by Bill Mesce
“The icing is that the hill defense is supported with mortar fire from down here around the base of the reverse slope, and artillery from over by Schmidt with a priority on concentrations sighted on weak spots and holes in the defensive lines. The after–action reports indicate that the mortar tubes and the Schmidt guns were pre–sighted, so that as the attackers advanced up the forward slope, the krauts knew exactly how to adjust their fire to bring it right down on the heads of the doughs coming up at ‘em.”
“So, if I apply what you’re saying to the battalion’s attempts to take the hill, particularly to the third try when they made it to the hilltop – ”
“Making it to the hilltop didn’t mean a damn thing. Look how well–designed this defense is. You don’t think that the heads who put that together knew they had this hole in their line? The after–action reports show that that assault team didn’t get far up this seam before mortar fire – accurate mortar fire – started coming right down on their heads. A quick adjustment like that indicates the tubes were pre–sighted; they were prepared for this.
“Those same reports say the krauts started filling in trenches up on the two crowns of the hill to seal the penetration into this low ground in between. They moved so fast to do it, that tells me that had this contingency plan on tap.”
“This assessment I’m referring to states that the men that made it into this part of the top of the hill – this saddle – that they had a good defensive position and a possibility existed to still take the hill.”
“And I still believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny. Our people get into that saddle area and immediately the krauts close in. According to the after–action reports, no sooner did they get up there when you could hardly stick your head out of your hole without getting pipped. They were fixed, understand? I figure those guys up there had maybe a couple of minutes before the Germans came down after ‘em and started taking ‘em out one hole at a time.”
“This same assessment believes that if the hilltop assault detail had held, a reinforcement detail – ”
Van Damm laughed disdainfully. “I’m sure the krauts were drooling over that possibility! That they would’ve expected. That they would’ve been waiting for by this time. They would’ve got chopped up worse than the first team.”
“Colonel Van Damm.” Harry let the hand with his note cards drop to his side, slid his glasses from his face, and fixed the Intelligence officer with his eyes. “From what you know of the operation against Hill 399, did the battalion ever – in its three days operating against the hill – ever have any chance of taking it?”
Van Damm left the easel and lowered himself tiredly into his chair. “No way, no how. The only way to win this one was to stay home and not play.”
Harry nodded a thanks and returned to his seat.
Leonard Courie took a long moment before rising, aware that his cross–examination would be an uphill battle to gain ground. “Very enlightening, Colonel Van Damm. And colorfully put. Most intelligence work is – and I don’t mean to be dismissive here – but it is a kind of guesswork, isn’t it? I mean, informed guesses – ”
Van Damm smiled. The attack had not been unexpected. “Well, we like to be nice about it and call ‘em ‘estimates’ and ‘analyses,’ but yeah, Captain, you could make the case that we take bits and pieces of what we do know, and start building guesses on top of that.”
“Colonel, have you, personally, been to Hill 399? Personally surveyed the ground?”
“Nope.”
“Have you interviewed any of the men who participated in the engagement?”
“Nope, again.”
“These after–action reports that seem to be a major source of information for your analysis, have you ever known a field officer to write his report in a way that justified actions that might have been questionable?”
“If you want to know if anybody’s ever written a report to cover his arse, I’m sure. I’m sure they’ve done it intentionally, I’m sure they’ve just gotten it wrong, I’m sure some just write lousy reports. I don’t know a single part of the Army where that kind of thing doesn’t happen.”
Courie only smiled at the barb. “So the accuracy of any given after–action report is questionable.”
“Like I said; as much as any other piece of paper in the Army. Look; I’ll give you this. On any given single piece of information like that, yeah, you always have a question about accuracy for whatever reason. So you look for corroboration.”
“Such as?”
“How does it jibe with other people’s reporting.”
“Which might also be suspect.”
Van Damm’s smile only grew more tolerant with each question. “Boy, Captain, you sure got a low opinion of human nature.”
“Colonel, wouldn’t you say it’s easier to make the kind of estimations you’ve made today after the fact, than going forward?”
Van Damm puffed on his cigar, pretending to give a great deal of thought to the question. “Well, you got a point there, Captain. It’s a lot easier looking back to tell people where they went wrong, then to look forward telling ‘em how to go right.”
“Is it possible that someone at the scene – at Hill 399 – during the action there, with all the confusion of battle, and having to make instant life–and–death decision, could justifiably have made an appraisal significantly different from yours?”
Van Damm’s smile grew a little wider and I drew the distinct impression that this had been the finalé he’d been waiting for. “Captain, right now you could go up to VII Corps G–2, or Ninth Army’s, and probably get somebody who’ll disagree with me now. Yeah, Intelligence is an interpretive thing. And yeah, somebody who was there with all kinds of hell coming down on him might’ve seen it differently than I do now. “But what they’d’ve been looking at is that in those three days they’d never had fire superiority on the hill. Hell, that last day, they barely had any fire support at all! Bad weather, constant logistical problems, the air support never came through, no advance recon, no advance intelligence on enemy disposition, and after that first day you knew there was a buzz saw sitting on that hill waiting for you…Yeah, maybe somebody could’ve seen all that and said, ‘Oh, hey, piece of cake!’ But you’d really have to wonder about a guy like that. Don’t you think?”
That was the end for Van Damm. After the chapel doors closed behind him, Ryan addressed the court. “Gentlemen, I don’t know about you, but Colonel Van Damm has pretty well left my head bursting at the seams. I don’t think it’d be fair to ask you to have to take in any more today, so I’m going to call an early recess for the day to give you plenty of time to mull what we’ve heard.
“Tomorrow is Sunday. Captain Courie informs me that he has procured a chaplain for us who’ll be conducting a non–denominational service tomorrow morning for those so inclined. We’ll reconvene Monday at 0900 hours. Until then, people…”
*
“I wish you could stay for dinner,” Harry said. “I figure we owe you at least that.”
Van Damm shrugged.
Harry, Van Damm, Ricks and myself were loitering about the dining hall while the G–2 colonel hurriedly slurped down hot coffee and nibbled on a biscuit.
“They’re really keeping you busy on this intelligence appraisal number,” Ricks said.
A momentary look of concern flashed across Van Damm’s face. “I wish that was all I had to worry about.” He turned to Harry. “I hope I done you some good, Voss.”
“You pounded the prosecution!” cheered Ricks.
“It was prejudicial,” Harry said flatly. “Any judge but Ryan…” He forced a smile for Van Damm. “That’s nothing against you. I wish there was a way I could thank – ”
Van Damm waved it away. “I’m getting used to this with you. When I leave today, it will be my expert prognostication and feeling of being damn–sure I’ll be seeing you again.”
Harry chuckled.
Van Damm’s face grew introspective. “How long has that Sisto kid been
in action?”
“Since Salerno, right, Harry?” Ricks said and Harry nodded.
“That’s going on fifteen months,” Van Damm said. “I saw a report not too long ago, some kind of head shrinker’s study. It said you’ve got maybe ninety days before a dough on the line starts to wear out.” He tapped his temple: “Up here. You rotate them off the line, he gets a weekend pass, a furlough, that re–charges him a little, but you never get it all back.”
Ricks nodded in grave agreement. “Because when they go back, they know what they’re in for now.”
“I guess.” Van Damm sighed. “Fifteen months is a long time. That kid’s regiment isn’t far from here, still attached to the 28th, probably will be until they complete their re–fit. Sooner or later, Voss, they’ll be going back into action. Maybe I should keep my yap shut, but I can’t help wondering if you’re doing this kid any kind of favor if you get him off.” The pained looks that came back at him brought up a quick sense of guilt. “Jesus, guys, I didn’t mean to rain on anybody’s parade – ”
Harry made a consoling motion with his hand. “No, no, it’s just…I hadn’t looked at it like that before. Never occurred to me.”
“Look, I don’t know the kid; you do. Maybe he’s jake with everything the way it is. It’s just I talk to some of these doughs on the line, I mean the real old men, and you see they got the idea their only way home is either on a stretcher or in a box. You got to choose between that and Leavenworth, man, you got yourself a real Hobson’s Choice there.”
The mention of the Binghouse chestnut from the cocky, street–mouthed Yank left me flabbergasted. “Good God, lads! He’s cultured!”
I think we all welcomed the consequent chuckles.
“Minored in theater,” Van Damm explained.
I was impressed. “That explains your sense of panache, Colonel. Might I ask what it was you did before the war?”
For the only time I could remember, he seemed sheepish. “Insurance adjuster.”
“Good God!”
Ricks’ mind had drifted back to the question of Dominick Sisto’s future. “They should do it like the Air Corps. You’ve got a one–in–four chance of surviving twenty–five missions, but if you do, you get to go home.”
“Not any more,” Van Damm said. “They raised it. It’s thirty–five missions now.”
Which struck Ricks heavily. “Jesus. They don’t want anybody making it home.”
One of the mess cooks appeared in the kitchen door with a cloth–wrapped bundle and thermos and handed it to Van Damm. “Here you go, Colonel! I got that wrapped up so it’ll keep the heat a while, but don’t wait too long to eat it.”
“Thanks, Cookie.” Van Damm nodded toward Harry. “You can see him about my tip. Ok, fellas,” and he headed for the dining hall exit, “behave yourselves!” Staring directly at Harry: “Particularly you!”
After he left, I suppose the proposition Van Damm had put forth returned to us all and we sat in quiet thought about the long table. But then Harry pushed his chair back and started for the exit to the hall.
“Not sitting for dinner, Harry?” I called. I glanced at my watch. “I think they’ll be serving soon.”
Harry shook his head. “Van Damm’s right. I need to put it to Dominick.”
“What’re you going to say if he asks you what he should do?” Ricks asked.
Harry ran a hand worriedly across his sparsely covered pate, and frowned. “Right now, I’m just hoping he doesn’t,” and he left.
*
I should have guessed my caller from the softness of the knock at the door, but my interest was elsewhere and my call to enter was instinctive. I was sitting by the fireplace of my room, poring over the notes from the Wiltz interviews, and so intent was I on my study that even the sound of her light footsteps in my room failed to register.
“I did not mean to make an interruption.”
It was only then I lay the sheaf of paper in my lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize – …”
For all the care that had gone into the fitting of my prosthesis, I had always found it more comfortable – at least in private – to do without. In front of most people, it would have done me little discomfort to be found in such a state. I’d long since lost any self–consciousness about having to hop about the room worrying about the awkward politeness of guests.
But in front of her, sitting by the fire with my one trouser leg hanging limp and empty, I felt anew that shame of the wounded – that sense of being not so much deformed as incomplete – that I thought I had left long behind.
Mind you, this was none of her doing. Lady that she was, she betrayed nothing but her customary grace, as if she’d caught me sans nothing more than my bedroom slippers.
“I see you have the work.” She held up the picnic basket, indicating what I presumed to have been her intended alternative. “You have not eaten, oui? Then I will leave this for you.” She bowed apologetically and turned for the door.
“Please…”
She halted, tilted her head expectantly.
“I should have liked that, but…”
“You have the work. Qu’elle domage. The next time, then. Perhaps?”
“Aye. It was kind of you, Madame.”
“Maintenant, I will leave you to your business.” But she halted herself again. “Is it for the boy you do this? Or the other man. Harry. Je comprends il est votre bon ami, oui?”
“Mais oui. Mon tres bon ami.”
“He is the lucky man to have such a friend.”
“No, Madame. It is I who is the lucky one.”
Again, she hesitated. There was no other chair so I bade her sit on the bed.
“I already take too much – ”
“Non!” I bowed apologetically at the impertinence of the declaration. “It is my time, Madame. Allow me to spend it as I wish.”
She smiled. “You know your friend for the long time?”
“I met him for the first time last year. In all that time I dare say we’ve spent barely a month in each other’s company.”
“But he is your friend.” She seemed to understand it, though I didn’t quite understand it myself. “Yves – that was my husband – I cannot see him to do the same. He was, in many ways, a good husband. We were quite comfortable. But to do for another…” She lapsed into reflection for a moment, shook her head over a memory. “Perhaps it is from the title. Vous ettes ‘ le comte’ Comprenez? You become used to others do for you.” Another shake of the head. “Or perhaps he was just not the good man.” A smile. “So then you are a good man?”
“Not at all, Madame. I like to think I may have done good deeds, but rarely for a good reason. Vanity for the most part, I suppose. The presumption that I know better than the next chap. Other times, for the sheer, malicious, petty joy of proving someone wrong.”
She considered this a moment, wrapped in the amusement wise women often seem to have over the arcane workings of the male mind. “It is important that the good deed is done for good? Or just that it is done?”
“There are so few good deeds being done, I suppose one should simply be grateful.”
“But it is important to you.”
“Aye. Now.”
“And so this Harry. He is the good man?”
“He is the good man.” An old reading came back to me: “‘I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother – and I found all three.’”
“In your friend.”
“I had once thought myself to be that kind of man. Or that I aspired to be one. It’s come as quite a shock in my dotage to tote up the numbers and see how short I’ve come. Perhaps the next best thing I can do is help him remain one. And, if it is important to him to save this boy, then it is important to me.”
“Then I should leave you to it.” She rose from the bed, smoothed the coverlet. Another smile from her, coquettish, it made her young again. “Is this how you lose the other woman? Always something els
e to do?” Nothing cruel in it; a playful tease.
“No. I lost her because I was a fool. I warrant I may still be one.”
She shrugged as if to say she, too, accepted the possibility. “Mangé. The food will grow cold. Bon soir, Monsieur.”
“Et vous, Madame.”
The food was, as one might expect from her hand, delicious.
*
One could hear the chaplain from far down the corridors, the solemn, dirge–like drone of scripture, echoing unintelligibly along the ancient stone walls. The doors to the chapel had been left invitingly open, but I hovered about outside, telling myself I was merely curious to see who was in attendance.
There were a few from the Signal Corps and Military Police contingents. General Terry and Colonel Bright were there, but none of the other witnesses. Of the jurymen, Pietrowski was present, nobly erect in a front row seat and attentive, as was Littell, the combat engineer commander, and Pierce, the artilleryman. The young lieutenants from the headquarters staff of the 28th division were there: Bolander and Martine. But Pomeroy and Kirkendall, the infantrymen who had commanded combat troops in the Huertgen, were absent.
Courie was there, and though he looked earnest enough in his attentions, I could not help but suspect he was there more to make a favorable impression on Pietrowski than out of some religious dedication. His minion Alth was present as well no doubt in a similar mind. And that adroit, meticulous politician Joseph P. Ryan was sitting close by Pietrowski, his face calculatingly beatific.
But, to my surprise, no Harry. I had expected to see him seated toward the rear, inconspicuous but sincere in his devotions. But no; no Harry.
The chaplain was a broad–shouldered, lion–maned gentleman, in his 40s I should think, and would have seemed intimidating had he not seemed so fatigued. Not physically: his voice declared itself strongly, his bearing was straight and sturdy. It was an inner exhaustion; of the heart. He was reading from Second Samuel, of King David mourning the loss of his son:
David perceived that the child was dead; and David said to his servants, “Is the child dead? They said, “He is dead.” Then David arose from the earth, and washed, and anointed himself, and changed his clothes; and he went into the house of the Lord, and worshiped; he then went to his own house; and when he asked, they set food before him, and he ate. Then his servants said to him, “What is this thing that you have done? You fasted and wept for the child while it was alive; but when the child died, you rose and ate food.” He said, “While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, ‘Who knows whether the Lord will be gracious to me, that the child may live?’ But now he is dead; why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me.”