Perconte can't finish his thought, though, because the Germans punctuate it for him. Gunfire knocks Easy to the ground, and the men scramble to put up some kind of defense until they can get behind a hedgerow. A few of the guys don't make it that far; Blithe, panting, slides into safety and seems to hide in terror while his comrades return the fire. Fade to black.
Distinct sounds of booze-sodden carousing float across the battlefield. Blithe and Sgt. Martin huddle in their foxhole. "What have they got to sing about?" Martin bitches. Blithe continues his signature silent staring, and I must say the actor's doing a good job holding the shell-shocked façade for so long. Maybe Spielberg just scared the leg hair off him by forcing him to star in some self-reverential auto-biopic Steven Spielberg: The E.T. Within. Martin raises his gun and whispers, "Flash!" just as Welsh slides down to join them. He grins. "Thunder," Welsh answers with a mischievous smile. "Catchy tune, ain't it?" Martin looks pissed at being alarmed by this goof, then begs for relief so he can empty his bladder. Welsh demands he be quick about it so Blithe can get some shut-eye. Then Welsh snuggles down inside the pit with his private, and I swear that actor can't smile without looking like he wants to lick the pants off whoever he's with. "How ya doin', Blithe?" he booms. Blithe is okay, but tonight's not a good night for him -- he's got a headache, see, and he has to get up real early tomorrow. Welsh enquires about Blithe's eyesight; Blithe assures him the hysterical blindness is past him, but he's less than convincing. There's some stupidity about a canteen. "It's a game, Blithe, that's all," Welsh says. "What is?" Blithe asks. Hmm. In addition to being nervous and humorless, Blithe also appears to be far from the sharpest bayonet in the arms chest. "The whole thing," Welsh smiles cheerfully. "Just a game." And that's how you comfort a soldier who's grappling with the reality of how many human lives are at stake, and how tenuous his grip on his own livelihood really is -- just tell the guy it's all a joke, some vicious game of pretend. That'll soothe his soul.
Winters breaks the mood by calling for Welsh, who vacates his spot. Blithe promptly spits on it, but he doesn't look motivated by spite. He might've just needed to rid himself of water. But it cracked me up, regardless. It's odd, disrespectful yet funny, and gross, because Martin's going to come back and park his ass right on top of Blithe's loogie, and that will be so soothing.