Currahee

S01E01

Winters checks his watch and decides that his platoon -- the second platoon -- has to move ahead with the plan in spite of Ross's lateness. He makes a fervent plan to surround the T-intersection, and then uses hand signals to inform everyone else. My knowledge of military jargon is limited, but it looks like Winters wants them to split up, steal second, and hit a sacrifice fly to right field.

An octogenarian on a bike slowly pedals down the street. Seeing a stream of soldiers pouring across the road, he pulls a U-turn and heads the other direction, but it's also blocked by crossing troopers. Picking the third and final path, he cycles straight into the third oncoming squad. Winters smiles as the man puts up his hands. "You've done it now, Yanks. You've captured me," he teases. From afar, we hear Ross shout, "Hi-ho Silver!" and his platoon comes jogging up the street from a different direction. "Would that be the enemy?" the man asks. "As a matter of fact, yes," Winters metas. He then loudly compliments his platoon on achieving the objective. Which was what? To capture the old man? Winters was so meticulous about time, I can only assume something was supposed to be in the intersection, but...an old man? Who isn't armed or fast enough to realistically escape? What a dumb exercise. What's ? Skydiving from a three-foot coffee table? A standoff against a particularly treasonous oak tree? Sigh. I give up. Anyway, Ross is...wait for it...pissed.

Cows flee through the sliced fence. "Who was the idiot who cut that man's fence?" bellows Nameless Man #50, clearly a superior of Ross -- who, in turn, swears that a hidden Major Horton told him to do it. But, ha, joke's on Ross! Major Horton was on leave and couldn't have been there! BAH! Ross is...wait for it...pissed.

By now, Ross is pretty pissed, see? Because people don't seem to like him as much as they like Winters. So in the scene, we see a lackey serving Winters with a disciplinary notice. Cut to the Company Office, where Ross is explaining the trumped-up charges -- apparently, Winters was supposed to inspect the latrines, and he was late. Winters explains that he spent 0930-0955 inspecting the censored mail, then proceeded to the latrine inspection at 1000 as Ross had instructed. Ross bitches that he changed the time to 0945; Winters didn't know. Ross called; Winters doesn't have a phone where he's staying. Ross sent a runner; no runner reached Winters. "Irregardless," Ross shouts...and, by the way, Hanksie? Yeah, "irregardless" is pretty much the poster word for general misuse of the English language. I'm just saying. ["I thought the point was to show that Ross is a moron in addition to being a prick." -- Wing Chun] Ross explains that he doesn't give two shits in a parachute why Winters didn't show up -- the point is that, by his absence, he disobeyed a direct order. He can either agree to have his weekend pass revoked for sixty days, or opt for trial by court-martial. Ross can't quite make eye contact with Winters, so he just stares down at his desk and then mutters, "You spend weekends on the base anyway, Dick. Be a man. Take the punishment." Winters ponders Ross's droopy, guilty face and fervently prays that an ebola monkey will drop from the sky and "befriend" the captain. Then he grabs Ross's pen and signs the petition for a court-martial, salutes, and wheels around for a dignified exit. Ross sits silently in shock, his penis shriveling in embarrassment as he furtively looks around to see if anyone noticed the emasculation.

Even a Cary Grant movie, screened in one of the tents, can't boost Company spirits. One man is so distracted that he can't stay put, opting to leave the recreation tent and wander out into the dusk. It's Lt. Richard "Dick" Winters, played by British actor Damian Lewis, who impressively only betrays his heritage by sometimes sounding too American. Winters is a tall, fair-skinned redhead with a serious expression that never seems to lift. Now, we don't find out Winters's name right now, mind you; I'm just trying to save my pronouns for later. Anyway, Ron Livingston from Office Space is waiting outside, leaning against another tent. "Think it's clearing up?" he asks. Winters says no, and the two start casually walking together, both tense, obviously expecting to get The Call any second. "It's 5 PM in New York. 4 PM in Chicago," Ron notes. "Happy hour," muses Winters. That puts it at 10 PM in England, which doesn't jibe at all with how light the sky is. Ron grins that, in the States, it's time for drinks and a little dinner before the theater. War Is Hell Platitude, incoming: "A civilized place for civilized men," Ron says grimly, gulping from a silver pocket flask. The two sit quietly, staring off into the distance, Winters with the pensive squint of a man drinking in the gravity of it all. "Should've been born earlier, Nix," he says to Ron, who we'll now call Nixon, because the writers finally threw us a moniker bone. And...what? I guess Winters is lamenting that they're at a draft-eligible age. Nixon smirks, "What, and give all this up?" He takes a drag on his cigarette. "We'll go to Chicago. I'll take you there." Winters just squints with a faint smile, because he knows a Post-War Promise That Only Serves To Tempt Death when he hears one and he can't believe Nixon just totally jinxed himself. Nixon, apparently, doesn't understand the rules. Nixon realizes both men know someone from Chicago. "Oh, him," Winters says, disdainfully. "712 days with that son-of-a-bitch, and here we are," Nixon sighs.

Camp Toccoa, Georgia, two years earlier. That Son Of A Bitch, Herbert Sobel, barks that he wants his men at attention. Pacing madly like the Polly Prissy Pants he is, Sobel inspects his trainees and stops at a short lad called Pvt. Perconte. "Have you been blousing your trousers like a paratrooper?" Sobel wails, over-enunciating in his bid to act ferocious and missing badly. They really needed to cast someone who could bark. Hell, Lassie would've been better. Sobel revokes Perconte's weekend pass because of his sloppy uniform. Fussily, Sobel picks spare threads off the sleeve of Pvt. Lipton, or as we know him, Donnie Wahlberg. Donnie's pass gets revoked as well. , Sobel picks on another familiar face: Scott Grimes, or Bailey's pal Will on Party of Five. Will introduces himself as "Malarkey, Donald P." Sobel barks, "Malarkey. Isn't that slang for 'bullshit'?" Malarkey confirms it. Sobel yells at him for having rust on his weapon, and docks him the weekend pass. The shrapnel up Sobel's ass then reams Pvt. Liebgott for having a rusty bayonet. "I wouldn't take this rusty piece of shit to war, and I will not take you to war in your condition," screams Sobel, charging around in a complete tizzy. David Schwimmer is completely miscast, coming across less like a tyrant than Ross playing dress-up and then running around screaming "we were ON a BREAK!!" Thus, this character is hereby rechristened Ross. Overcaffeinated and prancing around with a stiff-kneed waddle, Ross voids everybody's passes and orders them to change into their workout gear. Ross pauses and turns his head. "We're running Currahee," he says melodramatically. And in case we don't understand exactly what co-author Tom Hanks is getting at here, we see Winters stare coolly after Ross for a second before dismissing his platoon.

"I ain't goin' up that hill," Perconte says stupidly. He's in the officers' barracks, which look like summer-camp cabins. Pvt. Martin, who resembles a washed-up Harry Connick, Jr., brushes past and ribs Perconte for blousing his pants. "He gigged everyone," counters Perconte, deflecting blame for the Currahee run. As the two look ready for a fistfight, Donnie strides in wearing short-shorts and calls them outside. Pvt. White remains seated and unchanged. Donnie presses him -- why is he not changed? Does he not understand that it's a direct order? Did the lads booby-trap his PT gear? Frustrated, Donnie's hairline recedes by one precious centimeter. White sits silently, looking meekly into Donnie's eyes. Donnie gives up. I can only assume this means Ross's tyrannical rule is driving young White to the brink of insanity. Trouble is, we never see White again, so we just don't know.

Easy trots outside and charges through officers from another company, who are mocking Easy for taking another run. Cut to a winding dirt road through what looks like forest. This is Currahee, a large and steep hill Ross uses as part of his brutal training regimen. Ross is leading them in a motivational chant, although I'm not sure how shouting while panting, and enduring the subsequent piercing lung pain, is supposed to keep one's spirits high. "How far down?" Ross yells. "Three miles up, three miles down!" the company answers. "Who are we?" Ross barks. "Easy Company!" they reply. "And what do we do?" Ross asks. "Stand alone!" they scream. One man stumbles; his knee buckles, and he drops to the ground. His mates pick him up. "Do NOT help that man!" spits Ross. He screams that they have fifteen minutes to reach the top of Currahee and finishes his rant with, "Hi-Ho Silver!" Okay, Ross. Away. And with that battle cry, Ross charges a little too zealously up the hill and his shorts hike up well beyond all decency. Let's just say it's the kind of white meat that could turn me into a vegetarian.

Suddenly, Ross is at the top of the hill, watching as the men stagger to the top and touch a monument, then head back down. He makes fun of a Pvt. Wynn, saying they're at the twenty-three-minute mark, and that it's totally sub-par. Basically, they're running an eight-minute mile and Ross is asking for a five-minute mile. Do you suppose he's some kind of hard-ass?

Cut to Ross in the same spot, but in uniform. He's watching Easy Company trudge up Currahee in full garb, and he's frowning fiercely, reveling in how he's infused Easy Company's name with cruel irony. Because his ass is hard. I must say, it's a cushy position indeed to be the one waiting at the top of the hill while everyone else sweats buckets.

More marching, this time in the dead of night and without Ross, who is away having a second rod surgically inserted up his rear end. Pvt. Randleman -- doughy actor Michael Cudlitz, who's guested on during the Doherty era and had a role in Grosse Pointe Blank ["and was also the Sierra Crossroads leader who busted Claire for pot possession onSix Feet Under" -- Wing Chun] -- asks Winters if he may speak. "Sir, we've got nine companies, sir. How come we're the only one marching every night, twelve miles, with a full pack in pitch dark [sic]?" Randleman asks, guessing aloud that it's because Ross hates them. No, it's because Ross is a puny little asshole. "Sobel doesn't hate Easy Company," Winters replies calmly. "He just hates you." Randleman grins and the crew laughs, because that Winters is a ray of sunshine in all this sepia-and-gray-toned misery. We flip through several other faces we're supposed to care about, but they don't belong to anyone whose names we know, so I'm ignoring them.

Back at the base, Easy Company stands at attention while Ross paces in front of it, basically playing telephone without whispering -- he's shouting orders at Winters, who translates for the soldiers who don't speak fluent Fuckwad. Ross wants the men to stand at attention and empty their canteens, purple monkey dishwater. They do, except for one Pvt. Christenson, upon whom Ross instantly pounces. It seems Christenson drank water during the march, despite being ordered to go thirsty for the duration. Ross bleats that Christenson must refill it and repeat the entire march immediately, returning with a full canteen this time. Wow, someone is totally gonna short-sheet Ross's bed tonight. ["Yeah, And then they're going to take a Sharpie and draw cat whiskers on his cheeks." -- Wing Chun]

Ross gestures for Winters to join him in a hushed conference. "What in the name of God are you doing with my company?" he whines. "You're late, and you allow troopers to disobey direct orders." Winters calmly assumes blame and won't dispense excuses. "This is not Dog Company. This is not Fox Company. This is Easy Company," Ross exposits for the sake of viewers who felt certain the jogging had a certain Fox-Company look to it. "This will be the first and finest company in this regiment," Ross insists, almost nose-to-nose with a stone-faced Winters. Ross demands that Winters make a list of the infractions six men have committed and some suggested disciplinary measures. "What infractions, sir?" Winters queries, puzzled. "Find some," Ross spits, then turns on his heel and stalks away to Central Perk for an espresso.

Winters and Nixon are in the mess tent eating some fresh slop. Apparently, Winters wiggled out of Ross's ultimatum by picking McDonnell, Toye, Perconte, Donnie (the only name we know so far), Guarnere, and Muck -- "it was their turn," he sighs, helplessly. Nixon thinks Ross is a total genius. Winters is dubious. "Do you know another guy in this company who wouldn't double-time Currahee [in full gear] just to piss in that guy's morning coffee?" Nixon says. Someone should get on that, then. Pronto.

Ross supervises morning training, wherein the men jump out the open hatch of a grounded plane to practice their landing technique. "You just broke both your legs, Private Gordon," Ross chides one jumper. Cut to shots of men tripping as they try to high-step in and out of the openings in a net that's stretched and pinned inches above the ground. Then there's an obstacle course, and finally, the men crawl on their stomachs under a maze of barbed wire. Animal entrails, and a charming severed pig's head, decorate the trenches to simulate the horrors they might see in the battlefield. The show makes it look like Ross's tiny, evil mind is concocting awful new ways of torturing innocent men and pretending it's training. But it's hard to fathom that he'd have the wherewithal to build an obstacle course -- much less the stones to sprinkle mammal innards under barbed-wire -- just as another way to be mean. I'm sure they're all standard parts of training, but if so, the show shouldn't use it in a Ross-is-harsh montage, unless of course they are implying that Ross did set up the whole exercise himself. It's just strange. Ross singles out Gordon one more time, mocking him and sending him on a run up Currahee. Cut to a shot of the dirt trail, with Gordon jogging alone under the weight of his uniform. Suddenly the music changes from "lonely" to "poignant," as we see the boots of three Easy Company members who are joining Gordon on the trail. Because they've bonded. Like brothers. A whole band of 'em. Buoyed, Gordon speeds up. Needless to say, we have no idea who the three benevolent brothers are.

Ross gets promoted to captain by Colonel Sink, his superior, who commends him on Easy Company's status as the best of the nine companies in the 506 regiment's second battalion. Sink then peers through his window and spots Winters leading the men in P.T. --physical training. Sink's vocal appraisal of Winters as a strong up-and-comer clearly panics Ross, who reluctantly agrees to promote Winters. It's pretty obvious he feels threatened, and silently vows to put itching powder in Winters' britches.

Assorted junk drops onto an officer's bed. Ross grabs a porno magazine and waves it around in a frenzy. ["The magazine is called Titter, which I just think is adorable." -- Wing Chun] "Contraband," his forehead throbs, as do a few of his more private veins. Emptying someone else's locker, Ross finds a red paisley necktie and correctly proclaims it contraband as well, but alas, not for the pattern alone -- it seems non-regulation clothing, in general, is taboo on base. , he grabs a cardboard box and notes someone had two-hundred "prophylactic kits" in his locker. "How in the name of God is he going to find the strength to fight a war?" Ross yelps. More importantly, where in the name of God is he planning to use them? I didn't spot any nubile townsfolk. They must not be union. Ross then opens Pvt. Tipper's mail stash and wonders where he finds the time for private correspondence. Winters is shocked that letters don't count as private property. Throwing the letter up against his nostrils and inhaling, Ross snaps, "These men aren't paratroopers yet, Lieutenant. They have no personal property." Ross concludes by referring to Nixon by name -- at five pages into the recap, it's the first time we've heard the whole thing (though Winters had called him "Nix" above) -- and orders Winters to "get rid of" Pvt. Parks, in whose locker a tin of peaches was discovered. Ross revokes everyone's passes again and then dismisses the crew, but detains Winters.

"Colonel Sink has seen fit to promote you," Cap'n Ross tells Winters, curtly pinning the gold bar onto Winters's lapel, making him the First Lieutenant. "As a test of your organizational skills and command potential, I am designating you Mess Officer for fourteen days. Report to the mess kitchen at 0515 hours," Ross says. "Breakfast is at 0600." Okay, he's a jerk. Got it. The Heavy Hand of Hanks evidently isn't sure we realize who is the good guy in this power struggle. I'm surprised he didn't CGI a halo over Winters's noggin and make Ross carry around a trident. Twisting the knife, Ross adds that he wants Winters to spend the day preparing a special lunch. "I like spaghetti," Ross says, puffed up and pleased with himself, darting a sly look at Winters before pompously strutting off. Ross, I've had it. Either get your adenoids removed or blow your nose. My ears are threatening to bleed.

A chef slops pasta and red sauce onto the officers' plates. "These guys are packing it away," the chef says, shaking his head in wonder at Winters, who is supervising. Someone gripes that the spaghetti is orange. "Spaghetti? It's army noodles with ketchup," corrects Perconte with a grin. Guarnere chips in, "You don't have to eat it," to which Perconte replies, "Come on, Gonorrhea. As an Italian..." and it really doesn't matter what else he says -- all this is meant to show is that Bill Guarnere has a nickname, and it ain't pretty, but folks, neither is war. Hanks, at home, giggles fiendishly at the thought that for the first time ever (except at some businesses, like say, brothels), gonorrhea will be a fixture during Monday morning water-cooler conversations. And he helped.

Suddenly, a commotion. "Easy Company is running up Currahee," screams Ross, barging into the mess. "Move, move, move! Three miles up, three miles down." Winters does what he does best: He stares at Ross, whose gaze lingers for a moment before he swivels around and marches out, bellowing, "Hi-ho Silver! Let's go, let's go!" A gleam of recognition flickers in Winters's eyes, as though it's just occurred to him that Ross isn't a particularly nice guy. And if there's one thing this episode lacks, it's Ross Is Evil undertones. Yes indeedy.

As anticipated, Easy Company's men start puking during the Currahee run. "You're a washout! You don't deserve to get your wings!" Ross's eye pulses. He runs around between the struggling men -- using the term "run" rather loosely. It's more like a slightly fluid, convulsion-on-the-fly. Defiantly, the men start singing a rallying cry they've devised on their own as a sign of solidarity; stunned, Ross slows down and stands agape as Winters jogs past him, singing along. Somewhere in Orlando, Lou Pearlman hears pangs of excitement in his boy-band radar -- which is to say, in his pants.

A military plane flies over green countryside. Easy Company is making its first jumps, clad in football helmets with crude leather chin-straps. To become certified, they must complete five jumps -- so you might say the recipe for a paratrooper is to take any given Road Rules cast and mash it together in a blender (and haven't we all longed do that anyway?). Ross is sweating and looking more than a bit nervous, because he totally isn't getting paid $750,000 for this. "Go, go go!" yells the jump leader, and Ross gulps and leaps. The RossCam cuts in now, treating us to a blur of sky and chutes and boots and nothing but labored breathing -- all from Falling Ross's point of view. He lands with a thud and curses when his chute briefly drags him along the ground. Then another round of jumps commences. And then, mercifully, we're done.

The troopers celebrate their graduation. With his newly won wings clenched in his teeth, Gonorrhea guzzles his beer, to the appreciative cheers of fellow officers thumping their palms on the table. Carousing. Boozing. Swaying. We get no names, and a million faces, yet we're asked to care about all the forced camaraderie. They swill ale, they slur, they imitate Ross -- "Are those dusty jump wings? How do you expect to slay the Huns with dust on your jump wings?" -- and okay, I sort of laughed right there, but only because Ross has become my nemesis. Finally, Colonel Sink toasts them and says, "Remember our rallying cry: Currahee!" They all drink to The Mountain that Made them Men. Oh my God. Did I just write that? Sheesh. You could dip me in red wax and call me Edam.

June 23, 1943. Camp Mackall, North Carolina. Like a Whack-A-Mole, Ross's head pops out of a ditch and I desperately crave a blunt mallet with which to bash him. There's complete silence. He whispers frantically for someone called Petty -- who? Oh, whatever -- and the map. Ross decides they're in the wrong place, and peeks out again at the giant piles of pine needles and leaves stacked up suspiciously at the base of tall trees. Like, really suspiciously -- as in, big-enough-to-hide-a-soldier-with-a-gun suspiciously. Winters argues that they're in perfect position and should lie in wait, calmly, for the enemy to approach. But Ross can't stand knowing they're lurking out there, and figures it'd be simple just to walk around and round 'em up. Winters challenges him one more time, which only cements Ross's misguided resolve. "Let's go get 'em," he insists stubbornly, and Winters reluctantly rallies the group for a nice, peaceful, in-plain-view march through the woods. Shockingly, camouflaged soldiers rise up from underneath the suspicious leaf piles. Ross is deflated. "Captain, you've been killed, along with 95 percent of your company," says Nameless Man #46, plunging a bayonet through Ross's sternum and then spinning him like a top. Well, figuratively, at least. So Ross is about as good at military strategy as you'd expect a paleontologist to be.

Now, I love seeing Ross fail, but...is this the Ross Hour, or something? I'm so tired of the good-vs-evil dynamic that I swear I just saw all my empty Diet Coke cans leap out of the garbage and spell I GET IT on the floor. The show is working overtime to make us root for Winters, even though we'd have probably become invested in him anyway given the situation. Yes, it's a true story, but it's been presented such that the message is becoming tiresome. And I think we've all learned something very important about David Schwimmer -- specifically, that if he's smart he'll work overtime to make sure Friends stays on the air until the six are in nursing homes.

Nixon cheerfully commiserates with Winters, who's clearly upset about Ross's foul-up but too diplomatic to complain. Someone else walks in, someone new -- oh, good, that's just what we need. Nameless Man #47 becomes Harry Welsh. Hey, way to go, Harry -- you snagged a surname. What's your secret? There's a couple folks from the first half who might want to pick your brain. Welsh is Nixon's replacement, the latter having scored a promotion to the battalion offices. Nixon jokes that Winters has no flaws, vices, or sense of humor. True, that -- I've seen his smiles, and believe me, I can't confirm whether he has any teeth under there. Welsh, a slave to exposition, notes that he's heard rumblings about Ross and how he gets jumpy in the field. Nixon cheerfully points out how dangerous Ross is, almost reveling in his freedom from the inept captain. Winters diplomatically asks that they keep the rumors private, just as Ross appears in the doorway. "We're moving out," he says, catching Nixon's appraising eye for a second before leaving. Nixon turns away and shakes his head with a wry grin.

A group of paratroopers, waiting to board the train, complains about Ross; someone defends him for only screwing up one maneuver, but Nameless Man #48 still wonders whether he could accidentally set off a grenade in Ross's vicinity. They all agree the Army probably isn't that concerned about Ross's deficiencies. A passing Donnie stops, listens, flinches, and keeps going.

The train zips through the countryside. Nixon tells Winters that they're headed for a ship in New York City that's sailing to England. "We're invading Europe, my friend," he says. "Fortress Europa." Nixon drinks from his flask and offers some to Winters, who refuses. I think Nixon is an intelligence officer, because Winters expresses concern for what Nixon would do when required to enter combat. "I have every confidence in my scrounging abilities," he breezily says, adding that, for backup, he's sneaking a case of liquor over in Winters's locker. Is this over yet?

Sept. 6, 1943. Brooklyn Naval Shipyard. Ross's voice over says, "Dear Sir or Madam, soon your son will drop from the sky to engage and defeat the enemy. Your frequent letters of love and encouragement will arm him with a fighting heart. With that he cannot fail, but will win glory for himself, make you proud of him, and his country grateful for his service in its hour of need. And, please tape 7th Heaven while we're gone, because I don't want to miss all the hot seminary-school action this season." Somberly, the soldiers get their last look at the Statue of Liberty, framed by a red sky -- which, if it's morning, is considered a bad omen.

Conditions are cramped on the ship, and for a second, I feel stuck in Titanic hell. Troopers talk big about being jealous of the men stationed in the South Pacific with all the raunchy island girls who sing and dance and help Glenn Close wash a man right out of her hair. Our brash friend Toye ["played by Kirk Acevedo, a.k.a. Alvarez on Oz" -- Wing Chun] brags about taking his knife to Hitler's neck and getting Thanksgiving re-named "Joe Toye Day," and for a second, I thought he said "Joe Torre," and I was frantically trying to do the math on that one. The conversation devolves into a discussion of Ross's ineptitude, and Pvt. Liebgott -- who doesn't look familiar -- professes loyalty to Winters. Gonorrhea demeans Winters as a Quaker and Ross as a "son of Abraham." Liebgott, Jewish himself, tries to pick a fight. I would care if I knew anything about the two guys mouthing off, but since I'm too inundated with people to weed the regulars from the extras, it's hard to muster an interest in any of it. Two blasé troopers playing cards ignore the whole thing. "Fighting over [Ross]. That's smart," one says.

Sept. 18, 1943. Aldbourne, England. Easy Company is stationed in a cute village, practicing hand-to-hand combat on an open grassy field. It looks like military Tough Enough. Then, bayonets clash, soldiers parry and thrust. Donnie explains the trench concept as the men dig -- "cover and concealment" are among its advantages, he says. The soldiers fire off some rounds and then receive an intricately drawn battle plan that's to serve as their first official exercise.

Winters's platoon darts across a field and ducks near a hedge. "[Ross] is late," he frets. Cut to Ross's platoon, scurrying across another pasture and stopped by a barbed-wire fence. Ross completely flips his shit. "There should be no fence here," he yells to no one, then grabs the map from Tipper. Wait, I thought Petty was the map guy. I miss Petty. I knew Petty. Fumbling his words, Ross gracelessly tells his men to take cover behind a giant shrub and as they trot away, they all agree that Ross is completely lost and out of his depth. Tipper, ever the well-monikered scamp, offers, "We could go over [the fence], sir." Ross spits, "That's not the point. Where the goddamn hell are we?"

Meanwhile, Perconte has a scheme. He grabs Nameless Man #49 and whispers, "Can you do Major Horton?" Nameless replies, "Who the fuck is THAT? Is Hanks just making this shit up as he goes along?" Except somehow, that answer gets stuck in his throat, and all we get is a nod and a flip imitation of the mythical Major. As the snickering troop hunkers down near him, Nameless shouts out to Ross in an exaggerated Southern accent that sounds exactly the way I remember Major Horton, given that I've never seen or heard him. Ooh, and I think I heard Nameless being referred to as "Muck." Hey, okay. It's Hanks's game, and we're just pawns. "What is the goddamn holdup, [Ross]?" Muck mimics. Ross jumps and turns rigid. He can't believe Major Horton has joined them, and frankly, I know the feeling. "It's...a...fence," Ross sputters, turning to examine it. "A barbed-wire fence!" He says this as though the fence is confusing to him, one of those newfangled inventions that Ron Popeil's father is hawking on the wireless -- the kind of fence that protects from intruders and makes a mean rotisserie chicken, while dissolving all your toughest stains. "Cut that bitch and get this goddamn platoon on the move!" Muck shouts. Ross freaks again.

A man called Ranney -- I only know because I've seen both episodes -- storms into a strange barn-like place and announces that they've lost Winters to the battalion mess until the hearing, which scares the crap out of everyone who now could be sent into combat with only Ross to lead them. Nearby chickens cluck in protest. The gang decides to act. "We'd all better be clear of the consequences," Donnie intones, saying that they could be lined up against the wall and shot for mutiny. Gonorrhea flatly states that he will not follow Ross into combat, and the others nod nervously. Donnie nods, looks around, checks his hairline for further recession and then says, "Let's do it." Each man -- about eight in total, maybe ten -- writes onto a paper, "I hereby no longer wish to serve as a non-commissioned officer in Easy Company."

The seething Colonel Sink -- or is this Major Horton? Who's to say, really? -- reams the mutinous men and orders one, Harris, to turn in his stripes and move to a different regiment. No clue why he's the one who gets the worst punishment, because this is the first time I've seen him or heard his name. Ranney gets busted down to Private. Colonel Major Sink Horton barks that they've disgraced the 101st Airborne, but escape death because it's the eve of the most important action in the division's history. They flee on his command, passing Winters outside and saluting him. As ever, Winters looks like he just sort of knows what they did. Winters is all about knowing smiles. His is the knowingest smile in all the land.

Ross innocently feigns shock at the development, telling Colonel Major Sink Horton that some of the staff sergeants felt more loyal to Winters's platoon than to the whole Easy Company -- but, he graciously decides that he could still work with them. CMSH wonders how the staff sergeants convinced everyone else to sign, then deems the whole Winters thing "unpleasant." He then praises Ross's company as one of the finest he's ever seen -- which is why he's being transferred to a school that teaches parachute-training for non-infantry types who are still essential to combat, like medics and clergy. Ross is stunned, looking upset and hurt and slightly unsure whether it's a slight or a compliment. "I'm losing Easy Company?" he asks, crushed. CMSH insists that Ross is needed elsewhere in the war effort. Meehan from Baker Company will replace him. "Don't let us down," CMSH finishes before Ross is encouraged to leave the room. Ross just stands there, unable to digest what he's heard, his penis fully retreated into his groin to hibernate -- basically, picture Schwimmer method-acting by imagining Marcel the Monkey ran away and Chandler just whizzed in his hair gel. Schwimmer never infused the character with any kind of authority or any real sense of passion for battle and combat and the chance to fight for the country. Sure, he's annoying and spiteful, but there's nothing underlying that behavior to make him anything more than a shallow caricature, and there the fault lies with the writers and the actor together.

A Jeep carries Ross away, past a saluting Winters. Ross looks...wait for it...pissed, while Winters stares after him with...wait for it...a knowing smile. Okey-dokey.

May 31, 1944. Upottery, England. We're back where we started, but four days prior. Big black tents are set up in rows that extend into the horizon and soldiers trudge through the mud. One jovial British soldier greets them, the first indication that the show is acknowledging the existence of other Allied forces. But wait, no one can understand him: The backward slang and heavy accent render our lone Brit utterly unintelligible to the laughing American, because them Brits are from England, but they ain't speakin' no English! Nameless Man #51 admires the Brit's pistol, something called a "Luger" that is referenced again in the upcoming show. And then the moment of international bonding is all over, and we're back to our nice, comfortable illusion of non-coalition warfare.

Wow! It's Nameless Man #46 again, last seen at the site of Ross's first downfall. Welcome back, NM#46. Winters is lecturing him, though, for shooting craps with men who rank underneath him. NM#46 tries to defend himself, saying he's only been part of Easy for six days and he just wants to build a rapport with his soldiers. "But what if you won?" Winters asks, pointedly. NM#46 doesn't understand. "Never put yourself in a position where you can take from these men," Winters warns softly, scoring only a five on the war-platitude scale -- he rated highly for execution but low on the applicability scale, plus the Portuguese judge stiffed him with a 2.3.

Up to this point, I thought NM#46 was Meehan, the aforementioned new head of Easy Company. But my theory was crushed when Winters left NM#46 in the car and entered a tent, greeting the occupant by the name Meehan. So much for trying to make sense of the muddle. Anyway, Winters tells Meehan he took a compass along on the last test jump, and Meehan excitedly gets out a map. They plot the course and apply it to a map of Europe, deducing somehow that they're preparing to invade Normandy. Their method confuses me, but my gut tells me to trust that conclusion.

Nixon outlines the battle plan to congregated troopers. The seafaring infantry are hitting the beaches at a specified time code-named D-Day, hoping to unite two segments called Utah and Omaha into one long strip of Allied land. The paratroopers will drop five hours before the fourth infantry lands at Utah, and Easy Company must use that time to destroy a German garrison that's poised to annihilate the Utah-bound soldiers.

Toye reappears and grouchily rattles off a list of stuff he's toting on the jump, including: K rations, chocolate bars, candy, coffee, sugar, matches, a compass, a bayonet, a trenching tool, ammunition, a gas mask, a bag of more ammo, two weapons, a canteen, two cartons of smokes, four grenades, TNT, two chutes, a more damaging gun, and some other stuff I didn't catch. That, and a leg bag. "Where are you keeping the brass knuckles?" his pal asks with a laugh. Toye contemplates this. "Maybe I need brass knuckles," he decides.

Donnie, clinging to his optimism, patrols the grounds and shouts that everyone must sign the GI life insurance policy "so your families won't miss out on $10,000." Martin flags him down and whispers that his wife sent a letter updating him on casualty lists, and it seems Gonorrhea's brother Henry was killed. Donnie ponders this, losing a millimeter of hair in the process, and suggests telling Gonorrhea, even though it's a few hours before the jump. Martin communicates his uncertainty by squinting.

Colonel Sink's message arrives, and Liebgott -- sure, why not -- reads it aloud, which sobers the once-jocular group. "Tonight is the night of nights. Today as you read this, you're en route to the great adventure for which you've trained for over two years." Gonorrhea, blissfully unaware that he's brotherless, stares at his empty dish. "That's why they gave us ice cream," he realizes.

We're back to where we started -- our unidentified authority figure from the first segment turns out to be Easy Company's new leader, Lt. Meehan. "No jump tonight," he shouts to the crushed troopers. At the Cary Grant flick's screening, Gonorrhea suddenly fumbles suspiciously through his coat pockets and pulls out a letter that says, "Dearest Johnny," which tips him off that he's wearing someone else's coat. Before he can act, though, he spies his name in the letter -- "Johnny" is Martin, and Gonorrhea has spied the portion that discusses his dead brother. We know he's grieving because his jaw clenches and there's some manner of squinting -- apparently a preferred dramatic technique on this set -- before his nose wrinkles.

The Winters love montage begins. He sits alone at a desk, writing. Cut to a shot of his face staring into space, on which the camera lingers way too long before fading slowly into footage of him pacing outside the tents with his fun. He's utterly alone, looking awed and somewhat resigned to the idea that most of the men are on borrowed time now. Or, he's waiting to use the latrine. Sometimes the expressions are similar. Either way, it's an unforgivably sappy bit.

June 5, 1944. Upottery Airfield. Spielberg has picked music from his "Stirring" collection, so that we know this is A Major Event. The paratroopers gather their equipment, and we're treated to frontal shots of blank, sometimes sad faces, indistinguishable with the black paint and the steely gazes. Gonorrhea makes a beeline for Martin, returning the letter he found. "You read it?" Martin asks. Gonorrhea nods and looks away. "Where the fuck is Monte Casino?" he asks, trying to locate the place of his brother's demise. "At least somewhere," Martin says, and although I think he means the finality is better than an eternal MIA report, I think it's a poorly written line. Martin offers condolences; Gonorrhea feels worse for his mother, he says, and walks away drooping. "Bill...I'll meet up with you over there," Martin says, fluent in War Platitude and also figuring that on the day of the scariest invasion of their careers, it's really best to tempt death as blatantly as possible.

Airsickness pills. Winters pops his and addresses the crowd. Conveniently, our hero is no longer working the mess and has instead retained an authority position, presumably having resolved the nasty disciplinary snarl. "Good luck, God bless you, and I'll see you in the assembly area," he says to his men, who are seated on the tarmac. One by one, he pulls them up, lingering just long enough for the gesture to become a handshake. Weighed down by their garb, each man needs a boost to get inside the plane; when they're ready, they clutch maps nervously for one last cram session. Propellers whirr and the men look terrified.

Trumpet music heralds the departure of five planes, which join a massive cluster of aircraft in the sky. Gonorrhea locks his jaw once more, staring at the floor and looking angry at the injustice of it all. Ladies and Gentleman, meet our resident loose cannon. The camera pulls back out of Easy's plane and we lose it amid the crowd, a procession of mechanical lemmings headed to a gruesome battle and, for some, a horrific end. Fade to black.

"Soldiers, sailors and airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force: You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you," the screen reads. "Good luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of the almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking. -- Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander."

up: Easy Company invades Normandy, and not all the men make it.