by Bill Mesce
It always looks the same, I thought. Any barracks; any army. One was reading an Armed Forces edition of some less than sterling literary opus entitled Gunman’s Chance; another sat by the fire, a guitar across his legs, trying to demonstrate chords to the mate who sat across from him; yet another sat propped against the wall, penning a letter on V–mail stationary. A group of four huddled about an open square of blanket, shuffling playing cards back and forth, trying to affect the savoir faire of men older and more seasoned than themselves as their change clinked into the pot. All about the room, they scratched their unshaven chins in an imitation of manliness belied by the patchy quality of the growth; they swore too frequently, their crudity too forced; they dangled cigarettes from the corners of their mouths as they’d seen in the cinema, and told lies about women they’d never really known. As much as they pretended otherwise, helmets and rifles did not make them men, and despite their ruffled, unwashed, archly profane presentation, the lounge seemed more a boy’s summer camp than a military bunkroom.
I remembered how few Love Company veterans had survived the Huertgen, and surmised – correctly – that Andy Thom and Spiro Makris were the closest to hardened veterans there. The rest were nearly fresh off the troopships landing at Normandy. While they may have pretended to chafe at their crowded quarters, I venture they actually found some comfort weathering the dark, cold nights so far from home in the close company of their mates.
At the far end of the bar, a staff sergeant sat at a portable Underwood pecking out the incessant paperwork demanded of even line units. At our entrance, the typist looked up, smiled and nodded at Thom, cocked his head curiously at us, then caught sight of the silver oak leaves on Harry’s shoulder.
“‘Ten–HUT!”
The attention to his rank – as it usually did – made Harry flinch self–consciously, and he was quick to issue an, “As you were, fellas; relax.”
“This is Sergeant Creedmore,” Andy Thom said by way of introducing the typist. “Company clerk. They’re looking for the lieutenant, Wally.”
A towheaded youngster, the whiskers on his chin were so fair and downy they barely registered in the firelight. “Did you check with Makris? That’s as much as I know.”
“He didn’t say where he might – ”
Creedmore’s hapless shrug and Andy Thom’s apparent quick understanding of same indicated this was a conversation so oft–had, it did not require finishing.
“Is this for show or is this a working bar?” Ricks said walking round behind the counter, foraging among the shelves.
“It’s a dry house,” Thom said. He must’ve remembered that night in Wiltz, picking Ricks up the floor, for he flashed me a concerned look. “Believe me: my boys’ve checked.”
Harry took a seat on one of the stools, nodded Andy Thom closer. “What’s the matter with Dominick?”
“The matter? Nothing – ”
“Then why’re you so worried?”
Thom nodded his surrender; he’d been caught out. “He’ll check the outpost line. He’ll check the positions in the villages. He’ll check the outposts again. He’ll go out to bring in the night patrol, back to the outposts, he comes in here, catches a catnap, checks in with them all on the radio, and then he’s out makin’ rounds again. He’s like some ol’ lady keeps thinkin’ she left the gas on. He wants to be everywhere, Colonel, and be there all the time. He’s gonna wear himself out. I’m glad it’s quiet around here ‘cause he’s got me worried what he’s gonna be like if we have to go into action again.”
Andy Thom’s appraisal seemed to particularly resonate with Peter Ricks. He turned to Harry, his look, in part, questioning, and, in part, accusatory, as if to say, “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?”
From somewhere in the room came the trombone–like bleat of an especially loud fart, followed immediately by the expected chorus of pained cries and fanning hands.
“Hey, Crud–more!” It was one of the card players, a broad–shouldered bull of a lad one could instantly identify as that abrasive type who measured his masculinity by the brawls he’d managed to start. “Can’t you move these fuckin’ tankers to another room? All the fuckin’ rooms in this joint, why they gotta squeeze in here?”
I could see the tanker in question laying nearby on his bedroll, identified by his coveralls. He was screwing up his face with effort. I suspected another detonation was imminent and this time would be more intentional than natural.
“Pipe down, doughfoot,” another man snarled, this one in coveralls marked with buck sergeant’s chevrons. “The way you doughs hide behind a tank, I figgered you’d be used to suckin’ on a tanker’s exhaust.”
Which, of course, constituted an aspersion on the infantryman’s character he was ill–tempered to suffer without comment. “You’re lucky you’re wearin’ them stripes, Farron! We get to where the fur starts to fly, I won’t be the one buttonin’ up ‘n’ huggin’ my arse!”
“I’ll take the stripes off, Horse. That invitation enough for you?”
Whatever “Horse”‘s retort was to be was cut off by a second, higher–pitched venting.
“Hey, Boyd!” another crewmate guffawed, “yer engine’s runnin’ a bit rough there!”
“Ya think, Rufe?” Boyd called back and bled out yet another expulsion. “How’s that?”
“You cocksucker!” Horse proclaimed and lunged at Boyd.
But the smaller, slimmer tanker was quick–footed and deft, leaping to his feet and galloping over the body–strewn floor like a champion rugby player weaving through a crowded field. Horse, on the other hand, in hot pursuit didn’t seem to take a step without trodding upon some unfortunate soul. He seemed oblivious to both the cries of caution from those in his path, and the pained yelps of the bodies in his wake. By the time he had stumbled to the lobby, Boyd had already flown up the stairs. Horse stomped up after him.
“You’d better run you goddamn fuckin’ – ” The rest was lost in a cry of pain as Horse tripped and barked his shin on a step. A few seconds later we could hear their footsteps running back and forth in the upstairs corridor, the fleet Boyd pursued by the clip–clop limping of his pursuer. Then Boyd came vaulting down the stairs and out the front door, followed by a wheezing Horse.
“Lyle,” Thom called, beckoning his corporal over, “why don’t you stand by the door and make sure nobody gets lost in the dark.”
“Tell ‘em no slushballs,” came a voice from behind us. “That’s against the Geneva Convention.”
It was not the voice I recognized as much as the rank smell of a cheap cigar. Harry and I turned in unison, having already begun smiling at the first eye–watering sniff.
“Van Damm!” Harry exclaimed and grabbed the weedy, cigar–puffing G–2 colonel by the hand. “What’re you doing here?”
“I was gonna ask you the same thing, Voss, but then I thought, ‘Every time I see this guy I ask that question and I always get an answer I don’t like.’”
*
“I suppose it’s not the most compelling reading,” I said. I was referring to the unconscious Spiro Makris who had sunk down in his chair, head lolling rearward over the backrest, his wireless manual rising and falling where it lay on his chest.
We had taken advantage of Makris’ somnambulant condition to appropriate his petrol heater and place it by the table where Harry, Ricks, Van Damm, Andy Thom and myself were sampling the stew that had been bubbling in the fireplace. The innkeepers may have thoughtfully taken their liquor stocks with them, but they had blessedly left their finery. We ate on a linen tablecloth, from dishware adorned with images of twining vines festooned with bunches of ripe grapes, and with proper silverware.
“‘Is is be’er ‘an ‘at ‘amn ca’le!” Van Damm observed, sucking at a choice morsel stuck between his teeth. “Wha’ in thi’?”
“A lot of it is 10–in–1,” Andy Thom acknowledged as surprised as the rest of us at the fact.
“I dare say somebody has a chef’s hand,” I c
ommented.
“Somebody’s a fucking magician,” Ricks said.
“It’s the deer meat that does it,” Thom said. “I’ve got this sniper in my squad, some kid from Tennessee with eyes like a hawk. He dropped this feller yesterday out in the woods. Buck must’ve stood almost five feet at the shoulder. Took him down in one shot.”
Harry frowned down at his bowl, and the enthusiasm for the stew which he’d seemed to share with all of us immediately waned. I imagine the mention of the deer caused him to reflect on his walk through the Huertgen.
“Damn! I’m filling my mess kit with this stuff before I leave!” Van Damm was already scooping the last traces from the bottom of his soup bowl.
Once again, Harry inquired after the Intelligence officer’s presence.
“I’m probably here to see the same guy you are: Sisto. I want to try to talk him into a deep patrol across the Our. With all this crappy weather, we haven’t been able to get any air reconnaissance over the kraut sectors, and these one–step–over–the–line patrols are only telling me enough to give me the sweats.”
“You think something’s up?” Andy Thom asked. “Around here? This is supposed to be a rest sector.”
“And I’m supposed to be laying on my sofa back in Chicago listening to Charlie McCarthy while my wife brings me Bosco and cookies.” Van Damm set out his hands as if to say, “But here I am, eh?”
“We haven’t heard anything from battalion.”
“Sergeant, you won’t hear anything all the way up to Ike’s office in Versailles! And I hope to Christ all of them are right and that I’m just khaki wacky. I told them I wanted to come down here and try for a probe and it didn’t take them two shakes to give me the ok, they were so damned happy to have me out of their ear.”
“What do you know?” Ricks asked.
“I don’t know anything.”
“But you have a feeling.”
“I have a feeling,” Van Damm said ominously. “Since November, the krauts have been putting a lot of fresh troops into the line. Fresh troops carrying right–off–the–production line equipment. Signs of a lot of vehicles, a lot of armor.”
“That couldn’t just be them reinforcing their line?”
“They’re not digging in. They’ve been moving around a lot. One day they’re here, then they’re gone, then… Last week the kraut line was a ghost town opposite Ste. Marc’s Bridge. Last night, the sergeant here bumped into so many krauts in the same sector his night patrol had to swim the Our to get home. Isn’t that right, Sarge?”
Thom felt a pang at the recollection.
“I saw your after–action report in Wiltz this morning,” Van Damm explained. “I don’t know for sure what all these troop movements are about, but something about it reminds me of moving chess men around on a board until they’re set up just right…then you make your big move.”
“That sounds more intuitive than factual, Colonel,” I put in, “if you don’t mind my saying.”
Van Damm grinned. “How much you wanna bet not two of the jokers in this whole house knows what ‘intuitive’ means?”
“That’s still thin, Colonel,” Ricks said, but I could see he shared the Intelligence officer’s unsettled feeling.
Van Damm ran the tip of his pinky round the bottom of his empty soup bowl, and smacked his lips round the trace of juice. “Last month, we got information that the krauts were going through their ranks looking for English–speaking soldiers. A week ago, a couple of PWs said something about re–taking Aachen as a Christmas present for Hitler. And there’s this.” Van Damm fished a soiled, oft–folded piece of paper from his windcheater’s pocket and handed it to Harry. “A patrol from an I & R platoon down around Vianden found that in a kraut bunker across the river just before I showed up for your party at the castle. It was another one of those places where the krauts had moved in fresh troops, then they just disappeared overnight. The translation’s on the back.”
Harry looked over the block of German text, then to the pencilled English on the reverse side:
SOLDIERS OF THE WEST FRONT!! YOUR GREAT HOUR HAS ARRIVED. LARGE ATTACKING ARMIES HAVE STARTED AGAINST THE ANGLO–AMERICANS. I DO NOT HAVE TO TELL YOU ANYTHING MORE THAN THAT. YOU FEEL IT YOURSELF. WE GAMBLE EVERYTHING! YOU CARRY WITH YOU THE HOLY OBLIGATION TO GIVE EVERYTHING TO ACHIEVE THINGS BEYOND HUMAN POSSIBILITIES FOR OUR FATHERLAND AND OUR FUHRER!
“Propaganda?” Harry suggested. “Aren’t they always trying to get a fire going under their people?”
“That’s not some unit commander trying to get his boys to firm up. That’s from the grand ol’ man himself, von Runstedt, giving with the give–’em–one–for–the–Gipper jazz. Which makes me think it’s for wide distribution. And you don’t ‘gamble’ on defense. That’s offensive talk. You put it all together – ”
“And it still doesn’t sound like much,” Andy Thom said. Hopefully, I think.
Van Damm smiled guiltily. “Well, that seems to be the consensus. A lot of these bits and pieces haven’t been passed up to senior G–2s because even a lot of the line Intelligence officers don’t think much of ‘em. I tried giving my spiel at Versailles, but they don’t think the krauts can fart as good as that kid in there tonight, let alone go over to the offensive. You talk about the Huertgen, about Metz, Arnhem, Colmar, Aachen… You say, ‘Look at those casualty numbers; that look like the krauts are finished to you?’ And to them, it’s always some kind of exception. To me? Enough exceptions and you got yourself a new rule. You roll in we got overextended supply lines, three divisions in this sector trying to cover a stretch of line the books says you need fives times that for... What I got my hands on now, as our friend the esteemed lawyer from New Jersey might say,” and Van Damm nodded respectfully in Harry’s direction, “isn’t enough for a conviction, but enough for an indictment. That’s why I want a patrol – a deep patrol – to see if I can come up with the convincer.”
Ricks pushed his spoon ruefully back and forth through the stew for which he, too, now seemed to have lost his appetite. “All Dominick needs now is a terminal case of the clap and he’ll just have the perfect Christmas.”
*
It grew later and more quiet as, one by one, the men settled for the night. The rowdiness of the lounge dwindled to the deep breathing of sleep, the occasional snore. The lad with the guitar – his student now warmly burrowed in his bedroll – still sat by the fire, strumming random, lulling notes.
In that late night quiet, we each found our respective self alone with our thoughts…and that particular night, for each of us, they made rather poor company.
I studied Van Damm with envy. He sat with Andy Thom, poring over the company’s situation map, grilling the squad leader on every bit and morsel of information, rumor, hearsay and hunch. He may have been foretelling doom and gloom, but it was a concrete threat, a defined problem, to which he could respond with a practical strategy. There was no question of the rightness or wrongness in his actions; no doubt and self–recrimination over what he had to do.
For the rest of us, I look back on those last, quiet hours as our Long Dark Night of the Soul. For Harry, Peter Ricks, and myself – but, most of all, for Harry – there was no concrete problem nor strategy; no clarity of problem and response; and nothing but doubt.
Harry paced the main corridor, walking from the spill of light from the dining room and lounge to the rear of the inn, huddled inside his windcheater, his mood as inhospitable as the dark, cold hallway.
Peter Ricks and I had removed ourselves from the dining room to the moderately warmer environs of the lounge, sitting at the bar. We spoke little, listened to the crackle of the fire, the balm of the guitar.
I heard someone settle on the stool next to Ricks: Andy Thom. There was a manila envelope propped against Creedmore’s Underword with Thom’s name written across the front. Thom reached across for the envelope, opened it, and the melancholy which seemed a permanent character of his face these days deepened. He upended the envelope and sever
al items spilled out on the bar with a small clatter: a watch, a cigarette lighter, billfold, ring, gold chain and cross, some small photographs and folded letters.
“You lost a man?” Ricks asked quietly.
Thom nodded. “His effects. I haven’t had time to go through them yet.”
Ricks reached for his pocket, remembered he had no cigarettes, reached inside Andy Thom’s open greatcoat and found a packet in the breast pocket of his blouse. He lit them each one. “Your first?”
“The lieutenant had these stripes waitin’ for me when I got here. Took out a patrol last night. My first. I barely knew all their names.” He bent over the bar as if at a prayer rail. “You ever, um…”
“Get used to it?” Ricks smiled mirthlessly. There was no great insight here: it was the obvious question. The smile faded as he looked across at the mirror behind the bar, finding something unhappy in his own reflection. “You find a way to live with it. For a while, anyway. But you never get used to it. Never.” That same mirthless smile. No great insight: it was the obvious answer.
By the light of the fire, I watched the guitar player slip his instrument into its cloth case with the care of a mother putting her infant down for the night. I jotted a few notes; it was an image I didn’t want to forget. Wasn’t that what Dominick Sisto had said to me one night atop the castle walls? Amid the mud and the horror, he’d seen beautiful things…
Harry had done enough walking earlier that day in the Huertgen, and I’m sure he still suffered from some discomfort in his ankle. He settled himself on the stairs in the darkest, unlit corner of the lobby.
“I love that kid, Eddie,” he said without my asking anything. “And…and I wish on his way here his jeep would go off the road, roll over on him and…”
“It would simplify matters, eh?”
“I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what to do. And I don’t know why I can’t listen to Pete and put my arse in the jeep and get the hell out of here.”