‘At least he took his helmet off,’ McLaughlin thought to himself, but he knew better than to judge on appearances alone. It was the first words that came out of Bates that told all.
“You sent for me, sir?” Sergeant Bates asked from the doorway.
The quarters had a small table and a chair that McLaughlin was sure that was supposed to be used for writing reports. The dust on it told how much his predecessor used it. He was now in the process of writing he last letter of condolences to an unfortunate mother. Anderson, predictably, had the names and addresses fifteen minutes before the 0800-hour deadline that McLaughlin gave him the night before.
McLaughlin didn’t bother getting up from his chair. He didn’t even move his hands, he just looked over his shoulder and at the sergeant. He didn’t say anything, he just looked. He looked for a few moments and then turned back to his writing. “Isn’t it customary for the senior NCO to greet the new Commanding Officer upon arrival?”
“Forgive me, sir,” Gates curbed his sarcasm a little bit. “But I was out on patrol at the time of your arrival, sir.”
“I am aware of that, sergeant,” McLaughlin replied, his eyes on his writing. He paused to read what he wrote. “But it shouldn’t have taken a messenger to bring you here this morning.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Gates replied, holding the sarcasm in. “It was a rough night, sir. I lost a few of my men.”
“My men, Sergeant,” McLaughlin corrected. “This is my platoon, not yours, and I know all about you losses. This is a letter to Mrs. McDoogle that I am writing right now. I am writing that his struggle to live, as I held him in my arms, was only exceeded by his dedication to his country. How every time I see the blood stains on my uniform, it will be a reminder to me of her son and his strength, and how proud I would have been to be the mother of such a child, as I sure she is.”
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