In the morning the lighters come in and hug the
sides of the troopship. The big iron doors open and the troops move out and
take their places on the decks of the little boats. The portholes high above
are filled with heads looking down. Men for a later debarkation. The little
boat moves off, puffs up the bay among the tugs and the destroyers and the
anchored freighters. The soldiers are self-conscious in a new place. They
regard this new land skeptically as one must when he is not sure of himself.
The little boat puffs up to the dock, which has mysteriously become a quay,
pronounced “key,” which is, of course, ridiculous.
Now as the lighter ties up an astonishing thing
happens. A band of pipers marches out in kilts, with bagpipes and drums and the
swingy march of pipers. The harsh skirling cuts through the air. The most
military, the most fighting music in the world. Our men crowd the rail. The
band approaches, drums banging, pipes squealing and, as they draw abreast, the
soldiers break into a great cheer. They may not like the harsh music; it takes
time to like it; but something of the iron of the music goes into them. The
pipers wheel and march back and away. It was a good thing to do. Our men, in
some deep way, feel honored. The music has stirred them. This is a different
war from the one of training camps and strategy at post exchanges.
From the deck of the lighter the men can see
the roofless houses, the burned-out houses. The piles of rubble where the
bombs have fallen. They have seen pictures of this and have read about it, but
that was pictures and reading. It wasn’t real. This is different. It isn’t like
the pictures at all. On the quay, the Red Cross is waiting with caldrons of
coffee, with mountains of cake. They have been serving since dawn and they will
serve until long after dark. The gangplank to the lighter is fixed now. The
men, carrying their heavy barrack bags, packs on their backs and rifles slung
over their shoulders, struggle up the steep gangway to the new country. And in
the distance they can hear the sound of the pipes greeting another lighter-load
of troops.
A PLANE’S NAME
A BOMBER STATION, June 26, 1943—The
bomber crew is getting back from London. The men have been on a
forty-eight-hour pass. At the station an Army bus is waiting, and they pile in
with other crews. Then the big bus moves through the narrow streets of the
little ancient town and rolls into the pleasant green country. Fields of wheat
with hedgerows between. On the right is one of the huge vegetable gardens all
cut up into little plots where families raise their own produce. Some men and
women are working in the garden now, having ridden out of town on their
bicycles.
