A Mortal Terror

by James R Benn

  “Hey, you’re not dead yet, are you?” I said, trying to snap him out of it. He looked at me like I was crazy, which didn’t surprise me. “You’re still breathing, so get your squad up front, and keep them low and quiet.”

  I told the same thing to Danny and Charlie. Sticks was with them, the tall kid from the squad. I wished them luck. Father Dare and the medic had two litter cases and half a dozen walking wounded. Other men who’d been wounded slightly were already with their squads. The main problem was that we weren’t walking, we were crawling.

  The wounded guys didn’t need much encouragement, not even the GI with shrapnel in his leg. No one wanted to be captured and have to depend on POW medical care. Carrying the litters was tough. We shanghaied one GI to help the medic, and Father Dare and I took the other. We had to duckwalk, holding the litter up to clear the ground. It was easy for the first few awkward steps, then near impossible, until finally spasms of pain were shooting through my arms and thighs.

  “You were right, Boyle,” Evans said as we halted next to him. “About the wounded.”

  “You would’ve figured it out,” I said. “We ready?”

  “As we can be. Two minutes until the artillery hits the hill and they lay smoke.” Eighty men hugged the edge of the bank, all facing the same direction, waiting for the signal. “Good luck,” Evans said, and was off, bent low, checking the men. There was going to be no safe place; it was either going to work or it wasn’t. I spent the two minutes catching my breath, rubbing my sore thighs, not thinking about Danny in the lead.

  The screech of incoming shells was followed instantly by multiple explosions on the wooded hill. The firing continued, keeping the Germans occupied, I hoped. Muted explosions to our rear were followed by plumes of churning white smoke concentrated along our escape route. The line ahead of me shuffled forward, slowly, like a long line of cars when the light changes. We moved, stopped, moved, stopped. I wanted to scream, to tell them to hurry up, but I bit my lip. Low and quiet, I told myself.

  Finally we were moving, into the smoke. It was thick enough for us to run bent over, keeping our heads just below the surface. The smoke swirled in places and settled into thick pools in others. The artillery fire on the hill stopped, and for a moment there was nothing but an eerie, empty silence. The small sounds of leather, metal, and gear, boots on muddy soil, and hurried whispers quickly filled the void. Bursts of white phosphorous smoke landed behind us, and for the first time I thought we had a chance.

  Machine-gun fire ripped through the air, probing the ditch we’d just left. I felt the air vibrate above me as the rounds searched farther afield, stitching the earth, hoping for flesh.

  The line halted. Father Dare, at the front of the litter, nearly collided with the medic. An awful groaning sound rose up ahead of us, and I knew someone had been hit. A stray bullet, I hoped for the rest of us. For the man hit, it made no difference. We laid down the litters and Father Dare gave the other wounded men water. We waited while impatient murmurs ran up and down the line. I was the last man, and felt nothing but the white emptiness of death behind me. I fought the urge to leap out of the streambed and run for it, taking my chances with speed and leaving this ghostly, slow retreat behind.

  Minutes passed, and we began shuffling along again. I lost track of time, hunched over, carrying the burden of a badly wounded man, able to see nothing beyond a yard away. The machine-gun fire rose in intensity, and this time it was aimed at us. The Krauts had figured it out, and were spraying the general vicinity with all they had. Clods of dirt kicked up along the bank as we bent further down, our arms heavy with the weight we carried. I had to tilt my head back to see anything, and I could barely make out Father Dare.

  The air thrummed with bullets, hundreds of rounds slicing above us, looking for the right angle, the perfect trajectory of bullet and bone.

  They found it. Screams tore loose from throats ahead of us, the sounds of men dying. It was like a dam breaking—no more low and quiet, but a footrace as the column sprinted, trying to outrun the Bonesaw, fear taking over where caution had been in control. The bursts kept coming, and I heard Stump coming down the line, telling us to hustle, we were almost there. He stayed with us as we passed bodies being carried out, including Flint with Louie draped over his shoulders, fireman style. Other GIs were carrying wounded between them, and I was too exhausted to even look for Danny. We ran until the streambed curved and brought us out into a field, behind a stone farmhouse. Medics were waiting, and in the swirl of smoke I saw Harding, standing next to a couple of Carabinieri. What were they doing here? We set down the litter, and I collapsed against the wall, my chest heaving, my lungs choking on the smoke, my mind as clouded as the air.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SOMEBODY GAVE ME a canteen and I drank half of its contents down and poured the rest over my head. The damned gray haze was everywhere, and now smoke grenades were tossed out to cover the jeeps coming up for the wounded. I managed to stand, and Harding materialized out of the swirling clouds.

  “You okay, Boyle?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for getting us out, Colonel.”

  “I wasn’t entirely sure that runner would make it.”

  “I told him you’d make him a corporal once we got back.”

  “I’ll see to it. Your kid brother okay?”

  “I’m pretty sure, but I need to find him.”

  “Get a move on then. We have a report of Kraut tanks on the other side of that hill. If they decide to hit us now, things could get worse real fast.”

  Clutching a pair of binoculars, Harding was off to observe the German lines while I went in search of Danny. It was a mass of confusion, the badly wounded waiting for evacuation, the lightly wounded being treated behind the stone farmhouse, as smoke eddied and curled around the building and along the ground. I found Evans trying to sort out his squads from the crowd. He hadn’t seen Danny. Dead bodies were laid out, about half a dozen, but I didn’t want to look there yet. Flint walked by me, glassy-eyed, working the thousand-yard stare, so I didn’t ask him how Louie was doing.

  Father Dare was with the medics, looking about ready to pass out himself. He’d seen Stump and his squad, and thought he’d seen Danny and Charlie head down the road to Le Ferriere. I went in that direction as the Krauts lobbed a few mortar shells at us. It was halfhearted, as if they knew we’d pulled a fast one and were only going through the motions, but I jumped into a shell hole until it was over anyway.

  When the shelling stopped, I looked up to see I was sharing the hole with Phil Einsmann.

  “Hey Billy, helluva mess, isn’t it?”

  “What are you doing up here, Phil?”

  “I was with a party of brass who came up to observe the advance. I snuck away for a closer look and nearly got my head blown off. Were you out there?”

  “Yeah. Most of us made it back. Watch out for yourself, Phil. The Krauts aren’t going to be looking for that war correspondent’s patch on your shoulder.”

  “I hope I don’t get that close. But if I do, look what I won in a poker game last night.” He opened his jacket to show me his .45 automatic in a shoulder holster.

  “Nice,” I said. “For a noncombatant. Ditch that if you’re captured.”

  “Not planning on that either. You going back to the village?”

  “After I find my kid brother. Good luck,” I said, climbing out the shell hole. I wandered down the road, looking at small clusters of GIs sharing canteens or a smoke, laughing as if they hadn’t nearly been killed. Or because.

  “Billy!” It was Danny and his pal, leaning against a tree by the side of the road, eating K rations. Canned cheese and biscuits. It actually looked good. I sat down next to him and we just grinned at each other. He gave me a biscuit with cheese and for some reason it seemed like the funniest thing in the world. We both started laughing, and Charlie even joined in, understanding how good it felt to be alive and in the company of someone you cared about.

  “I saw Flint
carrying Louie out,” I said. “Is it bad?”

  “Louie is dead,” Charlie said.

  “I know, but how is he?”

  “Billy, Louie is really dead. Sticks too. They both got it in the head,” Danny said.

  “Jesus,” I said. “What a waste.” Another round of mortar fire came in, closer this time, leaving no time for mourning. Jeeps with wounded laid out on litters zipped down the road, making for the safety of Le Ferriere. “They’re getting closer.”

  “We had to get out of the smoke,” Danny said. “Charlie doesn’t like it. He got lost for a while, but I found him.”

  “It is not a good place to die,” Charlie said. “A man’s soul would be lost as sure as I was. Louie should have waited for a better place.”

  Danny raised an eyebrow, not in a mocking way, but in sympathy. It sort of made sense, considering the riverbed was underground and smoke still drifted out of it. It was hard enough for the living to get out, never mind the recently departed.

  “The smoke did save our lives,” I offered.

  “True. But it did not save Louie.”

  “Hard to argue—” A sharp crack cut me off, followed a second later by a massive explosion that engulfed the farmhouse and blew out the back wall where the wounded had been moments ago. Another retort echoed and the roof blew up, sending debris sky high. The force of the blasts was so great that the concussion instantly evaporated the smoke. This wasn’t mortar fire, it was high-velocity cannon fire.

  “Get back to Le Ferriere,” I said to Danny as I ran to the farmhouse. As usual, he didn’t listen to me, lieutenant or not. I closed in on the scene with him and Charlie on my heels. A section of roof collapsed, and granite stones fell from the weakened rear wall like tears.

  “Tigers!” someone yelled, and others took up the call. Every GI thought every German tank was a Tiger tank, but today they had it nailed. Four Tigers, their 88-mm guns pointed straight at us, were trundling across the fields, infantry spread out behind them. Harding had been right: we were sitting ducks, a mass of disorganized men with practically no cover. We had to get back to the village.

  “Fall back, fall back!” I yelled, and few needed the encouragement. I saw one Tiger halt, and knew what that meant. “Get down!”

  Another shell slammed into the farmhouse, this one bringing down the roof completely, starting a fire inside. Behind the gutted ruin, two GIs were struggling to get up, blood and dust caked on their faces.

  “Help these two get to the village,” I said, pointing out the wounded men to Danny and Charlie. I searched for Evans, not finding him anywhere, the flames and smoke making it hard to see. The heat drove me back and I stumbled over someone. I knelt and shook the man to check if he was alive. It was Louie. I’d stumbled across the dead, already laid out for Graves Registration. I could see the hit he’d taken, right at the base of the skull. It wasn’t pretty. I saw something else, too. Gunshot residue on his neck. Powder burns from a weapon held close to his head.

  “Billy, help!” It was Flint, half carrying Evans, whose arm hung limp and dripped blood. Evans looked to be in shock, his mouth half open and eyes wide. “Back there, Stump’s hurt.”

  I stumbled in the direction Flint had indicated, moving against the flow of the last of the dazed GIs making their way to Le Ferriere, my mind reeling. Who had shot Louie at close range, and why? Is that why Louie thought his time was up? Did he see it coming? And did this confirm Louie wasn’t the killer? Or did someone take revenge on him? All I knew was that another GI was dead, robbed of his chance for survival. It was a slim chance, but it was all he had in the world.

  Two more explosions wracked the earth, and I hit the dirt, feeling debris rain down on me. The clanking of tank treads grew louder, and I rose, shaking off the dust and confusion, willing my body to move faster, to get the hell out before the place was swarming with Krauts, or those tanks got close enough to use their machine guns.

  I heard a hacking, choking sound and crawled toward it. I saw two bodies, off to the side of what had been the farmhouse. One was still, the other on his knees, struggling with something wound around his neck, dust and dirt coating his hair and face. I got closer and saw it was Harding. He was pulling at the leather straps of his binoculars, and my mind struggled to understand what I was seeing, to figure out what he was doing. His mouth was open, gasping for air, getting damn little, and I saw the tightly wound straps digging into the skin of his neck. I drew my knife and cut at the leather, knowing we had only seconds before he lost consciousness, the tanks were on us, or both.

  The binoculars fell and Harding drew in a wheezing lungful of air. Deep red welts rose on his neck where the strap had gouged his skin. He motioned to Stump, unable to speak. I felt Stump’s neck and found a pulse. He had a nasty gash over one eye, and there was a lot of blood, but other than that I didn’t see another wound. But what I did see was a king of hearts, crumpled in his clenched fist. I opened his hand and showed it to Harding, although he already had a pretty good idea.

  Harding and I draped Stump over our shoulders and dragged him away, the sound of tank treads and German war cries not far behind. We met up with Danny and Charlie outside of Le Ferriere, as our artillery began to pound the area around the farmhouse, ground we had held and given up. They took Stump and we entered the village through the gate where the attack had begun early that morning, and I wondered if the brass had stuck around to watch the retreat of the survivors. Probably not.

  An antitank gun was wheeled up and positioned at the gate. All I cared about was getting some peace and quiet to think things through, which was a bit difficult with an artillery barrage sailing over my head and Tiger tanks a half mile down the road. We headed to the aid station, which was doing brisk business. Most of the wounded were being treated outside, with only the most serious cases going inside the small building, one of the few structures in Le Ferriere that had escaped damage. Ambulances pulled up and medics loaded wounded aboard, then returned to the line of men with bloody bandages and dazed looks.

  We laid Stump down and Danny began to clean his head wound, washing away blood with water from his canteen and applying sulfa powder. Harding sat on the ground, still not looking all that well. I gave him my canteen and he drank thirstily.

  “Can you talk, Colonel?”

  “Get … his … weapon,” he managed to croak out. I took Stump’s .45 from his holster as Danny looked at me strangely. I checked the magazine as I sat down next to Harding. There were six rounds, and one in the chamber, meaning one had been fired. I sniffed the barrel. Recently.

  “Louie, Danny’s squad sergeant, was shot in the back of the head, close range,” I said. “Probably when we came under fire in the streambed. With the smoke and the noise, no one would have noticed one more guy going down. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

  “Thought I saw vehicles. Used binoculars,” Harding said, choking out each word. “Next thing, someone’s twisting the strap around my neck. Forced me to the ground. Almost had me, then that Tiger opened up. I blacked out, then you were cutting the strap.”

  “I found Stump about ten feet from where you were. Did you see who attacked you?” Harding shook his head no, and drank more water. I went over to Stump and checked him again. The cut on his forehead was bad, but that seemed to be his only injury. He was probably hit by a piece of wood or masonry. If it had been shrapnel, he’d have been dead. I went through his pockets as Danny stood back. Nothing unusual.

  “What’s going on, Billy?” Danny asked. I took the card from my pocket and showed Danny. He whistled. I stowed it away and put my finger to my lips, signaling him to keep quiet about it. Then I brought him over to Harding, who’d managed to stand up.

  “Colonel Harding, this is my brother Danny.” I was glad Danny didn’t play the rookie and try to salute. Harding nodded and stuck out his hand, and they shook.

  “Billy has told us a lot about you, Colonel.”

  “I can only imagine,” Harding said, his voice retu
rning but still sounding harsh. “He’s mentioned you as well. You hold up all right out there?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “He did, Colonel, I can vouch for that,” I said.

  “Good to meet you, son. Take care of yourself. Stay low out there,” Harding growled.

  “I will, sir. That’s just what Billy tells me.”

  “Danny, see if you can find Lieutenant Evans. Flint probably brought him here.”

  “Okay, Billy,” he said, and he and Charlie began searching the wounded.

  “Do we have our killer?” Harding asked.

  “Sure looks like it. He had you lined up to be part of his royal flush.”

  “I was in the wrong place at the right time, for him anyway. I never was so glad to almost be killed by a German 88.”

  “I don’t think he’s going anywhere soon, but can you keep an eye on him? I want to find Father Dare.” I handed Harding Stump’s .45.

  “Not a problem,” Harding said. “I hear the padre does good work as a medic.”

  “He does,” I said, thinking about the .45 that he carried. Plenty of guys who weren’t officially issued automatic pistols, like Father Dare, got them one way or the other. How many of those weapons were out there today, in the smoke? A fair number, but most wouldn’t have been fired at all. This fighting hadn’t been at close quarters. I stared at Stump’s face, cleaned of blood and grime, and wondered why. Why did the killings start, and why did they have to go on?

  I asked around and a medic told me he saw Father Dare enter the village church, a few buildings down. I climbed the steps and opened the carved wooden doors, feeling the weight of centuries behind them. The small church had been hit by a shell on the roof, and thick, heavy timbers had fallen in, crushing rows of pews. Father Dare knelt at the altar, his helmet on the floor, his head bowed. He swayed, and it seemed as if he were so lost in prayer that he might lose his balance. I stepped closer, not wanting to interrupt his prayers, but unwilling to let him crack his head against the marble altar. I went to steady him, and only then noticed the pool of blood spreading under his left leg.