A Mortal Terror bbwim-6

by James R Benn

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Somebody gave me a canteen and I drank half of its contents down and poured the rest over my head. The damned gray haze was everywhere, and now smoke grenades were tossed out to cover the jeeps coming up for the wounded. I managed to stand, and Harding materialized out of the swirling clouds.

  “You okay, Boyle?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for getting us out, Colonel.”

  “I wasn’t entirely sure that runner would make it.”

  “I told him you’d make him a corporal once we got back.”

  “I’ll see to it. Your kid brother okay?”

  “I’m pretty sure, but I need to find him.”

  “Get a move on then. We have a report of Kraut tanks on the other side of that hill. If they decide to hit us now, things could get worse real fast.”

  Clutching a pair of binoculars, Harding was off to observe the German lines while I went in search of Danny. It was a mass of confusion, the badly wounded waiting for evacuation, the lightly wounded being treated behind the stone farmhouse, as smoke eddied and curled around the building and along the ground. I found Evans trying to sort out his squads from the crowd. He hadn’t seen Danny. Dead bodies were laid out, about half a dozen, but I didn’t want to look there yet. Flint walked by me, glassy-eyed, working the thousand-yard stare, so I didn’t ask him how Louie was doing.

  Father Dare was with the medics, looking about ready to pass out himself. He’d seen Stump and his squad, and thought he’d seen Danny and Charlie head down the road to Le Ferriere. I went in that direction as the Krauts lobbed a few mortar shells at us. It was halfhearted, as if they knew we’d pulled a fast one and were only going through the motions, but I jumped into a shell hole until it was over anyway.

  When the shelling stopped, I looked up to see I was sharing the hole with Phil Einsmann.

  “Hey Billy, helluva mess, isn’t it?”

  “What are you doing up here, Phil?”

  “I was with a party of brass who came up to observe the advance. I snuck away for a closer look and nearly got my head blown off. Were you out there?”

  “Yeah. Most of us made it back. Watch out for yourself, Phil. The Krauts aren’t going to be looking for that war correspondent’s patch on your shoulder.”

  “I hope I don’t get that close. But if I do, look what I won in a poker game last night.” He opened his jacket to show me his. 45 automatic in a shoulder holster.

  “Nice,” I said. “For a noncombatant. Ditch that if you’re captured.”

  “Not planning on that either. You going back to the village?”

  “After I find my kid brother. Good luck,” I said, climbing out the shell hole. I wandered down the road, looking at small clusters of GIs sharing canteens or a smoke, laughing as if they hadn’t nearly been killed. Or because.

  “Billy!” It was Danny and his pal, leaning against a tree by the side of the road, eating K rations. Canned cheese and biscuits. It actually looked good. I sat down next to him and we just grinned at each other. He gave me a biscuit with cheese and for some reason it seemed like the funniest thing in the world. We both started laughing, and Charlie even joined in, understanding how good it felt to be alive and in the company of someone you cared about.

  “I saw Flint carrying Louie out,” I said. “Is it bad?”

  “Louie is dead,” Charlie said.

  “I know, but how is he?”

  “Billy, Louie is really dead. Sticks too. They both got it in the head,” Danny said.

  “Jesus,” I said. “What a waste.” Another round of mortar fire came in, closer this time, leaving no time for mourning. Jeeps with wounded laid out on litters zipped down the road, making for the safety of Le Ferriere. “They’re getting closer.”

  “We had to get out of the smoke,” Danny said. “Charlie doesn’t like it. He got lost for a while, but I found him.”

  “It is not a good place to die,” Charlie said. “A man’s soul would be lost as sure as I was. Louie should have waited for a better place.”

  Danny raised an eyebrow, not in a mocking way, but in sympathy. It sort of made sense, considering the riverbed was underground and smoke still drifted out of it. It was hard enough for the living to get out, never mind the recently departed.

  “The smoke did save our lives,” I offered.

  “True. But it did not save Louie.”

  “Hard to argue-” A sharp crack cut me off, followed a second later by a massive explosion that engulfed the farmhouse and blew out the back wall where the wounded had been moments ago. Another retort echoed and the roof blew up, sending debris sky high. The force of the blasts was so great that the concussion instantly evaporated the smoke. This wasn’t mortar fire, it was high-velocity cannon fire.

  “Get back to Le Ferriere,” I said to Danny as I ran to the farmhouse. As usual, he didn’t listen to me, lieutenant or not. I closed in on the scene with him and Charlie on my heels. A section of roof collapsed, and granite stones fell from the weakened rear wall like tears.

  “Tigers!” someone yelled, and others took up the call. Every GI thought every German tank was a Tiger tank, but today they had it nailed. Four Tigers, their 88-mm guns pointed straight at us, were trundling across the fields, infantry spread out behind them. Harding had been right: we were sitting ducks, a mass of disorganized men with practically no cover. We had to get back to the village.

  “Fall back, fall back!” I yelled, and few needed the encouragement. I saw one Tiger halt, and knew what that meant. “Get down!”

  Another shell slammed into the farmhouse, this one bringing down the roof completely, starting a fire inside. Behind the gutted ruin, two GIs were struggling to get up, blood and dust caked on their faces.

  “Help these two get to the village,” I said, pointing out the wounded men to Danny and Charlie. I searched for Evans, not finding him anywhere, the flames and smoke making it hard to see. The heat drove me back and I stumbled over someone. I knelt and shook the man to check if he was alive. It was Louie. I’d stumbled across the dead, already laid out for Graves Registration. I could see the hit he’d taken, right at the base of the skull. It wasn’t pretty. I saw something else, too. Gunshot residue on his neck. Powder burns from a weapon held close to his head.

  “Billy, help!” It was Flint, half carrying Evans, whose arm hung limp and dripped blood. Evans looked to be in shock, his mouth half open and eyes wide. “Back there, Stump’s hurt.”

  I stumbled in the direction Flint had indicated, moving against the flow of the last of the dazed GIs making their way to Le Ferriere, my mind reeling. Who had shot Louie at close range, and why? Is that why Louie thought his time was up? Did he see it coming? And did this confirm Louie wasn’t the killer? Or did someone take revenge on him? All I knew was that another GI was dead, robbed of his chance for survival. It was a slim chance, but it was all he had in the world.

  Two more explosions wracked the earth, and I hit the dirt, feeling debris rain down on me. The clanking of tank treads grew louder, and I rose, shaking off the dust and confusion, willing my body to move faster, to get the hell out before the place was swarming with Krauts, or those tanks got close enough to use their machine guns.

  I heard a hacking, choking sound and crawled toward it. I saw two bodies, off to the side of what had been the farmhouse. One was still, the other on his knees, struggling with something wound around his neck, dust and dirt coating his hair and face. I got closer and saw it was Harding. He was pulling at the leather straps of his binoculars, and my mind struggled to understand what I was seeing, to figure out what he was doing. His mouth was open, gasping for air, getting damn little, and I saw the tightly wound straps digging into the skin of his neck. I drew my knife and cut at the leather, knowing we had only seconds before he lost consciousness, the tanks were on us, or both.

  The binoculars fell and Harding drew in a wheezing lungful of air. Deep red welts rose on his neck where the strap had gouged his skin. He motioned to Stu
mp, unable to speak. I felt Stump’s neck and found a pulse. He had a nasty gash over one eye, and there was a lot of blood, but other than that I didn’t see another wound. But what I did see was a king of hearts, crumpled in his clenched fist. I opened his hand and showed it to Harding, although he already had a pretty good idea.

  Harding and I draped Stump over our shoulders and dragged him away, the sound of tank treads and German war cries not far behind. We met up with Danny and Charlie outside of Le Ferriere, as our artillery began to pound the area around the farmhouse, ground we had held and given up. They took Stump and we entered the village through the gate where the attack had begun early that morning, and I wondered if the brass had stuck around to watch the retreat of the survivors. Probably not.

  An antitank gun was wheeled up and positioned at the gate. All I cared about was getting some peace and quiet to think things through, which was a bit difficult with an artillery barrage sailing over my head and Tiger tanks a half mile down the road. We headed to the aid station, which was doing brisk business. Most of the wounded were being treated outside, with only the most serious cases going inside the small building, one of the few structures in Le Ferriere that had escaped damage. Ambulances pulled up and medics loaded wounded aboard, then returned to the line of men with bloody bandages and dazed looks.

  We laid Stump down and Danny began to clean his head wound, washing away blood with water from his canteen and applying sulfa powder. Harding sat on the ground, still not looking all that well. I gave him my canteen and he drank thirstily.

  “Can you talk, Colonel?”

  “Get… his… weapon,” he managed to croak out. I took Stump’s. 45 from his holster as Danny looked at me strangely. I checked the magazine as I sat down next to Harding. There were six rounds, and one in the chamber, meaning one had been fired. I sniffed the barrel. Recently.

  “Louie, Danny’s squad sergeant, was shot in the back of the head, close range,” I said. “Probably when we came under fire in the streambed. With the smoke and the noise, no one would have noticed one more guy going down. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

  “Thought I saw vehicles. Used binoculars,” Harding said, choking out each word. “Next thing, someone’s twisting the strap around my neck. Forced me to the ground. Almost had me, then that Tiger opened up. I blacked out, then you were cutting the strap.”

  “I found Stump about ten feet from where you were. Did you see who attacked you?” Harding shook his head no, and drank more water. I went over to Stump and checked him again. The cut on his forehead was bad, but that seemed to be his only injury. He was probably hit by a piece of wood or masonry. If it had been shrapnel, he’d have been dead. I went through his pockets as Danny stood back. Nothing unusual.

  “What’s going on, Billy?” Danny asked. I took the card from my pocket and showed Danny. He whistled. I stowed it away and put my finger to my lips, signaling him to keep quiet about it. Then I brought him over to Harding, who’d managed to stand up.

  “Colonel Harding, this is my brother Danny.” I was glad Danny didn’t play the rookie and try to salute. Harding nodded and stuck out his hand, and they shook.

  “Billy has told us a lot about you, Colonel.”

  “I can only imagine,” Harding said, his voice returning but still sounding harsh. “He’s mentioned you as well. You hold up all right out there?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “He did, Colonel, I can vouch for that,” I said.

  “Good to meet you, son. Take care of yourself. Stay low out there,” Harding growled.

  “I will, sir. That’s just what Billy tells me.”

  “Danny, see if you can find Lieutenant Evans. Flint probably brought him here.”

  “Okay, Billy,” he said, and he and Charlie began searching the wounded.

  “Do we have our killer?” Harding asked.

  “Sure looks like it. He had you lined up to be part of his royal flush.”

  “I was in the wrong place at the right time, for him anyway. I never was so glad to almost be killed by a German 88.”

  “I don’t think he’s going anywhere soon, but can you keep an eye on him? I want to find Father Dare.” I handed Harding Stump’s. 45.

  “Not a problem,” Harding said. “I hear the padre does good work as a medic.”

  “He does,” I said, thinking about the. 45 that he carried. Plenty of guys who weren’t officially issued automatic pistols, like Father Dare, got them one way or the other. How many of those weapons were out there today, in the smoke? A fair number, but most wouldn’t have been fired at all. This fighting hadn’t been at close quarters. I stared at Stump’s face, cleaned of blood and grime, and wondered why. Why did the killings start, and why did they have to go on?

  I asked around and a medic told me he saw Father Dare enter the village church, a few buildings down. I climbed the steps and opened the carved wooden doors, feeling the weight of centuries behind them. The small church had been hit by a shell on the roof, and thick, heavy timbers had fallen in, crushing rows of pews. Father Dare knelt at the altar, his helmet on the floor, his head bowed. He swayed, and it seemed as if he were so lost in prayer that he might lose his balance. I stepped closer, not wanting to interrupt his prayers, but unwilling to let him crack his head against the marble altar. I went to steady him, and only then noticed the pool of blood spreading under his left leg.

  “Father,” I said, kneeling at his side. Even though he was a rough-and-tumble padre, and we’d dodged bullets together, here in God’s house I felt ill at ease, like the altar boy I’d been, unsure of the ways of adults and especially priests. “Are you all right?”

  “I am praying, Billy. Praying for God himself to come down and save us. I told him to leave Jesus home, that this was no place for children.” He folded his hands in prayer once again, and fell into my arms.

  “Shrapnel in his calf,” the medic told me after I’d carried Father Dare back. “He must have been bleeding into his boot, and when he knelt down, it all came out.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “He won’t be dancing anytime soon, but it should heal up. It’s mostly shock that concerns me, losing all that blood. It would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t gotten him back here.” With that, he went back to tending to the last of the wounded, the less serious cases who’d had to wait.

  Danny had found Evans, on a litter, waiting for the next ambulance. His arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, and an IV drip had been set up on a rifle set in the ground by its bayonet. He looked as white as a sheet.

  “Doc said he lost a lot of blood,” Danny told me. “Flint saved his life getting here.”

  “How you doing, Evans?” I asked as I squatted down next to him.

  “They gave me enough morphine that I think I’m okay,” he said lazily. “But I don’t think I am.”

  “That’s a million-dollar wound you got, Lieutenant,” Flint said, appearing at Evans’s side. “Doc told me himself. You’ll live, but you’ll do your living back in the States.”

  “I’m sorry,” Evans said. “Sorry to leave you guys so soon. Did we lose many men?”

  “It would have been worse without you, Lieutenant,” Flint said. “You did real good for your first time out, you can be proud of that.”

  “Thanks. Tell Louie and Stump so long, okay?”

  “Sure,” Flint said, barely missing a beat. “Soon as I see them.” He walked away, giving me a secretive wink as he passed. No need to burden Evans with the bad news. Danny and Charlie said their good-byes, and I sat next to Evans.

  “What was it you wanted to ask me back there?” Evans said, his eyes closing.

  “When you were assigned to the supply depot in Acerra, did you ever go the Bar Raffaele?”

  “Sure, lots of guys did. But I never… you know.”

  “Never paid for a whore?”

  “Right.”

  “You talked with the girls though,” I said.

  “Couldn’
t avoid it,” Evans said. His eyes were fully closed now.

  “Ever meet a girl named Ileana?”

  “Oh yeah, Ileana. A looker.” His head nodded off as the morphine took effect. He mumbled something under his breath. “… one of the guys

  … wanted…”

  “What? Who?” But there was no waking him, the drug had taken him far away from this ruined village and the jagged steel buried in his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The jeep careened around an antiaircraft emplacement, hitting forty as the driver gunned the engine and sped by a fuel dump, jerrycans stacked ten high for a hundred yards. He was trying to outrun a stick of bombs dropped by a Ju 88, exploding in a ragged line behind us. I held my breath, waiting to be blown to kingdom come if one came close to all that gasoline.

  “Listen,” I said, grabbing the driver’s shoulder from the backseat. “I want to get to the hospital, not be admitted to it. Slow down.”

  “Not the way it’s done, sir,” he said, downshifting as he cleared the burning wreckage of a truck and towed artillery piece. “This hospital is set up next to an airfield, ammo dump, supply depot, and most of the ack-ack in the beachhead. It ain’t a healthy place to linger, wounded or healthy.”

  “Why the hell did they put it there?”

  “On account of there’s nowhere else. You mighta noticed real estate is at a premium around here. I’ve been ferrying wounded from the aid stations for two days straight, and I’ve brought guys here and seen ’em hitching a ride back to the line on my next trip. They say it’s too damn dangerous.”