The Breaking Point
Sep. 6th, 2010 05:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nozenfordaddyRichard Winters - Band of Brothers. Originally posted elsewhere on October 4th, 2008.
Every man had a number.
Some of his men kept track. Or as close as you could; you didn't always know if your bullet hit the mark. They knew the number they'd killed, compared it the way they compared their scars. They told stories at night in their trenches, battles, women, wounds, kills.
They used words to block out the cold and pain and fear. Stories that kept the enemy away when they were close enough to touch.
He had a number.
It was accurate to the man. His superiors made sure he always knew it, followed it with a commendation. Only four dead. Good job. You brought them through. Acceptable losses.
Those deaths meant something, even after they'd become names in a report. After he wrote to their mothers and wives. So he remembered. To the man. He thought about them at night in his trench. He thought about them when they were under fire and all he could hear were bullets and mortar and voices calling for a medic.
He had a number. And he had stories that he never told no matter how cold it got or how close the enemy was. Who would he tell? They were his men not his friends.
Nix didn't understand, they weren't his men. He'd trained with them, sent them to war, shared foxholes and rations; but they belonged to Dick.He was a good soldier, a good leader and his men were loyal. They would follow him into hell and never look back and the ones who were lost haunted him.
Every man had a number. He saw them realize it every day. Blithe. Buck. Babe and Roe.
He'd realized early on that it wasn't the total that mattered. How many you killed. How many died. It was the last one, the one that broke you, that mattered.
He had a number and prayed each night that that he'd never have to find out what it was.
Every man had a number.
Some of his men kept track. Or as close as you could; you didn't always know if your bullet hit the mark. They knew the number they'd killed, compared it the way they compared their scars. They told stories at night in their trenches, battles, women, wounds, kills.
They used words to block out the cold and pain and fear. Stories that kept the enemy away when they were close enough to touch.
He had a number.
It was accurate to the man. His superiors made sure he always knew it, followed it with a commendation. Only four dead. Good job. You brought them through. Acceptable losses.
Those deaths meant something, even after they'd become names in a report. After he wrote to their mothers and wives. So he remembered. To the man. He thought about them at night in his trench. He thought about them when they were under fire and all he could hear were bullets and mortar and voices calling for a medic.
He had a number. And he had stories that he never told no matter how cold it got or how close the enemy was. Who would he tell? They were his men not his friends.
Nix didn't understand, they weren't his men. He'd trained with them, sent them to war, shared foxholes and rations; but they belonged to Dick.He was a good soldier, a good leader and his men were loyal. They would follow him into hell and never look back and the ones who were lost haunted him.
Every man had a number. He saw them realize it every day. Blithe. Buck. Babe and Roe.
He'd realized early on that it wasn't the total that mattered. How many you killed. How many died. It was the last one, the one that broke you, that mattered.
He had a number and prayed each night that that he'd never have to find out what it was.
