To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  “Droopy-drawers.”

  A direct shell-hit could not have been more effective in shattering my defenses. I crane my head around to meet her smiling eyes.

  “Droopy-drawers?”

  “Yes,” she snickers. “You wouldn’t think it now. But I was a thin little child. And the elastic on my panties was never tight enough.”

  “Old droopy-drawers.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if we’d been in school together. Can’t you see it? Chalked on the fences; carved in the trees: ‘Short-breeches loves droopy-drawers.’”

  I flip over to my back. “Is the elastic still loose?”

  “No. No. It’s very tight. Has to be in this man’s army.”

  “Why’d you join up?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to escape the monotony of civilian life. Being a bachelor girl is not all peaches and cream.”

  “Good lord! You came into the army to get away from monotony?”

  “I get what you mean. But the monotony of one muddy, broken body after the other is not the same as the monotony of a dozen shabby romances or a thousand cocktail parties.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Five years ago, I finished college with a science degree; and about all I did with my knowledge was to experiment in mixing new kinds of drinks. Good old Helen. Always comes up with something different. I build a hell of a martini. Do you like martinis?”

  “Never drank one.”

  “No. Of course, you wouldn’t have. Anyhow when the war struck, it was a cinch with my science background to get into the nurses corps. So here I am. Good old Helen, right on the job.”

  “And have you had enough?”

  “Yes and no. Like you, I couldn’t leave until the last stretcher case was brought in. You can’t get away from it now. I had a friend, an infantry lieutenant, who tried it. He got the medal of honor and was sent home, a hero. God, how he hated that word. He was given the full treatment. Bands, flags, dinners, speeches. Then the army handed him a desk job, but it lasted only a few weeks. When he saw how casually people back there were taking the war, it broke his heart. He asked to be returned to his unit overseas.

  “I met him in Naples. You couldn’t imagine the change in him. He seemed to be in a daze; and snapping him out of it was harder than getting you off your Irish. I finally took him to a hotel.”

  “I knew I should have held out. Pulling that droopy-drawers business wasn’t fair. I was a sucker for it.”

  “No. No.” A grin flashes over her face. “This was an emergency; and Nurse Hansel was right there on duty. In the darkness, I could feel his temples throbbing. Then he began to spill. It all came out. Little things made him blow his topper: people simpering over a cut of steak; new fashions in the show windows; men yawning over battle headlines. He couldn’t take it. So he began to hit the bottle. That only made it worse. He wanted to cram what he’d seen over here down people’s throats. But he couldn’t. So he came back.

  “We had a couple of days together before he moved up to the front. When he left me, his eyes were shining again. A few weeks later he was killed. I didn’t grieve much, because that’s the way he wanted it. Now I hope that family of his doesn’t snatch his body back after the war. I know he would want to lie among the men with whom he fought; men who understood him.”

  “So would I. And the women too.”

  Her nose wrinkles impishly. “Well, I’d better be ducking now, or these other fellows will get jealous. It’s amazing how closely they check up on us nurses. The man in the far right corner has been here only a week, but he already knows the date of my menstrual period. How he found it out I wouldn’t know. I usually forget it myself. But I checked the calendar; and he was right.”

  “Good night, droopy-drawers.”

  “Good night.” She hesitates. “Be sure you address me properly when the head nurse is around. She’s a bear for rank; and I’m always in hot water with her.”

  “You would be.”

  As she moves down the aisle, she is followed by a sleepy chorus of “Good night, nurse.”

  Before the week is up, I am fit to return to the lines. Helen accompanies me to the outside of the tent. In the sunlight I notice that tiny wrinkles have gathered about her eyes.

  “Well, so long, short-breeches,” she says. “I’ll be thinking of you up there in that nice cool hole while I’m down here slaving over hot bed pans.”

  “Goodbye, droopy-drawers.” I start away; then turn. “Thanks.”

  She makes a face at me; and that is the last I see of her. Word that the hospital area has been under bombardment and several nurses killed filters up to the front. I try, but never find out whether Helen was among those who got it.

  12

  SPRING comes to the beachhead, and on the ruined land new green glistens in the sunlight. When the guns are quiet, we can hear the song of birds; mate calls to mate, their voices swelling uncertainly.

  Near the command post a cherry tree bursts into bloom. The leaf buds swell; the petals sift to the ground; and one day the hard, green fruit hangs upon the branches.

  Kerrigan is touched by the sight and composes a new song to express his feelings.

  We’ve got cherries on Anzio;

  Cherries, yes; but women, no.

  Don’t ask me how, but it sure is so.

  That’s the hell with Anzio.

  Brandon frowns upon the song. He studies the tree with a thoughtful eye and talks of April in Kentucky. His daughter, who has just turned ten, wants to cut off her pigtails. It is a problem that concerns us deeply. Through the months of ruin and despair, the little girl with her braids and freckles has served to remind us that somewhere on the earth utter innocence still exists. But if those pigtails go, what then? We group around Brandon while he reads her letter aloud.

  “Deer dady, the boy who sits behind me in school pulls my hair and it is a mess for granny to brade everyday so i think i will have it cut off like all the other girls are doing. Mary who is my new friend who moved from chicago says her mama says she can get a perment wave so i think i’ll have my hair cut off. Granny won’t let me unless you say ok so i hope you say ok. from your loving daughter Marion. P.s. it look turable stringy anyhow.”

  “Oh, no,” groans Horse-Face. “Don’t let her. Keep her a kid as long as you can.”

  Kerrigan glances at him queerly. “You getting sentimental?”

  “Me?” says Horse-Face, his lips curling. “I’m the most un-sentimentalist guy you’ll ever hope to meet.” Inspiration shows suddenly in his eyes. “Pigtails just reminded me of an old girl I knowed out in the state of Arizona. Apache Indian. Wore braids that reached to her knees.”

  “Oh, my god,” moans Kerrigan. “I should’ve kept quiet.”

  “Cut off your gab, and you’d bust a gut,” says Snuffy, without opening his eyes.

  “See her standing in front of a shack. About to perish from thirst.”

  “The girl?”

  “No, me. Walking telephone lines across the plains. Summer. June. July. Maybe August. Give out of water, and damn near give up the ghost when I see the girl. Go up to her and say, ‘How?’ Says she, ‘What the hell you mean how?’ Says I, ‘You speak English?’ Says, ‘English, German, French, and some Chinee. Name’s Minnie-choo-choo. Daughter of Chief Iron Horse. Grandma got scared by a railroad train in the old man’s prenatal days. Come in, Lonesome Stranger. You like some beer?’ ‘You got some beer?’ says I. ‘No,’ she says. ‘You like some coffee?’ ‘Sure, sure,’ says I. ‘You got some cream?’ ‘Cream?’ says she. ‘We ain’t even got some coffee. Drink sheep’s blood.’ Say, ‘Make it sheep’s blood then.’ Hands me a gourdful. Drink it, and must’ve got a sunstroke. Start a-baaing and a-butting Chief Iron Horse. Daughter conks me with a tomahawk. Makes me mad. Butt the old man clean out the door. Girl gives a big whoop and jumps astraddle of my back. Take out across the plains a-baaing and a-bucking, with the girl flamming me with a cactus plant. Line gang finds me under a mesquite
bush. Girl’s gone. Take me to a hospital. Lay there baaing like a sheep for fourteen days and thirteen nights. Doctors said it was the damndest thing they’d ever seen. When it comes to drinking sheep’s blood, been a teetotaller ever since.”

  Flack, an earnest, young replacement, is fascinated. “What happened to the girl?”

  “Well, sir,” replies Horse-Face, “story had a strange, queer ending. When I get out of the hospital, I meet an old timer and ask him about them Indians. Says, ‘Knowed both Iron Horse and Minnie-choo-choo well. Killed in 1902. Tornado.’”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s the dying truth, son.”

  “They were ghosts?”

  Horse-Face shrugs. “Call them that if you want to. But that tomahawk was mighty real. Look.” He parts his hair and reveals a long jagged scar upon the crown of his head.

  It is a sunny day, and a warm wind blows. The front is deceivingly still. We sprawl upon the ground on the seaward side of the command post. Hope has returned with the season.

  No longer do we feel like orphaned underdogs. Our forces are driving up from the south, and the beachhead bristles with accumulated power. An all-out attack is imminent. We are eager for it to begin. Our every thought and action is concentrated on getting the war over before another winter comes.

  Replacements have strengthened our platoon. Flack came into the lines with eagerness. A pale boy who looks as though he scarcely had strength to lift a rifle, he has volunteered regularly for patrols. He works with a quiet thoroughness. Since joining us he has already made corporal, and I have recommended him for a sergeancy.

  The old men regard him with tolerant amusement. It is strange to see a man bucking for promotion at the front, where an advance in rank only puts him closer to death.

  Through casual conversations, I have learned that his mother is the mainspring of his drive. In a small-town Iowa school, Flack was evidently a leader; so it was a great disappointment to his mother when he had to enter the army as a private. But she is sure that he will eventually be commissioned.

  If Valero, a tough Italian from the slums of Chicago, ever heard of a school he gives no indication of it. He does not discuss his past, but he is a born soldier. In many skirmishes, he has proved himself as nerveless as he is merciless. He asks no quarter, gives no quarter; and his face lights up with savage joy when his gun is spitting. But with the men he is as friendly as a shaggy dog, calling everybody “Pal.”

  But his favorite is Constantino, a meek little Italian who is also from Chicago. The friendship often proves trying. Valero is constantly volunteering for dangerous missions. “And, of course,” says he, “muh old pal, Constantino, wants to go along. I got to look after him.” Constantino, who apparently would prefer looking after himself in the security of a dugout, blanches and picks up his gun.

  Bergman is a redheaded, blue-eyed Swede from Minnesota. On occasion he forgets completely that there is an “h” in the English alphabet. When we are caught in the inevitable foul-ups of the military machine, he says, “I trow up bote hands. I quit.” But he never does. Muscular and loose-jointed as a young ox, he has a keen sense of irony that serves as a damper for his quick temper. I later discover that his ability to take punishment is exceeded only by his capacity for cognac.

  In late May, we realize that the vast operation is beginning. Night after night practically every cannon on the beachhead blasts the enemy positions. The Germans, at first, answer with furious barrages. But that is according to plan. The krauts are being tricked into expending their precious ammunition while we are still under cover.

  During the terrible months immediately preceding, our command has studied every detail of the terrain over which we must pass. The enemy strongpoints are known; the mine fields, mapped; the gun positions, plotted.

  But time has also favored the Germans. It has enabled them to bring in reinforcements and to strengthen their defenses immeasurably. Obvious facts inform them that the assault is impending. Now with the tables turned and their backs to the wall, they are prepared to fight like insane men. They must. If we shatter their lines and merge with the main body of our army pushing up from the south, Rome is doomed and their men in the area face annihilation.

  Our final artillery barrage is so intense that it seems nothing could be left of the German lines. The grinning soldiers, listening to the thunderous explosions, say, “Hitler, count your children.” Under the spinning shells we turn from the holes in which we have cowered for nearly four months and march toward the enemy. Directly overhead our 50-caliber machine guns lay a cover of bullets that crack in their passing like millions of bullwhips.

  The Germans stagger; but fanatical and desperate, they recover. From the ruins of buildings, from field and forest, their deadly guns stutter.

  The first major task of my company is to cut the railroad running south of Cisterna. The Germans have dug in along its sides; and the track bed is protected by a lashing stream of automatic fire. We pause behind a high stone wall to reconnoiter and co-ordinate the movements of our three platoons.

  The track in this section passes through a deep cut. To cross we must slide down the bank, sprint over the bed, and clamber up the opposite slope. To our right, near a concrete culvert, the Germans have two machine guns trained directly toward the cut through which we must run.

  Valero attempts to knock out the weapons with a Browning automatic. He bores into the emplacements with spurts of lead, but the guns are too strongly shielded to be silenced by small arms.

  Meanwhile, important moments slip by. The first platoon begins the crossing; and the enemy guns are strangely quiet. The second platoon goes over. I crawl to the edge of the cut, turn, and wave my men forward one at a time.

  Johnson.

  When Horse-Face reaches the roadbed, he leaps the tracks and scrambles up the embankment with bullets singing about him. At the top, he twists his head toward me, thumbs his nose, and wriggles off on his belly.

  A crackle of mass fire begins on the opposite bank. I have the sudden, sickening feeling that we are being lured into a trap, but I cannot hesitate.

  Brandon. Jones. Valero. Flack.

  For some unaccountable reason, the young corporal pauses in the cut. It is only for an instant. But down the tracks the Germans press their triggers. Flack drops to his knees, then crumples across an iron railing.

  Berner. Kohl. Bergman. Kerrigan.

  I am the last. Scanning the banks, I pick my path, draw a deep breath, and start sliding. The handle of a trench shovel fastened to my back wedges between two protruding rocks; and I hang like a pigeon upon the bank with lead spattering all about me. Rock dust from the bullets fills my nostrils. My throbbing temples seem ready to burst.

  Glancing up, I see the look of horror on Kerrigan’s face. He gets up, measures the distance to me with his eye, and tenses his muscles for the jump.

  Yelling for him to keep down, I free myself with a desperate heave and bolt across the tracks.

  Sweat stands on Kerrigan’s brow. “You ignorant bastard,” he spits, “are you hurt?”

  “No. Just a slight heart attack and a nervous breakdown.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you look to see where you were going?”

  “I was interested in the scenery. Come on.”

  A low rock wall parallels this side of the track also. Along it the panting men lie with their heads in the crooks of their arms. A German machine gun rips the air. Bergman raises his head to investigate. A sniper’s bullet clangs against his helmet, spinning it around without knocking it off his head.

  Cautiously he feels for blood. Another bullet shatters the stock of his rifle.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaims. “They got no respect for my equipment.” The first bullet has lodged between his helmet and its liner. But by freakish luck, he has not been scratched.

  We roll over the wall and find ourselves in the range of two enemy strongpoints. But for the moment, the krauts are ignoring us. They are absorbed in
trying to split the two groups of men that preceded us.

  A sergeant in the first platoon senses the predicament. If his men are isolated, they will likely be destroyed. He makes his decision quickly. Motioning his men to follow, he rises and with a submachine gun charges head-on toward one of the enemy positions two hundred yards away.

  On the flat, coverless terrain, his body is a perfect target. A blast of automatic fire knocks him down. He springs to his feet with a bleeding shoulder and continues his charge. The guns rattle. Again he goes down.

  Fascinated, we watch as he gets up for the third time and dashes straight into the enemy fire. The Germans throw everything they have at him. He falls to the earth; and when he again pulls himself to his feet, we see that his right arm is shattered. But wedging his gun in his left armpit, he continues firing and staggers forward. Ten horrified Germans throw down their guns and yell, “Kamerad.”

  That is all I see. But later I learn that the sergeant, ignoring the pleas of his men to get under cover and wait for medical attention, charged the second enemy strongpoint. By sheer guts, he advanced sixty yeards before being stopped by a final concentration of enemy fire. He reeled, then tottered forward another few yards before falling.

  Inspired by his valor and half-insane with rage, his men took over, stormed the kraut emplacement, and captured it. When they returned to their leader, he was dead.

  This was how Lutsky, the sergeant, helped buy the freedom that we cherish and abuse.

  With the immediate opposition removed, we advance toward a row of houses from which comes bitter enemy fire. I am scuttling for the cover of a field of tall wheat when I hear Snuffy howl.

  “Eeeeyow!” he hollers. “Git the medics. I’m hit.”

  With skipping heart, I hurry to his side.

  “I knowed they’d git me,” he groans. “Git the medics. I’m bleedin’ like a stuck hawg.”

  Quickly examining him, I pause between anger and amusement. The bullet has punctured a can of beans in his pack; and he has mistaken the trickle of sun-warmed juice for blood.