For God and Country. Mark Bowlin

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СКАЧАТЬ he couldn’t see what was goin’ on. I told him that we had ’em on the run and to let me finish ’em up, but he insisted.”

      Perkin looked puzzled. “Let me get this straight. He thought they were going to counterattack up the mountain to cover their withdrawal from the mountain? That don’t make much sense.”

      “No, it don’t. I tried to explain that to him when we got back but he wasn’t thinkin’ real clear. He said I exceeded my orders, so I explained that our orders were to clear the last of the German defenders off Mount Sammy, which is what we did. When I said that, he told me I was insubordinate.”

      “What?”

      “Yeah. So I told him to write me up if he really felt that way, and he began to backtrack some. I don’t reckon anything will come outta that, but Jesus, Perk, he was all white and shakin’ and I don’t think it was anger at me for doin’ my job.”

      Sam had a troubled look on his face that Perkin seldom saw. He knew that given Sam’s history with Ebbins, he wouldn’t say anything up the chain of command, lest he be accused of pursuing a personal agenda. Perkin had no such qualms.

      “You should have said something to Bill earlier. Let me talk to him; maybe he can calm Ebbins down some.”

      Sam shook his head. “No.”

      “The battalion commander needs to know that one of his company commanders isn’t up to the job, don’t you think?”

      Sam shook his head, “If it gets to that point, I’ll say something myself. But let’s not forget this is his first time in real action. It takes some gettin’ used to.” He shook his head again. “I’d rather help Ebbins work through this myself.”

      Perkin was about to protest again when they were interrupted by the mess sergeant who leaned over Sam’s shoulder and said in an East Texas accent, “We got two dozen eggs, four cups of sugar, and a gallon of cream.” The sergeant handed a scrap of paper to Sam. “But I cain’t read your instructions. What’s next, sir?”

      Sam spoke in low tones so that only the sergeant and Perkin could hear. “Ya gotta separate the eggs. In the yolks, whip in about two-thirds of the sugar. Then add the two quarts of bourbon, slowly working it in. Then, in another bowl, whip the whites and the remaining sugar together just like for a meringue. Then combine the two bowls, and then fold, fold mind you, the cream into the eggs. It’s the best damn nog you’ll ever have. Promise. Now hurry along so it’s done by the end of dinner.”

      The wine turned out to be a decent Sangiovese, and the cousins toasted one another and their friends and family back home. They were joined at their little table by a platoon leader from Dog Company who was in an exceptionally jovial mood after having lived through his first battle and, being a former teetotaler, having drunk his first three glasses of wine.

      The battalion cooks had done them proud. Even with the battlefield conditions, the occasional freezing rain, and the short notice, they served roasted turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh rolls, stewed cauliflower, and buttermilk pie. It was certainly the best meal that either Sam or Perkin had eaten for weeks, and in the nature of hungry men, the assembled soldiers all swore that it was best food they had ever eaten.

      Toward the end of the dinner, as Sam was finishing his third piece of pie, two battalion cooks carefully carried in a huge glass punch bowl filled with Sam’s eggnog. The bowl had been liberated from a destroyed home in San Pietro, and the red faces and wide smiles of the cooks suggested that they had liberated some of Sam’s bourbon as well.

      They carried it up to the front table where Spaulding and the company commanders sat on one side of a long table facing the remaining guests. The mess sergeant leaned over and whispered to Major Spaulding while his men filled paper coffee cups with the eggnog and passed them out to the assembled soldiers.

      Major Spaulding accepted a cup of the eggnog, tentatively sniffed at the beverage, and then turned the cup upside down. The eggnog didn’t move. Seemingly coming to a decision, the battalion commander stood up, and in the gradually ensuing silence, he indicated that his guests were to keep their seats.

      “Gentlemen, may I have your attention please? I’d like to thank y’all for comin’ here tonight. I know that everyone is tired and looking forward to gettin’ back to your companies and havin’ a quiet night’s sleep, so I won’t keep y’all here long. Please charge your glasses with the remainder of the wine, before we advance to our next objective . . . this . . . uh . . . curious eggnog, which smells promising even if it melted my nose hairs.”

      Spaulding watched as the men filled their cups—a mixture of wine glasses and canteen cups—and then said as he stubbed out a cigarette in his plate, “Please stand. I’m gonna teach you an old Able Company tradition: the Texas Roister. As in war, do as I say, when I say it, and y’all may live through the experience.” When the soldiers were all standing with full cups, he continued, “The Texas Roister is a time-honored tradition which our historian, Captain Professor Berger, assures me was the last act of the defenders at the Alamo.”

      Perkin looked at Sam and grinned. He had made that up two years before while drunk at an Able Company party at Camp Bowie.

      “And as we are the 1st Battalion of the famous Alamo Regiment, it’s only fittin’ that we should carry on the tradition.”

      Sam rolled his eyes back at Perkin and whispered across the table, “I think the fumes from the eggnog got to him. Bill ain’t normally this long-winded.”

      “We’re gonna do four toasts, but we only drink at the end. And it all goes down. OK, gents, hold your cups out like this.” Spaulding demonstrated by holding his cup out with his wrist bent outward at a right angle. When everyone complied, he said in a firm voice, “To God!”

      Led by Perkin and Sam, the soldiers seconded the toast, “To God!”

      They watched as Spaulding then did a curious thing: instead of taking a drink, he brought the glass of wine up to his ear, held it there for a moment as if he were listening to the wine’s stories, and then he brought the glass back down in front of him still held at the awkward angle. Following Sam and Perkin’s lead, the others did likewise.

      “To Country!”

      “To Country!” This time the deep voices toasted in unison, and the movement of the glasses to ear and back was much more fluid.

      “To Texas!”

      “To Texas!” Enthusiasm was in their voices, and grins of anticipation were now seen throughout the audience.

      “Gentlemen, our next stop is Rome. It’s a damn hard road gettin’ there, but, ‘On to Rome!’”

      “On to Rome!”

      “Now, boys, do what I do!” With a loud rolling “Roiiiiiisssssster!” Spaulding downed his drink in a single swallow and slammed his empty glass on the table. With evident satisfaction, Spaulding watched as the soldiers followed his lead with a stretched-out “roister” of their own.

      Applause, laughter, and cheers followed; the soldiers who hadn’t had much cause lately for applause, laughs, or cheers quickly moved their attention to uncovering the mysteries of Sam’s eggnog, and amid a boisterous dissonance of carols and roister-practicing, the Christmas celebration resumed anew.

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