To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  “In school. From my boy friend too. He is a sergeant in the antitanks. Very rich. When the war is ended, he comes back to Napoli. We marry and live in America. California.”

  Kerrigan howls.

  “It is true,” she declares in the manner of one mortally offended.

  “It is posteef,” adds her companion.

  Brandon rises in disgust. “I’m blowing,” he snarls. “You guys can have these bags.”

  “A bag. Whosa bag?” Gold-Teeth’s ears are tuned for slander.

  “Who do you think?”

  “Aw, take a walk, boy. Take a walk. The fresh air’ll do you good,” says Horse-Face.

  “After this, I think I need a bath–a lysol bath.”

  Outside he pauses on the sidewalk, undecidedly. Loneliness sits on his face. He wheels and walks briskly away.

  “What’s wrong with that character?” asks Horse-Face. “Every time, he’s a wet blanket.”

  At Kerrigan’s shake, Snuffy raises his head, blinking sleepily.

  “This,” says the Irishman, “is a hillbilly who claims to be a soldier. But I’ve used more ink signing G.I. payrolls than he’s drunk army coffee.”

  Snuffy glares at the women; then his head flops back to the table.

  “No ambition,” Kerrigan explains. “Take me. When I was his age, I’d already won fourteen loving cups and six medals for sexual prowess. I was pursued by women far and wide. Blondes, brunettes, red heads. Got so many dames on my hands, I had to hire a secretary to keep books on my dates. She quit after two months. Nervous breakdown from overwork.”

  Gold-Teeth fails to follow the speech. “What you say?”

  “He claims he’s hell on wheels with women,” explains Horse-Face. “Knows all the ropes.”

  “You wanta a woman?” Gold-Teeth suddenly becomes professional.

  “Sure, one will do for a starter,” says Kerrigan. “But drink up. Hey, waiter, wine. More wine.”

  Dusk is gathering in the streets as I stroll toward the parking lot.

  “Hssss. Hey, Joe, you wanta fried eggs?”

  “No.”

  “You wanta scramble eggs?”

  “No.”

  “You wanta beefsteck?”

  “No.”

  “You wanta nice girl?”

  “No.”

  “Fine type girl. Seexteen.”

  I turn upon the ragamuffin boy who trails me. He darts back and pauses at a safe distance.

  “Hey, Joe, you gotta ceegarette?”

  “Come here.”

  “What you want?”

  “Come here, I say.”

  He approaches with the timidity of a wild animal wondering how far it can trust a man. One suspicious move on my part, and he will be off like a rabbit.

  “You geev me wahn ceegarette?”

  “No. Chocolate. You’re too young to smoke.”

  “For my papa. Wahn ceegarette for my papa.”

  In the twilight, his lifted face is ghostly in its paleness. His round, large eyes are pools of darkness. I dip into a musette bag and hand him a bar of bitter K-ration chocolate.

  “No ceegarette?”

  “No cigarette. Now scram.”

  “You no wanta nice girl. Foorteen.”

  “I thought you said sixteen.”

  “Foorteen. You no wanta?”

  “Scram.”

  “Foorteen.”

  “I said scram.”

  He dashes a few yards, halts, turns, and spits in my direction.

  I walk away.

  “Hey, Joe.”

  I pay no further attention to him. The cannon rusting on the beach; the blown bridge; and the rows of crosses. The lines of cots in a hospital tent. A boy in the dusk. Hey, Joe. The rear area from which the tides of war have receded.

  She is not the girl of whom I dreamed. Oh, no. She is eighteen all right. But already shadows dance in the hollows of her cheek, and her eyes have the tiredness of age.

  Her dress is black, but not velvet. It is a short, cotton affair that scarcely covers her knees. A broad belt, checkered with cracks, circles her waist. She wears no stockings; and the tiny shoes with the bright red bows turn out to be a pair of worn sandals.

  Her hair is in braids, and the long strands glisten in the brassy light. Her hands are long and fluttery; her body, far too thin. There is a shyness in her attitude, which does not fit the bold toss of her chin. Perhaps, too many soldiers. So what? The corner of her eye is cocked my way, while she sits primly, modestly. That is good.

  The mother studies me with frank anxiety. “Giovane,” she finally says.

  “Diciannove,” Drago explains, as unconcernedly as if he were discussing merchandise. To me he says, “She thinks you are very young. It is well.”

  There follows a sputtering conversation in Italian; then Drago announces, “I tell them you bring presents. You give me your bag.”

  I am embarrassed. The can of stew, another of beans, a small tin of cheese, a pack of cigarettes make a ridiculously small heap on the table.

  One by one Drago picks up the cans and solemnly identifies their contents. “Fava. Stufa. Formaggio.”

  The mother beams and addresses me in Italian. Drago translates. “She says you are most generous. Many thanks. You are in.”

  I am in. Drago excuses himself. His stay in town is to be brief; and he has many people to see before being off to the wars once more. A soldier in the American army with big doings ahead. God knows when he will be here again. Grazie ed addio.

  I have a half-mind to follow him. Seldom am I at ease among strangers. And here I am doubly uncomfortable. I do not understand the language of these people. I feel far more at home in the lines. I do not smoke; so there is not even the business of a cigarette to occupy hand and brain.

  The father sits in silence, drumming gnarled fingers on the table. As head of the family, he has dignity to maintain. A kindly perplexity shows on his face. Doubtless he wonders what to do with this young whippersnapper of an American soldier.

  A fat paragraph of Italian is thrown my way by the mother. I shake my head. She raises her voice and continues. Evidently she believes that volume will succeed where vocabulary has failed. Again I indicate lack of comprehension. She responds by elevating her tone to a shout.

  The situation grows ludicrous. Suddenly I burst into laughter. And Maria joins in with a giggle. The parents are puzzled. Then they see the humor. The ice is broken.

  I draw a small dictionary from my pocket and pass it to the father. He gravely peruses its contents, nodding approvingly. A word catches his eye. Calzolaio. He points it out to me and taps himself on the chest. A shoemaker.

  The dictionary is my undoing. The father eagerly races through the pages, finding new words.

  “La guerra male.”

  “Sì, the war is bad.”

  “Mussolini uomo traditore.”

  “Yes, Mussolini is a treacherous man.”

  “Per Italia dannoso.”

  “For Italy he is evil indeed.”

  “Hitler.”

  He searches through the pages of the dictionary, but can find no suitable word. So he slashes his finger across his throat, clicking sharply with his tongue. I repeat the international gesture, indicating that I am in complete agreement. Hitler should have his throat cut.

  “Germano arrogante vizioso.”

  “Vero. It is true. The Germans are arrogant and vicious.”

  “Mio figlio soldato.”

  “Your son is a soldier?”

  “Morto.”

  “Dead?”

  “Morto.”

  “I am sorry. It is the war. Io tristo. La guerra.”

  “Nessun rancore. La guerra male.”

  I have heard such talk from conquered people before, but this man seems in earnest. It is the war that is bad, says he. Hatred for one another we must not hold in our hearts.

  The game is Maria’s idea. We sit about the table throwing dice. There is a board on which is drawn an oval race track
divided into segments. The points we make with the dice indicate the number of blocks over which we move four buttons. But suppose my “man” arrives in a square occupied by a rival? Too bad. The unfortunate button must return to the starting spot while mine takes over the position. The person who gets all his buttons “home” first is the winner.

  Years ago in Texas, I played the identical game with my brothers and sisters. What now of time and distance? Briefly the memory returns: the checkered oil cloth, the warm kitchen stove, the wail of the wind about a shanty. I shake the thought from my mind and concentrate on the matter at hand.

  I have never been hotter. I talk to the dice in the loving manner of a G.I. who has his month’s pay at stake. They respond beautifully. The way those “tens” and “twelves” turn up is a miracle. As my buttons gallop around the board, Maria squeals with delight.

  Under the table, my knee finds her leg. She gives no sign of even noticing. Perhaps she thinks it an accident.

  Despite his ill-fortune with the dice, the father still has his sober dignity. With a wife and daughter looking on, he must not lose face.

  The mother sighs, “Ah, la fortuna.”

  In quiet desperation, the father picks up the dice; rattles them slowly. Abruptly he pauses, his face flooded with alarm.

  The wail of an air-raid siren falls over Naples. It is like no other sound on earth. The blood runs cold at its eerie warning.

  The excited parents grab coats and blankets. No time for the dictionary now. They shout at me in Italian, accompanying their speech with wild gestures. I shake my head firmly. I have only one night in town, and I have no intention of spending it in the cold, damp depths of a bomb shelter.

  “Come,” says Maria. “Come.” She tugs at my arm, but I will not be moved. Suddenly she gives up and sits down determinedly beside me. Her parents grow frantic. The siren’s wail continues. Maria turns a surprising spit-fire. Arising, she wrathfully stamps her foot and hurls words with the rapidity of machine-gun fire.

  The mother’s voice assumes a pleading note. Maria grabs both the father and mother and starts dragging them toward the hallway. The lights go out; a door slams. The siren has ceased. For a moment I can hear nothing but the beating of my own heart. Then the soft squeak of sandals sounds in the darkness.

  She sits opposite me at the table again. In the light spread by one tall candle, her white face seems to float. A marvelous change has come to her eyes. In their depths is a smile, a calm, strange smile that is like a veil hiding all that lies within.

  In the distance, the ack-ack is opening up. The crack of the guns grows into a fierce, churning rhythm. I reach for the dictionary and search for a word.

  “Spaventato?”

  “No,” she replies. “I am not afraid. And you?”

  “You speak English?”

  “A leetle. You not afraid.”

  “Sometimes, but not now. No, I’m not afraid now.”

  “Good.”

  She lights a cigarette and holds it awkwardly between her fingers. Puffing lightly, she blows the smoke from her mouth without inhaling. An amateur, obviously.

  “Why didn’t you speak English when your parents were here?”

  “My father do no lak eet. The English keel my brawther een Africa.”

  The drumming of the ack-ack is louder. We can now hear the popping of machine guns also. The first wave of the planes must be on the outskirts of the city.

  “Then your father must have hated me too. I was also an enemy.”

  “He do not hate. He love my brawther too much. He do not lak hees own seester remind him with speaking English. That ees all. To theenk too much ees–how you say–to go crazy.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “No sorry. Eet ees the war. You die too maybe. One cannot be sorry for all who die.”

  “Why not?”

  “Eet ees too much.”

  “I know.”

  Five bombs explode. The house rocks. The candle flame leaps and is almost extinguished.

  “Why you talk sad? Eet ees not good.”

  “I don’t want sad talk.”

  “Good.”

  She gets up and blows out the candle.

  “Geeve me your hand.”

  Fumbling in the pitch darkness, I find her outstretched fingers; they are as cool as the waters of a spring.

  The gunfire is deafening. The bombs are falling much closer. But after the front lines, it is nothing to get excited about. We live until we die. When the house shudders in the blasts, Maria’s clasp on my hand tightens.

  “I am glad you stay,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “Eet ees not lonesome. Eet can be so lonesome when the bombs fall.”

  “I know.”

  Rising to my feet, I put my arms around her. The body trembles. I kiss her full on the mouth. The trembling stops.

  Quietness again. But the all-clear has not sounded. The raid will probably last until dawn. The planes are coming over in spaced waves, keeping all of Naples on the alert. In the periods of silence, I hear the breathing of the girl. It is silky, like a wind stirring through the willows.

  Finally I ask, “Why did you act so shy when I first came here? It is not your true nature.”

  “Shy?”

  “Yes, timid.”

  “Teemid?”

  “Bashful, I mean. You did not seem pleased at all.”

  She catches on and tinkles with laughter. “Oh, that. I am–how you say–shy girl when my parents are here. Eet ees my brawther again. He says leetle seester ees to have nothing to do weeth soldiers. They are bad men. He knows. He ees a soldier heemself.”

  “And you believe it?”

  “Maybee.”

  “Then I am a bad man?”

  “Maybee. But we do not talk of eet.”

  Her finger tips move through my hair. A ragged pom-pom of the ack-ack begins again on the fringes of the city. For a moment I visualize the pips dancing on the scope of a radar instrument; the strained eyes of men, who are swiftly, deftly plotting the fire range; the tired, cursing gunners returning to their positions of action. Then I fall into a deep sleep that is not haunted by dreams.

  It is Maria who awakens me. “You must go queekly,” she says. “Eet ees all over. The day comes; and my father returns soon. Hurry.”

  A pearly light is already in the streets when I pause at the door.

  “I’m sorry I slept,” I say.

  “Eet ees all right. You were tired. Not even the guns awaken you. How could I?”

  “I am used to the guns.”

  “I know.” The hollows are back in her face. Her eyes are red; and in the cold air she shivers.

  “You have been crying,” I say.

  “No crying.”

  “Don’t kid me. You’ve been crying.”

  “Eet ees not true. You must go queekly.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “You no come back.”

  “I’ll write. I’ll send you a letter tomorrow.”

  “No. A soldier never writes; never come back. Eet ees not the first time.”

  A civilian muffled to his ears in a tattered overcoat shuffles by. From a neighboring tower, a clock strikes.

  “You must hurree. I am cold.”

  “Goodbye. I’ll write. I swear that I will write.”

  “Goodbye. Addio. Go with God.”

  That was how it was. Blocks later, I remember that I forgot even to say, “Thank you.”

  Ahead of me staggers a G.I., singing in a high tenor voice. I race up the street, yelling, “Kerrigan!” He is hatless, coatless; and his jaw has a long shallow gash. He looks at me through bleary eyes, still continuing his song.

  “What in the hell happened?”

  “Happened?” he shouts indignantly. “That bitch. That gold-toothed slut. She–where’s my coat?”

  “You probably hocked it.”

  “Where’s my hat? Where’s my money? You want to know? That lower than a goddamned snail’s belly of a
gold-toothed slut. She stole it. Rolled me cleaner’n a whistle.” Suddenly he cackles, “Horse-Face–that sonofabitch–thinks he knows women. Hell, man, I invented women.”

  With one arm around him and an eye cocked for military police, I move him toward the parking lot. A group of Japanese-American G.I.s round a corner and advance toward us at a brisk walk. Kerrigan halts, blinks his eyes incredulously, and crumples to his knees.

  “My god,” he groans. “All is lost. The Japs have captured Naples.”

  7

  KERRIGAN does not have time to shake off his hangover before simulated combat again closes about us. For three days we storm a dummy beachhead. Naval artillery pounds the shore. The barrage lifts. We leap from landing craft and, falling, crawling, firing, advance upon assigned objectives.

  Then abruptly the maneuvers cease. We are put on a strict alert, confined to the company area, and, except for a final inspection of equipment, given a day of rest. We know the signs. “Tomorrow” is on everybody’s lips. Chaplains hold special services. There is much letter writing. We still have no idea of our destination. I am too sick to care.

  I lie on my cot, sweating and shivering alternately. The malarial attack puts me in an embarrassing situation. If I go to the infirmary I think that it will seem I am deliberately trying to avoid the coming action. I lack the guts to take being thought a coward.

  Kerrigan finally reports me. My commanding officer sends for me and orders me to report to the medics. Novak accompanies me to the infirmary. With an arm around my waist, he steadies my reeling body, while I curse Kerrigan furiously.

  As we wait our turn at the infirmary, I get a fresh hold on my spinning mind. The sweat drips from my face. To Novak I say, “Don’t leave me. I’ll be back.”

  “Damned fool. Don’t come back.”

  “Wait for me.”

  “I wait.”

  “Remember the beachhead in Sicily. At first it wasn’t so bad. Then Jackson got it; and after him, Pope. We needed men.”

  “By gah, I forget that Jackson. He steal the goat in Africa and tie it to Snuffy’s bunk.”

  “Yeah. That was Jackson. Remember the time you and I went awol from the boat in Casablanca and that second louie got so mad.”