Digging In

(This was written for a college class and inspired by the author's military experiences.)

Parked on the top of Hill NG6 15 24 19 55, we could see the first platoon of Alpha Battery crossing a bridge and making the turn that would eventually lead them into position, a small snake in the distance that halted halfway through the turn. The rows of firs on our left came to a sudden stop and a clear grassy meadow sloped the rest of the way down the hill. There was just enough ridge for the howitzers and ammo carriers to set up and still be in the cover of the trees. It was a great location in which camouflage nets would not be required. The village of Baumdorf sat across the road to the right of the Humvee, and the town of Schonbrunner stood between the stalled first platoon and our position.

Captain Carraway had just received word that a red infantry unit from the States patrolled five kilometers north of our position First Platoon should have already been set up and firing, but a flock of sheep crossing the road had delayed their arrival earlier. Carraway radioed Lieutenant Higgins and gave Second Platoon, who were in position two kilometers east of us, the fire mission. Then he radioed Lieutenant Dyer of First Platoon.

"Goddammit, Lieutenant! What's the fucking hold up? Over."

There was static, and then: "Section 3's gun is down with major diesel leak. We've got a ditch full of fuel. Over."

"Goddammit," the captain said, staring down at the crippled snake in the distance. "Something else for the colonel to bitch about." Then, into the radio handset: "Leave the gun. Call Maintenance to come fix it. Leave the gunner and driver with it. And get your asses up here!"

Two young boys on bicycles came pedaling around the curve behind us. They looked inquisitively at the Humvee as they rode by. Captain Carraway smiled and waved. "Guten Tag." The boys giggled and coasted down the hill, sinking out of sight.

"Not very social, are they, Laufmann?"

"No, sir." I was always amazed at the captain's ability to go from rage to small talk. He had been a Ranger earlier in his career, and everyone in the battery considered him half crazy and hotheaded. The guys in the battery used to tell me what a cushy job I had as the battery commander's driver, but none of them wanted it after Captain Ranger took over. Now, instead of envy, I had pity.

A few minutes later, the bicyclers returned up the hill pushing their bikes. They were followed by five more kids - two girls and three boys. They slowly moved near the captain's door. All walked apprehensively behind the biggest of the bicyclers, ready to dart away at the first sign of trouble.

"Guten Tag," he said through his window. Captain Callaway spoke good German and carried on a conversation with the children. I could only understand the English parts, which consisted of "MRE." Meals, Ready to Eat. The soldiers hated them, but the kids loved them. I knew several guys in the battery that would get the kids to bring them beer in return for one of the brown plastic MRE pouches that contained a meal of cold food, most of it dehydrated. We traveled through the small German towns in parade-like fashion. Humvees followed by monstrous howitzers with their 16-meter, phallic cannons extending beyond the front of the vehicle, ammo carriers and personnel carriers loudly promenading through the center of farming villages with red brick roads and orange roofs. Children would line the streets screaming "MRE, MRE," as dirty, tired soldiers protruding from the tops of howitzers and ammo carriers would toss them the portions of the MREs they didn't like - packets of nasty cheese, peanut butter, stew, beans, dehydrated hamburgers, pork, fruit and ketchup rained onto the red bricks where greedy hands scooped them up. Most of the times the soldiers ate the gum and candy.

"Reach back there and get them an MRE," the captain said. "They can divide it up themselves."

I listened as the children walked away laughing and talking in high excited voices. A successful mission. I could smell rain coming. It rained every day.

"It's about goddamn time," Captain Carraway barked.

Lieutenant Dyer's personnel carrier rose over the hill and approached us. Captain Carraway jumped out of the Humvee and began signaling them into the corrected position. He moved quickly and too sure of himself. A childhood accident had deformed his elbow slightly, and it always seemed to be pointed away from his body. His Kevlar fit his head loosely, making his neck look thin from the back, as if it were coming out of a camouflage bell. The personnel carrier moved in position, and the rest of the battery followed. The track vehicles marred deep ruts into the meadow as they left the road. The asphalt was scraped white at the pivot point of each track's turn.

The quiet afternoon filled with noise and action. Soldiers emerged from the back hatches of the guns as they stopped. Young men scrambling out of the asses of green iron dragons. Some ran with red and white striped aiming posts, while others dropped the rear spades that the big gun backed up on to keep it in place as it fired its hundred-pound projectiles. Shouts rang out along with hand signals communicating which way to position the instruments used in measuring how far each shot knocked the howitzers off their original location. Only here there was no live fire, just exercises.

Captain Carraway stood a hundred meters out in front of the guns at the aiming circle with Lieutenant Dyer, "Smoke" (Sergeant First Class McMeans) and "Gunny" (Staff Sergeant Davis). The captain flung his arms skyward in a gesture of disgust. His short, jerky movements communicated his anger. The lieutenant continued his work with the aiming circle, letting the captain's words bounce off him. Smoke and Gunny were behind the captain, laughing into their hands. Officers were only comic nuisances to these two old career soldiers.

Representatives from each gun ran half the distance to the aiming circle, relaying the necessary adjustments each gunner had to make. "Zero mils! Set! Gun one laid!" returned the gunner. As the last relays of shouts from the aiming circle to each individual gun ended, it began to rain.

Captain Carraway returned to the shelter of the Humvee. He removed a faux-antique red metal box with the Ritz cracker logo from his green travel bag and offered me one of his wife's brownies. I declined. He took one for himself, and placed it on a napkin. He closed the red box, put it back in the green bag, and laid it on the rear seat behind me.

"How can someone so incapable of making a decision get to be an officer in the United States Army?"

"I don't know, sir."

"I swear, he makes things so goddamn difficult."

"Who's that, sir?"

"Go over there and tell Lieutenant Dyer to come here."

I started to get my poncho, but decided against it. I stepped out into the cold rain and ran over to the Field Directional Command track, where I saw the lieutenant enter earlier. I opened the hatch. Five men sat squeezed into the small track, monitoring three radios and waiting for fire missions.

"What's he want this time, Laufmann?" Staff Sergeant Bennett asked. He was a tall man from South Carolina who loved to fish.

"He wants to see you, sir," I said to the lieutenant.

"He wants some more of that ass," Sergeant Bennett said.

"That man has got it in for me. Did he say what it was about?"

"No, sir."

"Did he sound mad?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You're not much help, Laufmann. You're the BC's driver, you're supposed to know everything!"

"Go on, sir," the sergeant said, "take your ass-chewing like a man."

"Tell him I'll be there in a minute. Tell him I'm in the middle of a meeting with FDC."

The rain came down harder. I ran back to the Humvee and delivered the message.

"Go tell him I said right now! No... better yet, drive right behind FDC."

I started the Humvee, drove in front and around the guns to FDC's track. Lieutenant Dyer exited the back hatch as I came to a stop. He circled the Humvee and got in the back seat behind the captain. He glanced over toward me. His face looked white, nervous. I felt ashamed to be in the vehicle. I turned away.

"I want your men to dig foxholes."

"But, sir, we're supposed to minimize dam..."

"Did I ask for your opinion, Lieutenant? Have each gun dig in! What's the use of having million-dollar exercises like this if we don't act like it's real? They can sit on their asses when we get back to the barracks, but for the next three weeks, I want to see some hustling, understand?"

The captain had not turned back to look at the lieutenant. He was finishing up his brownie. I also looked straight ahead out of respect for Lieutenant Dyer.

"Yes, sir. But still, I must protest. The colonel said to minimize the damage to the land."

Silence.

I looked down at the speedometer and played my eyes from zero all the way around to 80. I didn't move.

"You have your orders."

I felt the Humvee rock slightly as the lieutenant got out. He moved down the gun line and stopped at each howitzer. One or two figures with shovels emerged from each gun as he left for the next. There were no faces, only shadows hooded with ponchos. Each one broke the earth and piled it in miniature mountains. I watched as the rain poured even harder, turning the mountains into mud. The lieutenant came walking back behind the guns. He stopped twice to say something to the digging soldiers. He patted one on the back, passed the Humvee without looking in our direction, and entered the FDC track.

I could hear the captain moving something in the back seat. I then heard something being unzipped, but didn't look back towards him. I just kept staring at the digging soldiers. The radio crackled as lightning streaked in the distance. The sound of the rain beating against the tarp-like roof merged with the radio static to create one thick sound. I smelled chocolate.

"Are you sure you don't want a brownie, Laufmann? My wife told me to share them."

I turned and took one. I ate it carefully, trying not to lose any crumbs, as I watched each hole get deeper.