To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  “Good night and good luck.”

  I turn to leave.

  “Sahgent.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got a drink of water?”

  “You’ve got your canteen.”

  “‘Y god, so I have; so I have.”

  On the way down the hill, I halt to check a group of men posted in a series of foxholes.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  Bergman sticks his head above the ground. “Can you get me a new grave mate? Compton’s been snoring so loud I can’t keep my mind on women.”

  “Cover his head up with dirt.”

  “He’s been dead so long he wouldn’t know the difference. How do things look for the night?”

  “You can’t tell. I’ve put a new man up the hill, and he might freeze if the krauts hit. Watch out for him.”

  “I’m froze already.”

  “You’ll probably be in a warm spot by morning.”

  “I hope I’m not in hell.”

  At the command post the company noncoms have assembled for briefing on the next day’s operations. Captain Hogan is pointing out details of terrain and enemy positions on charts when I hear the rattle of the BAR.

  I leap to my feet. “Excuse me, sir. That shooting is in my sector.”

  “Better check it.”

  I dart through the door and up the hill. The sound of a groaning, threshing body sounds in the darkness. Barnes is shaking like a nude in a blizzard.

  “G-g-goddam,” he stutters, “I sh-shot somebody.”

  “Shoot him again. He’s still alive.”

  “G-g-god, no. I’ve already shot him once.”

  “Give me your gun.”

  “It’s j-j-jammed.”

  “You’d better get it un-jammed toute-de-suite. You’ve got the outpost here; and those krauts never travel alone.”

  “You going to leave me here by myself?”

  “I’ve got to get back to a meeting.”

  “I can’t stand hearing that man groaning.”

  “Just be glad it’s not yourself. Remember he’s your enemy. And he’ll likely die in a litle bit. Brace yourself.”

  “Good g-g-god,” he says wonderingly, “to think I was brought up in a Christian home.”

  “All of us were. Don’t get the idea that you’ve got a special case in this man’s army.”

  “I couldn’t kill a chicken.”

  “The chickens didn’t try to kill you.”

  As I pass the secondary defenses, Bergman asks, “What’s the matter?”

  “The guy killed his first kraut and is about to cry over it.”

  “Put me up there. I left my conscience at the repple depple.”

  “No. Let’s leave him alone. If he don’t go nuts, he’ll be a veteran by morning.”

  “Yeah. I guess it’s better that way. I can rest better with a nervous guy up ahead. He’ll blast or squawk if even a rabbit hops.”

  As I enter the command post, Captain Hogan turns his worried red eyes upon me. “What’s up?”

  “It was a kraut. Barnes got him at the top of the hill. But I think we’d better get back to our men. Looks like an attack.”

  “Don’t those sonsabitches ever get tired?” His question is addressed to the thin air, and nobody replies.

  “Well, briefly, here’s the situation. To the right of the quarry near this big rock, we know–”

  Brrrrp. The captain pauses. Rat-ta-ta-ta. One of our machine guns answers. A grease gun whirrs. The bullets plop into the walls of the house. It seems but a matter of seconds before the whole area is swept with fire.

  The captain folds his map. “Get to your men,” he says quietly, “and remember that every foot of land you yield tonight will have to be retaken tomorrow.”

  We scramble to our feet. I grab a carbine and a full case of grenades. The light of the gasoline lantern is put out; and we dive through the door.

  Outside strings of white tracer bullets slice through the darkness. I drop to my knees, gauge the height of the lead; then I get to my feet and dash crouching up the hill. The Germans lower their angle of fire; and before I reach Barnes I am crawling.

  He lies flat on the earth so silent and motionless that at first I think he is dead.

  “Barnes.”

  His head pops up.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Wh-what goes on?”

  “It’s an attack. Did you fix your gun?”

  “G-g-good god, let’s get out of here.”

  “We can’t.” Breaking open the case of grenades, I shove it between us. “If you want to live, don’t let anything get over that hill. You know how to use a grenade?”

  “Pull the key and heave ’em?”

  “That’s it. Give yourself time; watch for the trees.”

  From over the crest comes a mutter in German. A shiver shoots up my spine. I twist to my side and lob the grenade. The explosion is followed by a scream.

  Barnes becomes suddenly energetic, tossing the grenades with the frenzy of a mad man.

  “Take it easy. We don’t want to run out of ammunition.”

  “I’ll take it easy.” He soon learns that a man does not necessarily die because a machine gun sputters and that the enemy is not merely a being with warm flesh and blood. He is part of a wall of menace that expresses itself in the snapping of a branch, a roll of gravel, or a shadowy bulk that looms in the night. In the heat, Barnes learns coolness and calm fury. He becomes a valuable man.

  Dawn finds us clinging to most of our positions. The bulk of the Germans have retreated. But the little patch of real estate, known to us as “the ridge,” came high. Beneath the trees the slain lie thick; and this morning many a man is sporting a bloody bandage.

  A young private, his dirty face marked with tear streaks, approaches me. “Is it all right if I go back up the hill, sergeant?” he asks.

  “Why?”

  “I left a buddy up there.”

  “Wounded?”

  “I think he’s dead.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I heard him fall. He groaned a little while. Then he got quiet. Before I could get to him, the krauts hit my position; and I had to give ground.”

  “Well, you can’t do him any good now. If he’s alive, the medics have got him.”

  “But we’d been together since basic.” His voice pleads.

  “Stay off that hill.”

  “But the medics could’ve missed him.”

  “This is an order. Stay off that hill.”

  So many men have come and gone that I can no longer keep track of them. Since Kerrigan got his, I have isolated myself as much as possible, desiring only to do my work and be left alone. I feel burnt out, emotionally and physically exhausted. Let the hill be strewn with corpses so long as I do not have to turn over the bodies and find the familiar face of a friend. It is with the living that I must concern myself, juggling them as numbers to fit the mathematics of battle.

  The battalion commander and executive officer visit the front lines. They want to see with their own eyes what is holding up our advance. They would like a peek into the quarry itself. Excellent and courageous leaders, they pick only four men to escort them up the treacherous hillside.

  It is another dreary, gray day. The lines are quiet, but I cannot sleep. And I am bored with the lack of activity, which breeds the thinking that I try to avoid. Picking up several hand grenades and a carbine, I trail the patrol up the hill.

  As I prepare to round a huge boulder, two enemy grenades explode. A machine gun ripples. Silence returns. My scalp tingles as the hair starts rising. That machine gun is only a few yards away.

  I pause, pull the pin from a grenade, and peer around the rock. The Germans have not been overly clever with their ambush. Instead of picking off the officers first, they threw the grenades at the four men, knocking out two and machine-gunning one of them as he writhed upon the ground.

  That was their mistake. Before the gunner coul
d swing his weapon, the officers had tumbled into a shallow hole, where they now lie pinned. The krauts, evidently not considering a rear guard, have become downright careless with their concealment as they attempt to slaughter the officers.

  Grasping the carbine in my left hand and a grenade in my right, I step suddenly from behind the rock. The Germans spot me instantly. The gunner spins the tip of his weapon toward me. But the barrel catches in a limb, and the burst whizzes to my right.

  I lob the grenade and grab the carbine trigger with one movement. Before the grenade has time to burst, two krauts fall with carbine slugs in their bellies. I quickly lob two more grenades into the position. Four of the eight Germans are killed; three are put out of action by wounds.

  The eighth, a squat, fat man, tries to escape. He dashes down the hill with a waddling gait, like a duck being chased by an ax-man. I line my sights upon his helmet, but hesitate in pulling the trigger. How can one shoot such a ridiculous figure. It is like killing a clown.

  But the clown has a gun and is, therefore, dangerous. I squeeze the trigger. The helmet jumps. The man falls as if struck in the head with a club.

  I snap the safety lock on my carbine and turn to the battalion commander. He is as cool as the October morning. “Those grenades are not a bad idea. Next time I’ll bring my own,” says he, brushing the dirt off his clothes.

  We pick up our wounded and start down the hill. A single feeling possesses me. It is one of complete and utter weariness.

  Shortly after dusk, we are called into action again. But we are hit only by a kraut patrol that has been trapped in our lines on the left flank. The skirmish lasts but a few minutes; and quietness returns as the exhausted men on both sides settle down for the night, content for the moment to live and let live.

  Before midnight my jumpy nerves kick me to wakefulness. A jeep is chugging up the road that leads through the forest. Eyes snap open. The men turn to one another doubtfully. That stretch of road is covered by both our guns and the Germans’. Traveling on it by stealth is dangerous enough. And to telegraph one’s position with a clattering vehicle seems the ultimate in foolhardiness.

  All ears turn toward the sound.

  “It’s the medics,” a voice decides.

  “Not up that road. The litter bearers would hoof it through that area.”

  “Maybe it’s the krauts taking a ride in a captured jeep.”

  “They wouldn’t be that crazy.”

  The spit and crackle of an enemy rifle grenade comes through the night. The jeep engine dies with a cough. I take off through the trees bordering the road.

  “Lieutenant Mack!” I call, as I scuttle to a new position.

  “Murphy.”

  “It’s me. Come quickly in this direction.”

  As he crawls through the trees, his bald head shows dimly.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Most humiliating,” he replies. “The bastahds have injured my dignity, not to mention my posterior. I think I collected a few splinters.”

  When he stands I see that he is armed only with his familiar leather riding crop.

  “What were you figuring on doing? Straddling a kraut and galloping him to death?”

  “The uncouth barbarians didn’t even give a warning.”

  “When you come up to the lines, you better bring a gun. Those krauts are totally unimpressed by a horse whip.”

  “It was such a wondrous night, I was quoting Shelley to my driver.”

  “Where is your driver?”

  “When you hear through these lovely forests a zip like the hounds of hell on winter’s traces, that’ll be the driver. We’ve been in these circumstances before.”

  “I know.”

  Lieutenant Mack is our supply officer, who has maintained an elegance of speech and manner through the months of combat. We have affectionately nicknamed him “the governor.” Precise and meticulous in habit and dress, he has a weird streak in his personality that scoffs at personal danger.

  “How is the company?”

  “Pretty dog-eared and beat-up. We’ve been going at a steady grind.”

  “Are you eating all right?”

  “When our supply officer gets the grub to us. How are things in the rear echelons?”

  “Devastating. Perfectly devastating. I went back to Besançon the other day. The brothels there are being put off limits; and the town is already drained of cognac. The boys are now bitching for overnight passes to extend Operation Amour.”

  “We could use a few of them up here.”

  “Impossible. They’d need a pro-station; and a trailer could never make that road.”

  “They’d get it up here all right, but without kisses.”

  “I know. War is most outrageously inconvenient.”

  Two men in the heavy weapons platoon are shot by a sniper. The bullets pierce the center of their foreheads; and they fall on the slope near the spot where the Germans attempted the ambush. I do not know the men, but the news of their slaughter irritates me. Perhaps, it is just that I am tired of cowering in a mud hole while waiting for the enemy to strike. I need a release from taut nerves.

  It is mid-afternoon. Rays of sunlight filter though the clouds. The light is all right. Before reporting to company headquarters, I carefully clean my carbine.

  “I want to go up and try to get that sniper,” I say.

  Captain Hogan pinches his chin with two fingers. “Take a patrol. The kraut’s evidently well hidden; and we can’t risk having another man killed right now.”

  “Wouldn’t a patrol be a giveaway? Don’t you think the sniper would fire into a group?”

  “He may.”

  “I think it would be safer to go alone. I’ll keep my head down.”

  “Take along a couple of men. You may need them. I’ll telephone batt to hold up our mortar fire for an hour in your area. Don’t overstay your time; or one of our own guns may get you.” He glances at his wrist watch. “I’ll try to halt the mortars at 1300. But wait until you hear them let up before proceeding.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And Murphy. Don’t get too damned close to that quarry.”

  “You couldn’t drag me there with a mule train.”

  I call for two volunteers to accompany me. Owl, a smoky-eyed Cherokee Indian, picks up his gun.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “Up toward the quarry to look for that sniper.”

  “Count me in.”

  Barker slips a fresh clip of cartridges into his Garand.

  “No, not you,” I say.

  “Why not? Am I a stepchild?”

  “Maybe you’d better stay with the men.”

  “Don’t be silly. Nothing will happen before dark. Let’s go.”

  The men turn their heads toward Barker. We all know he is up for rotation. On any day he may get the order that will send him back to America on a furlough.

  “Well, what’s so funny about me?” he asks, becoming conscious of the stare of the men. “Am I wearing red ribbons in my hair? Is my fly open?”

  “You shouldn’t take the risk,” I say.

  “Who should? The hell with it. Let’s go.”

  We cross the ridge, stepping as warily as though we were walking on thin ice. There is no indication of the enemy in the area. A breeze moves in the trees. The wooded hill is a peaceful checkerboard of light and shade. A frightened bird darts from the ground with a thrum of wings.

  We halt at the edge of a small clearing. Owl points to the spot where our two men were killed. The brown stain of their blood is still on the ground. We study the terrain to determine the source of the accurate sniper fire.

  “If he’s at his old post, he can’t be far away,” says Owl. “He couldn’t get much range through the trees.”

  “I’d say he was uphill,” adds Barker. “Those guys were shot right after they stepped into the open. If the kraut had been on either side, he would have waited until they got further into the clearing.”

  Directly ahead
is the huge rock around which I stepped to throw the grenades at the machine-gun nest. It gives me an idea. The Germans, knowing we have come up that trail before, perhaps think we will repeat the performance. So the sniper has been posted in the vicinity as a safeguard.

  I take off my helmet and check my weapons. “Wait here until I look around,” I say.

  “The hell you say. I’m going along,” declares Barker.

  “No. It was my idea; so it’s my party. One will have a better chance than three.”

  Owl shrugs and removes his helmet. “There’s always time to get shot. Why hurry?”

  “If nothing happens in fifteen minutes, I’m starting up,” says Barker.

  “Come ahead.”

  Keeping under cover of the brush, I skirt the clearing and move toward the boulder. An acute sense of loneliness comes over me. I and my enemy, it seems, are the last two men on earth. I pause; and fear makes my body grow limp. I look at the hills and sky. A shaft of sunlight pierces the clouds, making the wet leaves of the trees glisten goldenly. Life becomes infinitely desirable.

  The hill now becomes infested with a thousand eyes peering through telescopic sights, with cross-hairs on the center of my head. Terror grows. I crash my fist to my forehead. The fantasy passes. I inch forward.

  At the boulder I stop. My straining ear can catch no sound. I get to my feet and with my left hand against the rock for support step into the open. It happens like a flash of lightning. There is a rustle. My eyes snap forward. The branches of a bush move. I drop to one knee. We see each other simultaneously.

  His face is as black as a rotting corpse; and his cold eyes are filled with evil. As he frantically reaches for the safety on his rifle, I fire twice. He crashes backwards. I throw two hand grenades to take care of any companions lurking in the area. Then I wilt.

  When Owl and Barker reach the scene, I am mopping the cold sweat off my forehead.

  The sniper is sprawled on the ground just beyond the old machine-gun position. The two bullet holes are in the center of the forehead; and one of the grenades has torn off an arm.