Cobb makes a rude remark about Luz hoarding chocolate bars, and Luz smacks him down appropriately. Can I have Muck back, please? I'll trade Cobb and even throw in a Hershey bar and some replacements. No? But...shit, that means I'm stuck with this shlub. Luz and Webster leave, and Hanks and Vest follow them because they both want to talk to Winters and Speirs. They leave the men to grapple over cigarettes and chocolate bars, and the last thing we hear is Perconte screaming, "I got a wounded ass!"
Winters and Speirs stare across the river. It's amazing how much larger Damian Lewis looks -- not in weight, but in stature. He just seems to loom larger, tougher, more seasoned. More tasty. Speirs reveals that the third structure on the left is the enemy CP. "As soon as our men are back in the boats, I want a Quad 50 to open up," Winters instructs. Hanks approaches and interrupts, begging for inclusion on the patrol and flogging a nearby dead horse with his script. Winters summarily denies the petition, seconded by Speirs. To Hanks's credit, he hasn't asked to lead the patrol, although Speirs informs him he will not; Hanks just wants experience. That's true on so many levels. Jones steps forward toward the men's backs and asks permission to speak. They turn. "It looks like Malarkey could use a break," Hanks explains. "I discussed it with him, and he said he did not mind." Dryly, Winters responds, "That was nice of him." Need I reiterate how awesome Winters is? Vest scampers up behind Hanks and explains that all he's done is deliver the mail and type morning reports; if it's true the war is ending, he'd cherish a chance to participate even once on a more critical level. "Absolutely," Winters smiles. Hanks tenses. His ass is so tight that even air couldn't escape. Winters leans toward Speirs and notes, "He's got a point about Sgt. Malarkey." Speirs agrees warily. Winters finally tells Hanks he can go, and that he must attend a briefing at CP at 1700. Once they're gone, Speirs questions who should lead the patrol with Malarkey gone.
That evening, Jones waits by the door, his profile facing the men while he watches for Winters. "He can't be leading," someone whispers. "Not on his first day." Hanks pretends he didn't hear that, but you know he's also praying to be spared the responsibility. Cobb, Garcia, and Shifty Powers pour into the room, the latter growling something typically war-movie cool about who the hell is running this show. "Ten HUTT!" shouts Hanks. Grudgingly everyone gets up, as if they resent the order coming from runny-nosed Pallid O'Tight-Ass over there. Winters enters and wastes no time giving the briefing, sharing that four rubber boats wait to carry them across the river that night. "[Hanks] is the ranking officer, and he'll be along as an observer," Winters explains. Jones indiscreetly catches Webster's eye and nods, openly acknowledging that the Web played a role in this. Webster returns the nod, smiling, proud, puffed and chuffed. "Sergeant Martin here will lead the patrol in Sergeant Malarkey's place," continues Winters. Having noticed the signal between Webster and Hanks, Martin finally clues into the fact that he's present because of some finagling from Webster. He looks affronted, and Webster suddenly shrugs and plays innocent and widens his eyes in "I didn't do it" insistence. Winters adds that they'll be backed up by battalion gunmen at fixed points along the Allied side of the river, and hands the men whistles to blow when they're ready for the covering fire. "Don't blow [the whistles] until you're back in the boats with the prisoners," Winters warns. He orders them to destroy the house in the unlikely event that they burst inside and find it empty; they'll lay down time-delayed ammo and beat a hasty retreat. Finally, he outlines an attack plan -- secure the perimeter of the house, then shoot a rifle grenade through the first-floor window and send an assault team inside to round up prisoners. "Remember, this is about prisoners," he emphasizes. "Don't pop the first thing that moves." Turning to Martin, Winters asks him to identify his desired assault team. "McClung, Sisk, Cobb, Garcia...and Webster as a translator," Martin spits, staring pointedly at Webster. Sgt. Grant will establish the perimeter security. "You speak German, right, Webster?" Martin asks, coldly. "Yeah, a little bit," hedges Webster. Satisfied, Winters leaves, dismissing another forceful "ten hutt" from Hanks, who has now made a career out of looking decidedly put-out.