the information down.”
This kid was tall, swarthy, and had a smirk on his face, but he wiped it off when he noticed my glare, and he said, “Thomas, first name Frank, Pry-vat. Numbah Tree-too, ate-fo’ too, sev’n-fife-tree, uh, sarge-ent.”
Private Thomas had a New Yorker’s accent, not as bad as some; Brooklyn, maybe: I wasn’t sure, anyway, I said, “Okay, Corporal Lisle, you help Private Smith. Coogan, assist Bishop. Walsh, you guide Thomas, and Daniels, you work with Kringle. We don’t want to be last to lunch, but accuracy is more important than speed.”
This iteration went quicker than the earlier inventory. PFC Bishop was missing several important items, and a most of the unimportant ones. He had two sets of paratrooper uniforms that were clean, but had various holes, or other deficiencies, but he was wearing a nearly new set of the M1943 uniform for Leg (non-Airborne) Infantry. The others had most everything they should, and each had two sets of the M1943 uniforms. They each only had one pair of boots. Paratrooper boots for Bishop, the M1943 boots for Kringle and Smith, Thomas had big ‘boon-dockers’ and he had been issued the old ‘marching’ shoes and canvas gaiters. Bishop had no snivel gear, the rest only had overcoats and wool gloves.
While we were inspecting the gear of the new men; about eleven minutes by my watch, Betts and Jenkins returned from their smoke break. I pretended not to notice that there was a red mark on the left side of Jenkins face; likely by tomorrow he would have a black eye. I exchanged a glance with Corporal Lisle, it seemed that he noticed too. Before we went to lunch, I asked our Platoon Sergeant, Technical Sergeant Coffey if he would have someone keep an eye on Third Squads’ gear, while we went to lunch, and after, while I would try to address some of the most serious deficiencies.
As the men were filing into the Mess Hall, I tugged on Corporal Lisle’s sleeve, and quietly asked, “Is Company, or Battalion processing these deficiencies? I don’t want to shortcircut things if that stuff is on order.”
Corporal Lisle looked at his feet, and said, “I guess so. I don’t really know. We did an inventory about three weeks ago, not long after we got here. I haven’t heard anything. At first we were catching up on sleep. Then we had various details. Digging latrines, setting up additional tents, clearing out rubble. You know. Probably that’s why I didn’t get promoted. I’ve just been waiting for us to get some replacements, and handling stuff day to day. Dang! I should have known the condition of Jenkins’ uniforms! He has been wearing his overcoat most of the time. With this weather most of us have...”
I said, “Your leaders in Fox Company didn’t mention anything to me about Jenkins, or anything you have done. They all told me they believe that you should be promoted. If the Battalion or Regimental Sergeant Major noticed Jenkins, you’d know. Most likely it is your limited experience, and time in grade. You have proven to the guys in Fox Company that you know how to lead in combat. Learn from me how to handle these administrative matters. I am depending on you to assist me, and be prepared to take charge if I become a casualty. I can depend upon you, right?”
He smiled, and said, “You bet! You can depend on me! I guess I thought that since I did okay in combat, that we were here for rest and relaxation. Not all the chicken shit, like back in England, or Camp Bragg.”
I nodded, and we went in and joined the line behind the Joes. Lunch was pretty good. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, diced carrots, day old bread, and rice pudding for desert. The coffee was strong, and the milk was fresh. Looking around we might have been the only squad in the entire battalion to be eating together. Betts, Jenkins, and Thomas bolted their food, and made a dash for the exit, eager to obliterate the tastes of a decent meal with their coffin nail1 addiction. I told Walsh to keep an eye on them, and make sure they headed back to the Company area after their smoke break.
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