The Spirit of the Corps » Band of Brothers

40: All the Trouble

"The night of the bayonet," he began promptly as the last few conversations died down. "The night was filled with dark and cold -" Here, he paused for dramatic effect before going on, "- when Sergeant Talbert, the story's told -"

At the sound of his name, Floyd turned away from Smokey and back to the table, shaking his head and muttering curses under his breath. Charlie could only giggle, though she clamped a hand over her mouth when Floyd gave her an unimpressed look before turning back to look at Smokey over his shoulder.

"- pulled on his poncho and headed out," Smokey went on, "to check the lines dressed like a kraut."

A round of laughter went up from the gathered men who knew what the poem was going to be about.

'The Night of the Bayonet' seemed to Charlie like a very good name for the time Floyd had been stabbed by Smith with a bayonet in Normandy when he was trying to get him to go on watch. Thinking about it now, knowing he was okay and having him back from the hospital, warranted laughter instead of worry, though Charlie still felt guilty about the German raincoat Floyd had worn which made Smith mistake him for a German soldier; earlier that day, he'd offered it to her, and she'd told him to keep it on as the rain fell in sheets around them.

If she'd taken it, he likely wouldn't have ever been stabbed. But she hadn't, and he had been, so there was no point in fretting over it now.

"Why's everyone in such a hurry to get back, huh?" Malarkey asked, appearing out of nowhere. He was obviously talking about Smokey, who Charlie could only assume had arrived back in Aldbourne earlier that day, but he pushed Floyd lightly over the head as he made his way past him and squeezed onto the bench between Charlie and Joe. "The food don't suit ya?"

Charlie laughed and sent him a smile when he squeezed her shoulder before turning to listen to Smokey. Malarkey sat facing the opposite way to Charlie with his back to the table.

"We don't need you anymore, Tab," Alton put in as he, too, took a seat on the bench. Everyone had to squeeze even tighter together as he pushed between Charlie and Malarkey, though at least they had leg space as he, too, sat facing the opposite way.

"Why's everyone sitting on this side?" Charlie asked. She frowned as she threw a gesture to Chuck's side of the table which was only occupied by Chuck and, now, someone she recognised as Joseph Ramirez, though she'd never spoken to him.

"Aw, you can't blame us for wanting to sit next to you, Charlie," Alton answered her with a smirk.

Charlie rolled her eyes and let him sling an arm around her shoulders as she turned her attention back on Smokey.

"Upon a trooper our hero came," Smokey continued his poem. "Fast asleep he called his name. 'Smith, oh Smith, get up, it's time to take your turn out on the line.'"

Floyd turned to look over his other shoulder. Following his gaze, Charlie found him sharing a look with a thoroughly mortified Smith, who looked like he was experiencing his own personal version of hell right at that moment.

Smokey went on, "Private Smith, so very weary, cracked an eye all red and bleary. He grabbed his rifle, he did not tarry, hearing Floyd but seeing Jerry!"

Again, laughter went up around the room. Charlie had to replace the hand she'd let fall from her mouth to keep her giggling to a minimum.

"Aw, come on!" Smith lamented, ducking his head into his hands as he leaned low over his table.

"Way to go, Smithy!" someone shouted, which just made Charlie's case of the giggles worsen.

"'It's me!' cried Tab," Smokey pressed on, "'Don't do it!' and yet, Smith charged tout de suite with bayonet. He lunged -"