by Audie Murphy
“‘Had a mama myself once,’ says she. ‘Loved horses. Always wanted to be a bareback rider in a circus.’ ‘You?’ says I. ‘No,’ says she, ‘mama. Run papa off with a double-barreled shotgun. Didn’t like the way he had his hair cut. Too much off the back. Repented later. Went to a fortuneteller to see if he could help find papa. Liked the looks of the fortuneteller. Took off with him. Reminds me. Got my car outside. How’d you like to go for a spin?’ Said, ‘I’d love to.’
“Takes me riding in a yellow roadster.”
The story is snapped by a jerry shell that lands nearby. We see the belch of flame, hear the whining flutter of metal.
“The midnight mail,” observes Kerrigan casually. “Sonsabitches never forget. Now watch them start a waltzing barrage.” His voice rises thinly to a melody, which is interrupted. “Huh uh. Here she comes.”
The diggers drop to the bottom of their holes. Kerrigan and I dive behind one of the cows and ram our heads into the smelly hides. Wham! Whizz! The Irishman raises his head with fingers pinched to his nose. “Cozy, ain’t it?”
“What was that?” asks Jackoby with rattling teeth.
“Small stuff. An 88.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“What for? When your number’s up, you go. When the old man with the sickle gives you the nod, it’s one detail you can’t goof-off on.”
“As I was sayin’, takes me ridin’ in a yellow roadster.”
“No use staying here and getting killed,” says Thompson. “These goddamned cows can wait.”
“Hell, man. That was nothing but the krauts saying, ‘Good night.’ Wait’ll old Annie opens up.”
“That’s the big gun?” says Jackoby.
“Well,” Kerrigan replies, “you wouldn’t call it an air rifle. Rumor says its barrel’s not over a quarter of a mile long. Krauts use old railroad cars for shells and a pile driver for a ramrod. Ever hear it?”
“No.”
“You will.”
“Takes me ridin’ in a yellow roadster. Turns a hair-pin curve at–”
“No use us being damned fools,” insists Thompson.
“How come you’ve got so gun shy? You were the guy that was going to clean up the beachhead singlehanded when you first come up. Couldn’t wait to get into action.”
“I’m just saying–”
“You want to live forever?”
“Oh, go to hell.”
“Takes me ridin’ in a yellow roadster. Turns a hair-pin curve at sixty-five. Try to get her to slow down. Says she, ‘That’s my speed, bub. Drove to California once by way of the Panama Canal. Three days; three nights. Never slept a wink.’
“Figure now I’ve got a nut on my hands. Vow never to go into a USO again. Errrrrra … Errrrrrra. Cop gets after us. Says she, ‘Don’t open your mouth while I lay the charm on this character. Used to be in the movies. Played opposite Valentino. Called him Rudy. He called me Cuddles. Folks said we were a born match.’
“Tells the cop she’s Martha Washington, and I’m the general himself. Says she, ‘We’re on our way to Valley Forge with a message from Abraham Lincoln. Curfew shall not ring tonight.’ Cop thinks we’re gettin’ fresh; threatens to put the slug on us.
“Pull out my military courtesy. Say, ‘Sir, I didn’t claim to be Washington.’ Says, ‘Where’d you get hooked up with this dame?’ Says I, ‘At the USO, sir. Just standin’ there thinkin’ about my dear old mother out in Idaho. Raises potatoes.’
“‘This woman’s a snowball,’ says the cop. ‘She’s fulla dope.’ ‘Hod damn,’ says I, ‘who’da thought it? Tells me she used to be leadin’ lady to Valentino. Mama married a fortuneteller.’ ‘Valentino,’ says he. ‘She’s a hop head from way back.’ At this the lady lets out a scream and pastes the cop in the eye. Never seen such a wild cat. Still believed she could’ve whipped that guy if his pal hadn’t pitched in. They finally get the cuffs on her. She starts yellin’ that she’ll foreclose a mortgage on the courthouse and threatens to get Roosevelt on the phone.
“Cop says to me, ‘Drive her car into town; and don’t try any funny stuff. Got you covered from the rear. May have to hold you as a witness.’ ‘Hell, nosir,’ says I. ‘Can’t hang around. My outfit’s leavin’ tomorrow.’ ‘Where to?’ says he. ‘For parts unknown,’ says I, ‘to fight for the likes of you.’
“Biggest mistake I ever made. Mighta still been in Nashville sittin’ in a nice warm cell instead of on this godforsaken beachhead playing undertaker to a mess of cows.”
“Horse-Face,” says Kerrigan, “where in the hell do you get such lies?”
“It’s the dying truth. Every word. Trouble with you slummy characters is that you never get around high society. Reminds me of another old girl I met in New York. See her walkin’ down Broadway leadin’ a poodle on a leash. Says–”
“Oh, for chrisake.”
“You want me to tell about that Naples trip?” He anticipates Kerrigan’s swinging shovel and ducks.
When we quit work, the sky is paling. “You’ll find rations at the C.P.,” I say to Jackoby. “If you want to eat, ask the man on duty to give you something.”
“I want to throw up. After smelling them damned cows all night, I feel like puking.”
“Go ahead. Maybe it’ll cheer you up.”
“Why don’t you quit picking on me?”
“You’re picking on yourself. I don’t care whether you eat or whether you vomit. But you’d better get some sleep. We’ve got another date with those cows tomorrow night.”
“Goddammit I–” He breaks off his speech and walks away mumbling. Two more sessions with the shovels are required before the cows are under the sod.
On the third night, Jackoby snickers quietly at one of Horse-Face’s yarns.
Rain falls in slanting black streaks, turning our area into a sea of mud. It pulls at our feet like quicksand. We slant the bottoms of our foxholes. Water drains to the lower ends; and we dip it out with our helmets. But when the storms really strike, we give up. For hours we crouch in ankle-deep water.
The enemy never lets up. During the day, if one sticks his head above the surface of the ground, he risks sudden slaughter. Often we must use ration cans as chamber pots, hurling them from the holes like grenades after they have served their purpose. When shells hit close, the soft walls of the dugouts crumble. Like turtles we dig ourselves out of the mud and try repairing the damage before another shell arrives or the water rises in our foxholes.
The rain is not without its blessing. As long as it keepsthe ground swampy, enemy armor bogs down and cannot move against us.
Once every twenty-four hours we slip into the ruins of the house and heat our tins of rations in the embers of a small fire. This can be done only at night. We are in plain sight of enemy observers. By day, smoke would show and bring the artillery down on us.
Stomachs go lumpy and sour. The bitter odor of vomit is everywhere. And it seems that the intestines themselves will be squirted out in diarrheal discharges.
Kerrigan gingerly swallows spoonfuls of beans, chewing them uncertainly. “It is not any longer a question of losing your guts,” says he. “It’s only a matter of from which end.”
Snuffy cocks open an eye. “Wanta make a bet?” he asks.
“On what?”
“Which end.”
“Shut up.”
“I’s jist askin’.”
“Shut up.”
In the house we have discovered a barrel of wine. It is of dirty reddish color and smells like bad vinegar. The men sip it wryly. Only Snuffy can down enough of it to get drunk.
It happens one night when he is manning a machine gun. A German patrol trips one of our flares. When the light pops, there is no response from Snuffy. I hastily crawl to his emplacement to investigate. He is stretched on the ground, sleeping as peacefully as a cradled child. His mouth is open; and his breath reeks of wine. I straddle his body, seat myself on his hips, and fire the gun at skipping shadows until the flare dies. The noise does
not awaken Snuffy. Nor do I. Brandon takes over the watch; and the incident is not reported.
Through our hearts and minds, resignation and futility crawl like worms. We cannot advance. And we cannot retreat another yard without adding further peril to the slim security of our beachhead.
Rumors slide from hole to hole. The British are pulling out, while the pulling is good, leaving us holding a gigantic and ferocious wildcat with a very small grip by a very short tail. The Germans are only waiting until our build-up is worthy of a major attack. They will then thrust through the middle of our defenses, split our forces, and drive us into the sea. We believe nothing; doubt nothing.
Our function we know. It is to hold the lines until enough men and materiel arrive to try again cracking the iron wall that lies before us. We listen to the moan of the wind, curse existence, and snarl at one another. There is no escape with honor except on the litter of the medics or in the sack of the burial squads.
Smathers leaves in a mattress cover. He should have been more careful. It was a foolish way to die; and he wanted so much to live. A Toledo girl, to whom he was engaged, occasionally sent him copies of Better Homes and Gardens. The magazines arrived frayed and dated. But Smathers perused them gravely, grinning at the sardonic comments of the other men.
We all liked him, but kidded him plenty. He had joined us somewhere near Salerno, a lean, tanned, handsome fellow with humor and calm courage. I will never understand how he forgot that at night men on the outposts are as jittery as drunks with hangovers.
Hearing our machine gun, I rush to the spot, but he is already dead when I arrive.
Cates bends over the body, frantically loosening the clothes and muttering, “Oh, Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Jesus Christl It’s Smathers. I’ve shot him. Get the medics.”
I lean my ear against the sprawled man’s chest. There is no sound. “He’s gone.”
“No, he’s not. He was talking a minute ago.”
“What did he say?”
“He said–he was saying–he just said, ‘Oh god.’ Get the medics.”
“He’s dead.”
“No, he’s not. Get the medics. Go get the medics. He was talking just a minute ago.”
“I’m telling you: he’s gone.”
“He was up helping string barbed wire. I hear somebody running my way and challenge him. He keeps on coming without singing out. And I’ve got to let him have it. I thought he was a jerry. I was sure he was a goddamned jerry.”
“You can’t be blamed. You better go back and tell the old man. Stop at the C.P. and tell Kerrigan to send me a couple of men.”
“What’ll I say to the old man? I thought he was a jerry.”
“Just tell him what happened. He may chew you up for being trigger-happy, but that’s all he’ll do.”
“I challenged him; and he didn’t sing out.”
“I know. I know.”
“And, Jesus Christ, he was a pal of mine. We used to spend passes together. But I couldn’t see who it was. You know I couldn’t see who it was.”
“Nobody’s blaming you.”
“Let’s try the medics. It won’t do any harm to try the medics.”
“I tell you he’s dead. You know he’s dead. Get hold of yourself.”
“But he was talking just a minute ago. He said–”
“I know. Now you better go back and see the old man.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” His voice breaks into a sob.
“Do you want to stay here while I go back.”
“No. No. I can’t stay here. He was a friend of mine. And, Jesus Christ, I couldn’t see him. I challenged him, and–”
“Get going, Cates. Get going. We’ve got to have another man on this gun.”
“I’m going. But I’d like to try the medics.”
“Get going.”
He stumbles off through the night, still muttering crazily.
Kohl comes up and takes over for him. Caskill helps me carry the body back to the command post. We drop it in the mud outside the door and enter.
“What’s wrong with Cates?” asks Kerrigan. “He’s acting like he’d gone nuts.”
“He killed Smathers. Thought he was a German.”
“Good god!”
“Said he challenged him, but Smathers didn’t answer.”
“Where is he?”
“Outside. You want to see him?”
“Good god, no.”
I ring company headquarters on the field telephone.
“What!” shouts Anderson after I have passed him the news.
“Don’t get excited. We’re still holding the lines. Nothing serious has happened. Cates mistook Smathers for a German and shot him. Tell the old man it was an accident. Smathers didn’t sing out when Cates challenged him.”
“That’s going to make the old man mighty unhappy.”
“I can’t help that. Notify G.R.O. They’ll want to pick up the body before morning.”
“The old man liked Smathers.”
“So what? We all did. Tell the buzzard detail not to drive past your station. We’re expecting the kraut artillery any time.”
“Sure. Sure. Anything to oblige.”
“Thanks.”
I hang up the receiver and grow sick at my stomach.
Kerrigan is pensive. “What a shame,” he says. “Remember that girl in Toledo?”
“Remember the time we rode him so about his flowers?”
“Yeah.”
Remember the time:
We sit in a tent in our camp near Naples. The mail has just arrived. Smathers reads his batch of letters and turns to the magazine with the pictures of houses and gardens.
Caskill, noticing, winks at Kerrigan. “I have a problem, dear. Will it be petunias or gladiolas this year?”
The Irishman takes the cue. “Pit-tunis! Pit-tunis!” he replies, mimicking the pop and spit of bullets passing near the ear.
“But, dear,” minces Caskill, “how about poppies. They do look so sweet on a grave.”
“Oh, you mean man, what a horrible, horrible thought!”
Smathers lifts a good-natured eyebrow. “Rave on, you bastards. But I’ve already got the lot.”
“In a military cemetery, I presume. That’s grave.”
Smathers tosses the magazine aside. “Don’t worry. I’ll get home,” he says. “You guys will be pushing up the poppies while I’m pushing the baby carriage. But I won’t forget you. Oh, no. There I’ll be sitting in a nice, little breakfast nook. Bacon and scrambled eggs beside me; and the best coffee in the state of Ohio. Boy, can she make coffee!
“The little woman will be right there opposite me, with that adoring look on her face. And, brother, can she adore! ‘Honey,’ she’ll say, ‘tell me about Caskill and Kerrigan again.’ ‘Those sonsabitches,’ I’ll answer. ‘Not at the breakfast table.’ ‘Oh, but do,’ she insists, ‘it sounds so funny the way you say it.’ ‘Okay. The last time I saw them their faces were as green as Kerrigan’s brain; and the flies were blowing them.’”
“Reminds me of an old girl,” says Horse-Face.
“For chrisake, what now? The blow flies?”
“Breakfast nook. Train engineer’s wife in Alabama. Met her at a comin’ out party.”
“Coming out of what?”
“Her clothes. Says–”
“Will somebody please throttle that bastard. I’m too tired to move.”
Two men bearing a litter come into the ruined house.
“Where’s the body?” asks one.
“Outside. I’ll show you.”
“Tore up?”
“Not bad. A machine gun.”
“Good. I never seen so many messy ones as we’ve picked up on this beachhead. That damned artillery.”
They pull a mattress cover over the body and roll it on the stretcher.
“Boy, am I tired,” says one of the men. “We been packing meat all night. This guy got his dog tags?�
��
“He’s got everything. If you find a package of magazine pages in his pocket, put them among his personal effects.”
“Magazine pages?”
“Yeah. Magazine pages. That’s what I said.”
“Jeezus! Now I’ve heard everything. This business gits daffier and daffier.”
The men stumble off through the darkness. I return to the ruined house, roll up in a blanket, and go to sleep.
10
MEANWHILE the boats wallow in from the open sea. Planes bomb them, and fluttering shells from enormous railroad guns crash among them. But the creaking of winches and lowering of ramps continue as precious cargoes of men and materiel are dumped upon the beach.
At night armor rumbles into places of hiding. Camouflage nets are spread over the cannons. Replacements, many of them miserable and frightened men, unload their gear and dig in. Command works desperately on new tactics.
Time. We must have time.
The threat of a German counterattack becomes more imminent. The enemy cannot help realize that daily we grow stronger. But the rain which we so heartily curse has turned the earth into swampland in which the ponderous armor flounders impotently.
When the sun shines and the wind blows, we study the forward area anxiously. The crusting of the ground has become all important.
We are using the remaining portion of an upstairs room in our ruined house as an observation post. One morning I am scanning the terrain through a pair of binoculars when I spy a German tank. My hands start trembling. As I sweep the enemy lines with the glasses, more tanks appear. I count twenty of them. That is all I care to see. Grabbing a map, I roughly estimate the position co-ordinates of the enemy armor, seize the phone, and yell for the artillery.
Our cannons blast, but the shells fall short of the tanks. Gradually I correct the fire until one tank is hit. Its crew climbs out and starts running. I pick off one with a Garand. Two of his comrades drag him toward shelter. But I dare not shoot again, lest the Germans locate me and turn their guns on us. Exchanging this excellent observation point for a couple more wounded krauts would be a poor trade indeed.
