At dinner that evening Private First Class Max Burckhardt complained loudly to Sergeant Dick Donnelly.
“What a washout!” he grumbled. “Nothing but a nice plane ride, an easy parachute jump, a little standing around in the hot sun, and then a ride back again. Do they call this a war?”
“Keep your shirt on, Max,” Sergeant Dick Donnelly replied with a smile. “The French want us to come. Just you wait until we make contact with the Germans!”
“Ah—yes!” boomed the burly private. “That’s what I’m waiting for—for a chance at some of those Nazis.”
“It won’t be long now,” mused the sergeant. “It won’t be long.”
CHAPTER TWO
A MAN WITH TWO NAMES
As the days rolled by, the good-natured complaints grew in number and intensity. The men wanted to fight and they were not fighting.
“When I volunteered for the paratroops,” young Tony, the radioman, said one day, “I did it because I like action. I like excitement. I like thrills. Danger—it doesn’t mean much to me. Some day I’m gonna get killed, that’s all. I’m sort of a fatalist, I guess. When my number’s up it’s up, and sitting around worryin’ about it won’t change it. Meanwhile, have a good time, get a kick out of things, and do your darnedest in anything you’ve got to do.”
“I know what you mean,” Dick Donnelly said. “And I feel a little bit the same way—but I don’t believe in not ducking when a shell’s coming over.”