To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  The enchanted bottles are drained. Talk ceases. The Italians regard us impatiently. We sink back into our old indifference. Our eyes grow heavy. We buckle on our cartridge belts and pick up our carbines.

  “Buona sera.”

  “Buona sera, amici. Addio.”

  Outside the night is so clear that the stars seem liquid. To the north, we can see the flash of artillery fire, but we are too far away for the noise. We walk through the fields alert for the challenge of guards.

  “This Pietro Dominico,” I say.

  Brandon laughs. “You didn’t for a minute believe that he had a cousin in New York,” he replies.

  Discipline tightens. Night and day, we spend hours executing new tactics against a supposed enemy. In full battle gear, we wade to our hips in sea water and crawl through the marshes on our bellies. Our clothes are crusted with mud and salt, and we think longingly of the heat of Sicily.

  The men are in a dark mood. They are certain we are being prepared for slaughter. We pick fights with rear echelon troops. Tempers snap; and fists fly among old comrades at little provocation. Even Kerrigan. is depressed. He becomes so dispirited that one day he even decides to write home.

  Rumors buzz. We are to spearhead an assault on a new beachhead. We are to invade southern France. We are to be sent to England for a cross-channel D-Day. And despite the amphibious training, some say we are to lead an all-out drive on Rome.

  Drago, a native Italian, has joined our company as a camp follower. The brass has not discovered him, and the men do not care. He is a born soldier of fortune, sliding from one uniform into another with little effort and no conscience. He avoids work with an artistry, whistles a great deal, and makes many jokes. Novak does not trust him; nor do I. I try to avoid him, but he cottons to me like a brother.

  There is a new rumor. Kerrigan swears he got the news from a headquarters clerk who heard a captain confirming it. We are to get overnight passes to Naples.

  Drago becomes suddenly popular. He has lived in Naples, knows the town, and has promised to get girls for half the men in the company.

  The idea of an actual girl sets my brain afire. As I lie in my blankets at night, she comes to me from the darkness. A tiny brunette with chestnut hair tumbling to her shoulders. She is delicate as a flower, and beautiful as June; and God knows what she sees in me. But for some reason I am an exception.

  She is a virgin who has somehow escaped the rot and evil of war. No soldier has ever touched her. She has lips the color of cherries, and laughter is in her eyes.

  She is eighteen. The curves of her body show through her dress. It is a long gown of black velvet, with a ribbon to match at the throat. Her shoes are absurdly small with bows of red ribbon on the tops.

  An only child, she lives with her parents on a broad, clean street in Naples. Two tall poplars stand in the yard; and in the house a caged bird sings.

  Her name is Maria. The introduction is superfluous. We feel that we have known each other forever. Have we not? She has lived in my dreams for years. So what is the need of Drago’s introduction. A matter of form. Okay. He performs it and bids us a hasty good night.

  Her parents, sensing that we wish to be alone, start yawning. They are sorry to be such dull company. But after all, it has been a hard day. And they have to get up early tomorrow. So Buona sera, amico.

  We lie on a thick, woolen rug by a stove on which a kettle bubbles tunefully. The fire crackles, and there is a good smell of wood smoke. Maria laughs at the canary because it is annoyed. With beady, resentful eyes fixed upon us, it chirps sleepily.

  “He’s unhappy because of the light,” she says.

  “Well, turn it out.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Okay.”

  At the touch of her fingers, the fever of war disappears. Weariness goes from the body, and hope comes again to the heart. Tomorrow becomes a golden word.

  Tomorrow.

  The girl snuggles to me hungrily, with her warm flesh filling all the hollows of my body. The brain does not think. Time does not move. We grow together; and for the moment there is only one identity. We.

  This is the absurd dream that I fashion in the heart of night, when a man can be so much alone.

  Abruptly comes the terrified cry, “Tanks, tanks!”

  Instinctively I bolt to a sitting position. But it is only Martinez and his nightmare again. Kerrigan thrusts out a leg and tumbles over the Mexican’s cot.

  In the dim light, Martinez stares stupidly about as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

  “Jesus,” he finally says, “where are we?”

  “El Paso, Texas,” Kerrigan replies. “You’ve been drunk for three days.”

  The six occupants of the tent are all awake. Canteens clink, and flames spurt as cigarettes are lighted. I squint at the luminous dial of my watch. It is one o’clock in the morning.

  For a while we lie without speaking. We have been together so long and closely that there seems not a detail of one another’s lives with which we are not familiar. Nothing remains to talk about.

  Horse-Face smokes his second cigarette. Cupping his chin in his hand, he leans on his elbow. “That Martinez would have to scare up his tanks just as I was about to get places with an old girl,” says he. “Blonde I met in Ohio. Saw her in a beer joint. Introduced myself. Asked her to dance. She said, ‘Get away, soldier. I know what you’re lookin’ for, and I ain’t that kind of a girl.’ ‘For chrisake,’ says I, ‘who said I was lookin’ for what? I’m a lonesome dogface just wantin’ a little fun before I take off for parts unknown to fight for the likes of you.’ ‘Oh, yeah?’ says she. ‘You’re damned tootin’,’ says I.

  “Finally broke her down. Bought her a beer. She histed her glass and said, ‘Here’s to it.’ Spent all my money gettin’ her drunk. Then she rubbed herself all over me. Had boobs as big as punkins. ‘Honey,’ says I, ‘what’re we waitin’ for?’ Says she, ‘My husband.’ ‘You’re kiddin’,’ says I. ‘You’ll see,’ says she.

  “Husband comes in lookin’ like a damned gorilla. ‘Have a beer,’ says I. ‘Okay,’ says he, ‘you sonofabitch, I’ll take splat.’ With that he gives me a punch in the jaw. Splat! I get up off the floor and say, ‘Like a beer myself. I’ll take crash.’ Pick up a chair, bust it over his head. Crash! Then I take off like a bat out of hell. Didn’t have bus fare back to camp. Had to walk seven miles.

  “A few nights later, saw the girl again. Says she–”

  “For the love of god,” snarls Brandon, “shut up and let a man get some sleep.”

  The cots creak as we twist our bodies into the taut canvas. Silence again. But the dream is broken. Maria does not return. Burning tobacco glows from Brandon’s bunk. When he pulls on his cigarette, a red light falls on his face. His eyes are wide open.

  (Deer daddy i am in school but the teacher is not looking. she is a good teecher but gets awaful mad sometimes. i ride my bicikel to school, it rained yesterday and i made 100 in arithmetik but i did not make 100 in speling. when are you coming home. granny says the war is abot over. i hope so becaus i miss you. mama come to see me sunday and granny woud not talk to her. she brot me a new dress and took me walking. we met her new husban at the drugstore and he bought me some ice cream. but i was not hungry. when are you coming home? well i will close with love from your daughter Marion. we don’t have to go to school thankgivin. uncle jim fell off a horse and brok his arm.)

  I hear the changing of the guard and know that it is four o’clock. Still I cannot sleep. I pull on my shoes and walk to the latrine in my underwear. A yawning sentry, who has just finished his watch, is relieving himself at the urine trough. We do not speak. To the south, ack-ack shells are bursting in the sky, and tracer bullets stream upwards. Naples is having an air raid.

  6

  THE PENDULUM swings with a loud tick-tock. The clock’s hands stand at three. A sprinkle of chimes spills over Naples. Slanting, yellow light from a winter sun crawls up the sides of the b
uildings. It is January.

  At a corner table in the café, an American paratrooper sleeps. His head, nestled in his folded arms, rests on the marble top. He breathes heavily. A waiter, who has the mincing movements of a girl, removes two empty bottles and wipes off the table. He shakes the slumbering soldier, but the man does not stir.

  The waiter shrugs his shoulders. “Ubriaco,” he says to us. “He ees dronk.”

  “Then let him alone. He’s bothering nobody,” Kerrigan replies.

  “Sì, signore. He ees a freend?”

  “He is a soldier.”

  “Eet ees obvious,” says the waiter indignantly. He tosses his chin up and flutters over to the bar.

  “You have hurt his feelings,” Brandon observes.

  “He is a butterfly,” says Kerrigan.

  “A butterfly?”

  “A flutter-bug. To hell with him.” He glances at the stupefied G.I. “What a way to spend a pass. Folded up like an accordion.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Brandon asks. “At least, he’s unconscious.”

  “Why don’t you loosen up?” says Horse-Face. “We ain’t got much time in this burg.”

  “I’ve got the blue, screaming willies; and I can’t shake ’em. This wine must be watered.”

  “I’ve drunk worse,” says Snuffy. “But if we jest had a quart of Carolina corn like my uncle used to make.”

  Kerrigan is slightly sarcastic. “Your uncle? He ever shoot any revenooers?”

  “Why shore. But Uncle Ephe was too soft for his own good. Used bird shot instead of buck. Had a still in a laurel thicket. Run the stove pipe up a holler tree to hide the smoke. Set the tree on far. Revenooers happened to be in the neighborhood; seen the smoke; come up to see what goes on.

  “Uncle Ephe lets go with a double-barreled shotgun. But them bird shot just sting the revenooers; makes ’em mad. As I said, he shoulda used buck; but uncle weren’t no blood thirsty man. Them revenooers mow him down like a rabbit.

  “Then somethin’ moves in the bushes. Revenooers blaze away agin. Kill my uncle’s cow. It was a sad day. People from all over come to my uncle’s funeral. Never seen such a turnout. People said, ‘There goes the best damned moonshiner in these hills. Never bothered nobody. Allers give full measure; and his whisky was smooth as a snake’s hips.’ My aunt shore took it hard. Almost went nuts. Sich weepin’ and wailin’ you never heard the like. She shore thought a lot of that cow.”

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time, precious time, flows by.

  Three British soldiers in heavy, frayed uniforms enter. They are husky men with blithe, red faces. One leads a terrier on a leash. They seat themselves near us. The dog hops into a chair, puts paws on the table, and perks up its ears.

  The waiter is distressed. “No dogs,” he says. “Ees forbeeden.”

  “Ay?” replies the Britisher who holds the leash. “The dog? No, no. ’E’s a good bloke.” Turning gravely to the terrier, he adds, “There is no beer. But if it’s wine you want, speak, lad.”

  The dog barks joyfully.

  “Ees forbeeden,” the waiter repeats angrily.

  “Oh, get a move on, mon. A bottle of wine and four glasses. ’Urry.”

  “Sì, signore, bot–”

  The soldier half-rises. “On your way, mon.”

  “Sì, signore. Foor glasses.”

  The dog gingerly laps the wine from the tumbler, pausing frequently to lick the red drops from his chops.

  Snuffy is intrigued. He goes over and pats the dog on his head.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Cornwall,” is the reply. “‘E’s a bloomin’ sot.”

  “Had a dog myself once,” says Snuffy. “Named Lily. Smartest hound in the whole Smoky Mountains. Done everything but speak English. Could’ve learned that too, but she quit school at the age of six months. Didn’t like the ‘rithmetic teacher. I taken her to town and got her a job playing shortstop on a baseball team. Never missed a fly; never missed a grounder. Caught the ball in her mouth and run like hell with it to the baseman. Fastest thing on four feet. Circus man seen her and offered to swap me an elephant for her. I said, ‘No. Be like tradin’ off my own flesh and blood.’”

  “Ay?” one of the Britishers interjects. “A dog, you say.”

  “Shore,” Snuffy continues. “Old Lily. She kept my family in rations for years. Best hunter any man ever seen. I worked out a system with her. Tacked different sized possum hides on boards. Say we had one person comin’ for dinner. I’d hang the littlest hide on the back porch. Lily’d get the measure, go out into the woods, and fetch back a ’possum the same size. Say we had three people comin’. All I done was hang out a bigger hide. Lily never missed. She was a stickler for rightness.”

  He pauses dramatically. The British are fascinated. “What ’appened to her?” asks one.

  “A sad thing. One day a man wearin’ a coonskin coat visited us. Hung the coat on the back porch. Poor Lily. I can see exactly what took place. She took the measure of that coat and said to herself, ‘Couldn’t be.’ But she was a dog that knowed her duty. She took off into a woods and never come back. She’s still out lookin’ for a ’possum big as that coat.”

  The faces of the Britishers register blank astonishment; then hearing our laughter, they turn to us grinning good-naturedly.

  “I say, Yanks, we should breed Old Lily to Cornwall ‘ere,” suggests one. “We’d get the damndest set of pups in the bleedin’ combined armies.”

  Says Snuffy, “She’d never take to that wino.” He glances at the glass in his own hand. “I’m scared to death she’ll find out I’ve been hittin’ the stuff myself.”

  The shadows spread in the street. The paratrooper has aroused himself and staggered through the door. It is Snuffy who is napping now. Brandon stares into space. Kerrigan and Horse-Face are bleary. They sing one of our ribald marching songs, keeping time, to the annoyance of the waiter, by tapping their glasses on the table. It is a ballad of endless verses that chronicle the mournful story of a G.I. who has lost a very private and potent part of his anatomy.

  I do not drink, but if the wine helps my comrades to a few hours of forgetfulness, well and good. I have my own form of intoxication. The dream of a girl. At six o’clock I am to meet Drago at the military parking lot and be taken to meet Maria. She’s a nice girl, not one of your trollops that falls in with anything wearing khaki.

  Horse-Face perks up. He gives Kerrigan the elbow, and the Irishman squints his eyes into focus. Two women have entered the café. Their dark eyes boldly, swiftly case the room. They see our stares and suddenly assume dignity.

  It is an old ruse. They are obvious prostitutes, but, begging our pardon, they would have us to know they are ladies. I notice that they are more pertly dressed than the usual Italians. Doubtless they have bought their clothes from the black market.

  They seat themselves near us and address the waiter in Italian. His attitude is respectful, almost fawning. He goes to a room in the rear and returns with two tall, slender glasses of green liqueur. One reaches into a huge artificial leather bag and fishes out a bundle of “occupation” money. She tosses some bills on the table. The waiter bows. “Grazie, signora.”

  At close range, they appear to be in worn middle-twenties. A caking of powder on their olive skin makes their faces look dirty. Their lips are full and scarlet. One of the women has a sear in the middle of her forehead. The other has two gold teeth which gleam when she smiles. But for all that they are still women with their feminine bodies, provocative, mysterious, and ready. I feel nervous and uncomfortable.

  Kerrigan pulls himself to his feet and goes to their table.

  “Come sit with us,” he says. “I wish to introduce you to the most eminent set of sonsabitches that you’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting.”

  Gold-Teeth regards him with haughtiness. “No speak English,” she declares.

  “Neither do I,” says the Irishman. “The language I speak is bed.”

  “What you mea
n? Is bed?”

  “Is bed. Letto.”

  “Ah, letto. You are a bed boy.” She heartily laughs at her own pun.

  “Now will you come to our table?”

  “Sì, why not? You buy us a drink?”

  “I’ll buy you two drinks; and they’ll be bed for you,” says the Irishman significantly.

  “Ah, you are foney.”

  “What you mean phony?”

  “Foney. You make me to laugh.”

  “I’ll make you all right,” says Kerrigan, pleased at the compliment.

  Introducing us, he uses the names of our company commander, platoon officer, and first sergeant. It is a precaution against possible aftermath. If names are mentioned, let the men who own them do the explaining to headquarters.

  Gold-Teeth eyes me intently; then she runs her fingers through my hair. “He is a babee,” she says. “He is too yong for soldier.”

  I grow cold inside and fling her hand off, growling, “Get away before I break your neck.” I cannot explain the attitude. My scalp feels tingly and dirty.

  Horse-Face guffaws. “Be damned sure he don’t get you in a corner. He’ll babee you. He’s the champion tomcat of east Texas and parts of Oklahoma. To get him in the army, recruiting officers set a bear trap and baited it with a woman.”

  “He is a babee,” Gold-Teeth insists. “I teach him.”

  “Let him alone,” says Kerrigan. “I’ll teach you–plenty.” He grabs her knee, and she lets out a yell of surprise.

  The waiter rushes over, alarmed. “Signori, the polizia militare. The café weel be off leemets.”

  “Okay. Okay,” says Kerrigan. “Don’t bust a blood vessel.”

  “Where’d you learn English?” Horse-Face asks Gold-Teeth.