To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  One night, however, it looks as though we may get a breathing spell. We have cleared a section of woods southwest of the embattled town of Urschenheim and settled down. The exhausted men sit in mud, lean their backs against trees, and sleep. Despite the power of our offensive, the enemy has slugged back hard; and the company strength has again been whittled alarmingly.

  I am about to doze when the order comes. Urschenheim has fallen; and our battalion is to make a dash for the Rhone-Rhine canal and attempt to capture a bridge on the outskirts of Kun-heim. It is a race against enemy demolition. The Germans have considerable men and armor on this side of the canal; so the bridge will likely be left standing until it becomes too risky.

  The orders say that I must assemble my men directly back of Urschenheim. To this I object. I contact headquarters with my argument.

  “I want a change of orders,” I say.

  “A what?”

  “A change of orders. Let my company skirt Urschenheim and join the battalion on the road northeast of the town.”

  “Why?”

  “The krauts are sure to turn their artillery on Urschenheim, and some of the shells are coming over into the area where we’re supposed to assemble.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Think it! For godsake, don’t they always shell a town after pulling out; and don’t some of the shells always go wild?”

  “That’s right. But there’s nothing I can do about it. The orders came from higher up.”

  “You want me to get my men killed?”

  “Easy, lieutenant. I’m not running this army.”

  “Can’t you get the orders changed?”

  “You know damned well I can’t. This is a rush, and you’d better get moving. Good luck.”

  That is all that I can do. This is the army; and orders are orders. I wake Anders and tell him to get the men ready to move.

  “Gawdalmighty,” he blinks. “What now?”

  “An attack.”

  “We’re being attacked?”

  “No, we’re doing the attacking. Seems there’s a little bridge over the canal we’re supposed to take before morning.”

  “Damn, I hate to do this. All right, men, you’ve had your beauty sleep. Let’s get ready to shove off.”

  The men are too tired to protest. Like dumb brutes feeling the dig of a spur, they reach for their weapons and pull themselves to their feet.

  When the company is assembled, I say, “This is not my idea. I’m as tired as the rest of you. But this attack is important; and we’ve got to go.”

  Still there is remarkably little grumbling. I would feel better if I heard a few strong oaths.

  “We may get some artillery; so keep on your toes.”

  “And save yoh bret,” says the unmistakable voice of Rusty. “Save yoh bret.”

  Before we have had time to regroup for instructions, the shells fall into our midst. Eight men are knocked out; and Anders cracks up. It is not his fault. He has courage to spare, but body and nerves have taken all they can stand. He has heard one explosion too many; seen one man too many die.

  As we check the dead and wounded, his voice goes thick. I grab him by the shoulder. He shudders and begins to shake violently.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve gone all to pieces.”

  “Stay here and wait for the medics. You shouldn’t have come back up.”

  “N-no. No. No.”

  “You’re no good in that shape.”

  “I’ll come out of it.”

  “The hell you will. You can’t let the men see you in that condition.”

  “I’ll be quiet. I won’t say anything.”

  “You’re going to tell it to the doctor.”

  “If you think so, maybe I should. Maybe I should.”

  He rejoins us the next day. I curse him heartily, but he only grins. When we come under heavy artillery fire, that grin is quickly erased. His nerves collapse again. His mouth sags; his speech becomes jerky; and his hands shake so that he can hardly insert an ammunition clip into his carbine. Whether or not he knows or wants it, he is through. Finished. This time when I send him to the rear, I also send the colonel word to keep him there.

  A group of Germans surrenders to my company. A sad, muddy lot, they throw their helmets down and stand with raised hands while we shake them down. Their eyes are dead and indifferent. They seem more exhausted than we.

  We are sprawling on the ground together when we hear the tanks. It is too late to run. I glance at the prisoners. Most of them sit with bowed heads, giving no indication that they are aware of the situation.

  I grab a German helmet and clap it on my head. Other men do likewise. Three tanks, accompanied by a sprinkling of infantrymen, pass within thirty yards of us. We wave at the krauts; and they return the greeting. For the next ten minutes, I scarcely breathe. If one prisoner shouts, if one German eye examines the dirty uniforms beneath our helmets, it is the end for us.

  The tanks speed around a bend in the road; and the forest swallows them. I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead and thank God for mud and exhaustion.

  In a few minutes we take up the pursuit. The bridge is in sight. One of the enemy tanks races across it to temporary security. Then with a thunderous explosion, the bridge heaves and falls into wreckage. Enemy demolition has beaten us to it.

  As we crash toward Biesheim in the final phase of the assault, the fighting increases in ferocity. The krauts are fully aware of their plight. If we get through Biesheim and take the communications center of Neuf-Brisach, their supply lines will be cut and the pocket sealed, making it strategically useless.

  On the approach to Biesheim, forward elements of the 7th fall into ambush. In the darkness, they unknowingly pass through the enemy lines. The Germans wait in silence until a number of men have got through; then they turn a concentration of mortar and machine-gun fire upon them.

  The trapped men leap into a ditch, but find it already occupied by enemy infantrymen. While rifle butts crush skulls, a lone soldier races through a hail of small-arms fire to the rear. He secures two light tanks and climbs upon the hull of the lead one to guide it through the darkness.

  As it reaches the ditch where our men are fighting, the tank receives a direct hit. The soldier on top is killed; the tank, set afire. But the flames give the rear units their marker. They rush forward, guided by its light, and close in with the Germans.

  Fearing such an ambush ourselves, we creep as stealthily as mice through the strange territory. A brick wall rears before us. We pause, listening intently for the clink of metal, the guttural whisper, or the scrape of a boot. But, except for the sighing of the wind through the trees, there is no sound.

  I roll over the wall and find myself in a cemetery. Some of the graves are covered with mica; and they glitter with the light of a sinking moon. We are in luck. The wall extends entirely around the place; and in case of an attack, the tombstones and grave mounds will be handy as cover.

  I signal the men; and they clamber over the wall. Though dog tired and miserable with cold, they cannot overlook the irony of the situation.

  “Jeezusl The graveyard company finally gets home.”

  “Move over friends. You got some company.”

  “Be funny to wake up here in the middle of the night”

  “Think nuttin’ of it. Just say, ‘Resurrection morning; and I’m the first one up.’”

  “We workin’ in cahoots with the G.R.O.?”

  “Keep your voices down.”

  “I been tellin’ ’em, lieutenant. If dey choke de chatter, dey save der bret.”

  With entrenching picks, we knock holes in the wall for our machine-gun barrels. I post the guards and take the watch on the gate for myself. I dare not sit down for fear of falling asleep. Leaning against a tombstone, I face the gate.

  Once I risk closing my eyes and immediately drop off to sleep. I awake with a jerk. I cannot take that chance again. Removing my pistol from its holster, I h
old it at my waist with both hands. The next time I doze the gun slips from my fingers, strikes my feet, and brings me back to consciousness.

  Day is just breaking when Bergman calls me.

  “This is a set-up right out of the books,” says he.

  I peer through the hole in the wall. In an open field directly before us, a German sergeant is yawning and stretching himself. Then he barks something that is evidently a command. From slit trenches, his sleepy men arise.

  Bergman gauges the range and lines his sights. “Dying at reveille is going to be easy,” says he. “They can just turn over and go back to sleep forever.”

  One of the krauts gets tripped in his blanket. He stumbles and falls while his comrades laugh loud and jeeringly.

  “Okay?” asks Bergman.

  “I count twenty men.”

  “You think that’s all of them?”

  “Must be. Okay, let them have it.”

  The machine gun rattles. Four of the Germans crumple. The others stare wildly about, seeking the direction of the fire. Again the gun clatters. Two more krauts fall. The others throw up their hands.

  “Just like something from the books,” repeats Bergman.

  “Yeah. Okay, men, go out and get them.”

  Another day has begun.

  With the fall of Neuf-Brisach, German resistance crumbles. After the pocket has been completely cleared, we are sent to a rest camp. In seven weeks the division has suffered over forty-five hundred casualties.

  22

  THE SNOW melts; the streams rise; and the earth turns into an endless bog as the winter closes. Our training program has been intense. A putting together of the maneuvers and maps gives us an easy tip-off on the forthcoming action. The emphasis has been on street fighting, river crossings, and the reducing of permanent fortifications. That can mean but one thing. We are preparing for the big jump-off into Germany itself.

  One day the leaf buds appear again on the trees; and in the rear area, where we have been stationed since the fall of the Colmar Pocket, French villagers begin spading their gardens. The men grow restless. With an uneasy eye, they watch the coming of spring. They see the fields drying in the warm winds and know that the ground will soon be ready to support armor.

  Hope and fear walk hand in hand. We can see the end now, but we are going back up. And always in a man’s mind is that one lead pill, that one splinter of steel that can lose him the race with the finish line in sight.

  We argue a great deal over the attitude the Germans will take about fighting on their own soil. Some believe that resistance will collapse once we have crossed the Rhine; others think the enemy will make a last ditch stand, fighting increasingly harder as we drive into his homeland.

  There are rumors that Germany, pounded by bombings and attacked from all sides, is tottering. It is rotten internally and cannot hold out, once the crust of its defense is broken. Equally strong rumors say that the entire country is a fortress similar to the Colmar Pocket. It must be ground down slowly and agonizingly before the final victory.

  News has suddenly become important. The men cluster around radios and newspapers. Each bit of information is discussed, analyzed, and applied to our situation. With the vast pattern of strategy now clear, we no longer feel like an isolated group fighting on a lost front. Each movement of the British, the French, or the Russians, directly affects our own destiny.

  The phrase, “If I live,” becomes less common. The early March sun hangs overhead; and beneath it, men, carefully cleaning their weapons, again talk of home.

  I have seen too much to grow optimistic. The road across Germany is a long one; and each mile of it must be bought with somebody’s blood. Why not mine? My luck has been extraordinary, but there is an end even to the extraordinary. So until the last shot is fired, I will go on living from day to day, making no postwar plans.

  Then the unexpected happens. Captain Hogan, returning from a special assignment, resumes command of the company. I am transferred to liaison duty, which virtually removes me from combat.

  There will be small dangers, of course, and moments of minor terror. With nerves schooled to uncertainty, the hair will still rise and the flesh creep as I sense the presence of the enemy in the ruins of his defeated towns. But the constant peril of the front lines is temporarily over.

  I receive the gift of life without inward emotion. I am so much a part of the war now that it does not matter. There will be other days and other orders. Eventually I feel that I will go back up; and somewhere, sometime, the bullet bearing my name will find me.

  Meanwhile, my job is to serve as contact man between the units of the division. When we begin the attack, I have a jeep, a driver, an interpreter–and a violent distrust of anything German. My duties should not take me to the front, but I have learned to prepare for the worst.

  In battle, lines often change swiftly. And those in the immediate rear are suddenly at the immediate front. To the 50-caliber machine gun mounted on the jeep, I add a few rifles, two German machine guns, and a case of grenades.

  The forward elements of the division move up at night. Crossing the German frontier, they reach an area that is heavily mined; and enemy armor crashes out to meet them in a counterattack. By daylight, the familiar roar of battle is rolling over the earth.

  At regimental headquarters, where I wait for orders, the phones jangle constantly. Staff officers grab messages, anxiously scan them, and turn to their maps. Soon we all know that part of the division has met major resistance at a point considerably east of the Siegfried Line.

  Outside an armored battalion rolls up the highway. From the open turrets of the tanks poke the worn, greasy faces of men. A column of infantrymen falls out by the side of the road to let the armor pass. The soldiers huddle together in groups. I know the feeling. The loneliness of battle is already closing in.

  At noon my regiment jumps off. Within a few days, the division has smashed through to the Siegfried Line.

  At headquarters, I learn of Captain Hogan’s death. He was in a captured pillbox when a mortar shell got one of his men. Badly wounded, the man tried dragging himself back to cover. The captain crawled out to give him a hand. Another shell landed, sending a piece of steel into the captain. A lieutenant went after him. The third shell landed with pin-point accuracy; and the three men died together.

  The remainder of the company reached a deserted enemy fire trench at the edge of the Siegfried Line. From the security of concrete pillboxes, the Germans zeroed-in the trench with rapid firing mortar guns. The company was pinned. Anyone attempting to leave the trench lived but a few seconds.

  For two days I brooded over the news while running official errands in the rear. But finally I could take it no longer. I had been with the company since North Africa; and it had become a part of my life’s blood. Its lot was my lot; and to hell with regulations.

  At headquarters I casually check on the position, fixing the location firmly in mind. There can be no mistake, but I must not arouse suspicion. Officially I am going up toward the front to check a telephone line.

  My communications sergeant drives the jeep; and he guesses my intention.

  “If you don’t come back,” he says glumly, “what kind of a spot will it put me in?”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “But if you don’t make it, lieutenant?”

  “You were acting under orders, my orders. Nobody can do anything to you.”

  “Okay. But I still don’t like it.”

  “Just consider it none of your business; and don’t act like you’re driving a hearse. You’re not going to be in any danger.”

  “I’m not afraid. I was thinking about you.”

  “Why? I’m asking for it.”

  “Okay. So you ask for it.”

  “Don’t you ever break any rules?”

  “I’ve broken about every rule in the book.”

  “So have I. One more won’t matter.”

  On reaching a point from which we can see the fame
d “dragon teeth,” I halt the jeep and crawl out. The terrain ahead is composed of barren, rolling hills and offers little cover. I check a field map to get my bearings. The sergeant is still worried.

  “You taking nothing but a carbine, lieutenant?”

  “That’s all I’ll need.”

  “Jeezus! What I wouldn’t give for a picture of this. A guy tackling the Siegfried Line with a pea-shooter.”

  “What would you take?”

  “I’d take off.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do. If the Siegfried Line isn’t already busted, some track records soon will be.”

  Able to see for hundreds of yards, I walk upright and in the open. If krauts are in the area, I want to draw their fire from a distance. The odds are in favor of their missing the first time.

  But nothing happens. I may as well be strolling through a desert. No sign of life appears about the zigzagged trench or the pillboxes beyond. Then my heart seems to jump from my chest as the idea strikes me. What if the entire company has been captured or wiped out? Dear God, no. I stumble forward.

  They do not see me as I stand above them. Bearded, filthy, and listless, they sprawl on the bottom of the trench, looking like warmed-over death. The sunlight glistens on a red thatch of hair.

  “Bergman, what the hell are you doing down there?”

  He casts a blank glance upward.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of there.”

  “For Christ’s sweet sake, how did you get up there?”

  “I just walked up. Come on now. Let’s quit playing ground hog.”

  A shell screams overhead and crashes into one of the pillboxes. The men cower.

  “Nothing to be afraid of. It’s one of our own tanks.”

  “We got no tanks.”

  “We got plenty of stuff left. Now off those fat fannies. Let’s move across Germany.”