Wa-Ha-Ya (The Wolf)

Segment One

13 September 1943, Palermo, Italy, US military replacement depot

A grizzled, frazzled sergeant stood in front of the assembled soldiers in the cavernous warehouse being used.

“When I call your name, report to me and I’ll give you your assignment. Do not waste my time asking for something other than what I give you.” He yawned and wearily flipped the first page of the clipboard over. “Abercrombie, Joseph Edward, Private.”

A soldier stumbled forward, duffle bag over one shoulder, rifle over the other one. When he made it to where the sergeant stood, the sergeant demanded, “Dog tag.” The soldier lifted his dog tag from under his shirt. The sergeant nodded, made a check mark, and said, “Eighty-second. Out the door to the left.”

Joe Curry, half Cherokee Indian, eighteen years old, small and wiry, sat on his duffle bag leaning back against the wall of the warehouse that smelled of the sea and the funk of too many men in too close a space. The sergeant continued to drone down the list of names as Joe did the meditation his grandpa had taught him for calm, wondering where he would be assigned. This definitely isn’t Oklahoma, dummy! I don’t think I better try to do anything over here, he thought, other than Grandpa’s meditation.

Everything he’d heard was that they were going directly into battle, replacing soldiers lost on the beachhead at Salerno. He finally heard the sergeant call, “Curry, James Joseph, Private.”

He jumped up, swung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and picked up his M-1 Garand, carrying it in a hunter’s carry. He popped to attention in front of the sergeant and said, “Curry, James Joseph.” As he extended his dog tag, he could smell the booze and cigarettes on the sergeant’s breath and managed not to recoil as the sergeant glanced at the dog tag.

“Where you from, son?” the sergeant asked, picking up on his accent.

“Lawton, Oklahoma, si…Sergeant!”

“You get along with Indians okay, son?”

Joe grinned. “Yes, Sergeant. My best friend is a Kiowa.”

The sergeant chewed his lip for a second, then scratched something out on the clipboard. “Out and to the right, son. You’re goin’ to the One-Fifty-Seventh. They’re from Oklahoma.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Joe said, tucking his dog tag back in his shirt. Hoisting his duffle bag, he walked easily out the door behind the sergeant and never heard the sergeant’s comment under his breath. “Son, I just hope to hell you survive.”