by Audie Murphy
“By gah, he bust a gut. And you tell him. What you tell him?”
“He threatens to bust us. And I say to him, ‘Sir, we’re already buck privates in the rear rank. What are you going to do? Make us civilians?’”
“By gah, that’s what you tell him.”
“And just as he was ready to throw the book at us, the trucks come to move us up toward the front.”
“Yeah. We wave back at him.”
A medic approaches, flicks a thermometer, and thrusts it under my tongue. Withdrawing it, he scans the scale, whistles sharply, and leads me back to a captain.
The officer rolls back my eyelids and puts a hand on my forehead. “Get him to the hospital,” he says.
“I don’t want to go. My outfit’s leaving.”
“Get him to the hospital. Report him to his commanding officer. Malaria. Temperature 105. Absolutely unfit for duty.”
“But, captain.”
“That is all.”
I go out to Novak. “I’ll slip off. I swear I will.”
“Damned fool. Go to bed. We have a dry run maybe.”
“The hell you will. I know.”
A wave of giddiness seizes my brain. I sink to a chair. “Okay, Novak, turn in my equipment.”
“I do it.”
“And when you get where you’re going, dig a big hole and keep the coffee hot. I’ll be up. So help me, I’ll be up.”
“By gah, I dig the hole.”
I lie on a cot. Darkness strikes. I wake up in a hospital in Naples. A nurse, a pretty brunette with violet eyes, bends over me. “Do you feel better?” she asks.
“I feel like hell. What’s wrong with my feet?”
“Nothing.”
“There is too. They’re all swollen.”
“It’s only a symptom. Nothing’s wrong with your feet. Go back to sleep.”
“Nurse. What happened to the Third Division?”
“I don’t know.”
“The hell you don’t. What happened to it?”
“I tell you I don’t know.”
“Where is Novak?”
“Novak?”
“The little short guy that brought me here.”
“You came in an ambulance.”
“Then what happened to Novak?”
“I don’t know. If you want to get well, go back to sleep.”
“How long will it take?”
“A few days, if you don’t act stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn. I’ve got to join my company. It’s leaving. Did you know that?”
“No. Go to sleep.”
Again I drift into space. Hours later, Violet Eyes awakens me to give me medicine. I feel much better, but some dim regret bothers my conscience.
“I talked out of my head, didn’t I?”
“You said nothing.”
“I remember talking.”
“It’s all right. You did nothing wrong. Down with your medicine now. Bottoms up.”
In less than a week, I am among a boatload of replacements headed for Anzio. Fifteen of us, just released from the hospital, are returning to our outfits. One man, who has had gonorrhea, bitterly claims he is not cured. He still has a “run.”
“That’s the only kind of discharge you get in this army,” dryly remarks a doughfoot.
When we arrive, bright afternoon lies over the beachhead, which looks calm enough. Many boats stand offshore. Ducks and trucks drone over the sand with supplies.
But scarcely have our feet touched land before five German planes buzz over at high altitude. The new men scatter like frightened chickens. But an experienced eye can see that the krauts are after the boats. Black puffs of flak smoke blossom in the sky. The bombs fall into the sea, sending up spouts of water. The planes wheel up the coast. In five minutes they will be safely back over their own territory.
As we hike inland, jeeps drawing trailerloads of corpses pass us. The bodies, stacked like wood, are covered with shelter-halves. But arms and legs bobble grotesquely over the sides of the vehicles. Evidently graves registration lacks either time or mattress covers in which to sack the bodies. My step quickens. I have an urgent need to learn how my comrades have fared.
At divisional headquarters, we stop. A sergeant spots me. He is a regular army man who throws his weight about plenty. He boils at the irreverence for authority on the part of wartime soldiers. I try unsuccessfully to duck him.
“Hey, you.”
“Speaking to me?”
“Who’d you think I’m talking to. Unload your pack. I’ve got a detail for you.”
“Sorry, Mac, I’m going up to my outfit.”
“The hell you are. This is an order.”
“Oh, go bury your head in the sand.”
“In the old army–”
“To hell with the old army.”
“I’ll report you,” he screams. “You’ll get the book.”
“Report me. Then come up to the front and get me.”
“What’s your name?” he rages.
That is all I need to know. “George S. Eisenhower Bradley. Rank: acting private. Serial number: one billion two and a half.”
“Let me see your papers.”
“Aw, go to hell.” Slinging my carbine on my shoulder, I start up a road marked by an arrow and blue diamond, which is the code symbol of my regiment.
As I plod along, I study the terrain instinctively. As a farm youngster, the land meant either hunger or bread to me. Now its shape is the difference between life and death. Every roll, depression, rock, or tree is significant.
The earth over which I walk is flat, offering practically no cover against automatic fire. Drainage ditches criss-cross the land. These would give shelter to the stationary enemy. The advance must have been murderous. In the distance is a chain of wooded rises. I guess that is where the Germans have dug in. The enemy and his eternal hills that must be taken with blood, guts, and steel.
Night is falling when I reach the battered farmhouse in which our company headquarters is located. I push aside the black-out blanket in the door and see a sliver of light.
Alone in the orderly room, Anderson is typing out reports by a gasoline lantern.
“Hello, Anderson. You can stop writing your letters of condolence. I’m back.”
He returns the greeting with a sardonic grin. “Welcome to Hell’s Junction. We can sure use you.”
“Been rough?”
“Jeezus!” His head shakes slowly, soberly. “Plain slaughter. The company’s down to thirty-four men.”
He resumes his typing; and my heart starts pounding.
“The third platoon?”
“Beat up pretty badly. Incidentally, congratulations.”
“What for?”
“You’ve been promoted to staff sergeant.”
“Where’s Kerrigan?”
He lifts an impatient eyebrow. “In the rear. Shell splinter in his leg, I think. Nothing serious. He should be back up tonight.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. More figures go on the paper.
“How’s Little Mike?”
“Who?”
“Novak.”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead? When?”
“The third day, I think.”
“How’d he get it?”
“For chrisake. How would I know? I don’t run the meat wagon.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“How about Swope?”
“Wounded.”
“Badly?”
“Man, I’m just the company clerk, not a medical report. Swope was knocked out. Wounded. That’s all I know–except that I’m twelve hours late with these papers. You’d better check in with the old man. He’s asleep in the next room.”
“What are our orders?”
“The same as they’ve been for two days. Attack.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I open the door and hear the sound of laborious breathing.
“Sir.”
He awakes with a snort.
; “Murphy reporting for duty.”
He lights a cigarette; and in the brief flare of the match I see that his face is etched with worry and weariness.
“How’s the malaria?”
“I’m okay.”
“Good. Feel like taking out a reconnaissance patrol?”
“Suits me.”
He spreads out a map by the orderly room lantern. I glance at the details for a sketchy picture of the terrain. Fields; patches of trees; to the right, the Mussolini Canal; parallel to it numerous ditches called fossi; at right angles a road; beyond it a highway; a railroad; a town called Cisterna.
The captain points to the roadway. “The krauts,” says he, “are in this area and thicker than flies. They’re up to something. We suspect that they’re bringing up armor. It’ll be your job to get behind the lines and find out. I’d stick to the fields as much as possible. Your direction will be about north northeast. Any questions?”
“Who’s going with me?”
“Martinez and Evans have volunteered. Are they all right?”
“They’re okay.”
“You’ll report to Sergeant Beltsky. Lieutenant Ward is dead. Goddamned sniper got him the first day.”
“Yessir.” I turn on my heel to go.
“Murphy.”
“Yessir.”
“When you’re challenged in the area of our lines, for godsake, sing out quickly. The boys are trigger-happy. They’ll shoot at a shadow.”
“Yessir.”
Outside the night is crisp with winter. A chilling wind blows in from the sea, and in the western sky hangs one golden star. From the German lines floats a stream of white tracers, followed by the chatter of the gun. A spasm of loneliness seizes me. I am not one to question the way of things, but, almighty God, why did it have to be Little Mike?
I find Beltsky’s dugout and slide in. He fastens a shelter-half over the entrance and strikes a match to a candle. Mud covers him from head to foot, and he looks as though he has not slept in a week.
It is a deep hole. The bottom is sticky with ooze; water seeps in from the sides. Poles, grass, and sod form the roof. Bandoleers of cartridges and a case of grenades lie in a corner.
“Nice place you’ve got here.”
He smiles tiredly. “I always wanted a home in the country. Guess this is it. Cooper’s in here with me. And every time a shell hits within a quarter of a mile, he grabs a shovel and starts digging us in deeper.”
“He’s a funny guy. I’ve seen him cool as a button during a fight.”
“Yeah. He’s got a kink in his mind. Thinks it’s the big stuff that’ll get him.”
“Where’s he now?”
“Out rounding up Martinez and Evans for a patrol. You like to get in on it?”
“I am. Just got all the dope from the old man.”
“Good. Not too shaky?”
“I’m okay.”
“You heard about that armor business? If the krauts can get enough tanks in the field, it’s the end for us. I hear we’ve not got enough stuff on the whole beachhead to stand up to a real armor attack.”
“I feel my malaria coming back.”
He grins. “You’ll be back in the hospital soon enough–if you live.”
“Kerrigan won’t be up in time for the patrol?”
“No. This is a rush order.”
“I’d sure like to take that character along. Next to a shortage of booze, he hates patrols.”
“I wish you could wait for him.”
“You know how Swope and Little Mike got it?”
“No. Things were pretty awful. We got the holy hell kicked out of us. I did see Prouty get his. Burp gun caught him in the neck. I was about ten yards away, but pinned down. He must’ve bled to death. I saw him before he was carted away. Looked like a stuck hog.”
“You knew his family.”
“Yeah. Back in the states, I used to go home with him on passes. He had a nice old lady and a dreamboat of a sister. Named Laura.”
“You going to write them?”
“Chris’ no. What’d I say?”
“He was a good man.”
“Yeah. He was okay.”
When the other men enter, Beltsky is all business. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” he warns; “and under no circumstances will you fire unless caught in a real jam. The krauts expect you. Two patrols didn’t get back last night.”
“Jeezus!” says Martinez. “I volunteered for this job; now I think I’ll un-volunteer. Why don’t we just get the jerries on the phone? It’d save a lot of time and walking.”
We toss our helmets to the ground. One clank of their steel would be like ringing a bell to the keyed-up ears of the enemy sentries. Then we scoop ooze from the side of the cave to smear on our hands and face.
“This stuff is supposed to make you pretty,” says Evans. “Women use it all the time to smooth the wrinkles from the skin. Maybe I’ll open a beauty parlor when I get out of this man’s army.”
“It don’t work,” Martinez declares. “I know an old girl who’s had dirt on her face from the time she got out of diapers; and she’s still as ugly as a horny toad. Lives in Fort Worth.”
“Is that a town?”
“You never hear of Fort Worth, Texas?”
“Never even heard of Texas till I met a guy in my induction center. He claimed it was a state. I argued it was a brand of gasoline.”
Martinez spits mud from his mouth. “Evans, you’re the most ignorant sonofabitch I ever knowed. In central Texas, we got cow pastures bigger’n Illinois, Chicago to boot. In east Texas, the cotton grows so high we have to train monkeys to pick it. In west Texas–”
“I know. All you need is water and a few good people. That’s all hell needs.”
We buckle on grenades; throw shells into our carbine chambers; check the safety locks.
Beltsky blows out the candle. “You’ll run into Kraft at the outpost. He’ll show you through the wire. Password is ‘Melancholy Baby.’ Get back before daylight and, for chrisake, be careful. We’re short of men.”
We pause outside to adjust our eyes to the darkness. The sky is strewn with pale stars. The black ruins of a house loom in the foreground. Lakes of shadow mark the open fields.
Martinez trips on a root. Evans and I flop down beside him and await breathlessly.
“Halt!” The voice is barely audible.
“Murphy. Reconnaissance. Melancholy.”
“Baby. Come on up. What the hell you guys doing? Wrestling?”
“Martinez stumbled.”
“He forgot his seeing-eye dog.”
Kraft snickers. “You ever hear about the blind man who–”
“Yeah. Couldn’t get in the army because his seeing-eye dog had flat feet.”
“It’s still funny.”
“The hell it is.”
Kraft waves his hand toward the German lines: “There it is; and you’re welcome to it. Go to your right about a hundred yards. There’s a flare set straight ahead.”
We hit a plowed field and advance over it, crouching. The spongy soil absorbs the noise of our footsteps, enabling us to move with a degree of swiftness.
Suddenly the sky is quivering with light. We fall and freeze. It is an enemy mortar-flare. In the shimmering white light, I feel like a naked child. I think: If a man could only pull the earth over him like a blanket.
I raise my eyes slowly. Fields and scraggly trees dance about us. To our right is a ditch, on whose banks weeds begin stirring. My body snaps to tautness; relaxes. It is only a gust of wind.
The glowing core of the flare sinks to the ground. Starlight again. And silence, utter silence. We rest the carbines in the crooks of our arms and crawl forward on knees and elbows.
Perhaps thirty, perhaps sixty minutes go by. I have a watch, but on these patrols we are concerned with only one factor of time. Dawn.
We halt to check our compass. As I cup the luminous dial in my hand, Evans gasps. I screw my head in his direction. Not twenty yards aw
ay is the blurred silhouette of a half-kneeling man.
In this darkness we cannot depend upon rifle aim. I ease a grenade from its case, pull out its firing pin, and wait. Tickety-tickety-tickety. The beat of the wrist watch is loud in my ears. The kraut is finally satisfied with his observation. He utters something in German. Three other forms rise from the ground and steal off toward our lines.
We give them time to get out of hearing range, then gulp air into our lungs.
“Jeezus,” whispers Martinez. “I could already see the old lady cashing my life insurance.”
We return the pins to the grenades and again slip forward. Soon from the left come the thud of picks and rattle of spades. Now the same noises are on our right. We inch our way through the enemy lines and pause.
Our trained ears interpret each sound. There is no joking among the Germans. They are working earnestly and hard. That means they are going in deep for a defensive stand. The throttled-down churn of engines and a cautious clanking of steel tell us that tanks are being sneaked into the area. I listen carefully. There seem to be six. That is not too bad. The armor is probably only for infantry support. The humming of trucks and the plopping of boxes to the ground reveal that the krauts are stacking in a lot of supplies.
I remove the leather cover from my watch and check the time. It is nearly one o’clock. Our teeth chatter with the cold as we start back toward our own lines.
Now a flare pops near our company position. A machine gun blurts. The German patrol has evidently run into trouble. As we hug the earth on the fringes of the light, I think that we must be doubly careful now; otherwise we may be shot by our own men. For the remainder of the night, they will be jittery of anything that moves.
We approach our lines, crawling. A body lies before me. I slide up to it. It is a jerry all right. One foot is buckled under the torso.
“Kraft,” I call.
“Halt!”
“Reconnaissance. Melancholy.”
“Baby. Is it you, Murph?”
“Yes. For godsake hold that gun.”
“Come on in.”
“What happened?”
