No Less Than Victory

by Jeff Shaara

  When Lane first arrived in the new encampment, Benson didn’t recognize him, the man’s face thin and deathly pale, even the newly issued uniform hanging loosely on the man’s bones. Lane’s attitude had changed as well, his voice quieter, his demeanor tempered by weeks of so much astounding horror. It was the same with all of them. Higgins was still the man in charge, who seemed to know more and understand more about what was happening around them than any of the officers who flitted in and out of the encampments. Benson had not worried about the sergeant as he had some of the others, wondering if anyone else was suffering through the same plague he was, wide-eyed sleepless nights, the nightmares, blood and bodies and running desperately to survive some unidentifiable beast. Mitchell had revealed nothing, no sign of weakness, no hint he wasn’t still eager to kill Germans, and so Benson kept his nightmares to himself.

  On February 3, the orders had come, passing through the regiment like a shock wave. The word came down to the mostly new lieutenants that they were being called upon to do it again. Nobody really knew what it was, beyond advancing eastward, assuming a position along the area just west of the Siegfried line, the place where, on December 16, much of the German assault had begun. The shock of being called back into action seemed to affect the entire regiment, rumors and low talk, an unmistakable dread that flowed mostly from the veterans. Most of the riflemen of the 106th had seen the same horror that every combat soldier sees, but there was a difference from the soldiers in the other divisions like the 30th and the 2nd. They had fought the same enemy, had absorbed the same unstoppable thrust, some units striking back with far more effectiveness and skill than the 106th. No cheerleading from the young officers could erase the stain that many of the men around Benson felt deep inside, buried in that place where each man tried to hold to his own courage. Like the others, Benson knew that they had been beaten, a thorough thrashing at the hands of a relentless enemy. No one spoke of it officially, no reprimand had come from the army. To many, it was just fate, the 106th in the wrong place at the wrong time. The senior officers far to the rear had said nothing at all, and Benson wondered about the brass, the men who gave the orders and then disappeared into their comfortable headquarters. Do they describe what happened to us as the enemy’s good strategy? He had heard talk of that, that the 106th had been the victim of excellent planning, the Germans attacking in a weak spot, the thinly stretched lines of a fresh division that had never seen combat. But Benson felt it, saw it on the faces of the others. These men had met the enemy, and the enemy had prevailed. When the new orders came, no one felt confident that the Germans they would confront again had suddenly become weaker. The officers put a positive face on the new deployment, that they were going to get another opportunity, what their new lieutenant called their redemption. It was Higgins who had stopped Mitchell from knocking out the man’s teeth.

  The cold had not changed, but the uniforms and coats were new. They had snowsuits now, wonderfully white camouflage, though already, one wave of warm weather had stripped away much of the snow, the daylight sunshine turning the hillsides to pools of half-frozen mush. But the thaw had slipped again into the deep hole of winter, snow-covered roads now sheets of ice. Benson had seen it for himself, tanks suddenly sliding to one side, burying deeply into the slush of a snow-filled ditch. Once they were positioned forward again, the men had struggled one more time, as they had struggled weeks before, chopping through frozen ground to dig their foxholes. Once again they were the front line, once again the holes swallowed them with mud and misery. Little else had changed, except for the complete lack of Germany artillery attacks. Even as the men marched forward into the forest, along chewed-up pathways and ice-covered trails, the Germans had offered no response at all. But the woods and valleys around them were far from silent. American artillery had moved up in heavy support, some of the same units from the 106th Division that had barely salvaged their guns from the desperate defense of St. Vith. The tank destroyers had come as well, a much greater force than had been attached to the infantry before. Benson had passed by one platoon of the Wolverines, which seemed at first glance to be just more tanks. But unlike the Sherman, whose armament was no match in a duel with the German armor, the Wolverine carried a ninety-millimeter cannon that had one purpose: to penetrate the armor of the vastly superior German machines. As they marched past, Benson felt a strange mix of relief and pride. We have better weapons now, he thought, and more of them. And we’re advancing. This time, it means they’ll be waiting for us.

  NEAR LOSHEIMERGRABEN, GERMANY

  FEBRUARY 7, 1945

  Benson huddled low in the muddy hole, his boots covered by the bulky overshoes. Above him, streaks of fire lit the early-morning sky, the new routine, a barrage of artillery from American guns, aimed at targets the infantry had not yet seen. Beside him, Mitchell huddled low as well, sat with his hands over his ears, his mouth wide open. It was a new piece of training, word handed down that an open mouth during an artillery barrage would lessen the likelihood of hearing loss. Benson’s mouth was open as well, no reason to ignore what seemed to be someone’s rare dose of common sense. The thought flashed through his mind, Yunis, the useless soldier, the man left behind weeks ago in their retreat. If he was still alive, he wouldn’t have any problem with his ears. Since he never stopped screaming, his mouth was always open.

  Benson tried to ignore the shivering vibrations in the ground around him, knew the shelling would last for thirty minutes. Like clockwork, it ended abruptly, the echoes still rolling through the hills. He looked up, a hint of light gray in the sky, heard men emerging from their holes, a new day beginning. Benson stood slowly, peered out, nothing at all but thick fog and tall thin trees. To the right was a deep ravine, and the officers had brought word that the remnants of the 106th would serve as the First Army’s far right flank. Benson looked out that way, the ground falling away sharply toward a bowl of fog. He knew only what Higgins had told him, that somewhere right out there was an outpost of their neighbor to the south, the Eighty-seventh Division. The Eighty-seventh was the left flank of the Third Army, a wonderful boost for the morale of the men around Benson who had learned to hate this endless forest. The Eighty-seventh belonged to Patton, and Benson had wondered about those men, how different they might be. Rumors had flown, talk of men wearing neckties in foxholes, of Patton’s legendary fury, levying cash fines on men who removed helmets, throwing officers into the stockade for little or no reason, just to emphasize his own authority. But others had different feelings about Patton. If the men of the 106th spoke little about Courtney Hodges, the man who was still their most senior officer, they talked a great deal about Patton. Benson felt the same as many of the others around him. Now that they were fighting beside Patton’s men, they might become better for it. He had been supremely curious about that, wanted to go down into the ravine and speak to those men, couldn’t help feeling the odd mystique about someone who took orders from Old Blood and Guts. It was a common topic now that no one shared with the new lieutenant. Would Patton have allowed the Germans to bust us in the mouth and then keep going?

  He looked at Mitchell, saw the K-ration box coming out of Mitchell’s backpack, felt his own hunger, and now, above them, the voice of Higgins.

  “No, you jackass. There’s a kitchen truck back here. Came up early last night. Save the K rations. We’ve got hot food. Let’s go.”

  They crawled out quickly, followed Higgins back through the trees, slow going, thick mud holding fast to the overshoes. Benson saw the others falling into line, Higgins leading them up close. The smells from the truck were disappointingly mild, and Benson saw a steaming container of oatmeal, one man with a large ladle. There was bread as well, dark and dense, but the one luscious smell found him now, the coffee. They filled their plates, moved away, back toward the ridgeline.

  Mitchell, ahead of him, waited for Benson to move alongside, said, “My mother made the worst damn oatmeal in the world. You could wad that stuff up and make fish bait out
of it. Didn’t even need a hook. If the fish ever ate it, they’d choke to death. I promised myself I’d never have to eat that crap ever again. And lookee here. God, I love the army.”

  Benson wanted to laugh, was never sure if Mitchell was kidding, no smile escaping to betray the man’s mood.

  Behind him, Higgins said, “Eat quick. This stuff gets cold, it turns to concrete. We’re moving out pretty soon.”

  Benson saw other men from the squad gathering, the inevitable questions.

  “Where we going, Sarge?”

  “They pulling us out?”

  Higgins shook his head, the usual look of disgust.

  “They didn’t give us new uniforms and equipment and send us out here just so we could have a damn reunion party. We’ve got work to do in front of us. The enemy’s moving around out there, and the whole regiment has been ordered to push forward. That’s all I know.”

  Higgins stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth, moved away toward his own foxhole. Benson did the same, trying to swallow the oatmeal, which was already cold. Mitchell beat him back to the foxhole, jumped down, retrieved his backpack, said, “I got eight damn boxes of K-rations. Swapped my cigarettes for a few cans of C rations too. You don’t have to have brains to learn from your mistakes. You better load up the same way.”

  Benson jumped down, opened up his backpack, felt a measure of satisfaction. Yep. Brains.

  “Well, for your information, I scrounged up about twenty chocolate bars to go with the K rations.”

  “Good. You’ll have something to offer any frauleins we run into. We get cut off, you’ll try to survive on candy bars and I’ll have actual food.”

  Benson’s balloon deflated, and he thought, dammit, why are you always right? Mitchell reached out, slapped Benson’s helmet, the closest thing to outright affection he ever showed. To one side, the rest of the squad was checking their equipment, and beyond, the rest of the company up and around, doing the same. They had a new captain now, a short, squat stump of a man named Horne, who had been a part of the 424th from the beginning. He was the only veteran officer on their part of the line, and Benson saw their platoon commander, the new lieutenant, Williamson, standing tall, watching them prepare.

  Mitchell leaned low, said, “That guy’s a wiener. I just know it. So damn full of his own authority, and he’s never seen any of this before. Ninety-day wonder is too generous.”

  Williamson had introduced himself to his new platoon with a proud burst of self-congratulations by announcing that he was a West Pointer. To most of the men, West Pointers were a good thing to have back there, the generals who called the shots. But out here, Williamson seemed too eager to believe that his elite training alone would drive the enemy away. Benson appraised the man, standing erect, hands on his hips, two pistols in his belt.

  Mitchell said, “He thinks he’s Patton. I guaran-damn-tee you he heard about the general’s two pistols, had to have the same thing for himself. To hell with him. You and me, we stick close to the sarge. I learned that lesson already.”

  It was a rare compliment coming from Mitchell, and Benson searched for the sergeant, saw him a few yards away, checking his ammo belt, counting to himself. Benson took the cue, did the same, a dozen. Good. I hope that’s good, anyway. He tossed the backpack up to the hard ground, retrieved his rifle, scanned it for mud, felt for the four grenades hanging from his jacket, beneath the heavy coat. He took a deep breath, tried to calm his stomach, the same tight ball he felt every time anyone talked about seeing the enemy. Out across the ridgeline, the daylight had barely broken the fog, the trees endless, fading into a ghostly gray.

  “Guess I’m ready to go.”

  Mitchell climbed up out of the hole, sat on the side, did his own check, hoisted the backpack onto his shoulders, then stood. The men were gathering, the sergeants taking charge, and Mitchell said, “I guess we’re all ready. Wonder what in hell they’re making us do?”

  The rifle fire was scattered, mostly to one side, the men slipping low through the trees. Far out in front Benson heard a machine gun, short bursts. But there was nothing aimed at them, no whistles or cracks or slaps against the trees. They had gone about a quarter mile, and through it all Benson kept his eye on Higgins. The sergeant watched the lieutenant, Williamson, who stepped through the wet snow with a pistol in his hand. The lieutenant held them up with a sharp hand signal, turned toward them, settled his back against a tree. He slid around, stared ahead, nothing to see, fog and more trees, motioned impatiently to Lane, the man designated to carry the walkie-talkie.

  Lane stood close, and the lieutenant took the heavy green box, spoke into the mouthpiece. “Boone Two. Boone Two.”

  The walkie-talkie crackled, too loud, Benson flinching. The lieutenant cursed, fumbled with the volume knob, listened to a voice on the other end, responded.

  “Roger, Boone Two. No reception from Willy yet. Hogan Four needs to keep up on our right.”

  The conversation ended quickly, the lieutenant seeming pleased at his assertiveness. Benson had learned that each platoon was identified over the walkie-talkie by the name of its leader. Boone and Hogan were lieutenants as well, their men spread out through the woods on either side. Williamson returned the walkie-talkie to Lane, slipped out from behind the tree, waved the men forward. The fog was swirling past them, a cold wet mist, the woods blind. The rifle fire was still far away, and nothing more came from the machine gun. Benson probed the knot in his stomach, kept himself abreast of Mitchell, his eyes focused to the front, searching the soft gray, felt himself shaking. His eyes searched every dark place, every tree, any sign of movement, a rifle barrel, a helmet. The fear was growing, rolling up inside him. He gripped the rifle with stiff fingers, angry at himself, wanted to say something to Mitchell, felt his legs growing stiff as well. His breaths came in short bursts, and he stopped, his legs heavy, immobile, his eyes scanning frantically. His brain began to speak to him, right out there, a flash of something! He jerked his head to the side, snow and more fog, another flicker of movement, gone now. He wanted to raise the rifle, saw a small bush, and beyond, nothing at all. The men around him were still moving, slow deliberate steps, no one reacting at all, nothing to see. They kept the proper space between each man, the good work of the sergeants. Benson watched them moving away, and he tried to move his legs, a block of ice in his chest holding him paralyzed, the shivering growing worse, uncontrollable now. The fear had consumed him, and he started to cry, one part of his brain furious, yelling at him to get control. He lowered his head, wouldn’t let Mitchell see, felt utterly ashamed. Why are you doing this? You coward! Stop this! There was a hand on his arm, startling him. It was Higgins.

  “Come on, kid. Keep moving.”

  He nodded, couldn’t talk, wouldn’t look at the sergeant, felt humiliated, forced his legs into motion, followed Higgins closely, moved back into the formation. No one spoke, the silence broken only by the distant fire, the soft muffled footsteps, and the sudden crackle of the walkie-talkie.

  “Dammit! Shut that thing up!”

  Benson knew Mitchell’s voice, the hot harsh whisper. Up front, the lieutenant was fumbling with the walkie-talkie again, pretended to ignore the fury of the men behind him. He knelt beside a tree, spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Boone Two. This is Williamson Three. Are you still inside the trees?”

  The crackle came again.

  The lieutenant suddenly straightened, said quietly, “Yes, sir. Roger, sir. Williamson Three out.”

  He handed the walkie-talkie to Lane beside him, glanced back at the men closest to him, the men who might have overheard, and Benson realized, somebody just told him to shut the hell up. He wanted to laugh, the fear giving way to something else, uncontrollable, the lieutenant’s expression as funny as anything Benson had seen. He lowered his head, the low laughter escaping, felt men moving closer, Mitchell there.

  “What’s the hell’s the matter with you?”

  Benson couldn’t speak, Mitchell’s description
of the lieutenant rising up in his mind, wiener, the laughter starting to overwhelm him, quivering hysteria, and he clenched his arms in tight, tried to control it, keeping the laughter silent.

  Higgins was close to him, leaned low, said, “What is it? You going nuts on us?”

  “What’s this man’s problem, Sergeant?”

  Benson knew it was Williamson, fought for control, the laughter fading, aching in his chest, spasms, tears coming again, nothing funny, more crying, infuriating.

  Higgins said, “I’ll take care of it, sir. We’re okay here.”

  “I won’t have any slacking off. No stragglers. You got that, Sergeant?”

  The lieutenant moved away, and Higgins gave Benson’s shoulder a hard shake. “Get hold of it, kid.”

  Benson glanced at Mitchell, saw painful concern.