by Iain Gale
‘Be quiet, Luigi. Save your breath. Let’s get you back to the doc.’
The men had done their work well, following in his wake and he was able to retrace the safe path through the field where he had gone before, now marked with small rocks painted red for the purpose that they had carried in their ammo pouches. It had been his idea. He had anticipated just such an eventuality. He supposed that was part of what being a good officer was all about, second-guessing the enemy and imagining what might happen. The worst that could happen. He shifted to take Santini’s weight and wondered what that worst could be now. It was something that he had not dared think of. But now it seemed less and less likely that he and his men would survive this fight. As he and the small party reached the parapet the first of the British shells came whining in over their heads. Overshot again, he thought. At least someone was smiling on him today. But he knew that there was always tomorrow and in his heart he acknowledged that the kindly beneficence, his luck, call it what you will, could not last much longer.
ELEVEN
3.00 a.m. Miteiriya Ridge Miller
Miller snapped back to reality. Lieutenant Thomas was talking again to the Kiwi sergeant who had accepted a cigarette and was apologizing profusely. ‘So you see it was your English battledress, sir. No markings. I thought you were just another bunch of poms who’d got lost. Always getting lost the poms are. Lousy navigators. From the cities most of them I reckon. Either that or you were fifth columnists. You know, Jerry spies. Could have shot you, sir. Oh, sorry, sir. No offence.’
Thomas laughed. ‘None taken, Sergeant.’
‘Anyway, thanks for what you’re doing, sir. I mean all you Yanks over here helping us. Much appreciated.’
As he was turning to leave a New Zealand officer arrived and stopped him. ‘Sar’nt Lock, send a runner to Brigade. We’ve taken a direct hit on Battalion HQ. It’s bloody chaos. We’ve got three men dead. The signal flare’s kaput and the aerial’s gone on the number eleven set. We’re out of touch with HQ. The CO’s OK though. Lucky escape.’ He saw Thomas and Miller: ‘I say. You chaps look like medics. Tell me that I’m right, for God’s sake!’
‘Kind of. We’re AFS actually, Captain. Ambulance drivers. But we’ll help if we can. We’ll do anything.’
Anything but fight and kill thought Miller cynically, taunting himself more than anyone else.
‘Thank Christ for that. Well, Lieutenant, think you can get down the hill to that mess? That’s what’s left of the Battalion HQ. See what you can do down there. There’s a few wounded. Some pretty bad.’ The order given, he turned back to the NCO: ‘Sar’nt Lock. Keep trying to find B Company. We’ve got to secure that flank and for Christ’s sake get another radio mast.’
‘Sir.’
As the sergeant hurried off, quickly, but taking care not to trip over the debris and rocks, and the contorted bodies of Germans killed in the assault that had been left where they fell, Thomas, Turk and Miller made their way to the bottom of the slope, with the two privates carrying the wounded corporal on his stretcher. He was calm enough now and asked for a cigarette, which Turk gave him gladly. Miller was trying not to look, but he could not help but catch sight of one dead German, his canvas-covered helmet still on his head, his finger frozen on the trigger of his machine-pistol in the moment of death. Was that the last thing you knew? he thought. Your last sensation of life was the instinct to bring death?
At length they reached the bottom of the slope. The captain had been right. The position was a bloody mess. The direct hit by a German 88 had sent equipment flying in all directions and body parts and bloodstains seeping into the sand bore witness to the three men who had died. One of them, minus both of his legs, lay on his back in the slit trench, his dead face turned to the moon.
Thomas spoke quietly: ‘Christ, Josh. Let’s get that guy covered up quickly.’ They loaded the corporal on to one of the Dodges, managing to find a piece of tarpaulin from an abandoned German trench which they stretched out over the dead man. Then Thomas said: ‘Now where are the wounded?’
‘Thank God, some help.’
The voice came from an older-than-usual officer, a major, who emerged from the rear of the wadi. His Red Cross armband revealed him to be the battalion medical officer. He held out his hand to Thomas: ‘Carmichael. I’m MO of the Twenty-Fourth. Those your ambulances down there?’
‘Sure are, sir. Tell us how we can help.’
‘Well I’ve set up the RAP in the wadi back there. We’ve got about eighty wounded. But we need to clean this ruddy mess up and get the blokes out.’
‘We’ve got space for the ten worst cases, sir.’
‘OK, I’ll go and mark them for evacuation. See what you can do here.’ He turned to his left and yelled: ‘Sar’nt Bowie.’
A huge New Zealander came running over to them: ‘Sir.’
‘Help these Yanks, they’re with the AFS. Give them a hand to get any wounded back into the RAP. Then make bloody sure they get the hell out of here before Jerry starts shelling again.’
Bowie turned to Thomas: ‘All right, sir. Shall we see if we can find anyone alive?’
‘Lead the way, Sergeant.’
Miller followed the two men and behind him came Turk and Brook Cuddy who had been working on the lower slopes. McGinty and Bigelow were with them too now. The Professor brought up the rear. They had not gone twenty yards when Sergeant Bowie signalled with his hand: ‘Over there, sir. I think that bloke’s still breathing.’
Thomas ran across to the body and knelt down. After a few moments he nodded to the group and Bigelow went to join him. Opening his haversack he pulled out a dressing and applied it to the man’s wound, in the upper abdomen. Miller moved on with Bowie and the others.
The sergeant pointed again, to the left this time where a man appeared to be sitting up. But as he did so a stream of tracer bullets hit the dirt around them and scudded past their legs. The sergeant screamed: ‘Down, get down!’
As one they hit the ground. Miller tried to keep his head pressed into the dirt but the temptation to spot where the gunfire was coming from was too much and he raised his head slightly. As he did so another stream of tracer cut through the group and he pressed his head down again as far into the sand as he could get it but not before he had caught a glimpse of the flash. He yelled across to Bowie: ‘Sergeant, I think there’s a Kraut machine-gun up there on the ridge. Two o’clock.’
Bowie yelled back: ‘You’re right, mate. Let’s hope some of the lads take it out. It’s done for that poor blighter.’
Turning his head, Miller stared at the man they had been making for. He was not sitting up any more and as he stared, Miller saw that he had been hit by the last burst of machine-gun fire and his upper torso had almost been cut in half. He closed his eyes. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps if I hadn’t been so damned keen to spot the Jerry he might not have fired again and that guy would still be alive. Perhaps. But there was no use in wondering. The guy was gone and Miller would never know if it had been his fault. The gun opened up again but miraculously hit none of them.
The sergeant swore: ‘Bastard’ll get us all soon enough. He’s just playing with us. Why don’t they get him?’ The German fired another short burst and hit the ground right next to Bowie’s face. ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’
Miller’s mind was wandering. Without knowing what he was doing he began to crawl in the direction of the German machine-gunner. The man opened up again hitting the ground just behind Miller. Suddenly he came back to it, realized where he was. There was a slit trench to his right and he slid into it as another burst kicked up the sand.
The sergeant called over: ‘Don’t move, mate. You’ll just provoke him again. One of our lads is sure to get him.’
The gun rattled out again but this time their luck had run out. McGinty gave a shout: ‘Oh holy shit, I’m hit! Turk, Josh, I’m hit. I’m hit, sir.’
Lieutenant Thomas yelled above the noise: ‘OK, Joe. Stay down and stay cool. Don’t move. Where ar
e you hit?’
‘In the leg, sir. Christ it hurts. It hurts bad.’
Again Miller began to act independently, unaware of conscious thought. He did not really know what he was doing. All that he knew was that the bastard had hit Joe. Joe McGinty was wounded. Perhaps he was going to die and the Kraut with the machine-gun had done it. Slowly, he edged to the side of the trench and flipped himself out so that he was lying flat on his back. He gently turned his head towards the enemy gun position. A glint of moonlight on steel showed him where the man was. Tucked in behind a fold of the ridge, the German lay uphill and off to the left and it occurred to Miller that the reason that none of the New Zealanders on the ridge had taken him out was simply because they could not see him. Somehow the machine-gunner had managed to get round to the exposed flank and Miller realized that if he stayed there it would not be just them who suffered. From that angle he would be able to rake the entire area with fire. He heard someone speaking. It was Sergeant Bowie: ‘Hey! You there. What’s your name?’
‘Miller, Sergeant, Josh Miller.’
‘OK, Miller. Listen to me. I’m going to throw you three grenades in a minute. You any good at catching?’
‘I play baseball for my college.’
‘Good. Catch them and hook them on to your webbing. I don’t think he saw you leave the trench or you’d be dead by now. So you must be in a blind spot. You’re our only chance. Got that?’
Miller said nothing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Could not be happening. And yet it was. Bowie spoke again: ‘Got that?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Right then. When I signal you, slowly, slowly mind, start to crawl up the hill. Make sure you keep low and in his blind spot. Right?’
‘Right?’
‘You keep crawling till you’re about twenty yards away from the bastard. Then you throw the grenades. Right?’
‘Right…How?’
‘How what?’
‘How do I throw them?’
‘Oh fuck. Don’t you know?’
‘No. I’m an ambulance driver.’
‘OK. You take the grenade and you gently tug out the pin. Then you put it in your throwing hand and count to four. No more or you’ll blow up. Less and they’ll throw it back at you. Then you throw it. Got it?’
‘I think so.’
‘Well let’s hope you have, son. Right, here comes the first one.’
Miller rolled onto his side and saw an egg-shaped object fly from the sergeant’s hand. Keeping low, he stretched out his hand to catch it. It landed heavily but firmly in his palm, a 36M Mills fragmentation grenade, about two inches in diameter and weighing around two pounds. As Bowie had told him, Miller hooked it on to the webbing strap at his waist. He looked back. The second grenade followed and then the third and soon he had all three secured. That, he thought, was the easy part. The German had not picked up on the movement for there were no more bursts. But just as Miller was preparing himself another round came in and ripped up the sand and rock around them sending up dust and razor-sharp shards.
Bigelow gave a shout: ‘Aagh. Oh shit!’
Thomas yelled across: ‘Prof, you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, sir. I just took a splinter of rock in my ass.’
McGinty howled with laughter: ‘Jeeze, if I wasn’t so sore I’d cry. The professor of geology gets hit by a damn piece of rock. Damn fuckin’ brilliant. Shit, it hurts when I laugh.’
Miller realized that there was no time to waste. The guy had them zeroed and soon he’d turn his attention to the other men in the area. The noise of gunfire from behind the ridge had intensified and as he waited and steeled himself to go, a salvo of German 88s came flying in over their heads, destined for a target to the rear. Their distracting whine was all that he needed. He began to crawl, slowly, as Bowie had told him, up the hill towards the German position. Every foot, every inch was acutely painful as he dragged himself over the jagged, exposed rocks trying to keep himself as close as he could to the ground. He surprised himself at his progress. He made the first ten yards and found shelter in the lee of a dead Kiwi. The man’s stomach had been cut open by shrapnel and Miller had to suppress the urge to vomit. But it was cover and it gave him a breather.
After a few moments he ducked round the corpse’s feet and started up again. The slope was steeper now, but that also meant that the machine-gunner was less and less likely to see him. He supposed that this was what they taught you at infantry school and it took him back to playing Cowboys and Indians in the woods back of the house at home. Sneaking up and surprising the enemy. Sneaking up and killing the enemy. Suddenly, thirty yards out from the target he realized what he was doing and began to shake. The overpowering urge was to stand up and run away, back down the hill. But logic dictated that if he did that he would die. He heard someone muttering and realized that it was him and stopped lest he be heard by the enemy. The enemy. Not his enemy surely? But yes. This man, this German had in the space of the last half-hour become his enemy. A man he had now been told to kill. Here was that lesson writ as clear as day. If you want to save the lives of five men and probably many more, you have to kill one man. It was simple and brutal and unavoidable. He began to crawl again, the last ten yards, but to his horror found himself unable to move. His legs felt as if they had turned to jelly and there was no strength in his arms. He was sweating and still shaking. This, he thought, is fear, real fear. For a moment he felt as if he might shit himself, but managed to control it. He wiped his face and felt the sweat. Then he began to pray, silently inside his head. Oh God, whatever you are, give me the strength to do this terrible thing that I have vowed never to do. Let me kill this man before he can kill my friends.
He was conscious now that time was passing. That soon the machine-gunner must grow tired of the game and kill them all. He reasoned that the German must also know that eventually he would die himself. There was an inevitability here that somehow lifted the guilt directly from his shoulders. He thanked God for granting him the wisdom at least to see that and tried again to move. Still his body felt like a lead weight. Then there was a sudden flash down the slope below him. He was conscious that Bowie had made some sort of movement, thrown something, he thought. In response the machine-gun rattled out again and bullets hit their position. Miller had to act now. He pushed against the rock with his feet and felt the strength return, then getting into a crouch he ran hunched over the final ten yards. Now, what had Bowie told him? He pulled one of the grenades from the webbing and held it in his hand. Then, gingerly he removed the round pin. Careful to hold down the safety pin, he counted to four and then his arm came up. He thought of Harvard, of baseball. Of all the best pitches he had ever made and then he watched as the metal egg left his fingers and flew towards the gunner. The man saw it coming. Miller could see him clearly now. Not one man in fact but two. He heard the shout as they saw it: ‘Achtung! Eine Handgranate!’ Then the bomb landed in their position. Miller watched as they scrabbled to pick it up and then realized that it was too late and still yelling, ducked to find cover. And then the bomb went off.
It was a good throw. The Mills bomb exploded directly in the centre of the gun crew’s makeshift position. It blew apart into dozens of pieces of redhot metal. One of them hit the gunner in the face. It entered through the right cheek and passed upwards into his brain, killing him instantly. Five other pieces hit the loader. Two cut into his legs and one hit him in the groin. The fourth ripped open his abdomen and the fifth hit him in the head just behind the right ear which it severed before taking off a section of his skull. By the time Miller got to them both men were dead.
He looked down at their mangled bodies and froze. I did this, he thought. I caused this. He took the two remaining grenades from his webbing and dropped them lightly beside the bodies. His instinct had been to treat their wounds but it didn’t take long to see there were no vital signs. As he was looking though he saw the gun, untouched by the explosion, an MG 34. A sleek tube of black metal, hot from fir
ing. Beside it lay spent rounds and four large metal boxes. Miller opened one and saw that it was packed with bands of ammunition. He tried to count how many but gave up. There was certainly he thought more than enough to take out a platoon with ease, perhaps a Company. For all the sickening guilt of killing the two men, he was also hit by a sense of elation. He had stopped them from killing many more. It was true. He’d done it. He turned and began to run back down the hill. The lieutenant and Turk were on their feet now and Bigelow was being helped up. McGinty was leaning on one elbow.
Turk yelled at him, grinning: ‘Wow, amazing, Josh. You did it!’
‘Sure, I did it. Like anyone could have but it had to be me.’
‘You’re a hero, goddamit. A goddam hero.’
McGinty spoke: ‘Never thought I’d see that. You learn that in those history books of yours, or what?’
Miller smiled at him, shook his head and found Thomas. ‘Say, where’s the sergeant? Sergeant Bowie. I gotta thank him.’
Thomas stared at him: ‘He’s over there. He’s dead, Josh. Happened just before you went in. That last burst. He threw something over there. Drew their fire. Brave guy.’
Miller said nothing. Merely thought, if he had only had the nerve to go on. If he hadn’t waited perhaps Bowie wouldn’t have drawn their fire, would still be alive. He turned to Thomas: ‘It’s my fault, sir.’
‘Crap, Josh. The guy was just doing his duty. He drew their fire and let you get in there. It’s what soldiers do. It’s no one’s fault.’
But Miller knew. He’d gone up that hill to avenge McGinty’s wound and had come down only to discover that he’d caused another good man’s death. And he’d killed two men.
He walked over to Bowie’s body. He had been killed by a single bullet through the forehead. Clean and instant, thought Miller. A good way to go. He looked across to the place where the object that had caught the gunner’s eye had landed and walked over to it. Stooping down, he picked it up off the sand.