by Audie Murphy
“Sure,” says Antonio, magnanimous with self-importance. “I’ll introduce you all. We’ll have a party. But no monkey business. These are my kinfolks, see.”
Kerrigan yawns and stretches himself. “I can see it now. Family reunion. Tony kicks open a door, tosses a grenade, and counts ten before entering the old homestead.”
“By gah, yeah. He do that,” cackles Novak.
Kerrigan nods. “Certainly. Cousins and all–bologna.”
Antonio’s mood shifts. “There ain’t a one of you comin’ along,” he decides. “Fer chrisake, I wouldn’t take you to a dog funeral.”
That night the artillery fire is stepped up. The cave rocks; I cannot sleep. So I go out to the tunnel mouth, where Brandon is on watch. One always feels a gentle strength in his presence.
This tall, quiet man from the hills of Kentucky is closer to me than a brother. We have shared much in silence. He is as solid as the earth, a sticker. If the gates of hell burst open, Brandon would stick to his position.
The quality of stubbornness is in that square-cut jaw. His eyes, as deep and dark as mountain lakes, betray nothing. Only in odd moments, such as when he passes those letters from his daughter around, do we get a glimpse of the sentiment in him. He has his moods, but he does not inflict them on others.
Tonight I sense immediately that his spirits are low. That can mean but one thing. He has been thinking about home again; and that is bad indeed.
“Do you want to hit the sack? I can’t sleep, so I may as well take over.”
“No,” he says. “I’m wide awake.”
“Anything been stirring?”
“Nothing but the artillery, and a little small-arms stuff downstream.”
“Don’t you want to go in for a cigarette?”
“No. I’ve smoked till my throat’s raw.”
“It’s none of my business. But have you got something on your mind?”
“Nothing but water, I guess.”
“Drain it off.”
“Oh, I’ve been thinking too much maybe.”
“About the little girl?”
“Yeah. And about the ex-wife. Sometimes I think the old torch has burned out; then it comes back.”
“You’re still in love with her?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t be. If there’s anything I hate in the world, it’s a quitter. But I don’t know. Maybe it was my fault.”
“To hell with her.”
“You can’t say to hell with a girl that you’ve been in love with from the time you were twelve. It’s not that easy.”
“I wouldn’t know. I never had the chance to fall in love. Too damned proud to let a girl see the patches on my pants.”
He laughs quietly. “I know what you mean. But we grew up together; and I see her all over again in my daughter. She was like a child too. Restless and full of mischief.”
“You ought’ve spanked her maybe.”
“No. You can’t spank a child. You would’ve understood if you’d known Mary. She wasn’t mean. We got married too young. And the big things I’d planned didn’t pan out. I wanted to be an electrical engineer. But the baby came; and I ended up working in a brick yard.”
“You can study engineering by mail.”
“I know. I was going to get around to that. Then Mary got unhappy. Things were in a mess. We were trying to pay for a home and a car; and I don’t suppose she had much fun.”
“Neither did you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I was blind happy. Maybe it was this other guy all the time; and I couldn’t see him. Anyhow she married again. And that was it. I’d had it.”
We sit in silence. Then from over the river comes a clattering sound, followed by laughter. A German must have fallen in a hole and his comrades are amused at his clumsiness.
“I hope he broke his neck.”
“Not a jerry,” says Brandon. “Their necks are as thick as a bull’s.”
The noise seems to have caused the front to stir in its sleep.
A German shouts in English, “Sleep, swine. We kill you all before breakfast.”
From a dugout below us, a voice yells, “Go to hell, you kraut-heads.” The plea is punctuated by a blast from a Browning automatic.
It is the third day. The yellow, sputtering flame of the candle sends shadows skipping over the bearded faces of the men. In the flickering light, their strained, red eyes gleam like the eyes of caged animals.
The last of our water disappeared last night. Now thirst begins to torture our bodies. Lips crack; brains grow dizzy; talk becomes an effort.
We still have rations, but we dare not eat lest the food increase our thirst. Nerves stand on edge. We growl at one another and quarrel over trifles. Johnson’s face is longer than usual; Kerrigan has lost his bubble; Snuffy cannot sleep; and Novak is out of coffee.
Gun duels have broken out. Swope has been exchanging fire with a German machine gunner, who has our range to perfection. The slope to the river is as deadly as a gas chamber. No matter. Tonight somebody has to go out. We must have water.
As the hours wear on, I say without belief, “Relief will come today. Headquarters knows our situation.”
Antonio turns upon me with glittering eyes. “Nuts! They’re all a bunch of bat-brains.”
“Remember the Articles of War,” Kerrigan warns. “You’ll not show disrespect for your superior officers by word or deed.”
“To hell with my superior officers.”
“Careful of your language. I carry a picture of my wife in my pocket,” says Horse-Face.
“Shove it.”
“Your grandfather,” Novak suggests anxiously.
But Antonio will not be diverted. He licks his parched lips; stares at the dim wash of light through the tunnel, and says, “You can take Italy and ram it. To hell with it. To hell with everything.”
“Brother,” says Kerrigan, “the boy’s got some original ideas.”
“Whee-he-he-he.”
The spurt of energy exhausts us. We sink to the floor; the talk ceases. The artillery is drumming furiously.
Despite the noise I doze. I dream that I stand in an open field surrounded by a forest in which birds sing. Then a dark shadow swoops over the earth; and all becomes expectantly, fearfully still. My feet seem rooted to the earth. I struggle to free them.
Brrrrrp.
I awake like an animal, instantly visualizing the picture. Novak beats me to the tunnel. Nobody is on watch. We drop to our knees and gaze through the slit.
The burst of fire has knocked Antonio down. I shout, “Come back, you crazy fool. Come back,” and seize the BAR to cover him.
He scrambles from the ground, still clutching his canteen. Pure terror stands on his face. He takes a step and his right lower leg bends double. The bone thrusts through the flesh; and he tries to walk on the stump. I cannot locate the enemy gunner, but he either has ammunition to waste or is bored with the lack of targets. His second burst is long and unhurried. The lead eats through Antonio’s mid-parts, like a saw chewing through wood. The kraut is a butcher.
Little Mike screams, “Gah damn sonsabeeches,” and starts around the sandbag wall. I drop the gun and grab him. He kicks me flat. I recover and seize him again. He beats me with his fist; and I throw a hard punch to his stomach. He doubles up. I get a headlock on him and yell for Brandon and Kerrigan.
The Irishman shakes and curses Novak back to sanity, while I sit on the ground and wipe a bleeding nose.
Swope joins us. “I should have known he’d popped his topper,” he says. “I oughtn’t to let him take over.”
“It wasn’t your fault. He was bound to get it that way sooner or later.”
“I didn’t notice the canteen. Said he just wanted a little air.” The Cherokee picks up the BAR, thrusts its barrel through the slot; and murder is in his eyes.
I go inside to see Novak. He is stretched on the ground with his face in his arms. The little candle sputters; the men breathe heavily. And thick veins bulge at the Polack�
�s temples.
“Mike.”
He makes no response.
“Goddammit, man, it would have been no use. Antonio was already dead.”
He still does not move. So I rejoin Swope and Kerrigan. The Indian has his gaze fixed on the opposite bank. Kerrigan drums on his knees with his fingers.
I peep through the slot. Antonio lies in the mud with his leg doubled beneath him. He has come home to the soil that gave his parents birth.
Within a few hours a furious fire fight is raging across the river. And we know that our men have broken through the German lines. The pressure is off. Our relief arrives with rations, water, and ammunition. The next morning we cross the river on a bridge and join the drive toward our next major objective, the communications center of Mignano.
4
MIGNANO lies in a broad valley through which run an important railroad and the famed arterial Highway Six. North of the town, steep, brush-covered Mount Lungo splits the flatlands like a spur. On the eastern side of the valley is oval-shaped Mount Rotondo. At its base is a rocky elevation, known on the military maps simply as Hill 193. The highway curves around it like a horseshoe and winds onward toward Cassino and Rome.
On both the mountains the Germans are strongly entrenched, with their guns dominating the valley. The area forms a powerful outpost for the lines that the enemy has prepared for his winter defensive. Cassino, which will soon have the eyes of the world turned upon it, is now but a focal point in the German lines.
Our strategy is to by-pass Mignano and strike directly against the mountains protecting the city. The terrain over which we advance is a nightmare for offensive troops. The narrow trails, frequently on the edge of sheer cliffs and deep gorges, are so treacherous that pack mules often lose their footing and tumble to their death. Sometimes the mules cannot make it at all. Supplies have to be dragged up the slope by men inching their way on all fours.
The Germans, holed-up among the rocks, are difficult to locate until we are upon them. The ground is slippery with mud; and visibility is cut drastically by a heavy autumn mist that lies over the land.
Beneath the mist my squad moves cautiously forward on a reconnaissance mission. A German tank waits at the edge of a grove, but it is so expertly camouflaged that we overlook it. We are walking straight toward the tank when Novak stops abruptly. He cocks his ear to the right and left. His worried eyes dart all about.
“Somewhere here are the sonsabeeches,” he whispers.
“You’re dreaming things, Mike. You’re battle whacky.”
“Naw. Naw. Smell ’em.”
“That’s Snuffy’s feet. They get washed only during landings.”
“Good gah, look! There!”
The snout of the cannon is being quietly lowered upon us. Our minds freeze. Like birds fascinated by the eyes of a snake, we stand motionless. The krauts jerk the camouflage net from the tank. The engine starts. Our minds snap free of the spell.
“Head,” says Horse-Face, “stay with me. Feet don’t let me down.” He is off.
I follow Novak’s churning short legs. Speed is the one essential. No adequate cover is at hand. The first shell screams overhead, smacks into the earth, and explodes just ahead of us. Horse-Face pivots to the right, and we follow him.
“Wait! Wait!” cries a terrified voice. “I’ve busted my goddam leg.”
We pause, turn. It is Capehart, who came in as a replacement for Antonio. He is floundering forwards on hands and knees, still dragging his rifle by the sling. Kerrigan and Brandon dash toward him. Seizing him by the shoulders of his canvas jacket, they drag him along like a sled.
The tank has lurched out of its hiding place. Another shell cracks. We slide into a gully. Capehart has gone into a panic.
“Oh, jeezus. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. It’s broke.”
“Take it easy, son,” says Horse-Face. “Nobody’s pulling out on you.” He peers over the gully’s edge. “It’s coming all right. Somebody’s got to pull a Samson. You, Kerrigan. You’re the only one that’s got the jawbone of an ass.”
“It’s not funny,” spits the Irishman. “I’ve been in worse spots, but I can’t say just when.”
Novak whistles and motions us to a far end of the ditch. He has discovered a clump of bushes. We crawl toward it flat on our bellies; and in this maneuver Capehart is the most energetic of us all.
The tank has stopped. A crew member pokes his head out of the hatch and sweeps the terrain with field glasses.
“Six inches of armor; and the bastards are still scared of the open,” says Kerrigan.
“I hope they stay scared,” adds Horse-Face. “I got a skin that’s allergic to lead.”
“You got a skin like an alligator.”
“Reminds me of an old girl I knowed once. Worked in a circus in summer and wintered in Baltimore. Says, ‘Colonel–’”
The hatch door on the tank closes. The engine starts.
“Says, ‘Colonel–’”
“For chrisake, shut up.”
The nose of the tank swings toward us.
“Had a hide like a real alligator. Says, ‘Colonel–’”
“Shut up.”
The tank turns completely around and rumbles back toward the grove.
“A fraidy-cat,” says Snuffy.
“Fraidy, hell. Where’ve you been?”
“I been rat here.”
“You been so quiet I thought you’d died.”
“I was savin’ my breath for the rat race.”
Capehart’s ankle has swollen badly. We have to cut off his shoe before carrying him on down the slope.
In the valley the battle grows in intensity. Several times we try storming up the southern side of Mount Rotondo and are stopped cold. A ruse finally does the trick. While elements of our regiment attack from the south and southwest to divert the Germans, a battalion of the 30th strikes from the flank and rear, taking the enemy by surprise. The mountain falls into our hands. But counteraction is immediate and sudden. Barrages of artillery and mortar fire are thrown upon us. Groups are isolated. Lines become confused.
As dusk falls, we wait for the company to assemble at the bottom of Hill 193, which our battalion is to take over. The clump of boots causes me to prick up my ears. It is time that the rest of the men were showing up. When the dark shapes appear on the road, I shout to give them the direction.
The shapes halt; and I hear the growl of a German. It is too late to warn the men. I throw my rifle into position and start firing. The krauts fall back. But they know where we are now, and there is no time to waste. We start scrambling up the slope of the hill; and we do not stop until we find an abandoned quarry, which we slip into for the night.
Now the light of the new day is streaking the sky, beneath which the enemy is creeping.
A combat patrol.
Seven gray-coated and helmeted forms emerging like ghosts from the mist of an Italian dawn. Beneath the uniforms, seven men. The warm blood throbs through their veins; their chests heave. And one casts an anxious eye toward the light that blooms in the sky.
Seven soldiers seeking us out. Grenades swing from their belts; their rifles are ready; and the ears are bent for the slightest sound that will give our position away. Trained to kill without an instant’s hesitation or an atom of mercy, they want only the opportunity to blow us into mincemeat.
We accept the facts coolly; remove the safety locks on our rifles; and lie as still as the rocks among which we hide at the edge of the quarry.
My mouth goes dry; muscles tighten, the heart beats in slow, steady pulsations.
Quietly, rapidly Swope checks his machine gun. He chooses his range, gauges his sights, and freezes into position. It is his job. If he fails, we must think and act quickly; otherwise we may think and act no more. But we have every confidence in that calm trigger finger and piercing blackness of eye.
The Germans labor up a draw that cuts the slope like a wrinkle in a fat man’s stomach. Despite all care, their boots slip
on the stony soil; and at each small sound the men start nervously.
The leader is obviously an old-timer. I can see from his actions that he does not like the situation at all. The route he has chosen is dangerous indeed, but is the best that the area offers. On two sides, he has at least partial concealment.
But what of the forward end of the draw? A greenhorn should know that would be covered. Evidently the German knows too. He halts, waves his men down, and moves forward a few yards alone.
He pauses and gazes straight in our direction. I glance at Swope. He has the tense, sensitive, motionless appearance of a bird dog at point.
Apparently the German has not spotted us, but still he is not satisfied. Again he advances, stops, and scans the terrain. Then he shrugs his shoulders and motions for his men to join him.
We know when they are in effective range of the gun. Still Swope waits. With his cold Indian cunning, he is letting them come dangerously close.
“What’s the Chief going to do?” whispers Kerrigan irritably. “Shake hands with the krauts before he shoots them?”
The bronzed head snaps forward. Rat-ta-ta-ta … Twenty rounds. No more. Swope is not one to waste ammunition.
“Okay,” he says, without turning his head. “They’re yours.”
We spring to our feet, fingering the triggers of our rifles. Long ago we learned the wisdom of a stock army saying: “The only safe Germans are dead ones.”
Four of the krauts, with weaponless hands hoisted, register stunned surprise. No matter how much you expect it, you’re always surprised when it comes. Their comrades lie on the earth. Already the blood wells from their middle-parts. Swope aims not too high, not too low. He seldom misses the vital organs.
From the ripped bodies comes only the sound of gasping. Shock for the instant stifles the pain that will soon stab through the flesh like thrusts from a red-hot sword.
Brandon, for all of his experience, has never learned to accept such sights. He turns his head from the bleeding men, muttering, “Belly wounds.”
