No Less Than Victory

by Jeff Shaara

  Mitchell said, “I got him, Sarge. He’s just scared. We’re all scared.”

  Benson had calmed, the strange hysteria passing, and he said to Higgins, “I’m sorry, Sarge. It’s just … the lieutenant. He’s just such a …” The word wouldn’t come, and Benson looked at Mitchell, expected him to end the sentence.

  But Mitchell was no part of the joke, was staring ahead, the others already stepping forward. Mitchell said, “It’s okay, Eddie. I’m having a tough time too. Stay close, we’ll be all right. It’d be better if somebody starts shooting at us. Keep us from thinking.”

  Benson pondered that, stared out into the fog, nodded.

  “Yeah. Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Just don’t go all loony. Might need you to pull my ass out of a jam.”

  “Yeah, sure. Sorry.”

  Mitchell seemed to wait for him, and Benson saw men behind them, another platoon, another company, another wave. They stopped, held up by their own lieutenant, keeping distance from the men in front of them, the good training. Benson felt guilty, stupid, thought, what the hell’s the matter with me? The shaking was gone, the cold knot loosening, and he checked the rifle, flexed his numb fingers, began to move again.

  The mortar shells came in to one side, sudden blasts that severed a tall tree, a hard scream from a wounded man. Benson dropped flat in the icy snow, more shells falling behind them, shouts from men he couldn’t see, the loud crack of another tree coming apart. The silence came, the pause, and there was a distinctive pop, then another, out in front, and he heard Higgins, “Let’s go! Forward! They’re right in front of us!”

  The blasts came again, the mortar shells coming down farther behind them, and Benson was crawling, furious motion, moved to a tree, the others doing the same, some gathering in clusters. The pops came again, and Benson understood. It was the German mortars, the only sound you could hear until the shell arced down and impacted. He watched Higgins, saw him peer up slightly, white-covered helmet, then back down. Higgins began to crawl forward, Benson watching, waiting for some sign.

  A whisper from Mitchell, “What’s he doing?”

  Benson ached to look, Higgins still moving forward, out of sight, silence, and now the pop again. Higgins’s rifle suddenly opened up, and quickly others joined him. Benson rolled around the tree, rifle up, searching. He saw them now, a low shelter, a white canvas tarp. Men were moving away, Germans, running, and beside him Mitchell was firing. Benson searched frantically for a target, any movement, a flicker of dark, and he fired the rifle, and then again. All through the woods, the men around Williamson began to rise up, a mad scramble forward, the mortar crews scampering away. Higgins was already beside the mortars, flattening out, searching the woods beyond, other men coming up beside him. To the left, a machine gun erupted, streak of fire going past them, too high, more rifle fire, straight ahead. Benson flattened out, no cover, Mitchell on his knees, quick shots from the M-1, the empty clip clinking out, Mitchell down, reloading.

  “They took off! Dammit, I missed!”

  Voices came now, more of the Americans in the woods to the left, machine-gun fire that way, the thumping blast of a grenade. The men around Benson continued to move forward, Williamson waving to them, the lieutenant up close to the mortars, examining them, their prize. The men seemed to let down, good cover in the German mortar position. Benson heard the low excited chatter, some men still searching beyond for some sign of the enemy. The machine gun to the left was silenced, loud voices out that way, more scattered rifle fire. Benson drifted away from the cluster of white-clad soldiers, felt uneasy, the fear again. He moved out to the right, to one side of the mortar position, still the fog, silence, saw slices of black in the snow, an uneven line dug out through the woods. And then, a flicker of motion. He stared, frozen, saw it again, wanted to say something, tell Mitchell, but the men were behind him, focused on the mortar, others still firing their rifles, seeking targets beyond, nervous chatter, loud cursing. Benson raised the rifle slowly, his heart cold thunder, caught the outline of a helmet, then another, a foxhole, one man peering up at the gathering around the mortars. They don’t see me. Both men started to climb up, one holding a machine pistol, pointing it toward the cluster of men. Benson aimed, no thinking, pulled the trigger, the rifle jolting him, the man falling. The other man was up and out of the hole, began to run, clumsy, stumbling, and Benson fired again, then twice more, the man collapsing in the snow. Behind Benson men were reacting with surprise, hints of panic, bursts of rifle fire at unseen targets, voices directed toward him. He ignored the commotion, his brain locked on the ground in front of him, and he stared at the black slits, rips in the ground. He crouched low, the rifle pointed forward, searching for movement, nothing. He was close to the fallen men now, and one of them began to move slowly, a hard groan. Benson stepped closer, the man a few feet away, an oozing black trail in the snow behind him. The German’s helmet fell off, and Benson saw the dirty face, turning toward him, the eyes wide, low desperate grunts, the man still trying to crawl away. Benson aimed at the man’s head and fired once more.

  He stood alone, silence in his brain, the rifle aimed, his finger on the trigger, still ready. The silence opened up now, cold air in his lungs, movement behind him, the voice of Higgins.

  “Holy Christ. Any more?”

  Higgins moved past him, searching, slipping up quickly on the other foxholes, but they were empty, their occupants already pulling away. Benson said nothing, felt others moving up close to him, a hard slap on his back. Lane, close to his face, “Well, get your damn trophies!”

  Benson didn’t understand.

  Lane said, “Well, hell, if you ain’t gonna do it, I damn sure will!”

  Lane moved to one of the bodies, rolled the man over, other men doing the same to the second German. They were ripping through the uniforms, snatching off insignia, rifling through pockets. One man held up a piece of paper, said, “This one’s got a letter. All German gibberish.”

  The man stuck the letter in his pocket, the others chattering about their finds, and Williamson was there, booming voice, “Back off, men. No looting. We’ve still got work to do. Nice job, soldier.”

  Benson realized the lieutenant was talking to him, and he had no energy to respond, turned away, had seen enough of the bodies, of the men grabbing for loot.

  Higgins walked toward him, holding up the machine pistol, said, “No one’s keeping this. Can’t shoot it, it’ll draw fire. Anyone gets captured with a Kraut weapon’s gonna get clobbered for it.” The sergeant didn’t wait for any approval from the lieutenant, heaved the pistol far into the woods. There were mild protests, but the men knew that Higgins was right. The sergeant moved up close to Benson now, a cold stare, measuring, said to Williamson, “I told you, sir. He’s fine.”

  The lieutenant moved away. “Make sure you get his name. I want some medals for this platoon. That’s one for sure. Let’s get moving.”

  Higgins glanced toward the lieutenant, no change of expression, and Benson felt queasy, wanted to move away from the dead Germans.

  Mitchell, behind him, no smile, said, “Good going, Eddie. You might have saved our asses.”

  “I don’t want a medal.”

  “The looey? Ignore that moron.”

  Higgins moved past the men admiring their German emblems, stuffing pockets with their prizes.

  “You idiots shag your asses forward. And just remember, any of you gets hit, the Krauts are gonna tear your crap apart the same way.” He looked at Benson again. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Benson felt like crying again, but there were no tears, no energy in him at all. He watched the others moving away, following the lieutenant, saw men huddled at the mortars, disabling them, saw the cold stare from Mitchell.

  “I guess so, Sarge. We better keep up.”

  Higgins seemed satisfied, stepped through the snow, a last glance back at him.

  “Good job.”

  Benson followed him, Mitchell beside him. Mitch
ell said, “Reload. You shot up most of your clip.”

  “Hell of a thing, Kenny.”

  “Hell of a good thing, kiddo.”

  They had reached a wider roadway, more troops moving together, the advance easier now. The woods had thinned considerably, though the hills and valleys still rolled out in front of them, a patchwork of snow and black earth. They had heard the tanks from a long way off, word coming through the walkie-talkie that American armored units were moving tank destroyers in ahead of them, more of the precious Wolverines. On the road, Williamson had spoken to a tank commander, and the tankers had been cooperative, the heavy machines slowing, moving at the pace of the infantry. No one needed to hear the instructions from Williamson to understand that the armor offered a stout screen of cover against any Germans who might be waiting ahead. More tanks and tank destroyers were arriving, some spreading out onto flatter ground, some allowing infantry to ride up on the steel. On the road, the jeeps were coming up, officers ordering men back down, no encumbrance needed for any armored vehicle that might suddenly need a quick maneuver. Benson was content marching behind a Wolverine, didn’t mind the stink of diesel. The vehicle offered cover, certainly, but even better, the exhaust was warm.

  They had been in the road for nearly a mile, the roar of the tank destroyers drowning out the sounds of what might be happening off in the distance. There had been some fierce German resistance, small pockets mostly around the farms and villages, rear-guard patrols whose only job was to slow down the American advance. Often it was a single sniper, one carefully aimed shot at a tank commander, carelessly standing tall in his turret. If a tank suddenly went out of commission, it could send a whole company of infantry scattering into the woods. By the time the officers gained control and pushed a patrol into the village, the enemy would be gone. There were other dangers as well. In their retreat, the Germans had mined many of the roads, had left booby traps and trip-wired grenades. Even with engineers leading the way, the blasts had echoed back along the line. Benson had felt the thumping vibration beneath his feet, some machine up ahead suddenly erupting into black smoke. The column had halted, nervous officers pushing the men reluctantly into the snowy field, preparing them for some sudden surprise thrust from the Germans that had not yet come. The open fields made every man nervous, and Benson had seen why. The Germans had placed trip wires haphazardly, seemingly at random, grenades buried in small holes beneath the snow. One blast had lifted a man several feet in the air, a spray of red fire where the man’s legs came apart. The medics were there quickly, but the sight backed many of the men out of the field, whether their officers approved or not. Despite the armor that led the way, Benson was as jittery as the men around him, moving in slow cautious steps, eyes downward for any sign of disturbed earth, anything out of place, any hint of a wire. Any bush or low brush was given a wide berth, as were the sudden trails of souvenirs, German helmets and rifles, some standing upright, their bayonets jabbed into the ground. The sergeants were furious in their warnings, but there were always the fools, a sudden thumping blast echoing behind Benson, someone’s grab for a trophy getting him killed. They were passing scattered farmhouses now, and few objected when they were ordered off limits. Benson stepped past one now and understood why. The medics had gathered, moving around a row of litters in the front yard, some dragging out the remains of a squad of men who had swarmed through the house in search of some ridiculous treasure, and had obviously stumbled into a well-hidden bomb. Benson thought of the house in that one village, where Lane had been captured, the family hiding in their cellar. We took their food, and never thought the place could have been booby-trapped. He looked at the house as he moved past, blown-out windows, a wisp of black smoke rising through a ragged hole in the roof. I guess somebody’s checking the cellars, but I bet these folks are long gone. They were right in the middle of the war. Still are. He glanced back at the litters in the yard, the bodies of the GIs covered with dirty cloth. For what? Wine? Trinkets?

  Williamson moved through his men now, a needless reminder to keep their eyes and their movement forward. Benson saw his face, the man clearly bothered by the sight of the carnage, by the fear of more. He looked straight at Benson, a flicker of recognition.

  “Keep to the road! Any one of my men tries that stupidity, any one of you picks up any booty, and I’ll have you in the stockade!”

  The threat was meaningless, but the men did not react, most very happy to stay close to the growling tank destroyer. Benson watched the lieutenant return to the front of the line, thought, just where the hell would that stockade be out here?

  Benson was feeling hungry, knew it had to be midday, the fog mostly gone, low blankets of white only in the lowest valleys. Mitchell was beside him, Sergeant Higgins somewhere behind, tending to someone’s injury, a sprained ankle, some annoying delay. There had been bitching from some of the others, but Benson had said nothing at all. Weeks before, Higgins had saved his life because he wouldn’t leave Benson behind. If he wants to do that for someone else in the squad, fine.

  The tank destroyer suddenly stopped, a single belch of black smoke blowing over the men, coughs and curses. Benson heard voices, the crackle of a radio, and Williamson moved forward, joined the voices up in front of the Wolverine. Now the sounds came, loud and low, sweeping overhead. Benson caught the reflection of silver, a vast swarm of planes, and the men dropped low, but Benson already knew, said aloud, “P-47s!”

  He tried to see where they were heading, a few rising up beyond some of the far trees, then swooping down behind a hill, only to rise up again. The machine-gun fire came now, strafing runs, another formation coming in low behind him, wonderfully frightening. He eased around the Wolverine, one hand on the steel treads, saw the hillside more clearly, the planes moving about in all directions. There were bursts of fire from the hillside, hidden anti-aircraft guns, but not hidden well enough. More planes roared up from behind, their machine guns chattering. Benson was searching for the targets when suddenly there was the tinkle of metal on the tank destroyer, men yelping, some shouting out.

  “I’m hit!”

  “Take cover!”

  Benson squatted close beside the steel machine, heard the strange ringing sound, saw bits of brass, bouncing, plopping down onto the icy roadway. He looked up, the plane already gone, more coming up behind, making their runs, and Benson felt relief, laughter, reached for the brass, a scattering of spent shells, fifty-caliber, from the guns of the P-47s. He held one up, called out behind him, “It’s okay! It’s ours!”

  The others were figuring it out now, men grabbing the unique souvenirs, cheers erupting. The crew of the Wolverine had opened their hatches, watching the show as well, more than a dozen of the fighter planes swarming all across the rolling hills in front of them. Some were making bombing runs, the hills erupting into blasts of smoke and fire, more strafing from the deadly machine-gun fire. And just that quickly they were gone.

  They had passed by the clusters of mostly broken anti-aircraft guns, the bodies of their crews scattered around them, or gone altogether. The smoke still rolled up out of the targets, and all across the low hills, the soldiers continued their march, slow and methodical, lead scouts moving out front to the low-slung hillside that stretched all across their advance. Benson could see more than brush and earth, could make out the concrete bunkers, flat walls topped with earth or camouflage, German bunkers dug right into the hillsides. As he moved closer, he saw the slits cut all through the massive slabs of gray concrete, like so many narrow black eyes, hollow and empty, watching them come. But there was no firing, the gun ports empty, and he watched as the lead squads clambered quickly up and over, some disappearing into narrow passageways between the hulking structures. There was some rifle fire, far to the right, but in front nothing at all, the entire company easing forward in anxious silence, searching for any sign the enemy was still there. Benson stepped in rhythm to the men around him, saw a man up on top of a bunker, holding a satchel charge, easing along, an
d Benson thought, that’s what I’d do. Drop a handful of grenades into every one of those openings. Take no chances. His brain was spewing out words, the nervousness shared with the men around him, and now more men began to appear up on top of the enormous concrete slabs, hands in the air, what seemed to Benson to be careless exuberance. There was a voice behind him, the company commander, talking on a radio, a jeep coming up quickly, and Williamson called out, gathering his platoon. Benson responded, the men still eyeing the massive concrete walls, so close now, and Williamson held the walkie-talkie, stared back toward the jeep, seemed to be waiting for an order. The walkie-talkie crackled, Williamson listening with wide eyes, then he waved his hand, still holding the pistol, pointed toward the bunker.

  “Advance! All clear!”

  Benson began to move with the others, the tank destroyers and tanks moving out to one side, following the main road, some word passing through that the engineers had blown openings through the bunkers that the armor could use. He began to climb the low hill, saw Higgins drop down into a trench, then back up again, and Benson could see the trenches spread all along the base of the hill. He stepped down through crushed and broken barbed wire, some engineer’s good work, then climbed back up out of the trench. The concrete wall was close in front of him now, more than ten feet high, the gun ports above his head. To one side, he heard a series of thundering blasts, and the men reacted, dropped low, Benson pushing up close to the cold concrete. The smoke rose up several hundred yards away.

  Williamson called out, “That’s ours! The engineers are blowing gaps in the tank traps! Here! Come this way. There’s an opening.”

  The men obeyed, began to file up between two steep walls, a flattened footpath, part of the bunker’s design. Benson waited for the men to move through, and up in the wall, in a narrow slit right above him, a man’s head appeared, a happy shout, “You boys come on in! The Krauts done skedaddled! We’ve got this place to ourselves!”