I have a confession to make: I killed Private Liebgott. I did it, in my Dad's study, with my keyboard. It all started on an innocent Monday morning, when I took my notes on Easy Company's capture of a German garrison, featured in "Day of Days." I thought Liebgott was the man shot in the head while talking to Donnie; it looked like him, it felt like him, and I never saw Liebgott again after that moment. There were a few other reasons that seemed logical, so I gulped and took the leap and proclaimed Liebgott dead. But then the scamp showed up in this episode, plus I bought the book and it confirmed the fatality was not anyone in the core Easy group we know (sort of) and love (maybe). Stupid, stupid Heathen. So I'm using the book from now on as reference material, but this show has got to start helping me out a little because I'd prefer not to kill any more war heroes. So live on, sweet Liebgott! Long may you parry and thrust.
Veteranapalooza. This week, the gang waxes reflective about fear. One man recalls being certain he'd die on D-Day. Another says his mind worked in extremes: he'd either die right away or escape unscathed from the whole thing. "I think everyone had fear," muses a third. "There's people that can handle fear....I was just as scared as anyone else, except I could think." A fourth gent relates being frightened he would somehow let down his regiment and comrades. "We all had fear, but we all had training to...try to handle fear...and work to accomplish what you're supposed to be doing," concludes a fourth man. This episode is brought to you by the letters F, E, A, and R, and by the number eighty-three, symbolizing the number of people who go nameless.
June 8, 1944, in Normandy, France. The blue sky is dotted with clouds, including one dark, stormy one and one white rabbit. No, a palm tree. No! It's a Volvo, with a kitten inside. A dirty U.S. soldier stands in a field, perfectly still, staring up at the sky as though he's not sure how in tarnation Fluffy learned to drive. Three other men cautiously approach from behind, deciding the bewildered soldier "looks like what's-his-name," and in that brief moment I feel complete kinship with their deductive reasoning, because to me, three quarters of the cast looks just like "what's-his-name" and "that one guy" and "Khaki McBaggypants." One man gently calls, "Blithe!" But young Blithe keeps staring at the sky, looking like a six-year-old lost in Wal-Mart. The group repeats his name three times before a vacant-eyed Blithe turns around, puts on his big-boy helmet, and wanders toward them in a daze. "Thought that was you," smiles Pvt. Who. "You alone?" Blithe processes this and finally nods slower than a particularly clumsy snail. "You're the first familiar faces I've seen," he breathes. Pvt. Huh says it's not surprising, given that the entire division is scattered all over the peninsula. "We've been fighting with the 502nd" regiment, Huh explains. Blithe, as if to excuse his lack of participation, stammers that he's just been trying to locate Easy Company. "Join the club," Who says. Blithe dons his gun's shoulder-strap, stares once more at the sky to check on Fluffy -- who now seems to be riding a llama -- and then follows his three comrades into the forest.
An Easy platoon is huddled around a monument, trying to relax. Blithe & The Gang appear. "Look who decided to show up!" Easy's soldiers tease. Liebgott shows off a Nazi flag he stole, nodding proudly at his souvenir. Blithe silently walks through the group and off-camera, while a Sgt. Talbert flashes the funky German poncho he lifted from one of the dead. "My Luger's gonna put you all to shame, when I get it," says someone who isn't Malarkey. So we have two men competing for a Luger. It's a Luger contest. A loogie contest. Ha! The ten-year-old in me is very happy right now.
Blithe plops down to Perconte, who cheerfully asks how his jump went. "Missed the DZ," Blithe says, referring to the drop zone, in which Easy was supposed to land and find all its members easily and, ideally, intact. But on D-Day, the anti-aircraft fire was so intense that soldiers jumped prematurely or tardily and got separated, scattered to the winds and deposited in odd parts of Normandy. As such, Perconte replies, "That goes without saying," but shoots the emotionless Blithe a look that says, "That's not the only zone he's missing." Trying to perk up the quiet private, Perconte says, "Got any souvenirs to trade?" He pulls up his sleeve to reveal a left arm adorned with five wristwatches. "Still ticking, not like their owners," Perconte says jovially. Blithe murmurs that he hasn't pocketed any graft, then asks whether Easy has lost anyone. Perconte's pal, Pvt. NoNametag, chips in that "Burgess took one in the face; Popeye Wynn got picked in the be-hind, but they'll be okay." Blithe monotones that he's glad to hear it. When asked whether he ran into Lt. Meehan, the missing Easy Company CO, Blithe allows a flicker of a reaction -- he's shocked, shakes his head, and asks who's in charge now that Meehan is MIA. NoNametag says Winters is acting CO, with Lt. Harry Welsh running Winters's old platoon.
At that moment, Welsh bellows for his platoon to gather, because Easy is moving out immediately. "It'll be dark soon," he shares. "I want light-and-noise discipline from now on. No talking, no smoking, and no..." and here, I swear he says, "No playing grab-the-fanny with the man in front of you, Luz." That sounds like a pretty great party game, sort of the sexual version of "pin the tail on the donkey." But it's possible Welsh said something about not snagging graft; it was hard to tell. The plan is to take the French village of Carentan. The infantry that landed on Utah and Omaha beaches need a way to link up and proceed as a united front, and Carentan is the most convenient way to connect the dots. "If we fail, the army's stuck on the sands," Welsh intones. "General Taylor is sending the whole division." The chap named Luz, imp that he is, grins and imitates the good General when he says, "Just give me three days and three nights of hard fighting, and you will be relieved!" Everyone laughs. A skinny Spike Jonze type named Hoobler volunteers to be the lead scout; Welsh welcomes Blithe and then orders 1st Platoon to lead the way and says the other two will follow. "Remember, boys," Luz imitates Gen. Taylor. "Flies spread disease...so keep yours closed!" The platoon cracks up again, but Blithe maintains his nervous and cheerless disposition, with a new fear of plagues in his privates.
Easy Company trudges through a body of water, surrounded by blazing wreckage and dead bodies. Gunshots are so occasional that they sound like firecrackers. A royal-blue darkness has settled; the red flames and blue sky almost look patriotic. Perconte passes a dead German whose arm is aloft from rigor mortis, and he removes the man's watch with a thief's finesse. "Don't wake Jerry," someone cackles. Blithe stares at the cadaver's now-naked wrist and looks very sad. Blithe and his inappropriate name, if this blow to my noggin is to be believed, personifies this week's theme of "fear." Sesame Street would be so proud of this show.
Hoobler stops in his tracks and announces that Fox Company has disappeared. "Again?" complains Welsh, who walks away. "We lost Fox Company," Hoobler tells Perconte. "Again?" Perconte sighs. He turns around to send the information down the line, but Welsh appears first and sends him to get Winters, while Blithe and Hoobler run ahead to find Fox. We cut away to a Soldiers In Silhouette shot, then back to Welsh, who smokes vigorously as Winters approaches. Winters is tasty. It's nice to see him. Welsh says he's got men out there looking. Nixon trots over and says, "Why are we stopped?" Sighing with irritation, Winters says, "This is about officers crapping out on their training, Nix." And the book confirms this. Fox neglected to move at a pace that ensured Easy remained within; for example, Fox would be so eager to move along that, when its men cleared difficult areas of the trek, the entire company would zoom forward and forget to wait for the other companies to clear those same obstacles. Impatient, Winters suggests they just keep going, and Welsh slaps a mosquito on his neck.
Blithe and Hoobler trudge through the brush, panting and smacking bugs. Blithe fights mosquitoes with more zeal than he's put into fighting Germans. After a moment of panic, the duo hears the flash/thunder signal and realizes a nearby cracking twig was under the boot of a Fox Company soldier. "Where you all been?" FoxMan asks. He looks incredibly stupid...stupid like a fox! No, actually, he does look thick as four planks and half as personable. Blithe starts back to tell Easy that Fox has been located. He turns and meanders slowly toward Easy, but freezes when he catches sight of a helmet hiding behind a tree. The hat sits atop the head of a stationary German soldier half-hidden against a tree trunk. Clumsily fumbling for his gun, Blithe trembles ferociously, an earthquake on legs. "He's dead, Private," Winters's voice says, shortly before he appears in body. "Did you find Fox Company?" Blithe nods. "I...thought he...had me," stammers Blithe, sweating almost as many bullets as the Germans fired on D-Day. And if there's one thing Blithe needs, it's more friction for his fraying nerves. The German corpse looks like a papier-mâché man, although he's got a funky gleaming eyeball that's admittedly extremely creepy. He died upright and stiffened that way. Incidentally, that very statement could somehow explain a lot about Hugh Hefner's continued and busy sex life. Nixon appears in Winters's wake, as has become his custom, and identifies the German as an enemy paratrooper. "Division thinks there's a regiment of them holding Carentan," Nixon says. "There's one less to worry about," Winters deadpans. Blithe doesn't seem to appreciate that too much, but then again, Blithe's sense of humor is getting a good night's sleep in a bunk bed back in England. Nixon sees some Edelweiss on the dead man's lapel, and says it only grows in the Alps above the tree line -- meaning the guy climbed up there to pick it himself, which I suppose means he's resilient and had a good, solid pair of hiking boots. "It's supposed to be the mark of a true soldier," Nixon says. The eye of the German glints as we fade to black.
D-Plus-Six. Carentan, France. The camera finds an old, deserted building, which a sign proclaims is the Café de Normandie. It's at the end of the only road into Carentan, and looks utterly lifeless and quiet. In other words, its sign might as well read, "Get Shot Here." Easy Company scouts the situation from behind a hill. "Why don't you take the 1st straight up the middle, hard and fast," Winters tells Welsh, who can't help being excited by all the double-meaning in the air. "We have to move quickly. I'll be right behind you with 2nd and 3rd," Winters instructs. He waits a few beats, looks at his watch, then wildly gestures and screams, "Go, go, go!" Welsh and his platoon do, in fact, race right up the Road to Certain Death. Bullets shower the area almost immediately, mostly coming from the machine guns now poking out of the Café du Fatality windows. Most of Easy dives down onto the grass lining both sides of the road, but a few men made it into Carentan and take shelter against the side of an abandoned building. "Where the fuck is everybody?" Pvt. Whoever screams at his partner, Luz. "Where did everybody go?" Luz has no idea, but leans around the corner to shoot at a few windows.
The fire is ceaseless, unrelenting. Easy cowers in the trenches and fires benign bullets back toward Café du Fatality, but Lt. Winters is upset because a handful of Easy men were stranded in Carentan and would surely be killed unless the rest of the company got up and charged the town. Winters runs around yelling for the men to get off the ground and run into town, stopping to literally kick the asses of a few men who haven't risen. The diversion he created by doing that helped confuse the Germans enough to get Easy into town, but the show does a poor job of communicating all this. The sequence is too quick and lacks clarity.
As Easy runs into town, men drop from gunshot wounds while others scurry through the streets and duck into buildings. Donnie, bless him, picks off a few enemy soldiers. Someone else gets shot in the back. Shelling commences, as do the snipers. Begging for covering fire from Luz, Donnie bolts to a grim-looking building and lobs a grenade inside, then ducks. It explodes, presumably wiping out anyone lurking inside. Bullets fell several more men. A guy named Shifty is instructed to shoot out each pane of a giant window; while he does it, Tipper and Liebgott -- ride, sweet Liebgott! -- bounce between buildings trying to clear them for U.S. use. Rubble and bodies start to litter the streets, and the noise of fire is neverending. Luz and Hoobler count off and then burst into a building with guns raised, only to find a terrified family huddled in the corner.
Donnie runs up some stairs and blasts open a building, then turns in time to witness a huge explosion a few streets over, debris shooting up far beyond the roofline. He's alarmed. "They got us zeroed! Spread out!" he screams to the men in the streets. "Get the hell out of there! Get out of the street!" More severe explosions are rocking the village now; Blithe, last in a line, stops when he hears one and ducks back into a corner, tearfully sagging to the ground. Soldiers carry wounded men on their own backs, risking their safety just to get the injured men under cover. Now, I can't begin to comprehend the depth of Blithe's terror, but I can't sympathize with him when other equally young men are swallowing their own fear so grandly. And I feel a bit sorry for the real Blithe's family, because much of this isn't in the book and I wonder if Blithe was as big a wuss as he appears here. The TV Blithe is so wimpy, he'd be afraid of a couch cushion.
Pvt. Notinthebook runs through the streets as a shell hits and spins his body into the air, ripping off his left leg below the knee. He lies in the street moaning, and I can damn well see why. His comrade hauls him to safety while barking for a medic.
Donnie stands in the road waving officers to secured locations. He doesn't see a German weapon off to the side; the enemy loads it and blasts the area in which Donnie stands. The impact launches Donnie several feet away and back against a wall, where he lies breathless and bloodied. "Hang in there, buddy," Talbert tells him. Donnie shakily looks down at his crotch, where oozing blood is pooling in his pants. Talbert follows Donnie's gaze and understands, reaching down to rip open Donnie's pants and check his crotch. "Everything's right where it should be," Talbert shouts to Donnie, who heaves a pained sigh and relaxes a tad, relieved that all the Wahlberg Family Jewels are intact and ready for his cameo as Dirk Diggler's cousin in Boogie Nights 2: Revenge of the Shaken Groove Thang.
Liebgott and Tipper run into the Pharmacie, shooting a few rooms and an outhouse before deeming the area safe. Liebgott leaves, but Tipper gets caught in a hellacious blast. In a pretty cool effect, all the sound we hear for the few seconds is muted, heard as the wounded man's injured, half-deaf ears would hear it. The smoke clears to show us a stunned Liebgott staring brokenly at his friend. A few other men stop running and stare. "Looking good, looking real good," an obviously scared Liebgott says, trying to be reassuring. He sits down to Tipper, who is trembling, and hugs him. Blood is leaking from Tipper's cheek, his left eye is bloodied and could well be a goner, his entire face is red and scarred and there's a gaping chunk missing from his upper right thigh. Both legs are shattered. Liebgott cradles Tipper and whispers, "Hang in there, buddy. We're gonna get you fixed up." Aw. Liebgott went from being dead in one recap to being my gentle hero in this one.
Elsewhere, the onslaught hasn't abated. As bullets smack the land around him, a minister gives extreme unction to dying men felled on the street. Hoobler is amazed and calls it to Malarkey's attention. "Crazy fools, the Irish," Hoobler says. "You should know." But he's clearly touched.
Upstairs in a captured building, a private named Smokey pokes his gun out of an upstairs window and shoots retreating Germans. Almost all of them go down, tipping into lakes or pitching headfirst onto the grassy knoll. Somehow, amid the carnage, Easy ran out the enemy and claimed Carentan for the Allies. I'm not sure how or where this happened, because it looked like a complete shellacking the whole time, but who am I to argue with history? To have achieved this, they're incredibly brave, probably a little crazy, and damn fine soldiers. Go Easy! Have a slice of provolone on your irony sandwiches!
Winters strolls the street as a white horse approaches. "I'm Sgt. Farnsworth from Able, 501st. I'm here to tell you we got it clear from here all the way to the north of them Krauts, sir," the excited officer says. Winters proudly notes that 506th regiment cleared the southern positions. The Lone Ranger rears his stallion and departs. "Lieutenant Winters! Is it safe to cross now?" a rotund man asks. "We want to move the wounded." Winters half-giggles and swaps amused looks with Nixon, who always seems to be around but never seems to do much except swap amused looks with people. Suddenly, a stray bullet ricochets into Winters's leg; pissed, he limps off-screen and curses his bad luck.
A medic lifts the flattened bullet from just underneath Winters's shin skin. Buck Compton struts in, all swagger and suavity, and grins at Winters. "You gonna be able to stay off it?" he asks, every syllable wrapped in doubt. "Doesn't look that way," Winters sighs. He tells Compton they should expect a counterattack, because Carentan is important to the Germans precisely because the Allies want it so badly. Easy won't be in the village to fight, though, because the battalion wants to head east toward high ground, setting up a defensive position there that blocks the Germans' only point of passage. Compton leaves, having been the Exposition Enabler for plenty long enough. He and his manly gait are needed elsewhere, wherever testosterone is low and chests aren't hairy.
"What's wrong with Blithe?" Winters asks curiously, spotting the private slumped in a corner staring into space. "He can't see," the medic replies, sounding remarkably unconcerned. "So he says." Winters chews on this, then gets up and moseys over to where Blithe sits. "Blithe? It's Lieutenant Winters. What happened?" our hero asks. Blithe is on the verge of tears. "Things, they just kinda went black on me," he whines. Winters waves his hand around to establish that Blithe really can't seem to see a thing. "Take it easy. You're okay, son," Winters smiles sympathetically. "We'll get you outta here and get you back to England." Blithe closes his eyes and fights his rising sobs. "Sir, I didn't want to let anyone down," he chokes. Winters repeats his soothing words and pats Blithe on the arm. Goodness flows freely from every pore on Winters's body, so of course his touch cures Blithe's blindness, and possibly his chronic bacne. "Sir," he says, slowly turning his head toward the lieutenant. "Thank you, sir. I'm okay. I'm okay." Blithe still isn't able to focus completely, but at least he's got sight. "I don't know what happened, but I think I'm okay." His tears dried a trail on his cheeks, which glints in the light as Blithe ambles like a zombie past Winters and over to a rest area. Winters cocks his head a bit and looks pensively after Blithe. You know, it's really decent of Winters to be so caring to this guy, whose hysteria led to the hysterical blindness that could've cost Easy a few more lives. But at this point, as a viewer, it's also refreshing to see abject fear on someone's face, because that's exactly what I'd feel.
In Carentan, the troops relax before the inevitable move deeper into France. Hoobler sucks on a tube of German cheese, grimacing and pronouncing it stinky. Pvt. Whozit bitches that the bread is also stale. "Don't seem like Jerry's got too much fight left," he says. Malarkey says, "Well, don't get hit in the face when Jerry throws in the sponge, okay?" Whozit swears they'll be in Berlin by Christmas. Tall, dark and creepy Lt. Speirs -- the Dog Company CO -- strolls over and intones that they should enjoy the leisure while it lasts; they're all moving out soon. Someone makes a flip remark that wins a poisonous glare from Deputy Dog (tm Ajax, I think) as he walks away.
Once the man's out of earshot, the soldiers dish divine dirt on devilish Deputy Dog, apparently my latest instrument of alliteration. On D-Day, when Malarkey befriended the German-American from Oregon who was then executed off-camera by a mystery person, rumors swirled that Deputy Dog was the one who killed that group. Hoobler claims Deputy Dog posed the men -- offered them cigarettes and a light, then shot them in cold blood while they smoked. We see a black-and-white flashback of it; then back to real time. "I heard he didn't do it," Whozit says. Now we see flashbacks of uniform-clad knees being shot, bodies falling like dominoes and Deputy Dog coldly watching one of his underlings shoot the unarmed prisoners. "No, no, no, it was him all right, but it was more than eight guys. It was more like twenty," a third guy chips in, and finally we see Deputy Dog blowing away a horde of Germans. "All except one guy, who he left alone." That man stands trembling, his cigarette burned so low it's aflame between his fingers. Wow. Deputy Dog is a legend of evil, an epic boil festering on Satan's left nostril. In other words, he's Jewel.
Whozit finally says he heard that Deputy Dog took the last MG at the German garrison by himself. "I saw that," Malarkey says, shaking his head in something akin to disbelief and grudging respect. Whozit says that's all he needs to know; the nasty stuff be damned. One of the men asks Blithe what he thinks of all this. Blithe is too busy being nervous to think. He looks like he's just been asked to dissect his own foot. "I don't know. I'm gonna have to take everyone's word for it. I didn't see any of it," he says quietly.
Welsh shows up in the distance and shouts that the 1st Platoon is moving out. Blithe is slow to rise.
Easy tromps through a lush green field, Perconte and Luz leading the way and clearly tired, frustrated, and ignorant of a battle plan. They just know to keep walking "until they tell us to stop," in Luz's words. Perconte is hitting his boiling point. "Why is Easy Company the only company who's at the front of an advance, or like now, exposed at the far edge of the line?" he snaps. Hoobler groans that it's just to keep them on their toes. "That's not what I'm saying," argues Perconte. "We're never in the middle, and we're the fifth of nine companies in this regiment -- Able through Item. Think of it." Sounds like Easy's own performance record precedes it, pushing it into greater peril. That's the hazard of being the best. I should know, based on my own history of excellence in the ferocious world of sixth-grade Vocabulary Baseball. It wasn't pretty.
Perconte can't finish his thought, though, because the Germans punctuate it for him. Gunfire knocks Easy to the ground, and the men scramble to put up some kind of defense until they can get behind a hedgerow. A few of the guys don't make it that far; Blithe, panting, slides into safety and seems to hide in terror while his comrades return the fire. Fade to black.
Distinct sounds of booze-sodden carousing float across the battlefield. Blithe and Sgt. Martin huddle in their foxhole. "What have they got to sing about?" Martin bitches. Blithe continues his signature silent staring, and I must say the actor's doing a good job holding the shell-shocked façade for so long. Maybe Spielberg just scared the leg hair off him by forcing him to star in some self-reverential auto-biopic Steven Spielberg: The E.T. Within. Martin raises his gun and whispers, "Flash!" just as Welsh slides down to join them. He grins. "Thunder," Welsh answers with a mischievous smile. "Catchy tune, ain't it?" Martin looks pissed at being alarmed by this goof, then begs for relief so he can empty his bladder. Welsh demands he be quick about it so Blithe can get some shut-eye. Then Welsh snuggles down inside the pit with his private, and I swear that actor can't smile without looking like he wants to lick the pants off whoever he's with. "How ya doin', Blithe?" he booms. Blithe is okay, but tonight's not a good night for him -- he's got a headache, see, and he has to get up real early tomorrow. Welsh enquires about Blithe's eyesight; Blithe assures him the hysterical blindness is past him, but he's less than convincing. There's some stupidity about a canteen. "It's a game, Blithe, that's all," Welsh says. "What is?" Blithe asks. Hmm. In addition to being nervous and humorless, Blithe also appears to be far from the sharpest bayonet in the arms chest. "The whole thing," Welsh smiles cheerfully. "Just a game." And that's how you comfort a soldier who's grappling with the reality of how many human lives are at stake, and how tenuous his grip on his own livelihood really is -- just tell the guy it's all a joke, some vicious game of pretend. That'll soothe his soul.
Winters breaks the mood by calling for Welsh, who vacates his spot. Blithe promptly spits on it, but he doesn't look motivated by spite. He might've just needed to rid himself of water. But it cracked me up, regardless. It's odd, disrespectful yet funny, and gross, because Martin's going to come back and park his ass right on top of Blithe's loogie, and that will be so soothing.
"The Germans only left one company to defend Carentan," Winters whispers as he walks with Welsh. "The rest pulled out last night." Welsh curses that he knew the enemy ceded Carentan too easily. Who is he kidding? Christina Aguilera is easy. That last joke was, in fact, easy. But bodies piled up, blood gushed, and one man's leg flying through the air...that shit's at least on the intermediate level. Winters says the enemy troops regrouped south of Carentan and may have been doubling back for the counterattack when Easy ran smack into them. As he dishes strategy, Welsh shoots affectionate glances at Winters. I think we're rapidly approaching naughty time. "They want the town back, and we're in their way," Winters concludes. "If they don't come before then, we're attacking [at] first light at 0530."
Official business complete, Welsh now regards Winters with interest. "Not much of a limp," he says, his gaze slithering down to Winters's leg. "I'll survive," Winters replies blithely. "How is it?" persists Welsh, who honestly looks like he'd suck the hurt from his shin if Winters let him. And to head off some of the hate mail, no, I'm not claming the real Welsh felt this way -- just that this actor makes it look like Welsh is really, really horny. Winters looks exasperated. "Hurts," he says, amused but also annoyed that someone's asking him to admit he has a weakness. Welsh smiles. "War is hell," he says cheerfully, disappearing toward the foxholes.
A guy named Smith snoozes in his hole. Creeping up to him, Talbert -- clad in his stolen German poncho -- taps Smith's helmet with his gun and whispers, "Come on, Smith, get up, it's your watch!" Smith slowly rouses himself, then looks up at the source of the noise and sees only a shadowy figure wearing enemy garb and holding a pistol. Smith freaks, grabs his bayonet, and pokes the man twice in the belly. Talbert screams. Liebgott, completely alive (yay!) and bent on helping the wounded, restrains Smith. "What the hell are you doing?" Liebgott yells. "That's Talbert!" Smith finally clears the fog from his brain and stares at the wounded Talbert's face, his own now awash with horror. He sputters apologies. "He looked like a Kraut!" Smith insists. A medic comes to the aid of the not-fatally-hurt Talbert.
In his hole, Blithe is rigid, unmoving, barely able to breathe because of his fear. Martin stirs when he hears a strange noise coming from one of their platoon's foxholes. Blithe goes to check it out, because he can't sleep. "Flash," a voice calls out. "Thunder," answers a startled Blithe. From the bushes emerges Deputy Dog. "Where you going, Private?" he asks. Blithe answers that he heard the ruckus and went to investigate it. The Dog coolly blocks him, saying he just came from there and it's completely under control; he then complains about the nervous privates in Easy Company. "They just don't see how simple it is," he says mechanically. "Just do what you have to do." Blithe says, "Like you did on D-Day, sir?" I'm not sure if he's referring to the capture of the gun at the German battery, or the alleged massacre of German prisoners. If it's the latter, then Blithe is a ballsier mofo than I ever thought. Deputy Dog turns around, curious. "Lieutenant, when I landed on D-Day, I found myself in a ditch all by myself," Blithe begins, choking back tears. "I fell asleep. I think it was the airsickness pills they gave us. When I woke up I didn't really try to find my unit to fight. I just kinda stayed put." Blithe actually got my heartstrings on that one, delivering the speech like a toddler tugging on mommy's skirt pleading for her to kiss it better. I can't imagine a lonelier feeling than being dropped onto Normandy amid hellish, unrelenting enemy fire, only to land and be completely alone in the war zone, no one there to rein in a wild imagination or soothe a petrified spirit. The actor looks appropriately tortured by his experience, confused as to where his courage went, and his eyes beg for Deputy Dog to explain it and make it better. Deputy Dog kneels, meets Blithe's gaze with a look of steel, and says, "You know why you hid in that ditch, Blithe?" The private tearfully whispers, "I was scared!" He looks relieved to admit it. "We're all scared," the Dog replies, evenly and with a trace of menace. "You hid in that ditch because you think there's still hope. But Blithe, the only hope you have is to accept the fact that you're already dead. And the sooner you accept that, the sooner you will be able to function the way a soldier is supposed to function -- without mercy, without compassion, without remorse. All war depends on it." I realize each man out there needed to become hardened so he kept his wits about him during the war, unlike Blithe. But Deputy Dog's view is truly that of a hollowed-out soul. I pray today's soldiers don't agree, because to abandon compassion and brush off the atrocities of war -- to eschew human emotion -- is to emulate the callous brutality of the people who bankrolled, conceived, and executed the recent terror attacks. Blithe and I both get goosebumps, because that's what happens when you're in the presence of the Dark Lord, if you've somehow avoided catching fire.
On D-Day-Plus-Seven, the men are still holed up in the outskirts of Carentan. Welsh talks to the staff sergeants, outlining the upcoming plan of attack. They're unsure of the strength of the forces opposing them here, but suspect they're weaker and probably paratroopers -- meaning no tanks or heavy artillery. Dog and Fox companies will protect Easy's left flank. Just as Welsh concludes the meeting by saying, "Let's make them holler," the sound of a fired mortar shell cuts the air. "Mortar!" someone screams as everyone dives for cover.
The shell hits as Easy's men line up with their guns to launch a counter-offensive. Winters barks orders to the men, but he's even gentle about that. Luz pulls a fallen Easy trooper into the foxholes, while Welsh announces there's no sign of the Allied Infantry yet. "Watch the horizon!" Winters yells. Blithe, slumped in his hole, twitches and looks absolutely afraid. Winters establishes a base of fire along the line of the hedgerow, which will ideally help to protect any men who have to creep into the battlefield with heavier weaponry. Gonorrhea and Perconte are both instructed to make their cluster of men fire in certain directions. More mortar shells fly as debris showers Blithe's pit. Holding his arms in front of his face, Blithe shrieks, "No, no!" and holds his ears to best drown out the sounds of war. His screams of terror intensify. Is it wrong that I'm rolling my eyes at this? I'm growing weary of Blithe again -- at least he's along the hedgerow; some of his comrades are in far more dangerous positions. Like Malarkey and a few of his men, who are shown huddled behind a hill, firing what I think are mortar shells at the German side.
Suddenly, tanks appear on the horizon -- but not Allied Sherman tanks. These are German weapons, and Welsh is appropriately freaked. Immediately, Dog and Fox pull back and leave Easy alone in the line of fire, which infuriates Easy's officers. No one knows who gave the order to retreat, the implication being that no one did and someone bolted out of cowardice. Blithe would've been a better fit in one of those companies. (The book claims that Fox retreated without authorization and its CO got fired on the spot; Dog withdrew because it was too exposed after Fox quit.)
Winters notices Blithe hiding and totally wins me over by being encouraging, not angry. Winters is warm. Wow, so that's Winters, Blithe, Easy Company...man, how is it that a non-fiction show gets to ooze with so much irony? It's a bit sick. "Get on your feet, soldier! That's right, Blithe, you can do it!" Winters shouts with a smile. "Fire your weapon, Blithe, get those goddamn Germans!" His hands trembling, his brow furrowed and sweat beading on his face, Blithe gingerly pulls the trigger, then again, and again, and finally he's in a rhythm. Slowly he's fiercer, more in control. "Let them have it, Blithe!" Winters cheers him. Stunned at his own strength, Blithe quickly reloads and starts shooting off another round.
Someone's finger is shot off. The tanks creep closer to Easy's hedgerow; for its part, Easy is holding ground and praying that the infantry shows up to provide relief. Welsh and a Pvt. McGrath lug a bazooka out into the field. "You're gonna get me killed, Lieutenant!" McGrath yells, shaking his head. "I knew you'd get me killed!" Welsh loads the gun as McGrath aims it; they're going to try to hit the tank just as it comes over the hill's crest. Across the field, two other men toting a bazooka get blasted back to the hedgerow by tank fire. An encouraging omen. As Winters screams for covering fire, Welsh gives the order to fire and McGrath hits the tank with a blast right to its front. Score! U.S.A.! U.S.A.! The tank disabled, they scramble back to the pits as someone praises McGrath's aim.
Several unidentifiable men get hurt: one is shot in the knee, others are shot while firing from the hedgerow; another takes a bullet to the throat, and yet another takes one in the chest. Medics run around trying to tend to all the wounds, but it's hard to get concerned when we don't have anything invested in any of the injured men. They're just extras.
To the delight of Easy, Sherman tanks appear over the hill and start decimating the German side. "Well, hello 2nd Armored," cheers a man we should probably recognize, but whose face is obscured by binoculars. Whose decision was that? Lord, this show is driving me to drink. Well, okay, I was already there, but this show definitely bought me a few shots. Easy begins to celebrate, firing with renewed vigor at the urging of Winters, Welsh, and even young Perconte. Out in the field, Malarkey sighs, "About damn time!" and Winters shouts, "Let's go, pour it on! Let 'em have it!" The American tanks run wild, blasting the hell out of the enemy and even crushing one soldier under its treads. We hear the gruesome crunchy pop of an exploding skull, and I'm sort of surprised Spielberg and his realism fetish didn't result in viewers getting treated to a grisly shot of his remains. Maybe Stevie slept through this episode.
As things wind down, Blithe spies a pack of Germans fleeing the scene. But I reckon they'll be back. Easy should act with extreme caution if they see a giant wooden bunny on the outskirts of town tonight. Blithe, of course, knows the devils of the Trojan Bunny, so he takes aim and wills one of the men to run within his sights. There is total silence as Blithe focuses, shoots, and hits the man in the abdomen. As the man doubles over and sways, a tank drives past; once it's gone, so is the wounded man. A lone helmet rolls from the vicinity and out into the battlefield. Liebgott offers Welsh a smoke, because it was good for him, too. Back to Blithe, who collapses against the side of his foxhole with a huge sigh. Someone from the 2nd Armored trots over to check on him. "Looks like you fellas had a helluva fight!" Pvt. Cheerful calls out. Blithe staggers to his feet, stares at Cheerful for a second, then proceeds dazedly across the knoll.
The grass is littered with blood puddles. Blithe reaches the corpse of a man who died with his eyes open, and the private stares into them for a second before pilfering an Edelweiss blossom from the dead Nazi's lapel. Affixing it to his own uniform, Blithe zzzZZZZzzz. Whaaa? Oh, shoot. I nodded off. Is Winters naked? No? Dang.
D-Plus-25. Easy has advanced, and creeps toward an abandoned farmhouse for reasons unknown. But Nixon reassures us that "we need to know what's in there," and since he exists for plot exposition right now, we accept his words as truth. We absolutely must check out that calm and empty-looking house that is definitely crawling with gun-toting Germans. I know its job is to sniff out and snuff out the enemy, but Easy is starting to look like the buxom heroine who, while alone in the country with a killer on the loose, hears a noise in her darkened house and goes downstairs to investigate with nothing but a paper clip and a candle.
Welsh isn't sure who to send ahead as scouts, so Nixon tells him to ask for volunteers. "I hate asking for volunteers," Welsh grumbles. "Then pick them," an annoyed Nixon orders. Aw, Winters's two favorites are in a mini-spat. Look, boys, don't be cranky with each other. There's plenty of Winters to go around. Welsh sucks it up and asks for volunteers; Blithe, still trying to get a grip on the kernels of courage within, sticks up his hand. Welsh names him lead scout and picks Martin and Dukeman to follow. "Hubba hubba," Welsh says. I'm not kidding. What a bizarre motivational chant. Unless he just thinks Blithe has a pert ass.
Keeping low, the trio creeps toward the farmhouse. Nixon amusedly points to Welsh's satchel. "What exactly are you doing with your reserve chute?" Nixon grins. "You been hauling that thing around since we jumped?" Cut to the trio creeping. Cut back. Welsh sheepishly looks at the ground. It seems that he's saving it for when they return to England, when he'll send it to his fiancée so she can make a wedding dress. That's kind of cute! A little strange, perhaps, but a sweet thought. The trio approaches the house; now, we're back to Nixon. "Gee, Harry, I never would've guessed," he laughs. "What, that I'm so sentimental?" chuckles Welsh. Nixon replies, "No, that you think we're going to make it back to England." I feel like Nixon is going to die at some point during the few weeks. It's just a hunch that I can't explain.
Ominous music heralds the scouting trio's final steps toward the farmhouse. It looks deserted; somehow, Blithe decides it's a good idea to move forward, and as he stands to give the order, a sniper zings a bullet through the private's neck. Welsh screams for covering fire as Martin and Dukeman drag Blithe to safety. He lies on the ground, unblinking, as Martin tries to comfort him. Winters stares sadly at the wounded man. "They're pulling us off the front lines," he whispers to Welsh, who is stunned. "To a fuel camp north of Utah Beach. Hot food and showers, and then back to England."
At the Utah Beach camp, near the medic tents, a pile of unforms sits in the foreground. We zero in on one with an "Airborne" patch and a sprig of Edelweiss. Um, okay. We did actually get that Blithe was hurt, being as we saw it happen and whatnot. I would take this as an omen of his death, but I peeked ahead, and it isn't. So really, it's just an omen of nudity. Fade to black.
Winters walks up to Welsh, who is reclining against an archway with his eyes closed, sensually sucking on a cigarette. Winters confirms that his leg is a bit stiff and sore, so he's trying to take it easy for a few days. "You should," Welsh sighs. Winters says that Colonel Sink really appreciated Easy Company's holding the line when the others bailed out, and notes that General Taylor -- the 101st Airborne leader -- was also pleased. Welsh groans. "That's why I came to France. To please General Taylor," he says. Winters simply breathes, "Yeah," and looks dejected. Why aren't they proud of this? They're damn brave, and everyone knows it. I suppose they're probably just too exhausted to be proud.
Hospital Tent. Pvt. Gordon, wounded during that second battle, gets the Purple Heart for being hurt in the line of duty. He smiles and poses for a photo. Another man is wheeled in with his head wrapped in gauze; we only see the profile, but we recognize Blithe's stony and vacant blue eyes. "How many does that make?" a recovering soldier asks. Gordon, obviously doing just fine now, pulls up his pillow and places his newest Purple Heart to two others. "You have no shame," his friend chuckles. "One hole in my shoulder, a second one on my calf and a boil on my shin that has to be lanced," Gordon laughs. His friend points to Blithe. "And he only gets one," he says, sadly. Actually, Gordon's injury is one of my favorite stories from the book (so far): he was bleeding all over the place, but when asked if he was hurt, he said something like, "Oh, I guess, but I really just need this boil lanced, please." So the medic did that first. Gordon tried to go back to Winters and Easy Company, and had to be ordered back to England for recovery.
Cut to a shot of Blithe's bandaged face, expressionless as ever. We see a shot of the same cloudy sky at which he gazed while lost in Normandy. The sky shot transitions us to footage of wacky fun, as Malarkey and his pal More (the book filled in that blank for me) race through the quiet Aldbourne streets in a motorcycle and sidecar. They're elated to be back in England, clean again and safe. It's a joyous frolic. They're blithe in every way Blithe can't be. Malarkey guzzles a beer and giggles as they race past everyone and narrowly escape a collision with a delivery truck. Screeching to a halt, the two men hop out and head for the mess hall.
Inside, the assembled officers are applauding as Gordon, quite sensitively wearing all three of his Purple Hearts, is standing up and getting ready to recite a poem he wrote about Talbert and Smith's little stabling snafu. It goes like this:
The night was filled with dark and cold,
When Sgt. Talbert, the story's told,
Pulled on his poncho and headed out
To check the lines dressed like a Kraut.
Upon a trooper, our hero came,
Fast asleep; he called his name.
"Smith, oh Smith, get up, it's time
To take your turn out on the line."
Private Smith, so very weary,
Cracked an eye, all red and bleary,
Grabbed his rifle and did not tarry,
Hearing Floyd, but seeing Jerry.
"It's me!" cried Pat [Talbert]. "Don't do it!" Yet,
Smith charged tout de suite with a bayonet.
He lunged, he thrust, both high and low
And skewered the boy from Kokomo.
I should point out that this probably isn't the text of the actual poem. Though it did exist, every man interviewed by Stephen Ambrose flatly refused to supply the real thing.
While the poem is recited, a few things happen. Smith and Talbert both look embarrassed, but they giggle. A group of new recruits looks confused and left out, aware only that the oration is called "The Night of the Bayonet," but unsure what that means. Tired of being outside an inside joke, a redheaded kid gets up to leave, but Gonorrhea stops him. It turns out they're from the same area of Philly, and the redhead is immediately welcomed into the fold. His other two friends, of course, get no such warm treatment, but that's what they get for not being from Philly. This is our first real glimpse of Gonorrhea, other than a few facials from the battle scenes, so I thought it was worth noting that he's alive and kicking and not as vengeful.
Meanwhile, a piece of information has made the rounds from Winters through to Donnie, who was listening happily to the recitation until pulled aside for a conference. Back to Gordon, who says Talbert wasn't wounded by the enemy and doesn't qualify for a Purple Heart -- therefore, he can have one of Gordon's extra ones. Everyone claps. "I coulda shot the kid a dozen times," Talbert jokes. "I just didn't think we could spare a man."
Donnie moves in front of the crowd to speak. He looks like he wants to cry, but he's hanging tough. (I think a thousand NKOTB fans just groaned in unison.) Donnie cancels a training exercise scheduled for that night at 2200, which elicits cheers from the men that Donnie's second piece of news will silence. He revokes all weekend passes because Easy is heading back to France -- and this time, it's for the duration. "Anyone who has not made out a will, go to the supply office," Donnie says calmly. Martin and my boy Liebgott look scared, and several other random people also seem dejected, but that's none of my concern since I don't know who they are.
Malarkey pokes his head inside the makeshift laundromat. He excitedly corrects the female owner when she calls him "Private," since he's just been promoted to Sergeant. The woman smiles and promptly calls him Private again. I think she's just absent-minded, but still, it wouldn't hurt to listen. They're on the same side, after all. Anyway, she passes him the laundry and picks the proper change out from what's sitting in Malarkey's outstretched palm. He's completely cute, because he corrects his language in front of her as a show of respect for a lady. If Malarkey would shut up about Luger pistols, we might have a chance. "Lieutenant Meehan's one of yours, isn't he? Hope he hasn't forgotten his laundry," the woman smiles. Malarkey pauses, and his eyes widen. He stammers that he'll take it, and pays her for the brown-paper parcel containing the clothes of his dead CO. He looks down at it warily, unsure how to feel. She then casually asks him to "help [her] with some of the others" who haven't returned for their clothes, and she promptly rattles off names. She might as well whip out a pad of paper and sing, "Let's count how many of your friends are dead!"
Of the other names the washer-woman reads, the only one we know is the last: Albert Blithe. This scene does what the Edelweiss-uniform shot could also have accomplished, but of course, we had to have both, which I think was overkill and ruined what might've been poignant. But too often, that's what Spielberg is all about. Fade to black.
Some text tells us Easy Company lost sixty-five men before it pulled out of France on June 29. Blithe didn't die immediately, but never recovered from his wounds and finally perished in 1948.
time, Easy travels to Eindhoven, Holland, and participates in a crucial offensive called Market-Garden. Compton gets hit and says, "Leave me here for the Germans!" Finally, Randleman endangers himself and someone screams, "Buuuuullllllll!" Now people we know, people we recognize, people who got paid fatter salaries, are in peril. I might actually be able to get invested in this one.