Once an Eagle

by Anton Myrer

  “Sergeant,” Lujak’s voice said behind him, tentative and querulous. “Sergeant, we don’t have to stay, now.”

  “What?”

  “Now the machine guns—now the Germans aren’t here anymore. We could go back across the field to our lines. You remember, you said—”

  He whirled around. “Will you shut your mouth!” he said with such vehemence that the wounded man gasped in fright. “I’m running this outfit, and until I’m wounded or killed, what I say goes … ” The thought had been in his own mind, and Lujak’s giving voice to it had enraged him. “What the hell’s the matter with you—you’re acting like a bunch of old women!” Brewster was watching him curiously and he turned away—saw Devlin was crouched behind his gun, signaling him frantically with his hands and pointing toward the north. He raised the glasses.

  In the woods out of which they had come an hour before, shadows moved back and forth against the light; he had an impression of animation, a stirring, like a snake’s coils in deep foliage. And then all at once there they were—a column of men, marching in perfect order diagonally across their field of vision toward the western patch of forest; their rifles slung, their free arms swinging ponderously. An officer was moving beside them, waving a crumpled piece of paper in one hand. He heard Brewster give a muffled exclamation.

  “All right,” he said between his teeth. He felt perfectly calm again, completely in control. “All right.”

  “Je-sus, Sarge,” Raebyrne whispered, “there’s a hundred crawling thousand of them …!”

  “No, there isn’t,” he answered calmly, passing his glasses over the nicely aligned ranks, the blank, broad faces. “They’re in company strength. That’s all.” He went back and crouched behind the Maxim. “All right. Brewster, you’re going to be belt feeder. Take it like this, see?—and run it up out of the box.”

  “Right.”

  “Reb, take Brewster’s rifle and stand there—right there. Lujak, here’s my Springfield. You will load for Raebyrne.”

  “Sergeant, my arm—”

  “You’ve got two of them, haven’t you? I said: you will load for him.” He settled himself, adjusted the sight slotted in its vertical guides. “All right now, not till I give the word,” he said to Raebyrne. “You will not fire until I give the word.”

  They were three hundred and fifty yards away, coming with surprising speed. The ditch that he had used for cover on the east flank of the farm took a sharp turn about a hundred yards or so from where they were sitting, deepened, and ran off toward the northwest. They would have to cross it if they kept on.

  “Range three hundred,” Raebyrne said, and released his safety.

  “Easy, now.” They were nearer. Their present course, if they held to it, would take them about fifty yards from Devlin’s building. Going up to support Brigny-le-Thiep, then. They came on confidently, in silence; some NCO was counting cadence—and gazing at the column, so smart and fresh and vulnerable, Damon felt a sharp twinge of regret. In a few seconds he was going to kill, or try to kill, all of them. Damn fools. They should have sent out a patrol or two. No—someone had reported in: We hold Brigny Farm, and so of course they’d never thought to question it. Thank God they had incompetents on their side, too.

  “Hell’s fire, Sarge, they’re going to be eating out of our mess kits …”

  “Relax,” he said. “The nearer the better.” Up to a point. He rose and glanced at the roof across the yard. They were crouched behind their sandbag barricade; Devlin was behind the gun, Schilz at the belt, Henderson holding his rifle. While he watched, Devlin slowly turned his head and stared up at the tower; his eyes were shining with tension.

  “Range one fifty,” Raebyrne said.

  “Sarge—”

  “Hang on now.” The officer had paused, was consulting the paper, obviously a map. The sergeant’s cadence came sharply across the wheat now. Oh, the God damned fools! A rage mounted in the back of his head, but cold. He threw one last glance back toward the south. Nothing. Where in Christ’s name were they all—had the whole lousy AEF vanished off the face of the earth?

  They had reached the ditch. The first ranks dipped into it and clambered up the near side, slowly and in poor formation. It was deep, then, and fairly wide. Good. All the better.

  “Range a hundred,” Raebyrne breathed.

  He knew they were all gazing at him now, even Raebyrne. The blood was driving against his temples and throat; his knuckles were white on the grips.

  “—Sarge,” Brewster was whispering hoarsely, “Sarge, I can see the fellow’s mustache, that fellow—”

  As the second detachment went into the ditch he called: “Open fire!” and thumbed the gun.

  The sudden hammering roar was deafening. The ranks broke in all directions, the leaders pressing back toward the ditch, others standing in spraddle-legged confusion. He could see their belts, their chin straps, their mouths gaping in black soundless ovals. The officer was frantically waving both arms. The gun jumped and jittered, his forearms trembled with the vibration. He was conscious of the cartridges glittering like a snake’s back, vanishing magically into the guide lips, the empty shells raining in bright little bronze jewels against the wall. When he paused he could hear Devlin’s gun, and the high whining bark of the Springfields.

  Now there were none left standing in the first contingent—only isolated figures that groped and quivered in the wheat. The officer was down, the piece of paper lying on his chest like a dirty white leaf. Damon shifted to the rear detachment, watched them flutter and wilt away. The gun went silent. Brewster was gazing at him in consternation, holding the belt. Stoppage. He yanked at the cocking handle. No luck. He reached in his shirt pocket for the little clawlike tool he’d picked up from one of the dead Germans and jerked out the crushed casing. It ran on.

  The Germans in the center were deployed now, along the edge of the ditch. The rear contingent had gone to pieces, milling around and shouting. They were all in trouble, they were confused. But fire was coming from the trench: he could see the torch flashes from the rifle barrels winking here and there. They’d recovered quickly, doped it out. But they were pinned and they knew that, too: they had no place to go. His mind seemed to move along independent of his tensed, sweating body, analyzing, anticipating with a steady, hard objectivity. Then … then they would seek safety in attack—they would rush the farm as the least of three evils. An officer was kneeling at the near edge of the ditch, making long sweeping gestures with his arm—then suddenly his head dropped doll-like on his chest and he fell back out of sight. Raebyrne let out a whoop.

  “Yaaaaa-hoo! That’s for old Starkie …”

  There was a shocking series of smashes right in front of him: the louvers shattered in a rain of chips and splinters, and light poured in on his face. He cringed, rose up again, his thumbs still jammed against the trips. Spandau, they had a Spandau. “Get—that—gun!” he roared, scarcely aware he was shouting at all. “Get him! …” Another burst ripped the shutters, there was the furious climbing whine of ricochets and someone behind him screamed. He ducked again, this time by design, was up again a second later to see Raebyrne still clinging to the right-hand corner of the shutter, blazing away, his slender body jerking with the recoil. The Spandau or whatever it was went silent, started, stopped again, and now he could hear Raebyrne talking steadily as he fired:

  “—busted without a pack, you Borsch sons of bitches … get away from there! …”

  They were all yelling now, hollering at the top of their lungs. The belt ran out: he and Brewster inserted a new one and raced on. Men were there, he reached them, they fell as if cuffed flat, or they leaped up, or spun away and down like faulty man-made toys. It was a deafening dream, a badly rehearsed tableau without rhyme or reason. He could feel nothing; his hands were numb, his eyes kept tearing from the jolting, jumping sight.

  “Ya-hoo! there they go! Yaaaaa-hoo!”

  They were breaking; they were running away across the field, back towar
d the woods, and now he could hear cries like children on some windy plain beside a river. He pursued them, the Springfields snapped and crackled. They were going to get away, some of them were going to make it, there were so many, so very many—

  They were gone, had slipped off through the distant trees. They’d got away. He fired on and on, in a paroxysm of need, until the gun stopped firing, the belt had run out, and Brewster was screaming at him, his face pleading and wild:

  “Stop it, Sarge! That’s enough, enough … !”

  He took his hands from the grips and wiped his face with his sleeve; it came away blued with dirt and grease and sweat. Out of it. They were out of it. They were all right. In the center of the ditch someone was waving a piece of white rag slowly, back and forth, back and forth …

  He got up. Raebyrne, his face red as a beet, was capering with glee. “Did you see the sons of bitches! Did you see them run? A hundred to one! Old Sarge …” He grabbed Damon in an exultant rush and almost spun him around. “We could lick the world and ask for more! It’s better than the Alamo …” Brewster was staring at them both, his face dead white, his mouth a thin, even, bloodless line.

  Behind them someone was uttering short, broken screams. They all turned in surprise: Lujak, holding one knee with his good hand and rocking to and fro.

  “What happened to him?” Raebyrne said.

  “Ricochet,” Damon answered. “I thought he’d be out of the way, over there.” He leaped to the east side and leaned out. Devlin was sprawled wearily, with his arm hanging over the Maxim’s breech.

  “You all right?” he called.

  “Yeah. We’re all right … You?”

  “Lujak. Hit again by a ricochet.”

  “That Lujak is unlucky.”

  “Isn’t he?” He laughed, he couldn’t help it, it was as necessary as breathing. Devlin watched him with a tired smile.

  “Think we can stand ’em off again?”

  “I don’t see why not. How you fixed for ammo?”

  “We’re down pretty fine.” Devlin paused. “They’ll be back, Sam.”

  “I know. How many you think got away?”

  “I don’t know—ten or a dozen. What do you want to do about those people in the ditch?”

  “Let’s get them back here and tie ’em up.” He moved to the north face. The big white rag, now tied to a bayoneted rifle, was still swinging back and forth. He raised his glasses. There seemed to be about fifteen of them; some were bandaging the wounded. “All right,” he shouted. “Come on with your hands way up over your heads. Drop your belts and your weapons … Tim,” he turned to Brewster, “tell these people what I just said, will you?”

  He sent Raebyrne out to ride herd on the prisoners, went back and sat down on a cartridge box; he had a splitting headache and his eyes hurt. Think. He had to think. They’d been lucky. The next time they wouldn’t be—the next time the Germans would come in three carefully spaced assault waves. And there’d be artillery preparation; mortars at the very least. They would be shelled. What had he better do? Go down to the courtyard and dig in? and then run back upstairs when they assaulted? But suppose they called down a creeping barrage on the position? They were perfectly capable of it. There wouldn’t be a man left to fire the guns. Would he even have time to dig in? All the quick assurance of the morning had fled him; he felt burdened and unsure, prey to a thousand and one fearsome conjectures. Brewster had just finished binding up Lujak, who was saying in a faint, petulant voice: “—why can’t we get out of this horrible place, oh God, why can’t we get away from here!—”

  “Shut up, Lujak,” he ordered absently. Of course they could pull out now, abandon the place and take their chances. It was foolish to take a stand in a position you couldn’t adequately defend; wasn’t it?

  But suppose they didn’t attack for a while—suppose the word didn’t get back to their regimental headquarters, and from there to division and corps and army; and then the conferences and recommendations, and finally the orders going back to division, to regiment, to division artillery … Both sides were terribly confused in war, he’d learned that much; and whoever acted with speed and resolution, made the correct response, got the advantage.

  But what was the correct response?

  He didn’t know. He just plain didn’t know. He’d better dig in outside. Dig in, and get Henderson and Schilz to go out and get that Spandau and as much Mauser ammunition as they could. He ought to send a runner, but who? With six effectives, who could he spare? Wouldn’t he just be sacrificing a man, and needlessly? Everything seemed impossible, complicated beyond all unraveling—he felt himself adrift in the frailest of vessels, bobbing and sinking in a watery universe of menace.

  He heard Raebyrne’s voice in the courtyard below, high-pitched, peremptory, and the scrape and scuffle of boots. Wearily he got to his feet and went to the shutters, gazed out over the field, where hundreds of gray forms lay in windrows, in disordered clumps and splotches, as if flung down by the most powerful and careless of hands. A company of men. He had done that. He had wiped out a company of men. Like God. He had flung them down there like God sowing some noisome grain—

  He began to tremble again: a stealthy tremor that began in his hands and then spread rapidly over the surface of his body in a hideous, demonic rash, until he was shaking like a whipped dog. He gripped the splintered wood with all his might, trying to force back the palsy as a man might shut a lid on a wild animal trapped. But he could not control it. He clapped his hands together tightly and peered down into the little courtyard, where Raebyrne and Henderson were carefully frisking the prisoners. Bareheaded, without belts or helmets, they looked frail and solemn and ashamed; they looked exactly the way Dev and Raebyrne and Poletti had a few hours before …

  “Poor devils.” Brewster was staring out at the field, blinking, his fingers to his mouth. “We slaughtered them like sheep. The poor devils …”

  Damon threw him a glance. “You think they wouldn’t have done the same thing to you?” he demanded. “You forgotten last night so soon?”

  “No, Sarge. I haven’t forgotten last night.” Brewster’s voice was surprisingly steady; it seemed incongruous, issuing from his swollen, misshapen face. “I know. It’s war. But … ”

  “But nothing. The object of war is to kill, right? Destroy the enemy—by the use of mass, economy of force, movement, surprise. That’s the aim of the game. We used surprise, right?”

  “Sure, Sarge.”

  “All right.”

  “But”—Brewster waved a slender hand toward the courtyard below them—“a lot of them are wounded. Badly. It seems to me we ought to—”

  “So are Jason and Lujak and Burgess wounded. That’s the chances we all take. They took them, too. War is not a God damned strawberry social.”

  “Yes, I’ve learned that, all right.”

  “All right, then …”

  The tremor—buck fever, palsy, visitation, whatever it was—had passed; with the brief exchange with Brewster all his resolution had returned, and his obstinacy. He remembered the disgrace of the night’s disaster, the consternation, the dishonor; and his heart hardened. They were here, at Brigny Farm; and they were going to stay here. He had succeeded in capturing what could quite easily have been converted into an enemy strongpoint, and from it had inflicted substantial losses on that enemy. If they didn’t accomplish anything beyond this they’d done a good deal. But they weren’t through yet, not by a long shot. They would stay here, and fire at targets of opportunity until they were killed or captured or reinforced. They owed that much to Starkie and Davis and all the others, come what may.

  He plunged into a fever of activity. He got the prisoners assembled and seated on the big barn floor, with two German stretcher bearers tending the wounded and Burgess sitting on the platform guarding them. He sent Schilz and Henderson after the Spandau and the Mauser ammunition, and set up a roster on digging foxholes in the area between the two buildings so that two men were working all the
time; he dug the first hole himself, using a German spade. And half an hour later, again in the tower sweeping the horizon with his glasses, he heard the brisk popping of small-arms fire, coming from the south and west. He alerted Devlin, they manned their posts, and a few minutes later saw little clumps of men hurrying toward them over the hill. Germans, withdrawing in not very good order. This part of the big Friedensturm, at least, was not panning out. He let two small groups get as close as he dared, and opened fire. They thought at first they were being fired on by their own people by mistake, and tried frantically to signal the farm; then they realized their error and fled, those that were left. By now the enemy was streaming fitfully northward through the woods, some of them running; Damon could see the glint of metal behind the green leaves. He and Brewster dragged the Maxim gun to the east face and began to set it up for harrassing fire, and then Raebyrne yelled, “Here comes the cavalry!” and raising his head he saw coming over the distant rise the long wavering lines of men in khaki, the dishpan helmets, long rifles aslant in the afternoon sun; and he sighed with relief.

  “I never thought I’d see it,” Brewster was saying. “I never thought I’d see a sight so wonderful …”

  “What the hell,” Raebyrne scoffed, “it’s only that contrary Second Battalion, running up to swallow all the glory. Bunch of—”

  A torrent of bullets spattered the wall beside their heads and the three of them ducked.

  “Why, the clodderpolls!” Raebyrne cried, “—the zany, jobberknowling—”

  Damon snatched up his rifle and flung himself at the shutters, drove the butt with all his might against the wood; it gave, splintered, sagged—then all at once the whole frame gave way and fell to the courtyard. He was flooded with sunlight; he had a glimpse of the wobbling khaki lines, now much nearer, and heard the stuttering cough of a Chauchat. Tracers burned orange wires through the still summer air.