To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  “There was a lot of confusion,” remarks Berner. “Maybe he moved in too close and got himself captured.”

  “Or hit.”

  I check with the aid station, but Thompson is not among the wounded. Routinely I report him missing in action.

  Three days later he is found cowering in an abandoned hut in the rear area. A deserter. He is placed under arrest and confined in the prison stockade. I guess what has happened. His nerves gave way; and he could not force himself to face the enemy guns again.

  Thompson was not a coward, but from the army point of view his offense is a serious matter indeed. It could set a disastrous precedent among worn-out, frightened men who know that they must continue hurling their flesh against the enemy until death or a wound honorably relieves them of duty.

  I am called to the rear to testify in the court-martial proceedings against Thompson. As I walk over the terrain, my mind is awhirl. Which of us knows when his own nerves may collapse and he will do something equally as foolish as Thompson? Is it fair to judge a man legally for some act committed in the unnatural situations of war? But is not desertion a crime against us, his fellows, who must stay at our posts and keep plugging the breaches in the dike as the flood rages? I can find no answer.

  Before the court, my testimony is brief and factual. On Wednesday of last week, Private Thompson was assigned to a combat mission. I myself delivered the order to him. He left with the patrol; he failed to return with it. I reported him missing.

  A chair creaks as the army twists its rump about. Previous to the incident, had Thompson been a good soldier? Yessir. As far as I am concerned, his conduct had been entirely satisfactory.

  Then to what do I attribute his act? To nerves. To fright.

  “Hmmmm,” muses the army. To fright? Do I think that Thompson has a corner on fright? Nosir. I have my own share of fear. But you do not desert? Nosir. Do I believe that Thompson deliberately sought to avoid hazardous duty with his act? Yessir. I think that it obvious, but under the influence of fear. Hmmmm! It is natural to be afraid. We all are. But no soldier can let his fear govern his conduct to such a degree. Is that understood? Yessir.

  A droning officer tells the details of finding the soldier in the shack. Then Thompson himself takes the stand. He has little to say.

  The court ponders the case briefly, and hands out a verdict of guilty. Thompson is sentenced to twenty years in prison.

  The jeep that returns him to the stockade has to go toward the lines for a distance. So I crawl in for the ride. Thompson is silent as we bounce up the road.

  “I had to report you,” I say finally.

  “I’m not blaming you.”

  “You could have easily been killed or captured.”

  “I said I wasn’t blaming you.”

  When I get out of the jeep, I shake hands with him.

  “Good luck.”

  “The same to you.”

  Suddenly we both laugh.

  “I don’t guess it’s funny,” I say. “I’m really sorry for you.”

  “Sorry for me? I’m sorry for you. I got only twenty years. If I serve the whole sentence, I’ll be just thirty-nine when I get out. But what happens to you? Why, you poor sonofabitch, you go back into the lines. You attack. If you live, you attack again. And you keep on attacking until you’re dead. What’s twenty years compared to a corpse?”

  Before I get to the front, night has come, and the rain is falling again.

  11

  IN the constant cold and wetness, feet turn blue, and flesh rots. I send the worst cases to the rear for treatment. The men are given cans of foot powder and promptly returned to the lines, still shivering and hobbling.

  When Caskill comes back, he is still barely able to stand. For several days I have been staggering under a malarial attack. With feverish brain I direct the routine operations of the platoon. I am like a baited animal, enraged at myself and everything I see. Now the anger flames at the picture of Caskill.

  I seize the field telephone and ring the aid station.

  “Give me a doctor.”

  “A what?” asks the switchboard operator.

  “A medical officer.”

  “Who?”

  “Anybody with bars on his shoulders.”

  “Oh. How’re things up there?”

  “Rougher than hell.”

  “Wait a minute. I’ll get you Captain Hoff.”

  “The fat guy with the glasses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put him on.”

  “Ye-es. Captain Hoff. What do you want?”

  “Sergeant Murphy, captain. I’ve been sending men with trench foot back to your aid station.”

  “Ye-es. I know. I know.”

  “You do! Well, goddammit,” I shout, “don’t shove them back up here with a couple of aspirins and a pack of foot powder.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to, sergeant?” he screams over the wire.

  “I don’t care. I’m telling you: Don’t send my men back up here before they can walk.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “I’m sick.”

  “Of what?”

  “The whole mess.”

  “We’re busy back here. I can’t waste time.”

  “You’re busy! Now isn’t that too bad. We’re slightly occupied ourselves.”

  “I’m running this station,” he yells in a choking voice; “and, by god, remember that you may be through here yourself.”

  “God spare me.”

  The receiver clicks in my ear.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” says Caskill worriedly. “It’s no use. You’ll only get yourself in trouble.”

  “Trouble! How can a man get into more trouble?”

  “It’s no use.”

  “Okay. Okay. It’s no use.”

  Caskill, doubtless seeking to change the subject, says, “While waiting at the aid station, I read some old Chicago papers.”

  “What’s new?” asks Brandon.

  “Charlie Chaplin wants a second front.”

  Snuffy looks up from a steaming can of beans. “Come again.”

  “Charlie Chaplin wants a second front.”

  “A second front! Jeezus! Give him this one.”

  “A man was killed in southside Chicago. Body, riddled with bullets, was found lying in the streets. Slayer escaped, but left a yellow handkerchief as a clue.”

  “Is that supposed to be news?” asks Brandon.

  “I suppose so. Papers gave it headlines. Call it ‘The Yellow Handkerchief Murder.’”

  “Jeezus!”

  “The cigarette shortage continues; and people are demanding an explanation for the scarcity of tobacco.”

  “My piles bleed for them.”

  “The public is warned that meat rationing will be more severe in coming months.”

  “Meat?”

  “Yeah. The kind that doesn’t come in cans. Remember?”

  “Lord, yes. Steak.”

  “Night clubs may be forced to close at midnight to conserve fuel and the energies of factory workers who like to guzzle too late.”

  “I can’t stand it.”

  “The miners are talking about a strike.”

  “A strike?”

  “Yeah. You know: People demand higher wages, shorter hours, better living conditions. If they don’t get them, they quit work.”

  “Americans?”

  “Why, hell, yes. Who do you think they are? The Chinese?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “It’s the truth. It was right there in the papers.”

  “Jeezus!”

  I start from the room to check our machine guns for the night. Not far from the ruins, my knees give way; I collapse in the mud; and darkness blots out the mind.

  Later I learn that Kohl and Berner carry me to the rear on an old door. I am but dimly aware of the aid station. A face floats over me. I argue with it that my feet are bursting out of my shoes. Then I faint again. When I regain consciou
sness, I am among a row of cots in a hospital tent.

  The next day I meet Helen. She is one of the nurses, and a remarkable human being. As she glides up the aisle, I notice the brightness of her blond hair. The heads of the sick and wounded twist to greet her. She pauses briefly at each of the cots, calling the men by name, asking silly little questions, and deftly parrying their feeble attempts at banter and impudence.

  When she reaches my cot, I have my mental defenses up. She ignores my sullen glare and speaks in an eager whisper, as if fearful of disturbing the patients next to me.

  “Well, you look better this morning.”

  “I feel better.”

  “Lord, you were mud from head to foot when brought in last night. Remember?”

  “No, I was blacked out. Regulations, you know.”

  “You were a regular mud man. I helped clean you up; and I wasn’t even on duty. Say, ‘Thank you, nurse.’”

  “Thank you, nurse. The plumbing broke down up in the lines.”

  She leans over to straighten my pillow. “Now. Now. At least, you could have taken a whore’s bath.”

  Undisturbed by the surprise that leaps to my face, she continues, “Yes. A whore’s bath. We call them that, too.”

  “Just cold water and a helmet?”

  “And, of course, a little soap.”

  “It was no use. You try at first; and then you give up and let the mud take over.”

  “I know.” She touches my wrist and glances at me with anxious eyes. They are as blue as a summer sky.

  “Your pulse is pounding. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, goddammit. You’re the nurse.”

  “Oh.” A smile dances in her eyes. “It’s nothing. I sometimes forget that I’m a woman.”

  “I don’t.”

  “None of you do, except with your language.”

  “I’m sorry about the cussing.”

  “Don’t apologize. You should hear me when I get riled. It’s the crying I can’t stand.”

  “Do they cry?”

  “Some of them. Their nerves fold up; and they can’t help it.”

  “What do they cry about?”

  “Most of them don’t know. They just get on weeping jags like some drunks do.”

  “They’ll never make me cry.”

  “Who?”

  “Anybody. I’m not the crying kind.”

  “I’ll bet you aren’t. We were discussing your age last night. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “You look younger.”

  “I can’t help that. I’m nineteen.”

  “What are you doing in the army?”

  “I asked for it. Wanted to play soldier.”

  “And now you’ve had enough.”

  “I’ve got a bellyful.”

  “But you wouldn’t quit if you had the chance.”

  “No. I wouldn’t quit.”

  “Why not?”

  “I never thought about it. Maybe I feel–What are you asking all these questions for? They’ve got nothing to do with malaria.”

  “They’ve got everything to do with malaria. Maybe you feel what?”

  “Oh, hell. As long as there’s a man in the lines, maybe I feel that my place is up there beside him.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all I can think of.”

  She hands me a glass of bitter medicine. I hold my nose and swallow it. “Now will you let me alone?”

  “You’re too tense. Why don’t you get off that Irish high horse for a bit?” she asks.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Perhaps you need a back-rub to loosen those muscles. Tell you what I’ll do. If you take down those dukes and be a nice boy, I’ll give you a rub when I get off duty.”

  “Don’t knock yourself out.”

  When she passes to the next cot, I close my eyes; but the vision of her face still waltzes through my mind. The nose is bent slightly; the mouth is large and sensual, but droops, as if from sadness, about the corners. Her skin is as fair as apple blossoms.

  As the hours sift by, I sleep fretfully and wonder if she will return. If I had known how, I would have been more pleasant.

  At dusk I hear her brisk voice as she moves up through the lines of cots. My blood quickens, but I hastily assume a mask of surly indifference. It is all the defense I have.

  “Hello, Irish. Did I take a ribbing? The girls found out.”

  “Found out what?”

  “That I’d decided to give you a rub.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, except we save it for our specials.”

  “Your special whats?”

  “Our special interests.”

  “Don’t knock yourself out.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do it.”

  “Of course, you didn’t. Now will you try to relax? I’m tired and don’t feel like fighting with you.”

  “Then why the hell don’t you go to bed?”

  “It would do me no good. I get so tired that I could collapse. But I can’t sleep any more.”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  Her skillful fingers pry into the muscles of my back, causing shivers to prowl up and down my spine.

  “What did the kids call you in school? Red or freckles?” she asks.

  “They called me short-breeches.”

  The fingers hesitate.

  “Short-breeches. Oh, that’s funny.”

  “Is it? Then laugh.”

  “Oh.” The fingers resume their movements. “I didn’t mean to say anything wrong.”

  “It’s all right. If you’re so damned curious, maybe you’d like to know how I got the nickname.”

  “I would.”

  “When I was in the fifth grade, I had just one pair of overalls. My mother washed them every night and dried them by the kitchen stove. They shrunk halfway to my knees. So the guys started calling me short-breeches; and I’d slug them. I fought every day.”

  “That was bad.”

  “I didn’t say it was good.”

  “But what does all this fighting get you? You’re fighting me now.”

  “It gets me the opportunity of being let alone until somebody else crosses my path.”

  “Meaning I’m not welcome.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You couldn’t make it more obvious if you hit me in the head with a bed pan.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I was trying to prove that I was as good as any of them. I lived on the wrong side of the tracks.”

  “Oh.”

  “Does it shock you, nurse? I wouldn’t want to shock you with a few little details about a hungry kid dreaming about a banquet.”

  “Get that chip off the shoulder, Irish. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “I don’t give a damn about proving anything to anybody, except maybe to myself. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. You do your job the best you can and forget the rest.”

  “I know. Oh, how I know.”

  “I’m not mad at anybody. I’m glad that things happened as they did. We had a lot of kids in the family and needed food. So I hunted a lot and learned to shoot straight. I couldn’t afford to miss. That comes in handy now.

  “Sometimes I had just one shell. Sometimes in the field, I dream of walking in the darkness with that one shell. The Germans are all around me; and I know that I don’t have the ammo to stand up against them. I wake up with the shakes. Do you know what being hungry is?”

  “No,” she says softly, “not really hungry.”

  “I do. I’ve seen the time when I put pepper on molasses to make it seem something different from what I’d had the day before. The pepper burnt my stomach and made it feel full. I still like hot food.”

  “I’ll swipe you a can of pepper from our mess, and you can take it back up with you.”

  “Don’t strain yourself. Now is there anything else you’d like to kn
ow. I’m just rearing to spill my guts.”

  “I understand your Irish now. You’re still fighting the battle of little short-breeches.”

  “No. I honestly don’t care. I laugh when I remember the people whom I once thought were the great ones of the earth. I’ve learned who the great ones really are. They’re men like Brandon, Kerrigan, even Snuffy.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Some guys I know up in the lines. They bitch; they cuss; they foul up. But when the chips are down, they do their jobs like men.”

  For a while she works in silence. The faint thump of the cannons drifts through the night. From somewhere a soft moan rises.

  “You want to hear some more?”

  “I want to hear it all.”

  “For godsake, why?”

  “I don’t know. I used to be a hell of a cynic. Among my crowd in Omaha, it was supposed to be a fashionable attitude. And good old Helen was always fashionable. But for the past few months, I’ve had the curious feeling that I’m developing an enlarged heart.”

  “Yeah? That’s bad.”

  “I know. When the breaks come, they’re bigger, too.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Skip it. Do you write home regularly?”

  “I’ve got no home.”

  “But your mother?”

  “She died when I was sixteen.”

  “No.”

  “She had the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. It reached almost to the floor. She rarely talked; and always she seemed to be searching for something. What it was I don’t know. We didn’t discuss our feelings.”

  “No?”

  “No. There was nothing to say. But when she passed away, she took something of me with her. It seems I’ve been searching for it ever since.”

  “You’ll find it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I hooked up with the army, learned to eat my oatmeal, and kill my quota of men; so I got promoted to staff. That’s my story. Now are you satisfied, nurse?”

  She does not answer. Her thumbs swiftly circle my shoulder blades. I watch the shadows cast by a gasoline lantern skipping over the tent walls.

  “Can you guess what the kids called me?” she asks.

  “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea.”