We're coming off the series's most harrowing episode, in which Easy Company lost a horde of familiar faces; simultaneously, Morale got its ass kicked in a barfight after offering the Grim Reaper's girlfriend fifty bucks for a butt massage. Hoobler shot a German scout on horseback, pocketed the man's Luger, and then accidentally shot himself in the leg with it. He died of the wounds. Apparently, you can die of a gunshot wound to the thigh if the bullet pierces the right (or wrong) artery, but conversely, you can have your entire lower leg blown off and still live to use a prosthetic. Biology 1, Logic 0. After Winters's promotion, Easy got saddled with a lackluster leader named Lt. Dike -- a favorite of the higher-ups who had no business leading men in battle, but who needed the experience to climb the ladder. Dike fell apart during a mission, and Winters picked Lt. Speirs from Dog Company to relieve him. Toye and Gonorrhea lost a leg each, Skip Muck and Alex Penkala Jr. died in their foxholes when a shell hit them, and stress cracked Buck Compton, who left the front lines. Donnie learned that Winters recommended him for a battlefield commission, which would vault him from 1st Sergeant and NCO status straight to Lieutenant, and as such, a platoon leader.
Damn, a lot of shit's gone down.
Veteranabananarama. One kindly old man reiterates for us that Easy lost some very good men while defending Bastogne and Foy. He mentions Toye, Gonorrhea, and Smokey Gordon in particular. "I don't know the exact amount of men that got killed in that, but six, seven of them were real close friends of mine," a man says. I wonder if this man is Malarkey, who was pals with Skip, Gonorrhea, and Compton, at the very least. It's also interesting to me that neither of these first two men used names for these towns -- one said "there," and the other said "that," almost as though it's too emotional for them to spit out the proper nouns. A third man recalls that medic Eugene Roe approached him after Skip Muck died and asked him whether he wanted to go look; certain he couldn't handle it, the man declined, and the camera lingers on an absolutely wrenching expression of grief in his eyes. A fourth man exists only to exposit that Haguenau was Easy's stop, in the hope of leading a push across the river. Finally the last man -- who I personally think is Winters, but I honestly don't know and haven't seen any photos to confirm or refute this -- muses that once in Haguenau, everyone developed an indescribable gut feeling that the worst had passed and death was no longer a certainty. They felt they might live, and so treaded a bit more carefully.
February 9, 1945: Haguenau, France. We fade up on a snow-covered town, but the vista is spoiled by more narration -- this week, it's from Private Daniel Webster, or as some of the female audience might know him, Hot Jim from Center Stage. Some of his narration is interesting, but some feels like the product of indecision from a writing staff that yearned to use as much as possible from the book (and the soldiers' actual letters home), and figured voice-over would be an easy out. The result is a lack of subtlety. The voice informs us that, on U.S. soil, the 101st Airborne earned widespread fame for its stand in the Battle of the Bulge. "Newspapers called them 'The Battered Bastards of Bastogne,'" says Webster. "They'd been through hell on Earth and were now pulling into the comparative paradise of Haguenau, the sounds of war still coming from just across the river." Okay, again, we knew they left Belgium for France, and the visuals alone display more favorable conditions than snowy foxholes, but whatever. I'll quit playing the harp. Webster missed Bastogne, having been hurt in Holland in "Crossroads" and sent away to the hospital. In the replacement depot, he heard tales of a broken German front and a war about to end. As we learn all this, we see a caravan of Army vehicles chugging along the road, meeting up with Jeeps; from one, Webster emerges, clean and grinning. Ominously, Webster voice-overs that when he rejoined the men of Easy, "they looked nothing like the heroes who had just helped win the war."
Trotting toward one truck, Webster grins, "George Luz!" No reaction. "It's me!" presses Webster. "Come on, I haven't been gone that long." Luz, slumped in his seat, mutters, "Jesus, yes, you have." Waving off this reaction, Webster struts on toward the truck carrying 1st Platoon, his old group. "Sgt. Martin!" he yells, pleasantly. Curtly, a lieutenant -- Lt. Foley, I believe -- sits up and demands that Webster explain himself. "My name's Private Webster. I just got back from the hospital," Webster says, proud of himself the way a four-year-old is when he announces that he's gone in the potty. Cobb bitterly greets this news with scorn, staring emptily at his former comrade. Cobb resents people. All people. Webster, fully aware that they've just come off a terrible and crippling mission, does the tactful thing here and asks where all the others from 1st Platoon are. "Oh, come on, Sgt. Martin, this can't be everybody," he says, smiling. Right about now, Harvard University officials are thinking, "We gave this guy a degree? Were we DeVry back then?" But Webster forges ahead undeterred, bent on being as dense as he can. "What about Hoobler, where's he?" asks the village idiot. Martin and Randleman just stare at him, blinking, yearning to piss in Webster's helmet. Lt. Foley quietly cuts in and tells Webster that 2nd Platoon is the more decimated, so he should report there and expect to join it. Startled, Webster obeys, leaving.
Plastering yet another goofy grin on his face, Webster approaches 2nd Platoon's truck and informs them of his transfer. No one reacts. They're all depressed, too -- Malarkey in particular; he's standing, but staring absently into the distance and barely acknowledging the existence of anyone. Aw, Malark, I miss Buck too. Keep that hairy chin up, pal. "Jackson, right?" Webster says to a young kid sitting on the edge of the truck bench. Jackson confirms the ID. Webster looks around and wonders why there isn't an officer present; Liebgott pipes up that Malarkey is receiving a battlefield commission. "Jackson, help me up," Webster orders, but the kid only slides over and makes a half-hearted reach to stabilize Webster's rifle as he heaves himself onboard. At that second, the truck starts up with a jarring motion, knocking Webster onto his seat.
Liebgott studies Webster for a second, then curiously asks whether he's been in the hospital. "What's it like in that hospital?" Liebgott snipes. "'Cause we left Holland four months ago." Webster, ignoring the implication, explains that he wasn't there the whole time; he also needed rehab and then had to go through the replacement depot. Liebott sarcastically says he's sure Webster was trying hard to bust out and help his old group get through a grueling campaign. "Don't know how I would've done that," Webster says, his smile losing strength. "Funny...Popeye found a way," Liebgott says, gesturing to his friend. "So did Alley, right?" So did Gonorrhea. But it's a little unfair to harass Webster for not being a renegade like those others; still, I want to slap Webster for the happy-go-lucky attitude he's projected, like he expected everyone to kowtow to the brave soldier who beat a leg wound in four months. Although part of my urge to slap comes from wanting to touch Eion Bailey's face. Is that wrong? Webster asks whether Gonorrhea is still a platoon sergeant, so Jackson fills in the details of Gonorrhea's wound. Given all the disastrous injuries, Webster seems remarkably unaffected by it all, except to be mildly surprised and faintly desirous of a bear hug and a big slap-you-on-the-ass fantastic greeting.
The trucks stop in the town center. Webster gets out and calls for Malarkey; as he does, the shrill sound of a descending shell pierces the air. Malarkey just turns around and plugs his ears, but Webster dives for the ground and covers his head. Let's hope that fatigues conceal urine stains. "What's the matter there, Webster?" Malarkey asks, amused. "Nervous in the service?" Webster tries to act nonchalant, as though he didn't just brick his trousers. Malarkey orders him to company CP, telling him that he should make sure Captain Speirs wants him in 2nd Platoon. Webster's face is blah when he learns Winters is now running the battalion. It's a good thing Eion Bailey is pretty, because he's not going to win any acting awards. I have a shoe that could've brought more life to this scene.
"So Easy had a new CO to go along with all the other new faces," Webster obviates, clarifying for the confused that all the guys he knew are either gone, or different. In the hands of a better actor, that would've been visible from one facial expression, but alas, we have to sit through more narration. "I was a veteran of D-Day and Market-Garden and had been with the company since its formation, but now, since I had missed Bastogne, I was treated as if I was a replacement and felt like I was starting all over again," Webster tells us.
The company headquarters are located in an old, multi-storey building with green wallpaper and crumbling old furniture. It's a lush mansion compared to the narrow trenches and crude shelters of the Ardennes Forest. Webster enters and greets Donnie, who is lying on a couch while Luz covers him with a blanket. It seems Donnie actually did act his ass off in the last episode, and has been ordered to rest until a new one can be airlifted to him. Luz thinks Donnie has pneumonia. "Sorry to hear that," Webster says. Luz jokes that Donnie's just fine, what with the luxury of a blanket and a couch to give him comfort. Donnie tells Webster to sit and wait for Speirs, at which time they'll get him situated in a platoon. Donnie looks tired. Small talk ensues.
Outside, Winters and a scruffy, bearded Nixon stare across the river. "He wants us to cross the river," Winters says softly, almost in disbelief. "Bet that water's cold," Nixon notes. "Should be able to get you some boats." Winters gets a glamour shot of the right side of his face. Well-deserved, too. He gripes that the night's full moon will deny them the cover of darkness.
CP. A clean, stern-looking Colin "Nepotism Rules" Hanks trots into the room. He's a lieutenant, so everyone in the room makes haste to stand. "As you were," Colin "Everything I Know About Auditioning, I Learned from Tori Spelling" Hanks nods importantly. His name is Lieutenant Jones -- yeah, like I'll be using that -- and he's looking for Captain Speirs. Lipton tells Colin "My Dad Swore No Son of His Would Be Seen on Roswell" Hanks to sit and wait for Speirs to return to CP. Webster blathers that we're about to find out what platoon he's in, but the suspense is lost on me.
Winters and Nixon trot purposefully toward Easy's CP. He's telling Nixon that he's not sure how best to handle "this," and will put the decision in Speirs's hands.
Speaking of Speirs, the Easy CO arrives at company CP and blows right past Hanks, who has bolted upright to stand at attention. Donnie tries to introduce Hanks, but Speirs ignores this and instead orders Donnie to go and recuperate in a private back room -- ostensibly so that the germs don't spread. Winters and Nixon enter at that moment, announcing that the regiment wants to send a patrol across the river on a mission to grab prisoners. "This one comes straight from Col. Sink, so it's not my idea," Nixon blurts. Webster watches this silently. Winters exposits that intelligence has identified an occupied three-storey building that's an optimal target for the 0100 raid, and calls for a fifteen-man patrol that includes a lead scout and a translator. The entire battalion will man guns along its side of the river, providing covering fire during the patrol's retreat. For good measure, Winters notes that he wants this to be a foolproof and safe mission. "Don't take chances on those men," Nixon cautions Speirs. "We're too far along for that."
As Winters and Speirs begin hushed discussions about who should lead the patrol, Nixon notices Hanks and earns an introduction. "Right, our West Point-er," Nix grins. Figures. Colin Hanks looks stiff, uncomfortable, and as though his ill-fitting uniform has never sustained a crease. He's so brand-new that I can see the tag swinging from his earlobe. Nixon learns that Hanks graduated from West Point on June 6, 1944. "D-Day, yes, sir," Hanks nods, uneasily. Nixon chuckles, "All right, don't get hurt!" Hanks looks a bit bruised, but woodenly -- sort of the way an oak tree would look if you kicked it while on acid, but without the talking and the pink badgers. Hanks rotates toward Winters and asks to be put on the patrol. Winters considers him briefly, then goes right on talking to Speirs. Hey, Dick? It's dangerous to ignore the boss's son. Just a warning. Winters exits.
Speirs and Donnie whisper about whether an NCO can lead the patrol, suggesting Martin, Malarkey, or Grant. Donnie figures they're all capable, but exhausted. "Captain, request permission to go on the patrol," Hanks says. "No," Speirs says calmly. He establishes that Hanks is inexperienced, then assigns him to 2nd Platoon and tells him Heffron, Ramirez, and McClung will be pulled for the patrol. Feeling ignored, Webster pops up and introduces himself, trying to explain his situation, but Speirs doesn't much care and dispatches him to 2nd Platoon as well. See? See what they're doing? Hanks is a replacement and gets no respect, and Webster is treated like a replacement while getting no respect? I just want to make sure you see the parallel lines here -- sometimes it's hard to spot them when they're being dipped in Tabasco and rammed up your nostrils.
Large stacks of sacks line the sidewalks of Haguenau, providing shelter for the men darting from building to building; apparently, the Germans are keeping a close eye on the town and are firing at will. Webster leads Hanks through the streets, ducking and dashing. During this time, Hanks learns he's the only officer in the platoon -- isn't that standard? -- and Webster speculates that if Malarkey gets a battlefield commission as planned, perhaps he will co-lead the platoon. "Webster?" someone asks. It's Sgt. Kiehn! Yay! Except...who? Kiehn and a pal brag that they ganked bags of potatoes from one of the houses. Suddenly, a screaming shell starts to fall. Everyone flees, and it hits right where they stood. Everyone is fine; Webster and Hanks flatten themselves against the wall of OP-2, the watch station in which some platoons have taken up residence. When someone gives the all-clear call, Webster heaves their bags over a balcony and scrambles over it himself, reaching back to help Hanks. Because he's new, Hanks can't recall the names of the men flagged for the patrol, so Webster reminds him. And us.
The men of the platoon relax in a bedroom lined with bunks. "This taken?" Webster asks, pointing to an upper bunk. He tosses his stuff atop it and leads Hanks toward Malarkey for an introduction. "Congratulations on the battlefield commission," Hanks offers politely. Malarkey is confused, and clarifies that Donnie is the one earning the commission. "So you're without a platoon leader?" Hanks inquires. "Not anymore, Lieutenant," Malarkey replies, busying himself and resisting looking anyone in the eye. Awkwardly, Hanks presses, "Want to introduce me to the men?" Malarkey stops, inwardly sighs, and shoots Hanks a drained look. "Well, some are sleeping downstairs, and the rest are right here," he says, certain he read somewhere -- probably in Cat Fancy or something -- that it's okay for sadness to beget rudeness. The assembled men raise their tin cups at Hanks by way of greeting him. No one salutes; I'm not clear on whether they have to or not, but the place is teeming with disrespect, which is a major no-no in the armed forces even when a snot-nosed academy grad shows up on your turf. Have some finesse, guys. Serve him Dandruff Coffee. Quietly, Hanks tells Malarkey about the patrol, explaining that regiment has a major POW hankering. The soldiers overhear enough of this to realize Webster might know something important, so Liebgott draws him aside.
While the men congregate around Webster, Liebgott eyes Hanks and asks, "This kid outta high-school yet?" Webster exposits that Hanks is a West Point alumnus who graduated with Eisenhower's son. Liebgott doesn't care; he's got more pressing matters on the mind. "What do you know about this patrol?" he quizzes. Webster looks away and unconvincingly denies knowing anything about it. Webster will never be a politician. McClung and Liebgott persist, the latter positing that Webster heard all about it and that it's a prisoner-snatching patrol. "Speirs is to pick fifteen men," begins Webster. "[Hanks] wants to be one of them." Liebgott snorts that they should let him go to get the experience. "And send fourteen replacements to help," grins Ramirez.
Near the windows, Malarkey suffers through small talk with Hanks about the OP, which housed the 79th infantry before Easy. Hanks wants a report on enemy activity in the area. The Germans have been showering the area with flares, mortar fire, scattered fire from an 88 (a railroad gun with huge shells), and some shots from snipers. Hanks importantly shares that he and Webster dodged mortar shelling on the way in, but Malarkey isn't impressed in the slightest. He's all, "Kid, I could eat an exploding mortar shell in my sleep and live to brag about it." Hanks wonders whether the Germans have tried to cross the river themselves. "They have roofs over their heads, sir, just like us," Malarkey says hollowly. "I don't think anybody wants to do anything stupid at this point." Except for the patrol. Except. For the. Patrol. Yeah, this patrol? Stupid idea. Just so you know.
Webster tries valiantly to keep confidence -- although whose, I don't know, since Winters certainly didn't mind discussing this in front of him -- and not reveal the names of the chosen soldiers. To buy time, he decides to be dramatic about it. "There's three men here in this room that they think should be on the patrol," he intones, enjoying this. Oh, bite me, Webster. This isn't fucking Red Rover. This patrol isn't skipping across the field to test the strength of little Bobby's grip. Which, incidentally, is about as tough as the Harvard football team's defense. Oooh, I burned Webster! Fully aware he's going to break like a condom in an orgy, Webster begs for the men to act surprised when they find out through more official channels. "Secret's safe, Web," Liebgott promises, with a hint of menace. Webster meets Heffron's gaze. Babe shakes his head. "Yeah, Heffron," Webster says. McClung pats his disgruntled friend's back. "McClung," Webster adds. McClung stops patting Heffron and looks ready to pat himself on the back with sympathy. "And you," Webster says, pointing toward Ramirez, who winces. Webster doesn't know of any others.
Meanwhile, Malarkey is repeating the three names. Hanks wants to make the announcement, but he's in the middle of telling this to Malarkey when the latter man spins around and shouts, "Listen up!" Hanks' ass is chapped. "I've got bad news," Malarkey says. "There's a patrol set for tonight. So far..." The men interrupt that they know, and Webster told them. Hanks looks pissed. Malarkey answers the phone. Webster turns toward his bed and grimaces at the betrayal. Slamming down the phone, Malarkey announces that more rations have arrived, including the winter packs that would've been really handy when they lived outside. "Also, we get showers," he adds. Oh, maybe that's why Hanks's nose looks pinched -- he isn't breathing through it.
Explosions rock the building. German shells pepper the area, hitting the building across the street. Everyone darts down the stairs, diving underneath tables as dust blankets them. But the peril is over, and laughter ripples across the room. Dust is hilarious!
Running outside toward the showers, Hanks follows the platoon and is the only one to duck when he hears any noises. Suddenly, a commotion: It seems Sgt. Kiehn is wounded, lying on the street as a passel of soldiers runs over and screeches to a halt at the sight of his motionless body. His potato-snagging partner wilts and breathes, "I just left him. I was on my way back." Webster watches this impassively. "In war, soldiers sometimes die in the fever pitch of a firefight, or by artillery when they're huddled in a foxhole," he narrates. "Bill Kiehn, a Toccoa [where Easy trained] man, was killed because he was carrying a sack of potatoes from one building to another, in the wrong place at the wrong time." Do not blame this on the potatoes, Webster. Potatoes would never hurt a human being. Turnips, now, they're another story. Kiehn died out there on the street before Roe even heard the frantic screams for a medic. "Did you know him well?" Hanks whispers to Webster. "No, not really," Webster says in a tone that borders on cheerful. God, I find myself longing for Donnie -- has anyone ever said that before? Christenson and young Jackson linger, staring sadly at Kiehn.
McClung is in the shower, stripped down to his shorts like most of the other men. He catches the soap. Insert Oz joke here. Naturally, all the men whose fronts we can see are clad in their boxers, possibly because this is the only way to launder them; however, as we pan out of the shower, a big fat extra is buck naked (oooh, Buck naked...mmmm...) and filmed in profile. He's tucked his tackle, though, bless his portly ass. Outside the shower tent, Lipton hails Malarkey and whispers something urgent about Jackson, Wynn, Liebgott, Powers, and Webster. Crumpling slightly, Malarkey turns slowly and calls for 2nd Platoon to gather around him. "All right, I'm leading this patrol," Malarkey sighs, hands jammed deep into his pockets to hide his twitching middle fingers. He explains that Speirs wants Wynn, Grant, Liebgott, Jackson, Shifty Powers from 3rd platoon, and Webster; no one from 1st platoon got the call. "Is there anyone they don't want from 2nd?" Liebgott barks. "It's always 2nd platoon. I swear to God, if we were down to three guys they'd still want us for it." By now, Malarkey has turned and left the group; Liebgott follows once his diatribe is finished. Grant can't believe Malarkey must lead the patrol. "Christ, he only lost his five best friends," another guy cracks. "What the fuck's he got to live for?" The fans, friend. He's gonna live for the fans.
Cobb has been lurking this entire time, glaring fiercely at Webster. "Been a long time since your last shower, Professor?" he snarls. This makes Webster uncomfortable, and he walks toward the showers. Malarkey removes his shirt. Hello! Bet the Germans don't have guns like those. We cut inside the shower, where Malarkey stares at the ground while water pounds against the back of his neck. He doesn't move and wears a traumatized expression, as if he's reliving Belgium one more time. Finally, he closes his eyes, tips back his head and lets the water cleanse him of grime and agony.
Webster strolls back toward Hanks. "Guess I don't really need a shower," he says. Conspiratorially, Webster grabs Hanks and plants the idea that Malarkey deserves a break from the front lines; if Hanks offered to replace him on the patrol, the sergeant might be very grateful and pleased. "They want experience," frets Hanks. Webster counters that the other fourteen men have it in spades, and when Malarkey walks past, he nudges Hanks encouragingly. "[Hanks] wanted to experience combat before the war was over," Webster narrates, as he watches Hanks jog toward Malarkey. "Don Malarkey had been on the front lines every day Easy had seen action since D-Day. If it was possible for them to switch places for the patrol, it would be a small moment of justice as welcome as a hot shower and a fresh uniform." Again, things that the scene itself communicated amply. Maybe I'd feel more warmly toward the narration if the actor imbued it with more enthusiasm than, say, an oral report on the history of pulp in orange juice. Webster ominously portends that the decision was not Hanks's and Malarkey's alone.
At the CP, Luz is taking inventory of the rations. Martin and Cobb are jokingly begging for chocolate bars, but Luz fends them off. A kid named Vest -- who is assisting Luz -- exposits that "they" want to pepper an enemy building with bazooka fire that night because there are reports of movement within it. Cobb is still trying to wheedle a Hershey bar out of Luz, playing on the whole "we were in the same platoon" bond. Luz says fuck that shit, but I suppose he uses longer words. "There's not enough to go around!" he barks. "Come on, give the kid a Hershey bar," a voice calls from off-camera. "Hey, pigmouth!" someone else yells at the source. The camera cuts to Perconte, fresh from the hospital and almost fully recovered. Everyone clamors to ask how he's feeling. "As long as you keep your hands off my ass, I'll be fine," Perconte winks. So, in two hours, he'll be a writhing pretzel of soreness. Luz tosses him a candy bar over the protests of the other soldiers, citing as his defense that Perconte got shot in the ass and deserves some sugar. Amen. If I stub my toe, I reward myself thusly. A few Perconte ass jokes ensue. "Want me to rub it for you?" teases Martin. Cut to Hanks, who looks distinctly unhappy, because he's trained to hate homoerotica. "Can you believe it? Try to get him out of the fuckin' war, [and] he came right back," Martin grins. Webster stares at the ground. This is the homecoming he expected, so it's hard to get shown up by a kid half his size; also, Perconte clearly gets points for coming back quickly, whereas Webster took four months. He's coming off like a total mope here. Perconte says he heard the Germans are almost defeated, and Liebgott grouses that they're rowing across the river that night to grab a few and ask them in person whether that's true. "Are you kidding me?" Perconte asks, shocked. "Wish I was," Liebgott moans ruefully. "Welcome back, Frank."
Luz snaps Webster out of his reverie, ordering him to grab a box of grenade launchers and deliver them to the night patrol. Webster takes the box, and Liebgott sarcastically intones, "Been working out?" Wow, he is one bitter man. I didn't realize there was such mistrust of the wounded who, rather than going AWOL, actually waited out their recoveries. Liebgott clearly ate his Bitchy-Os this morning. Vest interrupts to share a tale of a Dog Patrol lieutenant, fresh from West Point, who stepped on a Schu mine and lost a foot. To top it off, the patrol returned empty-handed. Now it's Hanks's turn to frown, an expression that deepens when Luz impolitely cracks that Hanks probably knew the felled soldier. A pencil sharpener strolls past, but I dismiss it because I've already got the point.
Cobb makes a rude remark about Luz hoarding chocolate bars, and Luz smacks him down appropriately. Can I have Muck back, please? I'll trade Cobb and even throw in a Hershey bar and some replacements. No? But...shit, that means I'm stuck with this shlub. Luz and Webster leave, and Hanks and Vest follow them because they both want to talk to Winters and Speirs. They leave the men to grapple over cigarettes and chocolate bars, and the last thing we hear is Perconte screaming, "I got a wounded ass!"
Winters and Speirs stare across the river. It's amazing how much larger Damian Lewis looks -- not in weight, but in stature. He just seems to loom larger, tougher, more seasoned. More tasty. Speirs reveals that the third structure on the left is the enemy CP. "As soon as our men are back in the boats, I want a Quad 50 to open up," Winters instructs. Hanks approaches and interrupts, begging for inclusion on the patrol and flogging a nearby dead horse with his script. Winters summarily denies the petition, seconded by Speirs. To Hanks's credit, he hasn't asked to lead the patrol, although Speirs informs him he will not; Hanks just wants experience. That's true on so many levels. Jones steps forward toward the men's backs and asks permission to speak. They turn. "It looks like Malarkey could use a break," Hanks explains. "I discussed it with him, and he said he did not mind." Dryly, Winters responds, "That was nice of him." Need I reiterate how awesome Winters is? Vest scampers up behind Hanks and explains that all he's done is deliver the mail and type morning reports; if it's true the war is ending, he'd cherish a chance to participate even once on a more critical level. "Absolutely," Winters smiles. Hanks tenses. His ass is so tight that even air couldn't escape. Winters leans toward Speirs and notes, "He's got a point about Sgt. Malarkey." Speirs agrees warily. Winters finally tells Hanks he can go, and that he must attend a briefing at CP at 1700. Once they're gone, Speirs questions who should lead the patrol with Malarkey gone.
That evening, Jones waits by the door, his profile facing the men while he watches for Winters. "He can't be leading," someone whispers. "Not on his first day." Hanks pretends he didn't hear that, but you know he's also praying to be spared the responsibility. Cobb, Garcia, and Shifty Powers pour into the room, the latter growling something typically war-movie cool about who the hell is running this show. "Ten HUTT!" shouts Hanks. Grudgingly everyone gets up, as if they resent the order coming from runny-nosed Pallid O'Tight-Ass over there. Winters enters and wastes no time giving the briefing, sharing that four rubber boats wait to carry them across the river that night. "[Hanks] is the ranking officer, and he'll be along as an observer," Winters explains. Jones indiscreetly catches Webster's eye and nods, openly acknowledging that the Web played a role in this. Webster returns the nod, smiling, proud, puffed and chuffed. "Sergeant Martin here will lead the patrol in Sergeant Malarkey's place," continues Winters. Having noticed the signal between Webster and Hanks, Martin finally clues into the fact that he's present because of some finagling from Webster. He looks affronted, and Webster suddenly shrugs and plays innocent and widens his eyes in "I didn't do it" insistence. Winters adds that they'll be backed up by battalion gunmen at fixed points along the Allied side of the river, and hands the men whistles to blow when they're ready for the covering fire. "Don't blow [the whistles] until you're back in the boats with the prisoners," Winters warns. He orders them to destroy the house in the unlikely event that they burst inside and find it empty; they'll lay down time-delayed ammo and beat a hasty retreat. Finally, he outlines an attack plan -- secure the perimeter of the house, then shoot a rifle grenade through the first-floor window and send an assault team inside to round up prisoners. "Remember, this is about prisoners," he emphasizes. "Don't pop the first thing that moves." Turning to Martin, Winters asks him to identify his desired assault team. "McClung, Sisk, Cobb, Garcia...and Webster as a translator," Martin spits, staring pointedly at Webster. Sgt. Grant will establish the perimeter security. "You speak German, right, Webster?" Martin asks, coldly. "Yeah, a little bit," hedges Webster. Satisfied, Winters leaves, dismissing another forceful "ten hutt" from Hanks, who has now made a career out of looking decidedly put-out.
"'A little,'" scoffs Liebgott. "His German's as good as mine." He's implying that Webster deliberately downplayed his skills to try to skirt his assignment to the assault force. The thing is, it's unclear whether he's right or wrong, because Webster's reaction isn't decipherable. He looks guilty, not resentful, but I can't shake the feeling that the show wanted him to come off as wrongly maligned. This is just weird. I want to shake Webster until some emotion falls out of his pocket.
As Webster strides toward Martin, the men lag behind and whisper, "Can you believe that guy?" and "Webster tries to get out of everything." Blinking slowly and tensing his jaw, Webster shoulders his rifle and approaches the conferencing Martin and Winters. "Sir? Liebgott and I, we both speak German," begins Webster. "Yes?" Martin asks, annoyed. "You said fifteen men. There are sixteen, including two translators," points out Webster. Liebgott strolls past. "Hey Liebgott, wanna sit this one out?" Martin asks. "Yes sir," accepts Liebgott, winking at Webster and thanking him. "Thank you, sir," Webster tells Martin, and again, it's all very half-hearted and comes across as though Webster was trying to shirk his duty, when in truth I'm pretty sure they meant for us to think he was intending to ask for a respite for Liebgott. I'm unsure whether to blame it on writing or acting, but I lean toward the latter. I haven't seen anything that stiff since Jay Leno last interviewed Rene Russo.
The men gather in the OP as Martin barks out instructions. "Nothing rattles, nothing shines, no helmets," he says. Malarkey ladles either food or drink into everyone's mugs. He spots Hanks sitting alone, isolated, and makes a gentle stab at reaching out to the young officer. "Set for tonight?" he asks genially. "Those Krauts are gonna catch some hell." Hanks clearly appreciates the conversational gesture, but he's still bumming. "So I hear," he tells Malarkey. "I'm not personally going in." Malarkey wonders whether Martin is leading the patrol. "Martin and McClung," Hanks replies. It is? I thought Grant was leading the perimeter security stuff and Martin was leading the assault team; McClung's first name is Earl, not Grant, so I know they're not the same person. Help. I'm floundering. Hanks sadly says he's supposed to stay in the rear and provide covering fire. "That's the place to be," Malarkey says, trying to sound cheerful and comforting. A semi-distant explosion drops a cloud of dust on their heads.
Somberly, we cut to a Montage of Doom. Men try to dull anything that sparkles and remove adornments from their uniforms. Hanks fingers his class ring, then slides it onto a chain with his dog-tags and tucks it under his shirt. This is a very long moment of obvious symbolism, only effective because it lacks narration. So what does the show do? It adds narration. "Fifteen men crossing a river to capture prisoners from a German observation post," Webster voice-overs. "Getting back safely could be successfully accomplished in as little as ten minutes. The same mission could be met with disaster and result in nothing more than fifteen Americans killed or wounded in action." Dousing himself in anvil-repellant, Webster poses near the window and prepares to spew more elegiac exposition posing as profundity. "Those of us who had seen combat before put that out of our minds," he intones. "Those that hadn't thought of little else as we waited for darkness.
Fortunately, we don't have to wait. The camera pans up and onto a view of the river at night. A flare shoots up, bursts, and lights the sky with its trail. Two strobe lights emanating from the German buildings sweep the sky, because it's Friday night and the strippers are taking it ALL off at Der Tittenhausen! Soldiers with bullet scars get in free. On the riverbank, the Allied soldiers creep toward the boats and relay messages about the lack of AP mines. A rope has been stretched across the river somehow, affixed to a strong point on the German side. Rather than rowing and creating a ruckus with oar splash, the men will get in the boats, grab the suspended rope and pull themselves across the river. Of course, the men slosh around and splash while cutting loose the boats and climbing into them. So much for silence. This sounds like a damn pool party. I think I see Perconte strolling past with a tray of margaritas.
The group is barely away from the riverbank when the last boat capsizes, stranding it. Garcia and Sisk are in there, among others. Martin frantically whispers that the mission must continue, so they keep slinking across and beach the boats on the grass. The men pour out and climb over the embankment, sprinting toward town. Cut to Martin and an aide on their stomachs, one holding barbed wire while the other snips through it. Each man then holds the wire aside long enough for the patrolmen to wiggle underneath it. Once standing, the men scamper toward a wall and cower behind it, keeping quiet and trying to remain undetected. Too bad their footsteps are loud.
Once everyone is huddled behind the wall, Martin barks the wave of orders: Shifty and Popeye are to secure the left perimeter, while Hanks, Grant, and Heffron take care of the right side and the crossroads. He dismisses them, and they flee. Everyone else darts toward the actual building, stopping first at an outhouse and then rolling around it before stopping against the wall. All very ingenious, I'm sure. Martin's actually very Winters-esque in his efficiency. One man loads up and blows out the upstairs window, as planned. Jackson, eager, bolts for the door and whips out a grenade. "Jackson, hold on!" screams Martin. He yells it again, but Jackson is eager and lobs the grenade inside; in his impatient enthusiasm, he charges inside after it without waiting long enough, and catches some of the fire right in the face. Jackson drops. "AAAAAAAHHHH," he tells us. Three Germans huddle inside the building, screaming and waving their hands. Martin rolls over Jackson and recoils when he sees the private's bloodied face, his left eye a mushy mess and his entire mug streaked with dark red blood. "Vest, take care of him! Ramirez, watch Vest!" shouts Martin. Everyone else darts inside and tries to round up the prisoners, whose yelling matches Jackson's anguished screams. Vest cradles his comrade's head, repulsed and twitching himself and unable to function. Martin shouts for Webster to disarm the Germans and sweep the room for weapons, while loudly demanding that everyone else -- including the prisoners -- shut the hell up. McClung watches the prisoners, while Webster is told to grab the time-delayed ammo, prime it, then bury it. "Shut up, you two!" Martin then screams at the prisoners. The third German is, apparently, wounded, although with all the noise and pandemonium it's hard to keep track. Ramirez picks up Jackson and drags Vest to his feet so they can move out with the prisoners. The Germans make more noise. "Shut up, you!" Martin screams again. He hurries Webster along. Finally finished with his task, Webster follows them out of the house.
Guns raised, Easy retreats, as the perimeter men unleash covering fire. Martin bellows that Easy must fall back immediately, and one by one the perimeter men drop back and head toward the riverbank. Bullets whiz through the air; the Germans have deduced that some shit is indeed going down at their OP. Liebgott watches bullets fly like little electric pulses through the air. He's ready at a gun on the Allied side, itching for the patrol to blow its whistles. Martin tosses the whistle to Hanks. "Jesus Christ, blow the goddamn whistle!" Liegbott wills them urgently. Hanks blows with all his might, which will make him a huge hit in the gay community. Second battalion unleashes its fire, which hits ground and water and showers the men in dirt and droplets. The patrols struggle into the boats. Vest is freaking out about Jackson's injury, screaming, "I'm gonna shoot you, you fucking Kraut!"
Finally, they set off across the river, shouting to Jackson that he'll be okay despite all the twitching and panting he's doing. Bullets hit the water with ferocity, missing the boats each time. Perconte helps them onto land. Jackson is screaming and gasping for air. "Take cover!" everyone yells, scurrying to safety. Somewhere in the process, they ditch the injured German, although I didn't see it happen.
Inside, Martin orders Popeye to pat down the Germans and restrict them to one corner; McClung is to radio CP and inform them of the mission's success. Men are screaming and waving hands and gnashing teeth. Jackson convulses on the ground. "I can't do this, I can't do this," wails Vest, obviously wondering why the hell he thought mail delivery was such a shitty job. Webster takes over, crouching to Jackson and trying to comfort him while Shifty tries to settle down Vest. Martin leaves Hanks in charge while he scrounges up a medic. As Hanks supervises helpfully, the men try to hold down Jackson's fiercely quivering legs. Webster tries to talk Jackson out of his terrified fit, while Vest only exacerbates matters by shrieking, "He's gonna fucking die! He's gonna fucking die!" Webster, frustrated, leans down close to Jackson and insists, "Don't listen to him. Look at me. You're gonna be fine. Everything's going to be okay." In gratitude, Jackson horks up some blood. His ruined eye is a gelatinous mess. Ramirez, on whose lap Jackson's head is resting, tries to wipe off the streaking blood.
Sudden explosions are audible, and set Vest into a complete fury. He points his gun at the Germans and cusses them out insanely, while three men try to restrain him and the Germans just cower in a corner, freaked and certain the Americans have way too much sugar and not enough schnitzel in their rations. Hanks finally throws Vest against the wall and shouts, "We're not going to get more prisoners because you killed one! Listen to me, Private, sit down!"
Eugene Roe arrives and kneels to Jackson, checking his airway and shining a light into his good eye. All other noise dies down, so that we only hear Jackson's labored breathing and Roe's sincere but pointless assurances that he'll be okay. "I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die," whimpers Jackson. As they try to carry him out, Jackson emits one final gurgle and seizes briefly before going limp. Roe rips off his own helmet and looks angry at the injustice of it all. Heffron shakes his head, turning toward the rest of the assembled group and letting his shock say it all. Slowly, Martin picks up a blanket and carries it toward Jackson's body, gazing mournfully at it for a moment before gently covering it.
"Eugene Jackson was twenty. He lied about his age when he joined the Army at sixteen," Webster tells us. "His family, I'm sure, got a telegram from the war department saying he died a hero on an important mission that would help win the war. In fact, Eugene lost his life on a stretcher in a dank basement in Haguenau, crying out in agony while his friends looked on helplessly. Just one more casualty in a war that was supposed to be all but over." The men continue to stare, broken, at their dead friend, not mourning the man so much as the fact of another lost life.
Later, Winters and Speirs chat in low voices about the report of the patrol's success. The German prisoners are loaded into a truck. Martin and Hanks arrive, and the former relays that Jackson took a grenade fragment in the face. "He died of his wounds, sir," Hanks interjects. Martin is mildly irritated. Winters is relieved to hear no one else got hurt, but clearly regrets that even one man had to get hit. "Well executed," he praises Martin. "It's not your fault." They part ways, and we pull back to see Webster puffing on a cigarette, watching.
Perconte, Liebgott, Malarkey, and the others smoke and sulk in the OP. Webster and Hanks file inside. "Heard you got two prisoners," Malarkey says. "Good work." Webster melodramatically shares that Jackson is dead, but they knew already. Perconte tonelessly notes that the regiment wants another patrol tonight, which startles people to a point, but they react to the news with the air of a group that once more expects the worst. Webster is dazed, the cocky cheerfulness gone from his demeanor.
Cobb stands stone-faced on the balcony, staring out across the river and listening to the faint screams of a wounded man. Martin, Hanks, and Webster stroll over to make sure they earn their paychecks. "You leave someone on the bank?" Cobb asks. "Yeah, we did," Martin says. They listen and hear his wailing, too. "It's the third prisoner that was too far gone to bring back," Hanks opines, awed that the man lived long enough to howl. "Maybe we should put him out of his misery." Cobb, seething, spits, "Fuck his misery." Martin can't listen to any more of it, and leaves. In the book, the men lobbed two grenades at the dying German, the second one killing him and stopping the noise for good. Here, Hanks just stands and listens, dirty and pasty, to a symphony of agony.
The men sit around a table, wiped out and doing little other than smoking. Cobb stands by the fireplace, holding an open bottle of wine from which he swigs. Hanks sparks up a cigarette, clearly a first for his pristine fingers. Webster appears rattled, but boasts flawless hair, which is a bonus. "Whatcha lookin' at, Webster?" sneers Cobb. Silently, Webster shrugs. "That's what I thought, college boy," Cobb spits. Hanks turns slowly and regards Cobb with disgust, asking whether the private is hammered. Cobb disrespects him, but Hanks calmly repeats his query. "Yes, sir, I am drunk," Cobb retorts. "Drunk, sick and tired of fucking patrols, taking orders..." At this, Martin bristles and swivels to face his soldier. "Hey, Cobb," he calls. "Shut up. It's boring, okay?" Cobb grits his teeth, leans against the wall, and intones, "Takin' his side, Johnny?" When I close my eyes and replay that part, Cobb sounds fresh out of some 1950s gang flick. Martin turns his back to Cobb and quietly says, "Yeah, I am." Cobb chugs his wine and continues being bitter, but on the inside. It's all about suppression.
That evening, Winters once again stares at the water with Nixon by his side. "He knows we lost a man?" Winters asks. Nixon says that "he" does know, but "he" also sees a successful patrol that picked up two prisoners eager to spill their guts. Winters wonders what they talked about. "Supply trouble...Hitler's favorite color...None of it gets us across the river," Nixon sighs, both men overcome by the futility of the patrols and the bullheadedness of upper management. Nixon confides that he thinks Col. Sink -- our mystery "he" -- is frankly just bragging about Easy's excellence, showing off. "You gave him a successful patrol, now he wants two," Nixon concludes. Winters laughs in disbelief at the relativity of the term "successful."
Stealthily, Speirs approaches and informs Winters that the men are gathered and ready for a briefing. "Same roster as last night," Speirs says. "Well, mostly." Shouldn't someone mention that Cobb is stinking drunk and clearly unable to participate? Shouldn't they trade him for two third-round draft picks year? Just then, Col. Sink approaches and drawls, "Damn fine job on a tough mission last night, and I wish you good luck tonight because I'll be expecting more of the same." Winters musters all his strength and resists the urge to throw a huge tantrum and yank on Sink's mustache. Sink wants the men to know how proud he is, and totters off for a drink. Winters decides he'll brief the men himself.
Martin calls the men to attention as Winters, Speirs, and Nixon enter. "At ease," Winters says calmly. Winters moves to the head of the table and compliments the men on their mission the night, adding Col. Sink's praise to the pile. The men hang their heads when Winters confirms Sink's order for another patrol. "Any moment now, the outpost we hit last night will go up in flames," Winters says. "This means we have to venture farther into town." Speirs passes him a map, which they unroll and spread out on the table. Winters explains where the enemy is moving and which house will be the new target; he adds that all boats were recovered and will be reused, setting off an hour later from the same place. "That clear?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. Everyone nods. "Good, because I want you all to get a full night's sleep tonight," Winters informs them, the merest hint of a smile on his face. "Which means in the morning, you will report to me that you made it across the river...but were unable to secure any live prisoners." Hanks is intrigued, and the rest of the men's hangdog expressions lighten into relief and amazement. Winters tries to act matter-of-fact, but he's clearly enjoying this. "Look sharp for tomorrow," he adds in a whisper. "We're moving off the line." With that, he leaves. "Did I fucking hear that right?" the men whisper to each other, praising Winters and shaking each others' hands. Hanks nods, certain he's learned an important lesson about leadership that he'll forget the second he's safely behind a desk.
The men emerge to see Nixon and Speirs grinning at Winters. "It's a whole new way to fight a war," Nixon snickers. "Don't bother writing this up. I'll take care of it. Might actually enjoy it. I think you might be onto something, Dick." Aw, I'd love to put a joke there about something, but I'm too proud of my man to say anything. Suddenly, the outpost across the river explodes in a lovely plume of flame and smoke, which Webster watches with another introspective smile. Speirs orders Hanks to join him at the CP, so Hanks obediently trots away.
At the CP, Donnie receives his Honorable Discharge as an enlisted man, which must come before he can accept a commission. Everyone congratulates him heartily, and an obviously delighted Donnie beams broadly. At the same time, everyone welcomes back Harry Welsh, felled in "Bastogne" during another surprise shelling. "Harry, didn't expect to see you this soon," jokes Nixon. "Figured you'd be nursing that scratch for another month or two." Winters departs the merriment just long enough to hand Hanks his new orders -- he's been promoted to 1st Lieutenant because, as a West Point grad, he's been earmarked for a staff job. Luz, watching to the omnipresent Webster, whispers, "Looks like you lost another platoon leader, huh, Web?" More knowing smiles. It used to be Winters, now it's Webster. Boring to recap.
Webster narrates that Nixon did indeed write the bogus patrol report, and regiment never caught on to the lie. When Easy pulled out of Haguenau the day, everyone felt like they'd crossed a major milestone and would doubtless live through the war. Nixon grabs Winters near one of the Jeeps and offhandedly says, "Oh, before I forget -- Col. Sink's a bit unhappy with the appearance of your uniform." He removes a box from his pocket and adds, "He says it's not befitting of your rank." Stunned, Winters opens the box and realizes he's getting an oak-leaf insignia. Nixon salutes him. "Congratulations, Major," he says. Webster watches again. Again! Enough with the watching and the narrating, dork.
Hanks seeks out Martin and Malarkey, shaking their hands and bidding them farewell, hoping this is enough to snag him a better TV gig than some damn WB-reject UPN show. Before he gets on the Jeep, Hanks exchanges a look with Webster, smiling at him. Guess what? Webster smiles back, and watches. He turns to board his own truck, tossing his bag inside and getting ready to propel himself up there. Liebgott, though, intercedes and offers his hand, because Webster proved himself in combat. Hmm, didn't see that one coming, except for the fact that it was flying right at my nose for the past hour. "I wondered if people back home would ever know what it cost soldiers to win this war," Webster muses in voice-over, noting that in America, it felt like peacetime already, with hotels and racetracks and clubs booming with business. "How could anyone know the price paid by soldiers in terror, agony, and bloodshed, if they'd never been to places like Normandy, Bastogne, or Haguenau?" he asks us. Well, that's what television is for, silly.