29th Infantry Division

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BANG! The training mannequin exploded into an instantaneous cloud of plastic fragments, throwing shards in all directions. Several dozen meters away the 2nd Squad of the 116th Regiment ’s First Battalion ’s Baker Company watched and listened to their Squad Leader as he demonstrated a trick which aided in throwing the F1 Grenade further. They were one of the three squads which made up Baker Company ’s First Platoon. There were many such platoons, companies, and battalions, and the men in them came from all walks of life. Despite this, they all had something which tied them together. A bond of brotherhood. They all belonged to the 29th Infantry Division. The Fighting 29th. " … and that ’s how you blow up a Nazi. Any questions?" asked the squad ’s leader, Corporal Merrill. The men shook their heads sheepishly to prove that they had understood the exercise. "Good! Then it's off to the mess hall boys, let's get a good meal into you all," Cpl. Merrill herded his soldiers away from the range and towards the mess hall. They had been training for months. They knew each other inside out, upside down and backwards. They had seen drill instructors come and go. They had run countless miles and done more push ups than anyone could count. And they were ready. They marched smartly in a column two abreast down the dry path towards their evening chow. "I hate this English food, at least army cooks back in the U.S. of A. use real food." whispered Isham to whoever would listen. "Ain ’t that the truth …you know they put stuff in the food so we won't get distracted by the French dames?" "That's ridiculous!!" "That's English cooking." The banter carried on until Merrill unexpectedly halted the column only half way to their destination. "That's it! We are going to smarten up, 2nd squad! Tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day and when we hit that sand I don't want any of you numbnuts building sand castles and helping the grass grow! No more chit-chat while we march. Private! Stop your rubbernecking!" June 5th, 1944 1800hrs Mess Hall "Hey can I have your watch once you get shot? ” teased Reimer to his Assistant Squad Leader, PFC Gaylord. "You kidding me? If anyone's gonna get shot it's gonna be you and that big head of yours!" Pvt. Farmer jumped into the verbal fray next, "At least it's a lot better than having a tiny head like yours PFC!" Farmer ’s self-assured laughter shortly followed. The conversation was abruptly interrupted, however, when a handful of mashed potato hit Pvt. Farmer in the neck. The table took its cue and exploded with laughter. "All right guys, calm it down and bring it in." Cpl. Merrill gave each man a serious glance and then continued. "You all know what tomorrow is. I want every single one of you to be ready. That means tonight, take an hour before lights out and review your maps, check your equipment and clean your weapons. Sharpen your bayonets. After you've done all that, do it again. There's no room for error." All eyes turned towards their respective boots as a very sullen mindset came over the men at the table. Tomorrow they would fight and not all would live.

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