by Audie Murphy
Owl’s nimble fingers rummage through the pockets.
“A batch of papers. Looks like letters.”
“Keep them. They may have information we can use.”
“Money.” The Indian holds up a thick roll of francs and looks at us doubtfully.
“Keep it,” says Barker. “Or some lousy kraut will get it.”
“Okay. We’ll buy a drink with it.”
I suddenly feel like vomiting.
The Indian picks up a handful of leaves and wipes the blood off the gun. “It’s better than ours,” says he appraisingly. “Who wants it?”
“You can have it.”
“It has a good sight.”
“I’ve heard they’re the best.”
“If I get home, maybe I can fit it on a rifle for deer.”
I check my watch. It is 1350. We have ten minutes to get back to our lines.
On the way down the hill, I notice that the Germans killed in the machine-gun nest are still unburied. The soggy corpses have taken on a wooden appearance. Again my stomach retches.
At headquarters I make my report. Then I go to the room that serves as a kitchen, take my carbine apart, and start cleaning it.
18
THE TROUBLESOME spot is finally recognized for what it is: a point, consisting of a few acres of ground, so strategically located and fanatically defended that nothing short of a full-scale assault can eliminate it. While we hold the lines, phases of the attack are co-ordinated by tired, worried officials of the division.
Our armor pours five hundred rounds of high explosives into the quarry. At the same time a saturation mortar barrage is laid on the area. When the fire lifts, we drive up the slopes and are again hit hard by the fanatical enemy.
A battalion, heavily supported by artillery, tries a flanking movement while we remain in a blocking position. For a whole afternoon and night, the battle rages. The next day my company gets its orders to jump off. Under a creeping mortar barrage, we scramble up the hill, by-pass the quarry proper, and go over the crest. The ugly job of cleaning out the quarry has been assigned to other units.
But the Germans are full of surprises. Before night, my company is pinned to a hillside. The krauts, who usually choose elevations for defensive stands, have fooled us in this instance. They have dug in by a dry stream bed at the base of the slope. Trees, cut and arranged in haphazard crisscross patterns, completely conceal their positions. They let us move over the hilltop, and then tear into our ranks with rifle and machine-gun fire.
Mist gathers in the lowland, further hindering visibility. Crawling over the slope on our bellies, we try to pry out the enemy locations. But the camouflage is perfect. There is but one thing to do. I borrow a walkie-talkie radio and start maneuvering a patrol down the hill.
A tense silence comes over the area. Phantomlike, we slip through the trees with senses alert for an ambush. Brrrrrp. A man carrying two cases of machine-gun ammo is hit in the side. He lets out a scream and collapses. The metal cases clatter on the rocky ground.
Immediately our position is swept with fire from five machine guns. The bullets zip three feet from the ground. We lie on our backs, seize our trench shovels, and frantically start scooping holes in the stony soil.
The Germans lower their angle of fire. A man is hit in the chest. Pieces of his lungs spatter the ground. His flesh quivers; and he gurgles, “Oh God, oh God.” Two men rip off his shirt. A blast catches them. They sink over the wounded man and are still.
Dragging the radio, I inch my way toward Owl.
“Cover me; I’m going down,” I say.
“I’ll cover you.” He raises his carbine with his left hand. The barrel shakes. It is then that I see his right arm is shattered.
I patch up his arm as best I can with a compress and bandage. The Indian lies on his back, with his dark eyes staring at the sky; and no sound comes from his lips.
“Don’t move, or you may draw more fire,” I say.
He rolls over on his stomach and again attempts to steady his weapon.
“It’s no use. You’re too weak. Keep quiet until the medics get here.”
He buries his face in the crook of his good arm.
I move down the slope like a lizard. The machine guns pick me up, but miraculously they all miss. The tip of a helmet appears over a log. I draw a bead on its center and wait. Slowly the head rises. When the bare forehead shows, I squeeze the trigger. The head snaps backwards as if caught in a hangman’s noose.
The guns find my old position as I scuttle to a new one and press the “talk” button on my radio.
“Red Three calling Red Six. Red Three calling Red Six.”
“Come in, Red Three.”
“Chemical mortars should do the trick. Try co-ordinates …”
“Repeat, Red Three. I cannot hear you.”
“Chemical mortars. Co-ordinates: 75.6–50.3.”
“Speak up, Red Three. Static …”
The voice fades.
“Red Three calling Red Six.”
“Come in, Red Three.”
“Chemical mortars. Co-ordinates: 75.6–50.3.”
“Right. 75.6–50.3.”
The first shell flutters over the enemy lines and crumps into the hill beyond. I check the map again.
“Red Six. Red Three calling Red Six. Over 100–right 30.”
“Repeat, Red Three. You must have a rat in your radio.”
“Over 100–right 30.”
The second shell falls a little short.
“Red Six. Red Six. Over 10–right 10.”
“You’re not coming through, Red Three.”
A German, dug in behind a huge oak tree, peers around the trunk. I drop the radio and grab my carbine. As he raises his rifle, my bullet tags him in the throat. His mouth jumps open. The second bullet crashes into his face.
“Red Six. Red Six.”
“Come in. What happened?”
“Over 10–right 10, and fire for effect.”
The third shell bursts in the middle of the krauts.
“Red Six calling Red Three. How’s the range?”
“Dead center. Send some medics down. Several men are badly hurt.”
The game of hide-and-go-seek is over for the Germans. They were adequately protected from horizontal fire, but the mortar shells dig through the tree limbs before exploding. Shrieks of rage and agony come from the krauts. Against the barrage their guns remain impotent and silent. A German staggers blindly through the smoke, holding his arm before his eyes. Three rifles crack almost simultaneously, knocking him backwards.
Owl has moved. I spot him further down the slope. He is crawling feebly, dragging his carbine by the sling.
At my touch, he turns glazed eyes upon me.
“Where you going?” I ask.
“Shoot ’em. Filthy bastards tear my arm off.”
“Take it easy. Well have help in a few minutes.’
“I’ll shoot ‘em. I’ll–I’ll blow their guts out.”
“It’s all over but the shouting. Lie still.”
“I shoot ’em. Tear their heads off.” He begins pulling himself to his knees, but crumples. A merciful faint has blacked him out.
The man shot in the chest is dead. The two who went to his aid are still alive, but badly wounded. They have been dragged to the cover of a tree. One with a bloody bandage around his head gasps for breath through a wide-open mouth. The other is trying to light a cigarette with a trembling hand. I grasp the fingers and touch the flame to the tobacco.
“Thanks.”
“Are you hurting?”
“I hurt like hell. Seems like a red-hot iron is buried in my shoulder.”
“You’ll get help soon; then a nice, long rest in the hospital.”
“I don’t want to go back. I just got into action this week.”
“You’ve done your part.”
“I haven’t done anything but stop some lead. I swore I’d get me some krauts. They killed my brother in Italy.”
“Oh.”
“He was just two years older than me.”
“We all lose somebody.”
“He was the best pitcher you ever saw. People said he was big-league stuff. Had a curve that would break a mile.”
“He’s still big-league stuff.”
“Will I lose my arm?”
“No. You’ll be all right.”
“I’m coming back up.”
“You’ll be back up.”
A moan comes from the man who was hit in the side.
“He’s alive,” says the shoulder casualty. “He’s been so quiet I thought he was dead.”
The fallen trees now turn into obstacles for the krauts. Caught in the net of mortar fire, they emerge from their holes, blinded and choking. As they flounder in the branches, we bore into them with our rifles.
The company moves down the hill. We mop up the enemy strongpoint hole by hole. Then we sling our weapons on our shoulders and climb the slope beyond.
Now the Germans begin their characteristic slow retreat. Over the thickly wooded countryside, they give ground stubbornly, bitterly. They batter our ranks with artillery and mortars; and in the forests units lie like coiled snakes, striking suddenly and viciously.
The weather turns cold. In the mornings the ground is white with frost; snow is already on the mountaintops. The earth freezes and thaws, turning the terrain into an ocean of mud through which we must wallow toward our objectives. At night we shiver and sleep fitfully.
While we pause for two days to reorganize, three of us are called to regimental headquarters. A colonel pins gold bars on our shoulders and pats us on the back.
“You are now gentlemen by act of Congress,” he says, smiling at our muddy uniforms and bearded faces. “Shave, take a bath, and get the hell back into the lines.”
We are moving without opposition through a dense forest when we come upon signs of the enemy. The tracks are fresh and unmistakable. I shift my BAR men forward. Our march becomes a stalk.
We are braced for the artillery barrage, but not covered. At the first crash we fall and start a withdrawal. Tree bursts rip the area. Three machine guns chatter. Sniper bullets snap overhead. We fall back to an area beyond a trail that winds through the forest. The fire ceases as suddenly as it began; and the forest appears as peaceful as a park.
As we lie on the ground waiting for orders, a lieutenant from another company strolls by. He wears a leather air corps jacket, but no helmet. And for weapons he has only a revolver.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask.
“After rations. I’m looking for a short cut for my jeep.”
“Not up that trail. It’s a short cut to hell.”
He fingers a small mustache and addresses me sarcastically. “Did you just get up, lieutenant?”
“We just got shoved back. I’m telling you this area’s swarming with jerries.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep an eye open for them.”
“Not for long, if you stick to that path.”
He laughs and shakes his head.
“I’ve been at the front for some little time, and I think I know my way around.”
“Okay. Okay.”
He does not get over fifty yards up the trail before a sniper drills him through the brain. He drops and dies with scarcely a wiggle.
We are ordered to dig in for the night.
Paderwicz starts scooping us a hole while I post the guards. Our rations are skimpy; and the irritated men lie in their holes and listen to the growling of their stomachs.
“Right now,” says Paderwicz, “what had you rather have than a woman?”
“One night of sound sleep.”
“I’d take duck’s blood puddin’.”
“You and your duck’s blood pudding. That’s all you’ve talked about for weeks.”
“There ain’t nothin’ nicer.”
“I’ll try some after the war.”
“I wish I had some now.”
“Right now, I’d settle for a hunk of cold corn bread.”
“Corn bread? What in the hell is that?”
“Kind of bread we make out of corn meal in the South.”
“Corn meal?”
“Yeah. The corn is ground up. That’s meal.”
“You call that fit for a civilized man?”
“We like it.”
“How come you don’t eat duck’s blood puddin’?”
“Don’t remember ever seeing any.”
“What kind of place do you live in anyhow?”
“A small town.”
“You give me your address, and I’ll send you some real chow when we get home.”
“Fine. I’ll give you the address tomorrow.”
“Corn bread. Jeez, that’s a good one.”
He is still talking when I drop off to sleep.
“Lieutenant.”
My eyes pop open. “Yeah. Who’s that?”
“Chelson. I’m at the outpost; and there’s a German keeps wandering around our place hollering, ‘Walter.’ What’ll we do?”
“Shoot him.”
“Yessir.”
I am still awake when he returns.
“Lieutenant.”
“Yeah.”
“How we going to shoot the German when we can’t see him? It’s too dark.”
“You’ve got hand grenades. Throw them; and don’t bother me any more tonight. I’ve got to get some rest.”
“Yessir. How many grenades?”
“Just how long have you been with this outfit?”
“Only a few days. I’m plumb new at this business.”
“A couple grenades ought to do the trick. If they don’t put a muffler on the guy, chuck some more.”
“Yessir. I sure thank you.”
I can now hear the wailing voice of the German. He is evidently lost and terrified. The two grenades explode. The kraut quits hollering.
Paderwicz stirs sleepily. “What goes on? Can’t a guy have no peace a-tall?”
“It was a jerry wandering around in the woods and calling a buddy. Probably thought he was in his own lines.”
“All that commotion over one damned German?”
“Our guard got rattled. He’s new.”
“Seems like we got nothin’ left but new guys.”
“Yeah. They come and go.”
Toward morning the tree by our hole is struck by a phosphorous shell. The blast deafens us. The evergreen lights up like a Christmas tree, as the hot, gleaming phosphorous rolls over its branches.
Paderwicz screws his fingers in his ears. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m all right. And you?”
“I’m okay. If there’s any way a guy can get any sleep in this man’s army, I’ve never figured it out. I ain’t had one night’s sleep since the day I was inducted. If it’s not one thing, I’ll be a sonofabitch, if it ain’t three.”
Shortly after dawn we begin our attack under a walking barrage of our artillery. When we pass the body of the lieutenant, frost is glistening on his uniform.
“If his mama could only see him now,” says Paderwicz, casually adjusting the carrying strap of his walkie-talkie. “His kind never learns.”
“He was a fool.”
“His men are probably wondering what happened to their rations.”
We leave the trail and push directly through the woods. Except for sporadic mortar fire, the enemy is quiet, too quiet to suit me.
Crack!
Paderwicz is dead before his body thuds against the ground. The sniper’s bullet got him just above the left eye. I leap behind a tree.
Crack!
It is like being struck with a ball bat. The ricocheting bullet digs a channel through my hip and knocks me flat. The sniper throws his camouflage cape back to get a better view and drills my helmet. That is the last mistake he ever makes. My head is not in the helmet.
I raise my carbine and with my right hand fire pistol-fashion. The bullet spatters between the German’s eyes. It
was his brain or nothing. He would not have missed the second time.
I try to get up, but cannot. My right leg seems paralyzed.
“Are you hurt bad, Murph?” It is Barker, who bends over me.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Let’s have a look.”
“Whew!” says he, examining the wound. “It’s long and deep, but the bone’s not hurt. If all goes well, you should be able to sit down in a month or so.”
“Kerrigan would get a kick out of this.”
“Kerrigan?”
“He always said if I took a commission, he hoped I got my ass shot off.”
“Well, you did; and you have.”
“You’d better catch up with the rest of the platoon. I’ll send somebody up to take over my spot.”
“It’s been a long time since North Africa. You know, I leave on rotation tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know, but I’m glad.”
“Yep. Papers came through. In a couple of weeks I’ll be back in the States.”
“Good. Forget this whole mess, and enjoy yourself.”
“I won’t be forgetting you fellows. I sort of feel like a dog for running out on you at a time like this.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re lucky.”
“By the way, you won’t be needing that lucky carbine of yours any time soon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then can I take it. I need some luck. The next twenty-four hours is going to be one long sweat.”
“Sure. The gun’s yours. You’d better get Paderwicz’ radio too.”
“Somebody already picked it up.”
“Fine. You’ll likely need it.”
When we reach the road, the medics place my stretcher across a jeep hood. The third battalion is in the area, waiting for orders to move into battle. The men peer at me, but not from dumb curiosity. I have done the same thing many times. We all want to know whether the body beneath the bloody blankets is that of a friend.
I catch the eye of a freckled-faced youngster. We had our basic training together, but I cannot remember his name.
“Hello, Indiana.”
“Why it’s Texas. You hurt bad?”
“No, I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s good. You take it easy, Texas.”