“Calhoun!” The colonel barked.
“Sir!” I replied.
“You did some good work today! I got a report from the captain. Said you showed some balls during the barn assault! So, now you’re a corporal!”
“Ahhh, yes sir, thank you, sir.”
“O.K., now, I gotta a detail for you.” “Uh oh, here it comes,” I thought. He said, “We’re all dragging our asses, none of us has had any solid food or water for over twelve hours and nothing is gonna catch up with us for at least two days. I want you to take a squad down to the beach and scavenge as many K-rations and full canteens off the guys there as you can carry and get ’em back up here so we can distribute them among the men. The way I see it, they died trying to accomplish the mission that we’re gonna complete and I don’t think they’d begrudge us their chow.”
It took me a few seconds to process what he said. I must’ve kind of blinked a couple of times, stammered, or something.
The colonel picked up on it and said softly, “It’s what we need to do now, Calhoun.”
I got a hold of myself and said, “Yes sir!”
I rounded up four guys I knew and we set off for the beach. It was getting late in the day, so I knew we had to get moving. We reached the beach in a few minutes and looked around. Graves Registration and the medical people were clearing the beach of bodies, but there were still plenty left. I sent two guys east along the beach and the other two and I headed west. We used empty musette bags and began to fill them with K-rations. We unbuckled their cartridge belts that held their canteens, rebuckled them and slung them over our shoulders.
A feeling of revulsion washed over me like a tsunami! I hadn’t been up close to any of the dead for more than a couple of seconds on the beach earlier in the day, but here I was, feeling like a grave robber, pawing through these guys’ gear to get their canteens and K-rations. Fucking K-rations! Jesus Christ! We all hated them anyway and I’m robbing their bodies of lousy K-rations! I can’t even describe the shame I felt. I couldn’t help myself, the emotions just poured out. I found myself apologizing to them as I “robbed” them! “I’m sorry, man,” “I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry they got you,” “I’m sorry, I gotta do this,” “I’ll get the sons-a-bitches for you, man,” “I’ll make the bastards pay, I swear.” The other guys with me were weeping quietly as they moved from body to body. We took their chow and water, leaving only tears in payment. They, being the heroes they were, didn’t object.
From Chapter 19, A Day In Normandy