by Audie Murphy
“Right,” I reply.
“Then why don’t they send for the air force?” asks a youngster with blond hair and bright blue eyes.
The sergeant turns upon him scornfully. “Are you kidding?” says he. “The air force is taking the day off to run off a new batch of medals. Bunch of flyers knocked out a jerry latrine day before yesterday and go gliding home through the wild blue yonder to get their medals. And what do you know? There wasn’t a medal left. Plumb broke the spirit of them flyers. No, we can’t depend on the air corps. But maybe a tank–yeah, a tank ought to be able to do the job, except–”
“Except what?”
“Except a tank’s never around when you need it. But don’t be downhearted. We’ve still got the artillery. That’s your friend.”
“Then why the hell doesn’t it get busy?”
The sergeant shakes his head mournfully. “The artillery means well,” says he, “but it couldn’t hit a bull in the back with a bass fiddle. So who’s it? Who’s always it? The infantree. Right, sergeant?”
“Right.”
“Yeah,” the sergeant continues reverently. “The Queen of Battles. Stick with it and you’ll be getting slivers up and down your spine.”
“That’s just what I figured,” says the recruit, grinning.
“Now you’re getting the spirit. Just always remember, there is no other branch of the army that offers so many chances for the Purple Heart, the Distinguished Wooden Cross, the Royal Order of the Mattress Covers. You want to be decorated, don’t you?”
“I’d like to be decorated with a discharge.”
The mortar shell comes in almost soundlessly. It is practically under my feet before I am aware of it. I have just time enough to think, “This is it,” before the blast knocks me unconscious.
When I come to, I am sitting beside a crater with a broken carbine in my hands. My head aches; my eyes burn; and I cannot hear. The acrid, greasy taste of burnt powder fills my mouth.
Methodically, I run my hands down over my legs. The limbs are still there. But the heel of my right shoe is missing; and my fingers are sticky with blood.
My groggy brain picks up a voice. “Are you all right, sergeant?” it asks.
“My foot.”
“Just a gash. It doesn’t look serious.”
“Then I’m okay.”
I wipe the tears from my smarting. eyes and look about me. The sergeant and the young recruit are dead. Three other men are wounded. They were all further than I from the projectile.
When a mortar shell explodes on contact with the ground, it throws its fragments upwards and outwards in a cone-shaped pattern. I was standing next to the base-tip of the cone and consequently caught only the beginning of the shower. Had I been three feet farther away, I would most likely not be alive to tell about it.
After a few days in the hospital, I get myself a new pair of shoes and return to the lines. It is late September. Drizzly rains sweep over the hilly, wooded country through which we move; keeping warm during the night has already become a problem.
The leaves of the trees are turning color. The gold and red contrast sharply with the evergreens; and the camouflage men must start mixing new paints to conform with the changes in nature. It is the prelude to another long, grim winter.
We plod up the wet roads doggedly, wondering vaguely which of us will still be alive when the new leaves return to the trees. The Germans fall back stubbornly, but steadily. Each day, however, their resistance grows stronger, their retreats shorter. As they approach strongly prepared positions in the Vosges mountain area, they lash back at us with counterattacks. My regiment is on the verge of some of its hardest fighting of the entire war.
One morning as a chilled, misty dawn breaks over the earth we wait for the signal to tackle a hill known only by number. Our artillery is softening up the point with a barrage. We lie on our backs, shivering and silent, as the gray light grows about us.
Near me a sergeant checks a 50-caliber machine gun, which is set up in a large round hole edged by a wall of sandbags. The weapon, stationary for the time being, will be used to cover our advance and, if necessary, our retreat.
The sergeant, satisfied that his gun is ready for action, lolls back upon his elbows. Beads of water cling to his mop of wavy black hair. He is extraordinarily handsome. With his fine, sensitive features and broad shoulders, he looks like a Hollywood producer’s dream of a soldier. In the army we would immediately classify him as a lady-killer.
He lights a cigarette and turns to me with a grin. “God pity you guys,” he says; “that hill’s going to be a humdinger. It’s crawling with krauts.”
“Yeah?”
“And they’re plenty mad.”
“Thanks for the encouragement. When I’m up there, I’ll be thinking about you lying back in that nice warm hole. I hope the krauts don’t start chunking artillery in this direction.”
“Keep an eye peeled for their automatic stuff. They’ve got plenty of it up there.”
“Any more cheerful information you’d like to pass out. Our morale is just boiling over.”
“I’ll give you a tip. Next time you join the army, don’t let them shove you into public relations. I know a man who was. He broke all of his fingernails on a typewriter.”
“Too bad.”
“It was a downright calamity. Well, you guys can move up any time now. I’m getting hungry.”
“Then why don’t you eat?”
“For a very simple reason. I’ve got no rations.”
“I’ve got no appetite.”
“Don’t worry. Those jerries use forced-feeding methods. You’ll soon have your belly full.”
“Now that’s a hell of a way to draw your rations.”
The barrage lifts. I say, “Good luck,” to the sergeant and move over to my platoon. In our rear one of our cannon whams. We hear its projectile fluttering through the air hesitantly, as if reluctant to bury its nose in the cold, wet earth. The sound instantly reveals to an experienced ear that the shell is defective. Though our own, it may explode anywhere. Shouting to my men to get down, I hit the dirt just before the crash comes.
The blast seems to be directly over us. In the silence that follows, I mentally examine each part of my body for the burning sensation that reveals wounds. I find none and stand up. The new men are fearfully dabbling their fingers over their clothes in search of blood. I know their feeling. That a shell could hit so close without doing damage is a miracle to the uninitiated.
I glance toward the machine-gun nest. The sergeant still lolls, but a man is hastily twisting a tourniquet about his leg. His left foot has been sheared off cleanly just above the shoe top. There is no expression of pain or panic on the sergeant’s face. He strikes a match to a cigarette and puffs calmly.
“Okay. Don’t move your leg now,” says his comrade. “You might start bleeding again.”
Flipping away the butt of the cigarette, the sergeant picks up his foot, examines it curiously, and tosses it aside.
“Well,” says he, as if talking to himself, “there goes my dancing days.”
His comrade begins to shake nervously. “Don’t go away,” he says, “I’ll be right back with the medics.”
The sergeant smiles. “Now, Mac, just where the hell do you think I’d be going,” asks he. Then I see his eyes close and his face freeze into a grimace as the pain strikes.
He was right about the hill, but at first it seems that the objective will be easy. As we sneak up the slopes, we hear only the creaking of our boots and the patter of water from the trees. The Germans remain silent. But we have seen them pull this trick before, and will not be fooled by it. We advance from point to point, using trees and huge rocks for cover and examining every possible foot of the ground that lies before us.
The quietness disturbs Kerrigan. “Why in the holy hell doesn’t somebody open up?” he whispers. “Playing Little-Bo-Peep in this jungle is apt to wreck a man’s nerves.”
“You’re still as
trigger-happy as voters at a Kentucky election.”
“I’m still alive.”
“You won’t be if you keep sticking your head up.”
“I’ll be here when your dog tags part.”
We slide around a boulder and directly to our left discover a machine-gun nest. It lies downhill from us; and five men make up the crew. One kraut lies behind the gun with his finger on the trigger. Another holds the ammunition belt. Two more are stretched out with rifles. A sergeant, in a prone position fifteen feet away, peers through binoculars.
“The pleasure is yours,” I say. “Pick them off, deadeye.”
“No. I pass you the honor.”
“Shoot the gunner. The others may surrender.”
“Would you suggest that I plug him right behind the ear?”
“If you can get under his helmet.”
“Better make it the temple.”
“Make it anywhere but shoot; I’ll cover the others.”
“Okay. Here we go for bingo.” He lifts his rifle and takes careful aim. The carbine cracks. The kraut with the binoculars lets out a yell. Kerrigan, ordinarily a crack shot, has completely missed the gunner and hit the sergeant in the foot.
Five furious, desperate Germans whirl upon us. The sergeant, spotting us first, rises to his knees, whips out a Luger and begins firing. The bullets go wild. I hurl a grenade, but it strikes a tree, bounces, and explodes harmlessly. The machine gunner jerks his barrel toward us, Kerrigan rises to one knee and shoots him in the face. He slumps over the gun. Another kraut kicks the body aside and grabs the trigger. I pump two bullets into him; and Kerrigan follows with a grenade. The sergeant is knocked backwards by the blast; and I take no chances with him. Before he can stir again, I empty my gun into his body.
It is all over within five minues, but the noise we made seems to have touched off the battle fuse. The rain-drenched hill roars with screams, curses, and clattering guns.
Kerrigan and I wipe the water off our faces and lean against the rocks to get our breath.
“What was wrong, Bo-Peep?” I finally say. “Have you got a kink in your gun barrel?”
The Irishman spits wrathfully. “The water got in my eye,” he says.
“The water got in your blood.”
“That was a nice little throw you made with the grenade. Like to have you on my ball team.”
“My hand was wet. It slipped.”
“You damn near slipped us into eternity. To think they wanted to make you an officer on Anzio.”
“Why not?”
“You couldn’t make out a morning report with a staff of stenographers.”
“You’re crazy. I’ve got a fine brain for figures.”
“Yeah. Female, that is.” He pauses thoughtfully. “An officer!” he snorts. “If you ever take a commission, I hope you get your ass shot off.”
“Thanks for the good will.”
“You’re welcome.”
He gets up and peers around the rocks. “We’d better get out of this firetrap before the krauts get too curious about what happened to their machine-gun crew.”
“You want to do some more fighting?”
“Might as well. What else is there to do on a rainy day?”
Up the slope we find two dead men in a shell crater. They lean against the bank of the hole with their helmets pulled down over their eyes. About both of the mouths is the curious ghost of a smile. The mortar shell which landed in the large crater must have caught them in the middle of a laugh.
“They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place,” observes Kerrigan. “Maybe these guys believed it.”
“Do you know them?”
“No. They must be new men. Funny thing. When I was a kid, I ran away from home to keep from going to my grandpa’s funeral. Couldn’t bear the thought of seeing anybody dead. Do you think that tommy gun’s in working condition?”
“Looks all right.”
Sliding into the hole, he picks up the weapon and checks the mechanism.
“It’s okay,” he says. In the ammo pouch, he finds several clips of ammunition. He straightens up and glances at the faces of the two soldiers. “Did you ever notice that when they’re dead, they all look alike?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, well,” he shrugs, “it’s just a matter of time. The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out. The worms crawl through your mouth and snout. How does that song go?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds beautiful.”
“It tells the truth.”
“You sure you can handle that tommy gun?”
“Don’t talk like a moron. I can knock a gnat’s eye out with it. That carbine’s barrel was as crooked as the long road home.”
“I’d feel safer if you let me do the shooting and you just throw rocks.”
“Oh, go to hell.”
Again the fury of combat closes about us.
17
TWO days later Kerrigan is hit by a mortar-shell fragment, but his luck holds to the end. The sharp, steel splinter simply clipped off half of his right hand. The wound is sufficient to remove him from combat permanently, but in time it will not greatly affect his ability to hoist a bottle.
I do not see him before he is taken to the hospital. These are extremely busy days and nights; and every man is required to give his utmost. We are driving into the Vosges mountain chain, which is the chief obstacle lying between us and the Rhine. Speed is most important. The rain still falls; the coldness increases. Soon snow and ice will take over the rugged hills, increasing the difficulty of our advance immeasurably.
The terrain is perfect for defense. The thick forests, hiding innumerable snipers and machine-gun emplacements, must often be cleared by tree-to-tree fighting. The enemy has dug in high upon the steep craggy slopes, from which they pour artillery and mortar fire into our ranks. At night the fog closes in. Under its cover, the Germans infiltrate our lines; and hand-to-hand fighting becomes commonplace. I whet my bayonet until it is razor-sharp and keep it always handy.
Our immediate objective is a quarry near Cleurie. It is only a pin-point on a very large map, but in the memory of the men who fought there, it looms like King’s Mountain in the Revolutionary War.
Lying high upon a rocky, wooded, almost perpendicular slope, the quarry is the anchorage point in the German lines, dominating a long section of roadway essential to our advance. Cut from solid rock, its numerous tunnels protect its defenders from our artillery and mortars. Every approach is covered by machine guns set up for cross-fire. Enemy cannon and mortars have the slopes zeroed-in. And a large detachment of sharpshooters with telescopic sights on their rifles has been added for extra insurance.
The German command, knowing the importance of the position, has ordered it to be held as long as one man can pull a trigger. We have received counterorders to take it. Several times we try to drive head-on up the slope, but we are driven back with heavy losses by a hellish storm of enemy fire.
We dig in and wait for command to figure out shrewder strategy. Our command post and kitchen have been established in a house that stands at the base of a knoll which hides us from the big guns in the quarry area. Beyond the knoll is another rise which lies between us and the enemy-held hill. That is usually no-man’s land.
In the darkness, units of the enemy slip down the slope to establish forward positions. Often less than a hundred yards separates us from their lines. We hear them talking back and forth; and their bloody excursions into our own positions are nightly occurrences.
Today the fighting has been unusually heavy. We have been probing with patrols to find a weak link in the enemy chain and have taken a severe battering for our efforts. Now the dusk closes in; the fog rolls over the trees; and it is time to start posting our watches for the night.
I scan the men available. Most of them have been under fire since morning and are ready to collapse from strain and weariness. Knowing what I am after, they lower their eyes and keep silent while waiting for t
heir names to be called. It is the same look that we developed as rookies when a noncom entered the barracks to tap men for an unpleasant detail.
Then I spot a fresh face. It belongs to a bulky redheaded man who looks as though he could handle a BAR.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Barnes.”
“How’d you like to pull a little guard duty?”
“Sahgent,” he drawls, “I ain’t lost nothin’ out there. But if you tag me, I guess I’m it.”
“You know how to use a BAR?”
“I’ve shot one on the range.”
“Any combat experience?”
“None but what I’ve read about in the Stars and Stripes. I just got here today.”
“Well, you’ve got to get started sometime. Come on.”
We go up a woodland trail to a point near the crest of the knoll. I find a position that offers clear fire space for covering the trail and a tree that will protect the sentry on one side.
“Maybe you’ve been told before that this is the real thing,” I say. “But make no mistake; this is it. Keep on the alert for the slightest sound. The krauts are as tricky as Indians. If you’re caught off guard, you’ll be the first to get it.”
“I don’t aim to do much sleepin’.”
“Good. If anybody, anything moves over the top of that hill, shoot and shoot fast.”
“What if it’s one of our own men?”
“It won’t be. We’ll come up the hill only, and we’ll identify ourselves if we do.”
“But, sahgent.”
“Yeah.”
“I ain’t never shot nobody. I don’t know whether my nerve will stand up.”
“Everybody feels like that the first time. Now get this straight in your head. If a man comes over that hill, he’ll be a German. One of you is going to get killed. The man that shoots first will be the one that lives. So don’t let that civilian conscience get in your way. Draw your bead and pull that trigger fast. You’ll feel all right in a bit.”
“I feel like a hen at a hawks’ convention.”