Their Bit

By Corbert Windage

You're never too old for a curtain call... especially on the front lines.

(A FEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OF HAROLD FLEENOR'S NOVEL "THE VALOR ROAD" FOLLOWS)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Corbert Windage
• Release date: Jul 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465772428

Corbert Windage

A son of Kentucky, I've traveled the world which affords the basis for most of my stories. A fan of Stephen King and old Moody Blues records (the first 8)and science fiction, I'm rarely seen without a book in hand. Basset and Blood Hounds are my close friends. If you find yourself in the 'Ville stop in and say howdy. Still trying to figure out where the muse goes when I'm blocked.

Book preview

Their Bit

by

Corbert Windage

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 © Corbert Windage

cover photo © Geraktv | Dreamstime.com

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Their Bit

by

Corbert Windage

Mates, a special treat before you reach your staging areas none other than the Showster with the Moster; Mister Benny LaBean has flown in to see you off.

A splattering of applause greeted the colonel's announcement. The troops, mainly Australians and New Zealanders with a company of British regulars thrown in for good measure, had expected Vera Lynn. Something nice and feminine to look at before descending into the green hell that was Burma.

Fighting the Japs was bad enough; but in the jungle, enemies that at first appeared innocuous enough soon declared war on friend and foe alike. Branches and leaves and razor-sharp kunai grasses acting as artillery, began the assault. Nicks and scrapes that on a western battlefield could normally be ignored here opened the way for all sorts of nasty infections. These openings acted as a dinner bell for the ever-present insect air force of flies, gnats and chiggers. Mosquitoes of course, needed no such breach in human flesh to begin their mission, just shade. Shade and night were their operating parameters. The latter, depending of course on the time of year, was furnished them up to fifteen hours a day, with a four-fifths jungle canopy providing the former. The diseases waited patiently. Malaria, dengue fever, dysentery, just to name a few, were the by-products of Nature's assault, particularly during Monsoon season. Vipers, crocs, as well as the occasional tiger, were the troops main concern, but veterans considered these one-shot terror weapons at best. Like the Japanese, who certainly weren't immune to the same ravages, this enviroment seemed to know instinctively that killing one intruder quickly was far less efficient than debilitating the whole.

Bleeding Benny LaBean! one soldier exclaimed, My grandmother had her knickers in a twist over that old fossil, and she's been dead well-nigh fifteen years.

The colonel heard that and several similar comments from the assembled battalion. He too was a Vera Lynn fan; and she was scheduled. Unfortunately for these lads, her arrival was delayed in the morass created by a late monsoon. Ten miles back might as well be Trafalgar Square for this lot. H-hour, the time they were to push off, was in less than ninety minutes.

Pity - for them, he thought, less competition for me.

He had known of Miss Lynn's visit for better than a month. That knowledge caused him considerable discomfort as he was reduced to rationing his hard to come by mustache wax. Now, his facial adornment stood gloriously statue stiff, curling at the ends. Dashing, if he did say so himself. But these celebrities were a fickle type, tending way toward, in the colonel's opinion, an overt fixation of fraternization with the common soldier while ignoring the superior breeding and culture of the officer corps. Most of these, like Benny LaBean, could be dismissed as like gravitating to like. Miss Lynn's origins were no less humble. However, her singing fame, combined with her stunning good looks, was certainly worthy of the attention of her social betters. Besides, winning the heart of Miss. Lynn, her incumbent popularity with him on her arm was certain to draw notice on the societal pages. That, in and of itself, could secure several different types of advancement, to brigadier for example.

Now, now, lads. the colonel spoke quickly, none of that. Mister LaBean just got here ahead of the weather. Regrettable Miss Lynn did not. Due to his – age he's not going to perform.

This was greeted with a mixed chorus with Thank God being clearly in the majority.

"Instead," he waited till the murmuring died down. Instead, he's waiting at a tent about a half a mile up the trail, waiting to give you a send off with a hearty wave and the occasional handshake. Be good lads now, and remember your manners. And let's knock the Nips for six. Goodbye and God bless. General Mortenson.

Turning the stage over to the senior operations commander, the colonel hurried back to his jeep. There his driver waited, crouched in the back seat next to the radio, a headphone pressed to one ear.

Bloody bastard better be following his orders, the colonel thought. Nothing like a little threat of front-line duty to keep an orderly on his toes.

Well Cogswell, report!

Corporal Cogswell started. He tried to jump out of the jeep and stand to attention. Instead, his foot caught on the passenger seat sending him sprawling. Embarrassed, he scrambled to his feet, bringing his right arm up in an openhanded salute. Idiot, the colonel thought.

Beg to report sir, the corporal said, staring straight ahead.

Get on with it corporal. Oh bloody hell. The colonel raised his swagger stick in a quick motion, like he was swatting a fly. This idiot would stand there saluting until the second coming unless the colonel returned the courtesy. Visibly relieved Cogswell dropped his hand.

Sir, the –er- package left operations 'eadquarters approximately thirty minutes ago. But, - er – her – that is the package's transport is mired down and not expected to arrive for another 'our or so sir.

Another hour, the colonel thought. And how old is this intelligence, corporal?

About twenty minutes or so, sir.

Forty minutes, the colonel calculated to himself. Then aloud, Okay corporal, let's get a move on then. It's impolite to keep a lady waiting, you know.

Right you are sir.

Troops will be here any moment now Mr. LaBean, the young lieutenant said. You sure you won't have a sit down sir? There'll be more than 2,000 all told coming past.

Thank you lieutenant, but I've been sitting quite long enough.

Benjamin Mortimer LaBean stood stock- still. Head turned left, his eyes strained to focus on the small hillock where the troops' campaign hats came bobbing into view. Stout lads, he thought. The best the empire had to offer. No! Not the best. Those were fighting in Europe. Or so the papers would lead one to believe. For the life of him he couldn't, wouldn't believe that. As the first troops topped the rise, they seemed as fine a specimen of manhood as any he had seen. Considering whom they were going to fight and where that fighting was to take place these men, at least those who survived, could look back with pride. They may be second, or even third stringers when it came to being adequately supplied, or raved about in the papers; but now as the first men drew close, the raw determination in their eyes was second to none.

High command in Australia had repeatedly turned down his request to entertain the troops at the front. Benny you're just too old, one general had told him. His persistence finally resulted in the concession to entertain the men at the embarkation points. Placed in with the more contemporary acts the results had been mixed. If he started the show the troops soon grew restless. They wanted to see the girls, or at least a fanciful facsimile of what they were leaving behind. An old man and a ukulele might as well been an organ grinder with a trained monkey. His songs simply weren't their songs. By the time of the third troop movement he was the closing act; and no matter how hard he tried, more and more their eyes glanced toward the transport ships that they would within minutes board. Their non-commissioned officers already began to stir and hover about them, impatiently waiting for Benny to finish so they could begin bawling orders, begin rounding up their charges.

Benny cut his performances short, sparing a few minutes to talk to the lads about the nation's gratitude. Then all the acts joined him on stage for a final salute, and it was over.

Surprisingly, he did start to receive a somewhat regular flow of fan mail again. Troops who were homesick, some who were impressed by his parting sentiments, would write asking for an autograph picture. Some actually wanted some of his songs that had made it to vinyl; and, after awhile, his old recording studio agreed to re-release some of this music gratis, their bit for the war effort. This Benny sent along with a cheery note of thanks and always, God's blessing.

Some kept up a regular correspondence. A part of Benny liked to think that the military censors stayed their dreaded black pens in deference to his celebrity. But all too soon he realized that where these young men were simply lacked any strategic geographic locations such as towns or cities to talk about.

The newspapers told much of the story anyway. And more.

Sometimes the letters abruptly ceased. Benny began scanning newspaper casualty lists. More times than not, there was the answer. Cold, impersonal, the print stated the facts of war, name, service number,