by Audie Murphy
At the aid station, I wait for a long time before receiving medical attention. My hip feels as though a white-hot brand had been raked across it; and I feel sick in mind and body.
As if he had never seen a wounded man before, a doctor stares at me bewilderedly. He is perhaps half-dead with fatigue, but I am too ill to know or care.
“Well, goddammit, do something. Don’t stand there with egg on your face.”
“You’re in no position to talk like that, lieutenant.”
“I’m in no position to do anything but wait until you lousy sawbones take a notion to do a little work.”
“We’ll get to you as soon as we can.”
“Don’t knock yourself out.”
He blows up like a turkey gobbler.
That night practically my whole platoon is wiped out. Among those killed were Marsh, who so dearly loved to sing, and Barker, to whom my lucky carbine was not much good.
Because of the rain and mud, we cannot be evacuated for three days. We lie on cots, six to a pyramidal tent, while the fever spreads through our flesh. Delirious men moan and curse. Water patters against the canvas.
When I reach the hospital, a doctor strips the bandage from my wound. From the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head.
“Is it gangrene?” I ask.
“It’s probably just infected,” a nurse replies.
“It’s gangrene. I know damned well it’s gangrene.”
“An infection. You’ll be all right before long.”
But it is gangrene. For nearly a month, the doctors pump me full of penicillin and whittle away dead and poisoned flesh. More weeks pass before I can walk again.
When I regain the use of my leg, I catch a ride to another hospital twenty miles away. I have learned that Kerrigan is there.
His back is to me when I enter the ward. For a moment I watch as he awkwardly shuffles a deck of cards with his bandaged hand.
“Is this the venereal ward?” I ask loudly.
“Nosir,” says a white-faced youngster with his arm missing. “This is casualty. Convalescent.”
“Then what is that syphilitic sergeant doing here? Kerrigan, I mean.”
The ward becomes as silent as an empty church. Kerrigan turns slowly, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Why you mule-headed, rattle-brained, scrambled-eyed whore of a lieutenant!”
Mouths drop open.
“You crawling, creeping crap from Texas. You battle-happy sonofabitch!”
“He never did show the proper respect for officers,” I explain to the other men.
“Respect!” he spits. “Why–why, you beagle-eared bastard, what are you doing in the rear area?”
“You’ll be tickled to know that I got shot. Yeah. Lost a hunk of my hip.”
“Oh, Lord, to think I missed that. Brother, am I glad to see you. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“And you’re uglier than ever.”
The ward relaxes.
19
WHEN I return to the front in January, the division, fighting under terrible conditions of terrain and weather, has completed its push through the Vosges, cracked the enemy’s “winter line,” and reached the Rhine at Strasbourg. On the opposite side of the river lies Germany itself. But many weeks must pass and many men die before we can attempt a crossing.
During these cold, cloudy days, the whole front is restless. Far to the north the Battle of the Bulge is coming to an end. A number of our units have entered Germany and are jockeying for solid footholds on enemy soil. Over the wintry roads of France and Belgium streams of men and supplies pour into reserve. Our forces are maneuvering for positions to launch the all-out assault on Germany in the early spring.
We do not realize the vastness of the operation. The minds and energies of the men are concentrated on the tasks at hand. In these days my division is engaged in one of the toughest assignments in its history: eliminating the Colmar Pocket, a heavily fortified area rolling south from our lines toward the Swiss border.
In effect, it is a huge and dangerous bridgehead thrusting west of the Rhine like an iron fist. Fed with men and materiel from across the river, it is a constant threat to our right flank; and potentially it is a perfect springboard from which the enemy could start a powerful counterattack.
The division has clipped the fringes of the pocket and is poised near the town of Guemar for an attack on the hard core itself. The area, swept by icy winds from the Vosges, favors the enemy defensive. It is composed of patches of forests, flat fields, and meadows, and numerous villages which have been converted into German strongholds.
The enemy is well supplied with armor. Tanks, concealed in the forests, dominate the open plains over which we have to advance. The temperature, even at mid-day, seldom rises above fourteen degrees. Snow is almost knee-deep. Even without the harassment of enemy fire, the nights are one long hell in which it is our full-time concern to keep from freezing.
Two rivers, the Fecht and the Ill, flow between us and the enemy. Two sister regiments, the 7th and the 30th, steal across the Fecht at night after making a thousand-yard breach in the German lines. The 7th whips down the river to hit an enemy strongpoint at Ostheim. The 30th proceeds southeast, clearing a forest and capturing a small bridge over the Ill.
That slim wooden track spanning the river is to make history. The 30th’s foot soldiers move across it and deploy over the snowy plains in preparation for an attack on two tiny villages, Holtzwihr and Riedwihr, between which stretches a tract of woodland.
Now with the infantry ready, a tank starts crossing the bridge. The structure trembles. The tank pauses. The engineers wave it forward. With a crash the bridge collapses. The tank settles at the edge of the water; and for the time being that is the end of effective armor support for the infantry.
The 30th cannot wait. Its attack has been timed to co-ordinate with a drive by the French on the left and a similar push by the 7th on the right. So the 30th foot soldiers, encountering but light resistance, plunge across the fields to the outskirts of the two villages and capture a section of the forest.
Meanwhile, both the French and 7th have been held up by fierce enemy stands. The 30th, with its two flanks exposed and fronted by a powerful foe, could hardly be in a worse position tactically.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, disaster strikes. In the vicinity of Holtzwihr, the third battalion is hit by ten enemy tanks and tank destroyers. Against the armor our men have no defense. They might as well be tackling crazed elephants with their bare hands.
The armor slices the battalion into small pockets and methodically rakes them with machine-gun fire. Even had they time to dig in, our men could hardly make a dent in the frozen ground. They are completely without cover when hit from three sides.
An hour later, the blow falls on the first battalion near Riedwihr. It is cut to pieces in a similar manner. The men who can escape begin a bloody withdrawal. When they reach the Ill, many swim or ford the stream. In a short while their clothes are dripping with icicles.
My regiment, which has been held in divisional reserve, is ordered into the attack. The third battalion, assigned to establish a bridgehead across the Ill, jumps off at three in the morning. It makes good progress until an enemy counterattack supported by four tanks batters it back to the river. The German fire is extremely accurate. Three tanks, supporting the third battalion’s attack from stationary positions on our side of the Ill, are knocked out a few minutes after their guns are unlimbered.
It is now obvious that, without the help of rolling armor, we are ramming our heads into a stone wall. But the infantry attacks, regardless of cost, must continue. The Germans cannot be allowed to shift their power strategically. With a concentration of force and swift armor maneuvers, they may destroy our units one by one.
Meanwhile our frantic engineers are trying to get a bridge across the river. It is our task to keep the enemy at bay until the job is completed.
When the third battalion, mauled and exhausted,
reels back, we move through their position and fan out over the plains. It is our turn to move up and take a beating. As we dog-trot through the snow, no smile appears on a face, no lip murmurs the customary wisecrack. As we move through an area littered with dead men and abandoned equipment, the soldiers mutter curses and speak bitterly of suicide missions.
We reach the edge of the woods near Riedwihr before the Germans unleash their cyclone of tank and artillery fire. We fall back and crawl into holes dug by the cannon shells.
Why the krauts do not follow up with a counterattack is inexplicable. Against their heavy tanks we are virtually defenseless as we cower in the frozen earth.
Elleridge, the ex-schoolteacher, shares a hole with me. His teeth chatter; and his face is blue from the cold. Not since D-Day in southern France has he mentioned the advantages of military travel.
The shadows lengthen; the wind rises; and clouds sweep lower over the earth. We remove our shoes and massage our numbed feet.
“Well, professor, what does the tourist guide book say about this section of France?”
His lips crack into a game but freakish smile. “It says the weather is cool; the reception, warm; food is scarce; and the present tourists are bitterly anti-American. Their chief occupation is the slinging of lead. It says one of the most interesting aspects of the countryside is the complete absence of allied armor. It says that here life is real; life is earnest; and the grave is not the goal. I wish the man that wrote that was with us in this hole. I am not selfish. I wish a lot of people were here to enjoy the wintry charms of Alsace. Take a post card: Dear friends, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here–and I were in San Diego.”
“If we get out of here alive, you’ll have something to tell your pupils.”
“Oh, yes. There we were, children, burning with patriotism and eagerness to get at the throat of the enemy. As the sun set on that glorious day, we were not like slaves harried to their dungeons. But wrapping the draperies of our earthen couches about us, we lay down to pleasant dreams. I think my goddamned feet are frozen. I still haven’t stirred up any circulation.”
“Why should you worry? You’re making history.”
“Yeah. Why don’t somebody write it right? Why don’t somebody put it so everybody can see men cringing in the snow like miserable, frightened and frozen rats, wondering whether the krauts or the cold will get them first.”
“Why don’t you write it? You were an English teacher.”
“I can’t. Nobody can. You’ve got to live it. That damned shoe dubbing is no good. It stops up the pores in the leather. When you walk, your feet sweat; your socks get wet; and it’s like putting your feet on cold storage. How’s our ammunition?”
“We’ve got enough if the krauts don’t bring their tanks out.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a bazooka. If the Germans hit us with their armor–”
“We won’t have to worry about a bazooka. We won’t have to worry about anything. It’ll all be over.”
“You get so tired, you don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You stand up and do the best you can, and then to hell with it.”
“Speaking of hell–”
“I’ve been thinking about that too. And it doesn’t worry me either. If I go there, I’ll spend the first forty years thawing out.”
“Your morale’s slipping.”
“Yeah. What I need is a good USO show to cheer me up. I can see it now. The master of ceremonies with the double-breasted coat dripping down to his knees. ‘Ladies and gentlemen’ –you’re supposed to laugh, because there ain’t no ladies present.”
“And there ain’t no gentlemen.”
“Ha! Ha! As the kraut said to the G.I. facing a Mark IV tank, ‘This is going to kill you.’”
During the night, we take turns at staying on watch. I fall asleep. My hair freezes to the ground. A gun cracks. I jerk awake, leaving patches of my hair in the ice.
By morning, the bridge over the Ill has been completed sufficiently to permit the crossing of a few tanks. Three of them join us. The presence of armor is most cheering, but it also means that we are not to retreat.
As we line up for another attack, the quiet woods seem to explode. A mortar barrage is thrown on us; machine guns crackle; and rifle bullets snap through the air. Again we scramble for cover. I see the two lieutenants who were commissioned with me leap into the same hole. A mortar shell trails them in. It is over in an instant. Black smoke rolls from the hole, covering the bloody hulks that a moment ago were two living men.
A blast knocks me down. I roll into a hole and jerk up my trouser legs. From the knees down the flesh is peppered with tiny steel fragments. But the luck of the Irish is with me. The wounds are all superficial.
Our armor pulls ahead of us with gun barrels traversing. From the woodland comes a crash of shells. Two of the tanks burst into flames. Their escape hatches open; and the still living members of the crew bail out. Blazing like torches and screaming horribly, they roll in the snow. Bullets spit around the agonized bodies as enemy riflemen crack down.
The third tank is also in trouble. Its gun refuses to work. The hatch opens. The tank commander, a quiet Jewish lieutenant, peers out. He gives an order. The crippled tank moves forward toward what appears to be certain destruction.
Shells explode all about it. Lead spatters against the armor. But the tank never pauses until it reaches a spot directly between the burning men and the forest. There the driver takes the supreme chance. He turns the tank’s side to the enemy, thus using it as a shield for the wounded, but presenting a broad and stationary target to the Germans. The crew clambers out and stacks the smoldering bodies on top.
As the tank crawls back toward us with its ghastly cargo, it is swept by small-arms fire. But it is impossible to tell if any of the men are hit. They are too near death to react. The tank passes within a few feet of my hole; and the stench of burning flesh stifles me. The white bones drip like icicles from what is left of one man’s foot.
Under heavy fire we withdraw from the position. More armor is moving up, but a small creek separates us from it. Since the tanks cannot reach us, we must get to them. Circling a jutting neck of the woodland, we join the armor and strike again.
As we advance, the fighting develops into individual duels. Once I am pinned behind a tree by a stubborn kraut using a huge pine for cover. Only a few yards separate us. We snipe at one another, but neither of us scores a hit.
I spot Kohl hugging another tree trunk to my right.
“Bust him one from your side,” I yell.
“I can’t see him.”
“Go ahead. Shoot. Let him know where you are.”
“That’s exactly what I don’t want him to know.”
“Well, he knows my address; so here goes. Be ready to pick him up if he jumps your way.”
I inch my head around the tree trunk, remembering the times that I have had my own sights set on a helmet while waiting for temple or forehead to appear.
Crack!
I flinch and recover. It is Kohl’s rifle that fired. The back of the German’s recoiling body flashes past the tree, and I nail him in the side. As he drops to his knees, I finish emptying the ammo clip into his body. He lies, curled in the snow like a tired child at the end of a busy day.
Six hundred yards deep in the forest, we have to halt our advance. Our ammunition is low, and we must wait for fresh supplies to be brought up before continuing.
Night has fallen. Wind whistles through the barren tree limbs. Few words are spoken. The company, which started the attack at almost full strength, has been slashed to pieces. Huddling in the snow, we open cans of greasy rations and attempt to eat.
Through a rift in the clouds, a star winks calmly. In a hut, taken over for a command post, the staff officers check their maps. Men stamp their frozen feet on the earth in an effort to knock the numbness from them. A tired voice says, “I’m going to grab me some sleep. Wake me up at Judgment Day.”
Around one o’clock in the morning our ammunition and several replacements arrive. One of the newcomers is Candler, who has just returned from America on a rotation furlough.
“How was the trip?” I ask.
“Not like you’d think. I had the crazy notion that I could leave the war behind. But I couldn’t.”
“Brother, just give me a chance at it,” says a voice.
“That’s what you think. You try to forget, but nobody will let you. They’re so goddamned nice they lay their sympathy on with a trowel. Some drunk asking you about your ribbons. Some brave woman crying about a son in an army camp two hundred miles away. Some vet from the last war patting you on the back and telling you what a great job you’re doing. ‘Wished I was young enough to get in again myself. How’s them women in Paris?’”
“How’s the women back home?” a voice asks.
“Everything’s in a mess. Busiest people after this shindig will be the divorce lawyers. Wait and see.”
“Did you get warm?”
“No. I come from Colorado. How’s the company?”
“You won’t know it. Practically everybody’s new.”
“Who’s been killed?”
“There’ve been so many I can’t remember. You remember Paderwicz?”
“Yeah. The Polack.”
“A sniper got him. Then Barker. He was supposed to leave on rotation the next day.”
“No.”
“Smith and Kerrigan were wounded. Brandon was killed a long time ago.”
“Yeah. I remember that. How’s our set-up here?”
“It’s rough. Have you had any sleep?”
“I’ve had enough. When do we move out?”
“At two o’clock.”
“Wonder if I could get a carbine. I don’t like an M-1 for this woods fighting.”
“You can probably find one in the field in the morning.”
I report to the command post for orders. Our company is to drive to the edge of the woods facing Holtzwihr, dig in, and hold. Another unit will move through our lines and continue the attack at dawn. I get my bearings from a field map and return to the men.