by Audie Murphy
They do not come. Instead we receive another barrage of artillery. It is far worse than the one thrown at us yesterday. The whole hill trembles. We huddle among the rocks, pulling our helmeted heads into our shoulders like frightened turtles.
Swope is back on the gun. Concussion from a nearby blast sends his helmet spinning. I clamber up to him. Blood runs from his nose. He cannot hear. Otherwise he is unharmed, and refuses to leave the gun.
In the afternoon the last German dies. He takes a long, gasping breath, exhales with a sigh; and it is all over. I remove my raincoat from the body and spread it on a rock to dry.
That night we all feel better. The clouds are gone. The moon washes the earth with a silvery light, lessening the probability of enemy patrols.
In the light the faces of the dead seem green and unearthly. That is bad for the morale, as it makes a man reflect upon what his own life may come to. Brandon finally turns the bodies face downward. We should have thought of that in the first place.
“If the people at home could only see this,” says Kerrigan.
“Home?” echoes Novak.
“Yeah. Home is the place where they send you when you lose an arm or a leg. I’ve read all about it in the papers. You ride in a hospital train, with beautiful nurses and Red Cross dames drooling all over you. With newspapers writing how you gave your all for your country. With the train stopping at little towns, where the people are waiting at the depots to cheer. You look out of the windows and see the sweet little shacks around the railroad tracks, and say, ‘It won’t be long now.’”
“The hell you do,” says Snuffy.
“That’s what the papers say,” continues Kerrigan.
“Oh, tell us more,” I say with sarcasm.
“Sure. Just like a picture. Your mama cries and calls in the neighbors to see her hero. You sit around the old store with your chest full of ribbons, and tell the people about the war. You say, ‘It wasn’t so bad; and we’re beating the hell out of the krauts.’”
“No! I can’t stand it.”
“You get your picture taken; and the home-town paper gives you a headline: ‘Local Boy Says Nazis Not So Tough.’”
“Yeah. They’re a big bunch of sissies.”
“You forget about nights like this. All you do is eat hot dogs and drink coca-colas, the absence of which has mostly occupied your mind in the field.
“Then you’re discharged. Think of that. Discharged. For a while you miss the old gang. And you feel like a fish out of the water in civvies. You won’t have to go back clerking in a grocery store, because the good old army has trained you for a better job.”
“Come again.”
“Sure. You’ve learned a lot of useful things. You can pick off a man at three hundred yards with an M-1. You can toss a grenade further than anybody else in town. You can sleep among corpses, bathe in ditch water without any complaint a-tall. As civilians we’ll be in great demand.”
“Horse manure,” says Snuffy.
The next day breaks quietly. The enemy is strangely silent. Then our own artillery starts whamming. The whizzing of the shells overhead grows into a mighty roar.
“Whoopee!” yells Snuffy. “Hitler, start counting your boys.” If there is one thing a dogface loves, it is artillery–his own.
Horse-Face comes up from headquarters. “Sling on your gear, and get the lead out of your pants, I got great news for you sad sacks,” says he. “We attack.”
5
CRAWLING with filth and sodden with weariness, we are pulled out of the lines in mid-November. The valley is clear of the enemy. Mount Lungo has fallen. From its heights we can see Cassino.
The war drags north, its roar receding in the distance. In a short while, Hill 193 will be but another small rise in Italy’s rugged terrain. Already burial squads scurry like ants over its slopes seeking the bodies of men to whom the last order of “Forward” has been given.
Looking back upon the bloody valley, Snuffy says, “What was all the shootin’ about? I wouldn’t give one turnip patch in Tennessee fer the whole damned country, and Sicily thowed in fer good measure.”
As we straggle on foot down a shell-torn road, we become giddy at the prospect of living. Despite the lateness of the year, it is a pleasant sunny day. A light breeze whispers in the trees; the earth is solid and friendly.
The clump of our boots is like stirring music. Our veins swell to the rhythm; and we regard one another with foolish affectionate grins. It is as simple as that. An order comes through; and you are handed back life on a platter.
Kerrigan is sure that there has been some mistake. Otherwise we have been reprieved merely to be checked for venereal disease.
“All they’ll find on me,” says he, “is mudsores.”
Our derision is turned on Horse-Face Johnson. In a newspaper his wife has seen the picture of a G.I. vigorously embracing two Italian girls. She is sure that Horse-Face is up to the same mischief. That is why she has not heard from him in three weeks.
We halt for a rest by a clear stream. Brown leaves fall in the water and spin in the eddies. Novak, the cautious, removes his shoes and bathes his feet in the cool water. He doubts the official word that we are to walk only six miles. The army has a way of changing its mind; and the six miles may grow into thirty.
A group of replacements on the way to the front falls out on the opposite side of the road. The men are clean shaven and newly outfitted, as if prepared tor inspection. All are subdued; a few are plainly white-faced, dry-mouthed with fear. They finger their weapons, pull at their canteens, and glance nervously in the direction from which come the dull, angry sounds of combat. Their leader, a leathery sergeant, lies on his back in the grass and puffs a cigarette. From his relaxed attitude, we know he has been in the lines before, perhaps many times.
Kerrigan is elated by the scene. He flips his head toward the replacements and in a loud sardonic voice asks, “Has anyone ever seen a nicer pack of fresh meat?”
The sergeant’s eyes twinkle. “Still rough going up there?”
“Rough,” says Snuffy. “Out of the whole damned battalion here’s all that’s left. We’re being sent back, because the gravediggers run out of mattress covers.”
The replacements grin at us without mirth. The wind curls through the grasses; the stream gurgles cheerfully.
The sergeant grinds his cigarette into the ground and gets up.
“All right,” he says, “let’s go.”
The men fall in quietly, squaring their shoulders to their packs. We regard them with casual interest. Pity is a luxury we cannot afford. We have survived our stretch at the front. Now it is up to them to save their hides also. As they plod up the road, Kerrigan shouts, “Cannon fodder. Don’t get those nice uniforms dirty.”
A man in the rear turns and thumbs his nose at the Irishman.
At headquarters, we are ordered to strip and report to the medics for a checkup. The air nips at our skin; our teeth chatter lightly. In uniform we feel the strength of our union and manhood; naked we are all individuals, seeming suddenly alone and ridiculous.
Kerrigan was partially right. We have seen no women for weeks. For days we have been in the lines. But army routine is immutable. The first phase of our examination is a short arm.
A young corporal glances at our organs perfunctorily. His cursory attitude brings an admonishment from Horse-Face. “Careful there, son,” he says. “My wife thinks I’ve had half the women in Italy.”
“He’s eat up with the gonorrhea,” adds Kerrigan.
The corporal casts a bitter glance at the two. “Why don’t you go to hell?” he asks. “This ain’t my idea of fightin’ the war either.”
The mystery deepens. We are not returned to the lines, but instead are sent to a swampy terrain near Naples for a period of rigorous training. Twice daily we have hot chow, and we sleep on cots in pyramidal tents. Weariness drains from our flesh. We kick up our heels at discipline.
Snuffy is called on the carpet for not shavin
g. His stubbly chin might have gone unnoticed, but he also looked straight into the eyes of a natty headquarters lieutenant and failed to salute. The officer, bristling like a young Airedale, ordered him to snap to. By a mighty effort of will Snuffy opened both eyes and straightened a shoulder, which was his idea of standing at attention.
“Get that belly in and those shoulders back,” says the wrathful lieutenant. “You’re in the army.”
“Yessir,” replies Snuffy.
“And front-line slovenliness, either in appearance or action, will not be tolerated in this area.”
“Come again,” says Snuffy.
The face of the officer purples. “No wisecracks, soldier. Get those whiskers off immediately; and don’t let me catch you failing in your military courtesy again.”
“Yessir.” Snuffy turns on his heel.
“Goddammit,” says the lieutenant, “come back here. When being dismissed by an officer, you’re supposed to salute.”
“Yessir.” He throws a hand to his forehead.
“Dismissed. This time I won’t report you. But watch yourself. You’re not in the lines, you know.”
“Yessir.”
Unperturbed, Snuffy ambles into our tent. “I got news for you guys,” says he. “We’re not in the lines. In all your life did you ever hear such horse manure?” He studies his chin in a mirror. “What’s wrong with that sonofabitch?” he asks. “I jest shaved day before yisstidy.”
Kerrigan gets drunk. He has paid an outrageous price for a pint of grain alcohol which a medic stole from the infirmary. The fiery liquid was cut with grapefruit juice; and now the Irishman sits in our tent, solemnly sharing a canteen cup of the mixture with Novak.
As the liquor disappears, the Irishman’s brain is aswarm with great plans. “When I get out of this man’s army,” he announces, “I’m going to buy me a place in the woods. A whole damned summer resort. There’ll be cabins by the dozen, and a trout stream right in the middle.”
“Listen to that,” says Snuffy. “If brick houses was selling for a quarter apiece, he couldn’t buy a one-hole privy.”
“Quiet,” Kerrigan orders. “Have a drink.”
“Can’t. I’m in trouble enough already.”
“Then be quiet, and let a man drink in peace.” His mind snaps into focus, and again the dream flourishes. “Yep,” he continues, “I’ll have a lodge to take care of the overflow guests. It’ll have one big room with a fireplace at the end and a clock on the mantel that strikes bong, bong for them that cares what time it is. I won’t. There’ll be a bar two hundred feet long, all made of polished oak.”
His face brightens with a new idea. “Say, I’ll be needing a lot of help about that place. Who wants to work for me?”
“Get me out of this army, and I’ll settle for a hard-tailed mule and some stumpy new ground,” says Snuffy.
“You give me a job?” It is Novak that speaks.
“Why hell, yes,” Kerrigan assures him. “I’ll make you the head bartender. A hundred and fifty a week. No, that’s too damned much as a starter. How’s a hundred a week?”
“Suits me.”
“Then you’re hired.”
“By gah, I never make so much money in the steel mills. In the old country, I farm seven years to get wahn ticket to America. Kerrigan, you are my fran. I never have such a fran before.”
The Irishman is touched. He passes the cup to the Polack. “Friend,” says he, “drink. Drink it all.”
“To my fran.”
A formation whistle blows. We pull Kerrigan to his feet; and he reels to his place in the company line.
We are detailed to erect tents. Gone is the wonderful vision. Sweat pours down Kerrigan’s face, as he pounds stakes in the ground with a sledge. The exercise sobers him.
To Novak, he says, “I talk a lot of bologna. That place in the woods is a pipe dream. I hired you; now I fire you, just to get things straight.”
“It is no difference,” the Polack replies, “you are my fran.”
One afternoon Brandon and I are walking down a road when we spot a chicken pecking in a field. It raises its head and struts stiffly about in alarm.
“At this distance,” says Brandon, “it would be a damned crime. But …”
His carbine cracks, and the fowl is a flopping mass of feathers. I vault over the wall encircling the field and scoop it up in my arms. It is an old hen with a bald neck. Evidently she has been molting out of season. We crouch behind the wall, hastily plucking and gutting the carcass. Then we wrap the dressed flesh in a field jacket and hide it in a clump of grass.
In combat, we can destroy whole towns and be patted on the back for our efforts. But here in the rear, the theft of a chicken is a serious offense indeed. Army regulations say, “No looting.” If anyone questions us about the shot, we will swear that the gun fired accidentally.
I am in favor of broiling the fowl over an open fire. But Brandon insists that we must be sensible about the matter. He is certain that the flame will be seen. Taking the chicken to a farmhouse would be safer.
“If,” I say, “it is not the farm to which the hen belonged.”
“Oh, the hell with that,” he replies. “We’ll say we swiped it from our kitchen.”
We select a likely looking house; and at dusk we recover our chicken and sneak across the fields, walking gingerly. While our brains do not concern themselves with mines, our legs are instinctively cautious.
It is an old house, with the yard reeking of manure. And we hear the soft moo of a cow.
A burly, fat man opens the door. As he stands against the candlelight, he seems almost gigantic. His voice has the arrogant weariness of one who has seen too many soldiers.
“No wine,” he says.
Brandon dangles the chicken by the legs. The man peers at us suspiciously.
“No wine,” he repeats.
“The hell with the wine,” says Brandon. “We eat. Mangiare.”
“Ah!” the Italian exclaims. “You honger.”
“Damned honger,” Brandon assures him, weighing the fowl temptingly in his hand.
“Damned honger. You enter,” says the man, carefully fumbling for English.
His wife is as dark as a gypsy. Her hair is plaited into a stringy long braid. In her ears are large, golden rings. She scrutinizes the chicken and speaks to her husband. He answers with an impatient volley of Italian. She shrugs her shoulders and thrusts a bundle of twigs into the stove. The flames leap, crackling. In their light, the woman’s face seems ancient and lonely.
We still clutch our carbines, but our host appears not to notice the weapons. Perhaps he has learned from experience that it is wise not to suggest that soldiers disarm themselves. Many disapprove of the courtesy.
We seat ourselves at a table. Brandon passes his cigarettes. The woman takes one, says, “Thank you,” and puts it on a shelf. In a war-torn country nobody refuses anything offered. Even G.I. contraceptives have become a shameless medium of exchange.
The man inhales expansively, then blows volumes of smoke out of his nostrils. His mood grows genial. He opens a cupboard and brings out a bottle of red wine, which he sets with three glasses on the table.
“I thought the guy said he had no wine,” remarks Brandon.
If our host understands, he gives no sign. He fills the glasses, passes us two, and says, “You drink. Is good wine.”
We lean our carbines against the wall and toss our cartridge belts into a corner.
The chicken bubbles in an iron pot. The smell of garlic and peppers fills the room. A second bottle of wine appears on the table.
“New York?” asks our host.
“New York,” Brandon nods. With our ignorance of the Italian language, attempting to explain the existence of a state called Kentucky is not worth the effort.
“Your freen? New York?”
“New York,” I reply, hoping the news never gets back to Texas.
“I have in New York a cousin. Pietro Dominico,” says the Italian.
Brandon gulps down a half-glass of wine, vigorously exhales, and rubs his stomach.
“I know Pietro Dominico,” he declares.
The Italian gapes in astonishment.
“Pietro Dominico, you know.”
“My friend” answers Brandon, holding two fingers closely together. “Pietro and me are like that.”
The man speaks excitedly to his wife. Her eyes widen. She rattles a string of Italian in my comrade’s direction.
His imagination soars. He raps himself on the chest and turns to me half-belligerently. “Do I know Pietro?” he snaps. “He asks me if I know Pietro Dominico.”
“Well, do you?”
Brandon slams a fist on the table; the wine glasses dance. “Of course. He owns a macaroni joint on Fifth Avenue; and he leads a gray kitten about with a rope. His wife is named Ruby. She’s half Swede, three-fourths Chinese, and the other part Navajo Indian. She cooks her catfish with a sweet potato dressing, and tells fortunes while she rests. Am I right?”
“Right.”
The Italian bends anxiously forward. “I no understand what you speak.”
Brandon is exasperated with the limitations of language, but suddenly he has an inspiration. He raises his glass. “To Pietro Dominico, who’s been better to me than my own brother. Saloot and santee.”
“Ah,” the Italian sighs, “it is Pietro.” He drinks deeply. The little kitchen has become rosy with friendship. The stove purrs; and the candlelight grows in its richness. We no longer have the feeling of strangers.
The major portion of the chicken is put on our plates. It is so spiced with pepper that tears roll from our eyes as we chew. But we eat the last shred of it and mop up the gravy with chunks of dry bread.
Then the magic dies.
A roach crawls over the table. It pauses to twiddle its long antennae. The Italian crushes it with his hand, wiping the messy remains on his pants. The fire goes out in the stove. The room becomes stuffy and sordid.