The Lieutenant was from Texas, and he carried it with him always.  He carried it in the way he spoke -- with a slow, disarming drawl. He carried it in the casual way he walked -- and in the laughter of his smile -- and in the clearness of his eyes.  Texas was always with him.  And most particularly he carried it in a small flag of the Lone Star State, treasured above all else, and taken with him wherever he went.  A small flag which he would raise not triumphantly, but almost dutifully over everything his Company captured: be it a pillbox, a barn, a village or a town.

The Lieutenant was young.  Within his Company -- a Rifle Company -- he was called "Junior."  Not maliciously, for his men instinctively liked him and had been pleased when but recently he had become their Exec.  He had just turned twenty.

On the day with which this tale is concerned, the Company had gone forward into a small German town, and had been trapped and pinned down by 88's and mortars and by three self-propelled 75's and a Mark IV Tank.  It was an untenable position and three platoons attempted to withdraw across the open fields.

Which is where the Lieutenant got it.  An 88 hit him in the legs and he fell.  A Medic went to him but was assured that everything was all right.  The Lieutenant wasn't hurt.  There were other men to worry about.  The Medic turned away.

Remember, he was a young kid, the Lieutenant -- wise in the ways of War -- but only twenty.  And it wasn't the first time he had heard 88's and mortars and seen men falling around him.

But now it was his turn.

A second round came in and got him bad.

He lay on the ground and his men crowded around him.  There was nothing they could do.

But before he died, he managed to get out the flag -- the flag his mother had given him.  "Take it," he said.  And he handed it to them.  "Take it and raise it over all the towns you capture."

And he moved slightly in pain, and then he said, "This is as far as I'm goin'."

And he died.

GI's are funny people.  They run around and make a Helluva lot of noise, some drink when they can get it, some cuss and they sometimes grow beards and don't always look sharp and pressed and clean, and in England some of the people didn't know quite what to make of them, and in France they ran after all the Mademoiselles in a big way, and in Germany they got pretty mean and did a lot of shootin', but none-the-less, they are essentially funny people.  Funny because they're rough and tough on the outside, yet inside, they can be soft and tender.

It's all very strange and a lot of people can't quite understand it, or won't believe it.  But it is quite true.  The case of Master Marcus Janvier is an example.  Marcus was a homeless Belgian waif who was picked up somewhere in France by the GI's of the 2^nd Battery of the 778^th AA, and traveled with them throughout Belgium, Luxembourg, and Germany, living the Army Life (which wasn't very comfortable in those days,) eating the Army chow (which wasn't so hot in those days,) and following orders just like a grown-up GI, (because there are always orders to be followed.)

Now we don't know whether Janvier was his real name or one given to him, but we kind of like to think that it was given him because he was picked up in January.

In the beginning of course, Marcus couldn't speak English so a guy named Wilfred Montgrain took him under his wing and in no time at all Marcus was speaking English like a veteran.  And a peculiar GI variety of English, because that is the only English he ever heard.  Eventually he got "transferred" to the 2^nd Battalion of the 385^th, if it is possible to "transfer" a twelve year old Belgian boy.  But he was happy and that is what counts.

which was.  And he became quite a soldier too, and just as crazy about pistols as his GI papa's were.  And once he even got "lost" and turned up in a beer garden.  Which is certainly no place for a twelve year old boy to turn up.  But then it was War, and he was sitting in the middle of it, and in the middle of wars strange things are apt to happen.

And in Germany there are lots of Beer gardens.

Eventually, Marcus got himself a new father, Warren Augustine, who was a Pfc., (the best rating in the U.S. Army,) and who decided pretty quick he'd like to take Marcus home with him; home being Hamilton, Ohio.  This, of course, meant red tape and paper work for the Red Cross.  But Marcus didn't particularly care.

Long before that he'd decided he wanted to go back to the States.  For him, America was full of promises and friends as fine as the foster-fathers who picked him up in those dismal January days.  Mr. January made no bonas about it.  He wanted to go back.

"Even if you have to stuff me in a barracks bag," he said.

The 3^rd platoon of Co K was to be relieved at the front, and details as to time and place had been arranged over the wire communications with the platoon's unit CP.  The men were resting easily waiting for the hour to near, when the telephone orderly announced that he heard guttural voices coming over the line.  Further listening on the part of T-Sgt. Lester Misik confirmed the fact that the line had been tapped.  Realizing the serious possibilities if the enemy had knowledge of the earlier arrangements, Sgt. Misik hit upon the idea of throwing still another language over the wires.  He called to Pfc. Thomas Reyes, and instructed him to explain the situation to Pfc. Florentine Martinez at the command post.  Both of these men under the peculiarities of the situation were rather handy to have around.  It would seem that no matter who an Army needs it can find someone in the ranks somewhere to fill the bill.  At least the Sgt. had the perfect answer for his problem.  For quite fortunately, both of these men are of Mexican lineage and in addition to their ability to speak pure Mexican, have a type of Mexican slang all their own.  It didn't take long for the wires to be buzzing with a lingo that most certainly caused the listening Krauts to scratch their heads in wonderment.  Needless to mention, the jargon of the two men arranged for a different time and place to affect the relief, and this was accomplished without enemy interference.  SOP's are born of experience and this platoon used it's five Mexican members regularly in any situation which warranted added security from that time on.

Military Hospitals in it, round up any stray Prisoners of War and SS and former members of the Nazi Party. and generally keep the civilians in line and busy at their various labors.  It was a tedious and rather monotonous job, but the men of the Company were glad of the chance to relax and it seemed good to be settled for a while at least in one position.  And everyone knew that the end was very near.  Which was even better.

Early one fine evening the billet guard came into the CP and announced that there was a Nazi Lieutenant from one of the hospitals who wanted to see the "Herr Commandant."  The Company Commander, who was a Captain, told the guard to send him in.

As the German Lieutenant came in he paused briefly in the doorway and clicked his heels together smartly.  He was impeccably uniformed and his high black boots glistened.  He was a tall man and thin, with a small head and close-cropped hair, freshly trimmed.  He wore glasses which somehow gave the impression that he was wearing a monocle.  And he came close to looking the perfect Prussian.  He might almost have been from an anti-Nazi movie or an escape melodrama.  And he had on fine white gloves which he later carefully removed.

"Herr Commandant." he said, and his voice was low.

The Captain, who was from Vermont, motioned him to a chair.

"Thank you," the Lieutenant said.  And he sat down somewhat stiffly.

To the Captain this man in the green uniform was no stranger.  They had met while the Captain made his daily inspection tours of the hospitals in his area, and because the Lieutenant spoke English they had discussed administrative details several times, and the transfer of discharged patients to PW cages.  But now, as the Lieutenant sat down, the Captain noticed he was trembling and his hands shook.  And his voice, pitched low, was hoarse and suggested he was under a great strain.

"LOOT?  OH NO SIR, I JUST
GOT A PACKAGE FROM HOME!"

The Nazi explained carefully why he had come.  In one of his hospitals there was a German Major who, unfortunately, had but one leg.  The Major's wife and children had come to the town to be near him, and now there were rumors that the Russians were coming into the village.  And the Major, worried about his family, wanted to know if the rumors were true.

"I want to coming tomorrow morning," the Lieutenant said.  "But the Major want me to coming this evening."  He paused and then he went on. "I must know if this story is true.  Do the Russia come here ?"

"I don't know," the Captain said.

"Is there a chance they will be coming here?"

"I don't know."

"Tonight we have heard that the Russia have only twenty five kilometers away."

Silence.

"I beg of you, Herr Commandant.  I beg of you . . please to tell me.  It is most important that I know."

"We know nothing."

The voice sunk lower.  It was almost inaudible.  "But you think there is a chance they will come here to this village?  I can see that you think so."

The Captain did not move.

The Lieutenant nervously wiped his forehead with a clean white handkerchief.  "There is even a chance they may coming tonight?"

"It is possible," the Captain said.

The Lieutenant paled and his lips parted to speak but no words came.  Instead he uttered an uncontrollable and audible groan.  A sound close to a great sob which seemed to come from the very depths of his being.  Then slowly he recovered his composure.  "Do you think, Herr Commandant," he said.  "Do you think it would be possible for us to have your how do you say it -- vehicles? -- is that correct, vehicles? -- to take some of our wounded men to the West?  They do not like the Russia."

The Captain from Vermont smiled in spite of himself.

"I cannot believe the Americans will let this," the Lieutenant said.  The words came unevenly now, spasmodically as he searched for the phrases to fit his thought.  "It is that we cannot understand.  This must not come to happen.  It is a terrible thing.  You do not know the Russia.  You have not seen what they have done to our towns and villages in the East."

The Captain lit a cigarette.  "But I have seen France and Belgium and Luxembourg," he said.  "And they were not very pretty."

The Nazi stumbled on.  "Have you, Herr Commandant, ever seen a Russian Company in the battle?"

"No," said the Captain.  "But I have seen the German Army in action."  He paused for a moment and then went on."  Lieutenant, it isn't that your men are afraid.  I think rather that they are suffering from an acute case of conscience.  Their past is catching up with them."

The Lieutenant looked away.  "I cannot understand . ."

The Captain cut him short.  "Lieutenant, there is a little town less than twenty kilometers from here where the advancing Americans found the bodies of three hundred Nazi slaves burned to death.  They hadn't all been buried when the Americans came."

"But we know nothing of these," the Lieutenant said.  "The soldier in the battle knows nothing of these.  He cannot know what is happening behind the line."

"Lieutenant, have you ever been to the little town of Waldenstein?  It is only six kilometers from here."

The Lieutenant replied that he had been there often.

The Captain continued.  "And when you were there, did you by any chance see the place where four hundred Jews were cremated?"  He shundered involuntarily as he thought of the scene.  "As a doctor you should have been interested."

The Nazi moved uneasily in his chair.

"No, not Waldenstein," he said quicky.  "I was never there."

"So I'm not surprised that the Major is worried," the Captain went on.  "But you may rest assured that whatever treatment he receives will be infinitely better than he probably deserves.  No, I'm not at all surprised that your men want to go to the West.  Had I the burden of guilt that they carry, I should feel the same."

"I cannot understand you", the Lieutenant said.  He tapped a white glove in his hand.  "My English it is not so well."

"I think you understand well enough," the Captain replied.  "As for our trucks, it's impossible.  They are much to busy hauling supplies and thousands of Russians and Poles towards their homes.  I'm afraid it will be impossible.  Your men will have to remain where they are."

The Lieutenant pulled on one white glove, carefully smoothing the tight fitting fingers.  "I see, Herr Commandant," he said.  "I would not have come except that the Major was so anxious that I do.  We had heard the story that the Russia were very close.

The Captain remained seated as the Nazi rose to his feet.  "I don't know," he said.  "And if I did know, 1 couldn't tell."

The Lieutenant carefully pulled on the second glove, and walked towards the door.  Then he turned and spoke once more.  "This is so terrible for our people.  You do not realize.  You do not know how terrible this will be.  They have suffered so much.  Surely you cannot leave this village with the Russia coming, Herr Commandant.  The German nation wants only to make friendships. Germany wishes only friendship with the Americans and the British."

The Captain did not move.  "That is commendable," he said somewhat dryly.

"No I go, Herr Commandant.  You have been so very kind.  I thank you so much."  The Lieutenant placed his smartly vizored cap on his head and gave it a little flip with his white-gloved hand.

"Yes. You had better go," the Captain said.

The Lieutenant stood stiffly, and clicked his heels together no less smartly than when he had entered.  His arm almost came up into a rigid salute, then he dropped it and stood silent for a moment with an odd smile on his face.  Then he turned swiftly and left the room.

In the silence which followed, the low, hoarse voice seemed to linger after him.

The Captain sat silently for a moment.

Then he went to the window and opened it and looked out.  It was a cool evening, but clear.  And the stars were shining. It would be a fine morning.

In the town of Rabenstein, Pfc. Walter Cline of Company "I" was bragging about what an expert he was at making hotcakes.  His buddies finally couldn't stand it any more, and Cline became Chef Cline with some hungry GI's to feed.  He mixed his batter, greased his pan and poured in the mixture.  As the cakes sizzled, the mouths of the men watered.  Out came the first batch, golden brown and tender as . . . millstones!  Cline, Chef Prima, had used plaster of Paris instead of pancake flour.

And there was Lt. Douglas E. Mandeville who during an attack, was kneeling a few feet away from another officer, watching the intense action with his mouth open.  A sniper's bullet glanced off the field glasses of his companion, struck another officer, ricocheted from a rock and landed in the Lieutenant's mouth . . spent.  The Lieutenant spit out the hot slug fast, and went calmly on about his business.

And there was Pfc. Bob Sheppard of "H" Company, who started to dig a foxhole but two feet below the surface ran into water.  Cussing his luck he moved to another spot and started in again.  Soon he had the new hole dug and sat down to relax a bit, lamenting the time and energy wasted in starting the water filled one.  Suddenly a Jerry shell whistled in and exploded.  Bob looked up to find that his lamentations had become exclamations of thanksgiving.  A large shell crater had taken the place of his unfinished diggings.

And there was a misty night when some men of the 3^rd Platoon of "F" Company arrived at a vantage point and started digging in.  Several feet down they hit rock and feeling they were already deep enough, curled up for the night.  The next morning they were astonished to see half a dozen Jerries reaching for the sky and yelling "Comrade".  They had dug in on top of an occupied German pillbox.

And there was Pvt. Ernest D. Miller of Company "I" who hadn't quite finished a foxhole when a screaming meemie landed a few yards away.  To his great astonishment and greater luck, a whole side of the shell didn't explode.  A four foot piece stood upright, and the impact of the burst was forward splintering a tree yards in front of Miller, who has every reason now to believe in miracles.