To Hell and Back

by Audie Murphy

  The krauts are firing from behind a small knoll, and getting at them is a difficult proposition. I slip to the earth and start crawling. A bullet kicks snow into my face. I squirm back to the tree.

  The squat soldier with the blistered foot slithers over the snow on his belly with a hand grenade in each hand. I see him flinch and pause as a bullet finds his left shoulder. The tall soldier who was ribbing him but a short while ago rises to one knee and lays a blast of fire over the prone body. Again the squat man slides forward. His grenade hits the top of the mound; skids over. Knowing the krauts will be occupied with the grenade, we dash forward in a rough semicircle.

  By the time the explosion dies, most of us are in new positions. Doubtless the krauts think we intend to rush them. Three helmets pop up over the mound. A volley of rifle fire smashes into them.

  The squat man throws his second grenade. Its blast is followed by silence.

  We charge the knoll and on its slope find seven more Germans who have given their all for Der Führer.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent in battling such pockets of resistance. In one brief but brutal assault after another we push the enemy from our sector. And that night we lie among the bodies of our comrades who fell at the edge of the forest in the early afternoon.

  Before dawn, the 30th, reinforced and reorganized, moves up to take the ball. By-passing our lines, its units smash through fields and woodland, building its drive like a steam roller that has lost its brakes on a grade. Two companies move toward Holtzwihr. One is hit by a tank. It falls back, regroups, and stabs again. By ten o’clock in the morning the ruined village is cleared of its last German; and the pressure is taken off us.

  We have not long to lie around and lick our wounds, however. The big attack is on. Every man, every gun is needed. Replacements come up to fatten the company; and a few old men are to be sent to the rear with frozen feet and shattered nerves.

  Elleridge is among those who are waiting to be evacuated. His feet are in such bad shape that he cannot stand; and he is dreadfully afraid that they will have to be amputated.

  “I had a lot of postwar plans for my feet,” says he. “If I lose them, I want to be buried in some veteran’s hospital and spend the rest of my life cheating blind men at poker.”

  “Don’t take it so seriously. When you get thawed out, you’ll be all right.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be all right. You can talk to me straight.”

  “You don’t have to use your feet teaching school.”

  “Evidently you don’t have to use your head either. Or your heart. It’s a game. Jeezus. Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s part of a poem that I used to feed to the kids. You want to hear the rest of it?”

  “No. You want some coffee?”

  “Can’t you imagine old crutches stumping into the school room with a big smile on his face and his insides like a patch of woods that a fire has eaten through.”

  “I said do you want some coffee?”

  “I’m up to my ears in coffee. It does no good. I’m still cold.”

  “We ought to get some mail. I’m expecting a couple dozen letters from nobody.”

  “I don’t want to hear from anybody. I tell you I’m burnt out.”

  “You talk more like a schoolteacher by the minute.”

  “Do I? I’ll get over it.” He grins suddenly. “I’m feeling mighty sorry for myself.”

  “You sure as hell are.”

  “Skip me. They used to say I was a sensitive soul back in college; and maybe I caught too much before I could get the guards up.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “That’s right. Who didn’t?”

  “You want some coffee?”

  “Sure. I could use some java.”

  As we sip the coffee, Kohl approaches. “A new batch of cannon fodder just came in,” says he. “What do you want done with them?”

  “How do they look?”

  “As cheerful as a graveyard. Part of them are greenhorns; and the rest are reclaimed casualties. The repple depples must be scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  “Are they pleasingly plump?” asks Elleridge. “Are their teeth sound? I hope none of them have the hoof and mouth disease.”

  “Where’d you leave them?”

  “Lieutenant Anders came up with them. He’s got them in charge.”

  “Anders? What’s he doing back?”

  “Ask him. He probably don’t know either.”

  “He’s a good man, with guts to spare. I’m glad he’s back.”

  “I saw him get hit,” says Elleridge. “It happened somewhere in the Vosges. He was leading a platoon through the woods when a tree burst got him. He was knocked down; and I thought he was dead. But he got up and kept on fighting until he passed out.”

  “He’s still white as a ghost,” says Kohl.

  “This nice fresh air will put color back into his cheeks,” says Elleridge. “Spend your winters in beautiful Pneumonia Valley, where you’ll find all the peace and quiet of hell on a holiday.”

  “I’d better go give them the once-over. Take it easy, Elleridge. If I don’t see you again, good luck.”

  “I’m sorry I conked out. I know you need men badly.”

  “We’ll get them.”

  “I’m sorry too that I acted like an ass. Who the hell am I to complain? I’m still alive.”

  “You’ll be okay. Don’t worry about those feet. They’ll be all right.”

  “Don’t worry about them? I didn’t even know I had any left till they started thawing. Well, so long. They say there’s nothing so bitter as a dreamer whose dreams go sour. Guess that’s me.”

  “Don’t pat any nurses on the fanny,” says Kohl. “I had a pal who tried it and bruised his hand on a corset stave.”

  The replacements are huddled together in the room of a half-demolished building. A glance is all that is needed to distinguish between the rookies and the ex-casualties. The latter are still pale from hospitalization; and their attitude is calm and indifferent. On some bloody field and bed of pain they have learned resignation. The new men are more peevish and defiant.

  “I wish I could give you a pep talk,” I say. “But I’m fresh out of pep. I don’t have to tell the old men what to do. To you new men, I say, follow instructions. And use your heads, or you won’t have any heads left to use. This company specializes in killing; and we haven’t got time to take care of a bunch of wounded krauts. If they want to give up, take them. If they don’t, kill them. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all able men until you prove yourself otherwise. Any questions?”

  “Sir, can I swap my carbine for a tommy gun?” asks a man with a scar-streaked cheek.

  “What you want with a tommy gun?”

  “I hear there’s going to be a lot of house-to-house stuff.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I heard it on the way up.”

  “You still believe what you hear?”

  “After three years in this man’s army, I’d believe that Santa Claus wore green whiskers.”

  “Kohl, see if you can find him a tommy. Any more questions?”

  “Will our mail follow us, lieutenant?”

  “Yes. But there’s no telling when it’ll catch up.”

  “What have the krauts been using mostly?”

  “Everything in the book, including a lot of armor.”

  “Will we need bayonets?”

  “You’ll never know what you’ll need. Keep your bayonets handy.”

  “I’ve lost mine.”

  “That’s just T.S. You should take care of your equipment. Any more questions? Okay. Get ready for an inspection. And don’t anybody leave this area.”

  They bustle out the door, but one man lingers.

  “Sir, I’think something’s wrong with me.”

  “What is it?”

  “I–I think I’ve got the crabs.”

  “Wha
t gives you that idea?”

  “It ain’t an idea. I know so.”

  “Where in hell did you pick them up in this neck of the woods?”

  “At the replacement depot. On toilet seats I think.”

  “Yeah, I know. Well, what do you want me to do? Mark you a latrine casualty and send you to the rear? Or do you think we ought to open up a pro-station in the front lines?”

  “I don’t know–I mean nosir.”

  “Look around. You’ll find some gasoline. Try dousing yourself with it.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And leave your pants down until the gas dries, or you’re liable to wind up with a blister.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And if that don’t work, just leave your pants down a little longer and freeze them.”

  As he walks meekly away, Anders shakes his head. “The same old army,” he says. “You have to see these things to believe them.”

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Washed up. The wound’s about well, but my nerves are jumping around like frogs.”

  “They shouldn’t have sent you back up.”

  “I asked for it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s it been?”

  “Rough as I’ve ever seen it. We’ve lost two-thirds of the company in the past four days.”

  “Whew! When do we go up?”

  “Probably tonight. I’m dead on my feet. Will you look over the men’s equipment?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “See that they’ve got dry socks; and don’t let them throw away their galoshes.”

  ‘Okay.”

  “Did you have any fun while you were gone?”

  “Yeah. I met a nice little dish in the hospital.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A blonde from Houston.”

  “That’s my territory.”

  “That’s what you think. Had a date with her the night I had to pull out.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t get to see her. Left her a note.”

  “The poor girl. I can just see her pining away for the lack of somebody to make a pass at her.”

  “Aw, Murph. The trouble with staying up in the lines is that you get so damned cynical. She was a nice babe.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been so good I dreamed I went to heaven.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah. Got into a fur-lined foxhole.”

  “You must’ve been all wet.”

  “Right. When I woke up I was.”

  “This girl of mine–”

  “I met me a nurse, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Brunette with a figure that’d knock your eye out.”

  “No? Probably shacking up with some med corps colonel.”

  “She wouldn’t do that with me.”

  “The hell she wouldn’t.”

  21

  ON the following afternoon, we move into the front lines. As we plod up the icy road, a wind, whipping across the plains, occasionally lifts a cloud of powdery snow and drives it into our faces. The flesh stings as though pricked with hundreds of needles; and our feet, despite all precaution, grow wet and numb.

  Behind me, I hear the rhythm of slogging footsteps; the heavy breathing and swearing of men who think they have reached the limit of endurance and exasperation. But they have not. Before night our situation will have changed infinitely for the worse. We will be under fire and the temperature will have dropped even lower.

  Bergman, with his peculiar sense of humor, is a great help when the going is rough. Sensing the mood, he now shouts, “Nobody can say we’re not moving into action as cool as cucumbers.”

  Instantly his remark brings a chorus of responses.

  “Aw, who’s de wise guy?”

  “Throw him in the snow.”

  “Feed him beans. Feed him beans.”

  “If you freeze,” says the Swede, “you get stacked up like wood and tawed out wit a flame trower.”

  “Aw, shadup.”

  “Save yoh bret.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” declares the Swede cheerfully. “Wait’ll we swim that river.”

  “Never will I forgive that draft board,” says a voice bitterly. “I wish I had the whole damned bunch right here.”

  “You didn’t get drafted. You volunteered.”

  “Who volunteered?”

  “Aw, nuts! Save yoh bret. Save yoh bret.”

  I understand their mood, but have no sympathy for it. We are all moving up together and must take our chances with fortune. Right now I am concerned with the individual only as a fighting unit. If his feet freeze, I will turn him over to the medics. If his nerves crack, I will send him to the rear. If he is hit, I will see that his wound is treated. Otherwise, I look upon him as a unit whom I must get to the front and in battle position on schedule.

  At the whistle of a solitary shell, the company halts abruptly. From the sound, I know that the projectile is going wide of us. We are in no danger. I wheel about. Part of the men follow the noise with an experienced ear; some have dropped to their bellies; others, as if hypnotized by the sound, stand gaping stupidly.

  The shell crashes into a field on our right. The staring men flop to the earth. I walk back through the ranks.

  “For those of you who’ve never heard it before, that was a sample of German artillery. The time to duck is when you hear a shell coming, not after it explodes. All right, on your feet, everybody. Platoon leaders, spread your men out more. Let’s go.”

  One man fails to rise.

  “Okay, what’s wrong with you, soldier? You heard the order. Get off your rear-end.”

  “Yessir. I didn’t know we was ready.”

  As I turn, I hear loud snickers.

  “What’s wrong with you, Rusty? Think your number was up?”

  “Aw, save yoh bret.”

  “That was the guy who claimed he fought in the ring.”

  “Yeah. Ring-around-roses.”

  “Aw, choke de chatter. Save yoh bret.”

  The Colmar Canal is a fifty-foot-wide ribbon of water that stretches across the plains between the Rhine and the city whose name it bears. On the military map it looks as formidable as the river Ill. Flanked by banks twelve feet high, the slowly moving water has not been frozen. Crossing it may prove to be a costly and bloody task. But we must get over. The plan of action is now obvious. We are to by-pass Colmar, knife south, and cut the highways and railroad feeding the pocket from Germany.

  Under the cover of darkness, we move toward the north bank of the canal. The earth trembles from our growling, rumbling artillery; and ahead we can see streams of tracer bullets slicing the darkness. Later I learn that an entire antiaircraft battalion has turned its weapons against ground targets. Within three hours it pumps twenty two thousand rounds of ammunition across the canal.

  We eat on the move, dipping our spoons into cans of a revolting mixture that passes for vegetable stew. The wind has increased in intensity. Explosions rip the earth before us. The artillery flashes dance weirdly over the faces of the men. We look like a phantom body of troops doing a forced march through hell.

  I step to one side of the road to let the company pass. A man turns his head aside and vomits.

  “What’s wrong there, soldier?”

  “That goddam horse meat. It’s made me sick before.”

  “Can you carry on?”

  “I’ll carry on as long as there’s a gut left in my body.”

  “That’s the spirit. What’s wrong with you there, soldier?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just freezing.”

  “Brace up, and cut out the crying. We’re all here together.”

  “And you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Bergman is still in there pitching.

  “Are you all right, men?”

  “I ain’t never been more unright.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Muh pack’s all screwed up.”

  “Fall out and get
it unscrewed. Then get back into position on the double.”

  “If your feet fall off, what’re you supposed to do?”

  “Pick them up and carry them. What’s that, soldier?”

  “Nobody said nuthin’.”

  “Go ahead and bitch, but keep moving.”

  “Got any enlistment blanks, lieutenant? Rusty just decided to be a thirty-year man.”

  “Aw, guzzle the gas.”

  “How much further, lieutenant?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll find out when we get there.”

  “Gittin’ shot’s gonna be a pleasure after this here hoofin’.”

  “What’s wrong with you stragglers? Come on. Catch up.”

  “You walking too fast, lieutenant.”

  “If the rest of the company can do it, so can you. Come on. Pick them up.”

  “Man back here sick, lieutenant.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He got overheated.”

  “Jeezus! Now I’ve hoid everything. Eskimo wit da fever.”

  “Are you really sick, soldier?”

  “I can still navigate, lieutenant.”

  “The man is just out of the hospital.”

  “You want to fall out?”

  “Nosir.”

  “Da guy’s nuts. Jus’ as’ me if I wanta get out, lieutenant.”

  “Okay. Let’s step it up. We’ll probably get a break at the assembly area.”

  “We’ll probably get broke in two.”

  “And you ain’t just a-birdin’, son. You ain’t birdin’ a-tall.”

  Because of the mass of our weapons and the shrewd planning of our strategists, the canal crossing is accomplished with ease. The terrific preparatory barrage has knocked the Germans punch-drunk. Before they can reorganize, units of our assault troops paddle over the water in rubber boats and establish bridgeheads. Engineers shove over footbridges. By midnight two infantry regiments are on the south bank of the canal.

  For the next two days, we slash across the countryside, battering down points of resistance and mopping up areas of thinly scattered troops. The whole strategy now seems to hinge on speed. We must hit the enemy before he can get to his feet.

  Sleep is not among our rations. The snow has turned to slush; and we slog from objective to objective on leaden feet. There is little need for personal camouflage. Our clothes are so muddy that, except for the shape of our helmets, we can scarcely be distinguished from the Germans.