Hard Country

by Michael McGarrity

  * * *

  CJ marched with the replacement company along a sunken road so deep he could see nothing of the land on either side. Bursting German shells made him want to flinch, but he stiffened his back and plodded through the mud with his head up, covered in dirt from the explosions. Along the way, he passed stretcher-bearers carrying wounded back to medical dressing stations. He glanced at the faces of the wounded men, wondering if his old boyhood pals, Billy and Austin, were up ahead, already in the fight, or if they’d been shot or killed in some earlier battle. He worried about how he’d act when he got the order to go over the top. Would he freeze or run like a scared rabbit for the nearest shell hole in no-man’s-land?

  They came out of the sunken road to an area that looked at first glance like a plowed field, except the furrows were shell holes separated by mounds of earth. The Germans had retired from the field, and stretcher-bearers were out beyond the wire picking up bodies swarming with blowflies that rose like black clouds from the dead.

  CJ thought he had endured all of the awful putrid smells of army life, but once they entered the trenches, the stench was almost unbearable. It smelled of rotting flesh, urine, human waste, the stink of filthy men, and the acid odor of poison mustard gas, which first the Germans and then the Allies had begun to use as a weapon.

  He was dropped out of the march along with three other sergeants and a corporal at a regimental command bunker, where a weary lieutenant colonel with a thick New York accent examined them briefly.

  “Don’t flaunt your stripes, men,” he said before sending them down the line to their various companies. “My boys have seen plenty of action and can teach you a thing or two if you’ll listen. And for God’s sake, don’t decide to take a peek over the assault trenches at the German line. You’ll be dead from a sniper’s bullet in a second, and I damn well can’t afford to lose any more replacements. They get killed fast enough as it is.”

  CJ joined the First Platoon of Company A and reported to Lieutenant Grayson Tyler, who gave him the once-over and asked if he knew how to handle a Browning.

  “Yes, sir,” CJ replied. “I’m qualified as an instructor.”

  “Good,” Tyler said. “Report to Corporal Morrison. You’ll be his BAR man until I decide if you’re fit to take over a squad. Do you understand, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CJ reported to Morrison, an older man with the lobe of his left ear shot off and crudely stitched up.

  “I’m your BAR man,” CJ said.

  “That’s lovely,” Morrison replied in an Irish brogue, giving CJ a careful look. “Haven’t been in the thick of it yet, have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It will seize you up soon enough,” Morrison said. “Tonight, after the Krauts stop shelling, you’ll man an observation post with two privates, Blakely and Ingram. They know the way. It’s a disabled French tank half a kilometer from here. If the Krauts start an attack, send a runner back and provide covering fire before returning to our lines. Have you got that, laddie?”

  “Understood, Corporal,” CJ replied. “And it’s sergeant, not laddie.”

  Morrison smiled benignly and looked at his watch. “You’ve got several hours before you go over the top. Come meet Blakely and Ingram. I’m sure they can’t wait to address you by your exalted rank.”

  CJ met Privates Harold Blakely and Osmond Ingram, who looked at his fresh uniform with sergeant’s chevrons and grinned as if Corporal Morrison had told them a funny joke. Both soldiers wore mud-encrusted uniforms, had a week’s worth of whiskers, and smelled rank.

  “The Hun will come at us tonight,” Ingram predicted, thrusting a BAR into CJ’s hands. “Carry as much ammo as you can, for it’s my turn to be runner and I don’t wish to be killed.”

  CJ checked the Browning. It needed to be broken down and cleaned. “What other weapons will we have?”

  “There’s a light machine gun that’s set up in the tank,” Blakely replied, “and we’ll have our rifles. We’ll hold the Krauts off until Ozzie reaches our lines, then retreat.”

  CJ nodded. “What happened to the other BAR man?”

  “Dead,” Morrison said. “Have you any more questions?”

  CJ shook his head and got to work on the Browning.

  That night before moonrise, a German patrol came crawling out of their trench. CJ spotted the movement and sent Ozzie back just as a Kraut machine gun opened up on the tank. Blakely fired back at the German gun position while CJ sprayed the approaching troops, who suddenly rose and started to rush his position. Bullets clanged against the steel. Men in CJ’s sights fell.

  “It’s a whole goddamn platoon of Krauts,” Blakely shouted as he turned the machine gun on the advancing men. “It’s time to go, time to go.”

  “Can we be sure Ozzie made it?” CJ shouted.

  “Doesn’t matter now,” Blakely said. “Let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”

  They left the tank under small-arms fire, zigzagging from shell hole to shell hole. Behind them, German artillery blew the French tank to smithereens, and a roar went up from the Krauts. CJ and Blakely rolled into the trench as shells began to explode around them, answered by American cannon.

  Corporal Morrison pulled CJ to his feet as Lieutenant Tyler blew his whistle to signal the counterattack. “Reload and get back over the top,” he said. “We’ve got Germans to kill.”

  CJ’s hands were shaking. He looked around for Private Blakely. “Where’s Blakely? Where’s Ozzie?”

  “Not now.” Morrison pushed him up the ladder. “Get going!”

  Under a thousand flares, they forced the Germans back. All around CJ men fell, some blown up, some shot down. As he pressed forward next to Corporal Morrison, the horrible hammering, crashing sounds of war surrounded him. The air screamed with shells, hissed with bullets; the moans and cries of dying and wounded men were an unrelenting chorus. Moving from shell hole to mound to shell hole, CJ fired the Browning blindly at the retreating Germans. When the sky went dark and sudden silence came, it was almost as terrifying.

  Morrison had to tell CJ to get up and move back. Lugging the BAR, he slogged through mud and dropped down into the trench. Amazed that he was still alive, he tried to catch his breath.

  Lieutenant Tyler, his arm in a sling, sought him out. “You’ll take over the Second Squad, First Platoon, in the morning, Sergeant. Get some rest.”

  “Yes, sir,” CJ said. “Thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  The regiment overran the German position and held it. Blakely and Ozzie Ingram both survived, only to be blown up by a grenade the next night on outpost duty. Morrison got a field promotion to sergeant and drowned three weeks later crossing a river on a reconnaissance patrol with Lieutenant Tyler, who was severely wounded in the action and sent to the rear. Tyler’s replacement was John Lockhart. CJ was delighted to have him as his platoon leader. Over the next month, they pushed ahead with few casualties.

  On a morning when the Germans were quiet and the black rats, as big as cats, had disappeared in their holes, John Lockhart stopped by CJ’s post.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “All quiet, Lieutenant,” CJ reported. “Nothing’s moving.”

  Lockhart nodded. “We’re starting a big push this evening and are ordered to run the Huns out of the forest and sever the railroad line resupplying their troops. We’ll be spearheading the assault and will have regiments flanking us on both sides.”

  “I’m short two men,” CJ said.

  “Replacements are coming up later today,” Lockhart said. “I’ll hold a briefing for all noncoms in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lockhart squeezed CJ’s shoulder. “Take care, Sergeant.”

  “You too, Lieutenant.”

  Lockhart moved down the trench, pausing to talk to each soldier. CJ took out his map and studied it. He reckoned it to be three miles to the rail line through a dense forest. They would have to secure a bridge that cros
sed one river, if it hadn’t been destroyed by the Huns before they got there. Field artillery would pound away for hours before the order to advance came. But that didn’t mean the Germans would be dislodged. Earlier reconnaissance patrols had located major Hun entrenchments. It could get dangerous in the woods.

  He put his map away and went to write a letter to Ma. He hadn’t put a word on paper to her since arriving at the front.

  * * *

  The thunderous roar of artillery barrages rang out for hours. The ground shook and the air screamed with shells. Across the open field, the front of the forest had been obliterated, turned into nothing more than sticks scattered about on the ground, some still upright, burning like candles in the dusk.

  When the artillery stopped, the whistles sounded and the regiment came out of the trenches in waves. Waiting for the Germans to open up with a thousand guns, CJ kept his squad right behind John Lockhart. But the only sound came from the hundreds of men running headlong through the mud.

  At the forest line, the regiment regrouped in shell holes and behind downed trees while patrols were sent out. CJ assembled his men with rifles at the ready in case of an attack and waited for orders. Small-arms and machine-gun fire erupted in the woods, runners returned, and soon the regiment was up and moving again.

  Deep in the forest they encountered a wall of wire, forcing a standstill. As patrols were sent to find a way around it, snipers began picking off the men cutting through the wire. All at once German cannon and mortar let loose, and in the deafening explosions men were blown apart, arms and legs flying through the air.

  CJ lost his BAR man before he could gather the rest of his squad. He grabbed the Browning and moved the squad away from the bombardment, looking for a passage through the wire. He found it guarded by three hidden machine-gun nests, the ground in front of them littered with the bodies of the patrol that had been sent to find it.

  He hunkered the squad down and sent a private back to report and bring reinforcements. John Lockhart showed up leading the company. The CO had been killed during the bombardment.

  Lockhart listened to CJ’s report, studied the terrain, and laid out a plan to have men with automatic rifles and light machine guns open up simultaneously on the nests, followed by a company assault.

  “We’ll overrun them,” he said. “Let’s do it fast.”

  CJ crawled into position with a machine gunner and waited for Lockhart’s signal. When it came, he opened up on the nest and started creeping forward, the gunner firing at his side. Bullets snapped at his head. Lockhart signaled for the company to move forward and CJ stood to rush the nest.

  He felt something slam into his belly, once, twice, and again. It knocked him to his knees. He dropped the Browning and fell on his side across the body of the dead machine gunner. He saw men run past him, heard the gunfire, the grunts, the screams, and then silence.

  He closed his eyes and grabbed his belly. It felt like a squishy sausage poking out from under his tunic. A hand touched his shoulder. He turned his head and opened his eyes. John Lockhart looked down at him.

  “Sorry,” CJ said.

  “You did fine, son,” Lockhart said softly.

  “I just want to go home,” CJ said.

  “I know.”

  “To see my ma and my brother. And the ranch.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to die here.”

  “Rest now,” Lockhart said.

  “Yeah,” CJ said as his eyes fluttered and closed for the very last time.

  69

  In early December a letter from France came soon after Matthew arrived home from school. It was from an American army officer in Paris. Emma stared at the envelope in dread.

  “Is it from CJ?” he asked excitedly. At six, he was smart and inquisitive, just like his older brother.

  Last week, Betty McFie had received a similar letter from France telling her that her boy Billy had lost an arm fighting in the Meuse-Argonne Offensive. Emma sank into a chair at the kitchen table to keep her knees from buckling.

  “Is it from CJ?” Matt asked again.

  Emma shook her head.

  “Who is it from?” Matt asked, studying the envelope in his mother’s hands.

  “Put on your coat and go play outside,” Emma said, fighting to remain calm.

  “It’s cold. I don’t want to.”

  “Do as I ask,” Emma said. “I’ll call for you to come in when it’s time.”

  Matt shook his head in protest.

  Emma reached for her purse and gave him a quarter. “Buy yourself some candy.”

  Matt grinned. “Okay.” He wasn’t allowed candy very often. He put on his coat in a hurry.

  Emma waited until the back door slammed before opening the letter. Inside was a second sealed envelope addressed to her in CJ’s hand. Her heart sank. She put it aside and read the lieutenant’s letter first.

  Dear Mrs. Kerney,

  I am deeply sorry to tell you of CJ’s death on the field of battle. I was with him when he fell. Before he left this world your name was on his lips. I served with him from Texas to France and have never known a young man of greater merit or more courage. He possessed a maturity well beyond his years and was a fine leader of men. In action, CJ was valiant and steadfast, as a person, he was highly respected and well liked. I personally grieve for the loss of his friendship, which I know will never match the pain you must now endure. If it is any consolation, CJ was the best of us.

  I have enclosed a letter he asked me to send to you in the event of his death. With my utmost sympathy, I am

  Yours truly,

  John Lockhart, 1st Lt.

  36th Division

  Emma pressed CJ’s unopened letter against her cheek and sobbed as though life was being sucked out of her. To have lost her sweet little Molly so young and now her brilliant, kindhearted CJ seemed cruel, unfair. With shaking hands, she opened his letter and read it.

  Dear Mother,

  If you get this letter it’s because I won’t be coming home. But I’m hoping when the war ends, I’ll tear it up and write to say I’m fine and on my way back to New Mexico. I’ve been a good soldier and done everything I can to prepare myself for battle. I’ve studied and trained hard and think I stand a good chance to survive. If I don’t, I want you to know that I’ve served honorably. I am glad I did what I did even though I know you must still be aggravated that I ran away to enlist.

  I’ve thought long and hard about asking you a favor, and here it is. Up until I left for the army, I saw how miserable you and Pa were after you split up. I don’t know what happened to cause it and I know Pa can get downright mean and surly at times, but you are both mule-headed stubborn in your own way, neither willing to give an inch. Maybe you can’t set the past aside, but if the two of you can make a truce it would sure be good for Matt. Since I won’t be there for him as an older brother, he’ll need a father, if Pa is willing. Show him my letter and tell him it’s my last wish.

  Your loving son,

  CJ

  Emma lowered her head, closed her eyes, and cried until she was gasping for breath. She didn’t realize Matthew had returned until he tugged at her sleeve.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his expression grave with worry. “Why are you sad?”

  She wrapped her arms around Matthew and hesitated for a second before deciding to tell him the truth. “CJ is dead.”

  “No,” Matt said, his voice rising, tears welling in his eyes. “He promised to come home. I don’t want him to be dead.”

  “I don’t either, but he is.” Emma stroked Matt’s face and tried to hold him, but he backed away.

  “I don’t believe you.” His voice broke and he began crying.

  Emma pulled him close. “Would I tell you something so terrible if it wasn’t true?”

  Matt sniffled, wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve, and shook his head. “Does it really say he died in the letter?”

  “Yes,” Emma whispered.

 
“Will you read it to me?”

  Emma nodded. “Yes. There are two letters, one from CJ and one from his lieutenant. He writes that CJ was very brave.”

  “Read that one first.”

  Matthew surprised her by climbing on her lap, something he hadn’t done in a year. It was a small balm to her badly wounded heart. She cuddled him close, took a deep breath, and read the letters. When she finished CJ’s letter, Matt looked up at her.

  “If CJ wrote us a letter, he can’t be dead,” he said.

  “He wrote it before he died,” Emma replied.

  “No,” Matthew said forcefully, rejecting the notion. “He’s my big brother, and he’s coming home. And I don’t want a pa.”

  Matt had met his father only twice. The first time he barely remembered, but the second time scared him. He’d been with his mother on Main Street when a big, angry man came up and yelled at her. Afterward, Ma told him the man was his father and not to mind him because he was drunk. Matt didn’t like him. Other kids’ fathers were nice and didn’t yell at people on the street.

  “We have to tell your father about CJ,” Emma said.

  “I don’t want to see him,” Matthew protested as he slid off Emma’s lap. “CJ will come home, so I don’t have to. Read CJ’s letter to me again.”

  “After we eat.” Emma put the letters away in her sewing basket on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. Her hands were shaking. She needed to calm herself and keep her wits. “Wash up and set the table while I start supper.”

  For a moment, Matthew didn’t budge.

  Emma forced a smile. “Please help.”

  “Okay,” Matthew said grouchily as he slouched to the sink to wash his hands.

  Unable to concentrate on cooking, Emma fixed a tasteless vegetable soup and served it with buttered bread. She ate only a few spoonfuls. Matthew sopped his bread in the soup, ate half of it, and pushed the bowl away. She cleared the dishes, rinsed and stacked them in the sink, and began reading CJ’s letter to Matthew again.