To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  “Are you telling me, or asking me?”

  “Either way you want.”

  “No goddamned dogface is telling me what to do.”

  “Okay, junior,” says Kerrigan, rising. “I said get the hell back with your own crowd.”

  “Come on,” says the belligerent one’s companion. “To hell with ’em.”

  After they have rejoined their group, Kerrigan fills two large water glasses with red wine and hands one to Snuffy.

  “Reverend,” says the Irishman, “I feel like singing. Drink up to the Junior Birdmen.”

  Holding his nose to avoid the odor, Snuffy downs the wine without taking the glass from his lips. For a few minutes he sits with his mouth agape to see if the wine is going to stick. Satisfied that his stomach is once more in working order, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and begins.

  Into the air, Junior Birdmen;

  Into the air, Boy Scouts, too;

  Into the air, Junior Birdmen,

  And keep your nose up in the blue.

  Kerrigan chimes in:

  Up in the blue.

  And when they make a presentation,

  And hand out those wings of tin,

  You too can be a Junior Birdman–

  If you’ll send those box tops in.

  Oh, turn over, Gertrude.

  A bottle sails over our heads and splinters against the wall. That is all Kerrigan has been waiting for. We meet the air corps, slugging. A chair crashes on Snuffy’s head; and he sinks slowly to his knees, grinning like an idiot. I catch a blow on my left arm and connect with a right uppercut to somebody’s chin. Kerrigan heaves a table at a staff sergeant and is sent spinning across the room by a sneak blow behind the ear.

  Two men have tackled Brandon. Grabbing one by the shirt and belt, he lifts him bodily and throws him at the other. They both hit the floor simultaneously.

  I feint with a left at a fat corporal. He ducks; and I follow with a haymaker just as a chair knocks me dizzy. When I shake the cobwebs from my brain, I see that Snuffy, back on his feet, has a headlock on a man. But he does not seem to know how to turn him loose or put him out of action. Kerrigan has a black eye, but otherwise his face glows with contentment. He picks up a table and flattens two men with it.

  The fat Italian who runs the café screams for the police; and an air corps man throws a chair at him. He ducks and runs through the doorway. When he returns, he has two M.P.s in tow. One is a lieutenant. The fight stops suddenly.

  “What in the hell goes on?” asks the lieutenant.

  “We’re just playing,” says Kerrigan earnestly.

  “Sure,” adds the staff sergeant, wiping a bloody nose. “Just having a little fun when the eytie gets upset.”

  “For chrisake,” says the M.P., “don’t you guys get enough fighting in the field?”

  “We were just playing,” Kerrigan insists, helplessly.

  “Well, you’re going to play in the guardhouse. Don’t you know you’ll get the whole town off limits with this kind of roughhousing?”

  “We didn’t mean no harm,” says Snuffy. “Somebody throwed a bottle.”

  “Who threw the bottle?”

  The question is met by a series of blank looks.

  “Who threw the damned bottle?”

  There is dead silence as the scowling M.P.s scan the face of each man.

  “I know who threw the bottle.” All eyes turn upon the speaker. It is Kerrigan. “Yes, I saw him; and the guy was nobody but the damned eytie there who runs this joint. He didn’t like our singing.”

  “Didn’t like your singing, uh? Then why the hell did you start mixing it up with the air corps?”

  “Fighting the air corps?” says Kerrigan with innocent surprise. “Why, sir, those guys are our pals. We been sitting here drinking together.”

  “Sure,” cuts in an airman. “We were just sitting here talking. And when the Italian threw the bottle, we were so anxious to keep out of trouble that all of us rushed for the door at once and sort of got tangled up.”

  Sinking into a chair, the lieutenant holds his head between his hands. “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” he says finally. “Sometimes I wish I was back driving a truck in Nebraska. Okay. Let’s get this joint straightened up; and somebody’s got to fork over money for damages, or this joe will take his troubles to the army.”

  We restore the café as nearly as possible to its original shape, while the Italian rolls his hands in a wine-stained apron and jabbers excitedly. But when we line up by the bar and start planking our money down, his attitude changes. Kerrigan contributes his whole wad. “I haven’t had so much fun,” says he, “since a hog ate my little brother.”

  “Don’t any of you ever come back here again,” the lieutenant sternly warns as we leave. “If I catch you here, I’m going to run you in, or my name’s not O’Reilly.”

  “Lootenant,” says Snuffy, “I ain’t even gettin’ out of camp till the next invasion. You couldn’t give me Rome on a platter with a order of potatoes thowed in on the side.”

  Walking up the street, Kerrigan gingerly pats his swollen forehead. “You know,” he says, “that little scrap is just what we all needed. I’m beginning to feel plumb at home again.”

  Rome, for whose liberation we fought so hard, becomes less meaningful by the day. Each night more men linger about the camp. They bring in bottles of wine; and as the gray dusk falls, they gather in clusters to drink quietly and talk.

  Elleridge, a schoolteacher before the war, has joined our company as a replacement. He has not yet seen combat; and being in Rome is a major thrill for him. He attempts to lecture us on the glories of our surroundings.

  “Here we are,” he says, “in the Eternal City. Along these streets buried Caesars have walked. When I visited the Colosseum, I closed my eyes and saw the mighty gladiators striding out to do battle with wild beasts. I heard the roar of the bloodthirsty multitudes; saw the savage lions leap into the arena. I held my breath as man and beast closed in brutal conflict.”

  Snuffy elbows me. “Fer chrisake, is the guy nuts?” he asks.

  “It’s all in the imagination,” I explain.

  “Then I wonder kin he imagine me a six-months furlough?”

  “On the banks of the yellow Tiber,” continues Elleridge, “I closed my eyes again. This time I saw the ancient Horatio, heavy with armor, plunge into the foaming current after destroying the bridge and saving Rome from the invaders.”

  “If ‘at guy can see all ’at stuff with his eyes shut, what in hell couldn’t he see wid ’em open?” asks Valero.

  “You ought to be able to catch him,” says Kerrigan. “This is your country and your town, Valero.”

  “The hell it is. Give me little old Chi any day of the week, and Cicero on Sundays.”

  “Did I hear somebody mention Cicero?” asks Elleridge.

  “Me, bub. What’s wrong wid Cicero?”

  “Nothing. He was truly one of the great Romans–statesman, orator, man of letters.”

  “Tell about the beer. Cicero’s got the best damned beer dis side of Milwaukee.”

  “Cicero and beer. I don’t get you.”

  “It’s the only place in Illinois where you can get the genuine true six per cent stuff. Take the head off a dray horse.”

  “We’re not talking about the same things. I speak of Cicero, the Roman.”

  “Well, just keep on roamin’, pal.”

  “The Tiber river which flows through the city of Rome is the father of all rivers. Along its banks civilizations have risen and fallen.”

  “To hell with the Tiber!” shouts somebody. Let’s sing about the Swanee. Where’s Marsh?”

  Marsh has a fine tenor voice. He stands in the twilight with a bottle of wine in one hand and his head thrown back in song. The men join in. Other groups hear and take up the melody until the park rings with music.

  Way down upon the Swanee River, far, far away,

  There’s where my heart is turning ever,

 
There’s where the old folks stay.

  Sitting at night in a foreign land, we are strangely moved by these songs that are so much a part of our background. They call up long-buried memories and a tenderness of spirit that has no place in war. But we sing each night until the order comes to buckle on our gear and move.

  Although we are sent to a training area, we do not know what we are being prepared for. Within a few weeks, however, we learn on the beaches of southern France.

  14

  TECHNICALLY it was called a perfect landing. The vast operation designed to crack the enemy coastal defenses in southern France had been calculated and prepared to the smallest detail; and it moved with the smooth precision of a machine.

  Resistance, compared to that met in other invasions, was light. Several weeks previously our forces had broken out of the Normandy beachhead. They now slashed across northern France like an angry river through a levee breach. The eastern front was crumbling under the mighty impact of the Russians. German cities were being ground to dust by our air force.

  The German situation was compared to a man who had occupied a stolen house. Now justice was hammering on both his front and back doors. As he dashed alternately between the doors, frantically trying to keep them closed, a trap door opened in the floor; and a third party started climbing up from the cellar. We were that party.

  But we do not know, we do not see the gigantic pattern of the offensive as we peer over the edge of the landing boats that are nearing the coast of France. We study the minute detail of the front that lies immediately before us.

  My regiment’s first objective is a sandy stretch of shoreline bearing the code name of “Yellow Beach.” The terrain looks harmless enough. It is early morning in mid-August. Beyond the beach, thin patches of mist hover over the flat farmlands; and above the mist, the inland hills rise calm and green.

  About us in the bay lying between St. Tropez and Cavalaire is the now-familiar design of an amphibious invasion. The battleships have given the beach a thorough pounding. Now their guns are quiet, but the huge gray ships steam slowly in the background.

  The rocket boat guns take over. As weapons, they are more intimate than the naval cannon. Fired in batches, their missiles sail hissing through the air like schools of weird fish. They hit the earth, detonating mines, blasting barbed-wire entanglements, and unnerving the waiting enemy.

  Under the rocket barrage, scores of landing boats churn toward the shore. I stand in one; and the old fear that always precedes action grapples with my guts. Seeking to distract my mind, I glance at the men huddled in the boat. They look as miserable as wet cats. Though the water has been smooth enough, several are seasick; and others have the lost, abstract expression of men who are relieving their bowels.

  Suddenly I see the comedy of little men, myself included, who are pitted against a riddle that is as vast and indifferent as the blue sky above us. My sense of humor has always been considered perverse because I laugh at big things and fret over small ones. Now I laugh.

  Kerrigan cocks an eye at me. “What’s the big joke?” he asks.

  “Just take a look around you.”

  “I have. It’s as funny as a graveyard.”

  “Yeah,” says Valero. “It’s de grav-y train if I ever see one.”

  “Maybe Elleridge would like to give us a lecture on what the well-dressed tourist will wear in France this summer.”

  “Mattress covers,” says Snuffy.

  “Sure,” says Constantino. “Make with the fancy talk, perfessor.”

  “I feel like vomiting,” says Elleridge.

  “Better not,” warns Kerrigan. “Save your food. We’re short of rations.”

  I strike a pose with my carbine. “Let’s sing,” I say. “How about ‘The Beer Barrel Polka’?” I start to sing in a lusty manner.

  Nobody joins me, except Kerrigan, whose voice trails off into silence after the first few lines of the song.

  “Nuts!” says Valero. “We ain’t no mockin’ boids.”

  “Come on,” I urge. “This is how they make a landing in books. Sing like they do in the movies.”

  “Aw, close the flap-trap,” says Kerrigan, peering anxiously at the shoreline. “We’re almost there.”

  “Welcome to de land of polly-voo,” says Valero. “Has anybody got any good telephone numbers?”

  “Remember what we talked about,” says Constantino.

  “Don’t worry, pal,” says Valero. “I can see right now dis invasion’s comin’ off as smooth as a pup’s belly.”

  We jump from the landing craft and wade ashore through the swirling water. From the hills the German guns begin to crack. An occasional shell lands in our midst. The medics roll up their sleeves and get busy.

  An explosion sounds on my left; and when the smoke lifts I see the torn body of a man who stepped on a mine. A medic bends over him, rises, and signals four litter bearers that their services will not be needed.

  Directly ahead of us is a strip of scrub and matted grass. We move quickly toward it for cover, stepping as gingerly as if walking on eggs. We have discovered that the beach is loaded from end to end with mines which a few pounds of pressure will detonate.

  We stop at the edge of a green meadow. Beyond are trim vineyards and scattered farmhouses; and each of the buildings is a potential enemy stronghold. I jump into a drainage ditch and wade up it with the mud sucking at my feet. Behind me is Valero.

  From the windows of the house nearest us comes a volley of rifle fire. A hundred guns answer from the brush. Six Germans run from the building with their hands up.

  From our ditch, we see another kraut racing for a barn. Valero gives him a burst with his Browning automatic. The German stops and for a moment stands tottering. Valero shoots again. The man falls and starts crawling slowly for cover.

  Valero climbs out of the ditch and stands erect to get the advantage of elevation. His third burst does the trick. The German flops over on his back and is still.

  “Mebbe I need glasses,” says the Italian coolly as he inserts another clip of ammo into his weapon. “I shoulda got him wid de first burst.”

  The Germans turn mortar fire upon the beach. Our men leave the brush and race across the meadows to the vineyards. A shell hits a barn; and from it emerges a Frenchman leading a frightened cow by a rope. A second shell lands in the area. The bellowing cow jumps and starts running, dragging the Frenchman behind her.

  “Put a saddle on her,” shouts a soldier.

  “Give her a flying tackle,” another advises.

  “Milk her on the run,” yells a third.

  The thin shell of resistance along the beach is soon shattered. We move rapidly inland. Three wooded hills lie to our right. From the center one protrudes a pillbox with the barrels of its cannon pointing beachward. Our secret information lists this hill as an enemy strongpoint. To my company is given the job of neutralizing it.

  Under a glaring sun we move toward it in sweat-soaked clothes. My platoon is in advance; and I am bringing up its rear when searing automatic fire bursts from the wooded slopes.

  I round the corner of a farmhouse that stands on the edge of a vineyard stretching to the trees. The whole platoon is pinned down. A few feet from me is Valero, who is bending over Constantino.

  Constantino speaks with a bubbly voice; and I know there is blood in his throat.

  “You won’t forget,” he mutters.

  “You’ll be all right, pal,” says Valero. “De medics are comin’. You’re outa this mess now. You’re goin’ home.”

  “Don’t try to kid me. I know the score. I’m through.”

  “Sure. Sure. Thass what I been tellin’ you, pal. You’re all troo wit de war.”

  A breeze slips through the vineyard, softly rustling the leaves.

  “Valero.”

  “Yeah, pal.”

  “Don’t leave me yet.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ you, kid.”

  “You’re sure you got my mother’s address?”


  “Sure. Sure. Right in my pocket. Wanta see it?”

  “You won’t forget to visit her?”

  “No, pal. I’ll be seein’ you and her too. We’re goin’ to have some big times when we get home.”

  “Tell her that–” He dies before he finishes the sentence.

  Into Valero’s hard, seamed face has come a peculiar softness. I would never have guessed there was a thread of gentleness in his nature.

  When Valero rises, he seemingly does not see me. His features are again set in hard, cold lines. He studies the wooded slope with glinting eyes. Then with BAR held for firing from the hip, he stalks forward. A rifle cracks. His helmet spins on his head. When I reach Valero, he is dead.

  I am alone now, and the Germans have discovered me. They lay a blistering crossfire directly over my head. I roll into a ditch that runs parallel to a thick canebrake leading up the hill.

  As I round a slight bend in the gully, I run head-on into two Germans. For an instant they recoil in surprise; and that is their mistake. My combat experience has taught me the value of split seconds. Before the Germans can regain their balance, I kill them both with a carbine.

  Near the edge of the forest, I locate a group of krauts in a a series of foxholes. We duel until my ammunition is exhausted. Then I retreat down the ditch. To compete with the enemy’s automatic weapons I need more fire power.

  Below the farmhouse, I find a light machine-gun squad. The Germans have its members pinned to the earth; and no amount of arguing or cursing on my part can get them to stir from the spot. So I seize their gun and drag it up the ditch alone. It is perhaps best this way. I reason that if one man can do the job, why risk more?

  I try setting the gun up in the ditch, but from this position the bullets fly harmlessly over the heads of the Germans. Despite the lack of cover I drag the gun out in the open field, directly in front of the enemy strongpoint. Now the advantage is mine. I am firing uphill and may lie flat upon the earth. But the Germans to shoot down the slope at me must expose head and shoulders over the embankments fronting their foxholes.