Boogie displayed his own lack of interest in France with the speed he poured on. The Jimmy exited the town, then crossed a tiny bridge on the south side. Boogie hit the brakes.
A six-by-six cab-over-engine cargo truck blocked the road. The twin cat’s eyes in the rear—the red ones that looked like a sleepy driver’s half-drawn and veined eyeballs—were blank. The truck was dead in the road.
‘The hell,’ Boogie muttered. ‘Get out, College, and see what’s up.’
Joe Amos clambered down from the cab. He walked around to the silent grille of the COE. A pair of white drivers stood smoking, their cigarette gleams the only lights.
‘Fellas.’
‘Alternator’s shot,’ said one. ‘Battery’s out.’ He took a seat on the bumper, crossing his boots.
‘Okay,’ said Joe Amos.
‘Go around,’ said the other driver.
‘Where’s the rest of your convoy?’
‘Went on ahead. They’re sending back a tow truck.’
‘Go around,’ repeated the standing driver.
Boogie tapped his horn. Grove and the other Jimmies arrived. The idles mounted, growling in line.
‘The road’s a little narrow through here, fellas. Maybe we can give you a push off to the side.’
The seated one said, ‘No. I ain’t putting this rig on the shoulder. No way to tell if there’s mines around here.’
The standing driver dropped his cigarette. Grinding it underfoot, the white man blew smoke. ‘I said go around. Now go around.’
‘Okay,’ Joe Amos told him.
Joe Amos walked away, back to the rig where Boogie waited. Grove stood pudgy below Boogie’s elbow in the cab window. Boogie stared at the tail of the dead truck.
‘What’s up?’ Grove asked.
‘Man says their battery’s out. Tow truck’s coming.’
‘They can’t sit in the damn road like that.’ Grove pointed south. ‘Soon as traffic starts comin’ the other way, this road’ll snarl up for miles. Then everybody’s fucked.’
To illustrate Grove’s point, the grumble and dimmed lights of an approaching convoy sifted out of the south.
‘You tell ‘em we can push ‘em to the side?’
‘Yep. Man says he’s scared of mines.’
Boogie’s door opened. Joe Amos had to dodge out of the way. Boogie leaped down, a big and nimble dark shape.
‘Get in,’ he said, passing Joe Amos.
Boogie strode to the driver’s door of the stilled COE. Joe Amos scrambled behind the Jimmy’s wheel. He edged into first gear and crept ahead.
Boogie was in the cab of the truck before the two smoking drivers could move. Joe Amos heard the brake cable release, the gearshift clank, and knew Boogie had her in neutral. Joe Amos gassed forward, lightly kissed bumpers, and pushed the dead truck steered by Boogie John off the road. No mines detonated.
As soon as the truck was gone from the road, Joe Amos jerked up his parking brake and leaped out of the cab. Boogie was already on his feet and in a fight.
~ * ~
Ben Kahn thanked the ambulance driver. He stepped away into the ditch. The van U-turned in the tight confines between the hedges. Ben patted the fender when the ambulance pulled past.
He looked west along the skinny road, down the green tunnel that canopied the track. A few hundred yards off, soldiers trudged in a dust-kicking column, headed north. Ben jogged to catch them. Noon light spangled the lane rutted by tank and jeep tracks. He looked to see signs of battle through here, but the hedges rose too high and the fields were hidden.
Running toward the 358th Infantry, Ben felt light. This was where he belonged, with the infantry, where God insisted all their dealings be settled. Ben came now empty, armed only with penitence. The running was easy and this fit Ben’s belief, that when you go the direction God intends, even the hardest of ways is smoothed.
He approached the column and slowed, to catch his breath and marvel at the sight of several thousand American soldiers in a line, marching four abreast. Since his arrival five days ago, he had been kept in the rear areas, aiding the wounded, visiting artillery batteries, praying with staff officers at headquarters. This morning, General Billups had released him to the field. The General was in no better humor now that the 90th had a new CO. The Tough Ombres were still behind schedule for every objective, and losses stayed high. The new CO was cleaning house, but Billups worried he was not going deep enough into the ranks, to replace hesitant and poor officers all the way down to the battalion level. Ben asked many times, until Billups sent him forward with, ‘Alright, get the hell out there, Padre.’ Ben climbed into the first vehicle headed to the front lines.
He moved alongside a sergeant walking in the center of his squad. Up close, he saw how dirty the men were. No chin was shaved, every fingernail was a grimy crescent. Their boots scuffed the dirt road and their weapons were carried like freight across their backs. Five days of fighting had dog-eared their bodies.
‘Sarge,’ Ben said.
‘Chaplain. You new?’
‘Yep.’
A voice from the squad, a burly soldier lugging a Browning automatic rifle, cracked, ‘You don’t look so new.’
Ben grinned. ‘I been around.’
‘Around what?’ A few men chuckled. Ben spotted the soldier who’d made the jibe and shook a fist at him in play. One of the men said, ‘Oh, oh, look out.’
‘Where you boys from?’
Cities and towns cropped up: Des Moines, St. Lôuis, Ponca City, Lubbock, Shawnee. Ben pointed and each man called out his home, most of them from the middle of America. One soldier cried, ‘Youngstown, Ohio,’ and Ben answered, ‘Go, you Brownies.’ Another said, ‘Cleveland bites the big one.’ The sergeant let the squabble build, then told his squad to pipe down. Ben had stirred the pot. He felt fine about this. These boys aren’t beat, he thought. They’re tired and far from finished, and, sure, they’re scared from what they’ve seen and done. They know that nothing will protect them from the bullet that’s got a name on it. They’ve fought hard in their first five days and they’ve run away, too, according to Billups, who’d carped hourly. But no one ever said the Tough Ombres were cowards. These boys, this fifteen out of the four thousand tramping down the road, would prove themselves good fighters. They would take their bullets when they had to. And though he carried no rifle or mortar, no heavy pack, his own task—to see that these new sons went through with it—weighed across his shoulders.
It took him a half hour to work his way to the front of the regiment. He hustled beside the column as if beside a green river, waving to men who greeted him as he passed. A few spotted the Ten Commandments pin at his collar and hollered, ‘Shalom, Rabbi!’ To these he shouted back, ‘Shalom! Vee Geyts?’
The Army had given each infantryman a weapon, a shelter half, blanket, mess kit, gas mask, folding shovel, raincoat, hand grenades, and bandoleers of extra ammo. Their uniforms were chemically treated to make them resistant to gas attacks, and looked to breathe no better than a burlap sack. The men slogged in the heat, and one by one, they cast off extra weight, keeping what was essential. From the GI litter, Ben judged the men put the most faith in their rifles, ammunition, trenching tools, and spoons.
Finally at the front of the column, Ben located the regimental commander, Colonel Paar. The man shook hands with a firm grip and narrowed eyes. ‘Good to have you, Chaplain.’
Up here in front, the momentum was heady from the treading thousands behind. There were less dust and smell than in the ranks. Colonel Paar squeezed Ben’s shoulder, putting on his leadership show. He yanked a thumb behind him.
‘Chaplain Allenby will fill you in. Welcome aboard.’
Behind Ben, a smallish man broke ranks, pressing forward. His helmet rode low over his ears. On his collar was the cross pin of a Christian chaplain. He lacked the Red Cross armband, and his helmet, which should also have been marked with the cross, was obscured by dirty tape. His uniform was not a bit cleaner than any soldier i
n the regiment.
‘Phineas Allenby.’ Chaplain Allenby was not out of his twenties. His cheeks glowed. He drew Ben away from the column to walk beside it. ‘Baptist.’ The young man’s voice was high-pitched and honeyed by twang.
‘Ben Kahn.’ Ben’s name sounded threadbare next to Phineas Allenby’s.
‘Welcome, Rabbi.’
‘Reverend. That’s quite a name. Phineas.’
‘It’s Egyptian.’ Chaplain Allenby shrugged. ‘It means “serpent’s mouth” in the old Hebrew. You probably knew that.’
‘No. That’s a new one on me.’
‘Phineas was the grandson of Aaron who killed an Israelite because he married a Midianite. I’ve never been able to figure out if this was a good thing or not.’ Allenby shrugged again. ‘Anyway, it’s Phineas. Kahn. Does that come from the Israelite priests—the Kohain?’
‘Yep.’
‘A descendant of Aaron.’
‘That’s right, Chaplain.’
‘So if it turns out my folks’re wrong and y’all are right, I reckon what? You’ll be carried on the shoulders of the nearest Levites to the temple, where you’ll dispense wisdom and mercy. Have I got it right?’
‘On the nose.’
‘So between us we got it covered.’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s a relief. What class were you in?’
Ben smiled at the careering topics and protocols of this chatty little chaplain. They walked in a war zone less than a mile from an immense enemy, and Phineas Allenby wanted to talk names, Judgment Day, and the U.S. Army Chaplain School at Harvard.
‘November ‘43.’
Allenby brightened. ‘I was just in front of you, September ‘43.’
‘They didn’t make the rabbis do the September class.’
‘That’s right,’ said Chaplain Allenby, recollecting, glad to be back at cool, green Harvard, away from this hot and foreign road for a few seconds. ‘Rosh Hashanah.’ He was proud to display his knowledge.
‘And Yom Kippur.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Chaplain Allenby was disappointed not to have recalled this autumn High Holy Day, too.
‘Where are the other 90th chaplains?’
Allenby shifted his stride to guide Ben farther from the column on their left. He wanted to speak without the men overhearing.
‘The division has thirteen chaplains. Got all kinds. Latter-day Saints, Catholics, and pretty much all your major Protestants. Most of ‘em stay at HQ with the aid station, ministering to the wounded and such.’
‘And you?’
Chaplain Allenby glanced over his shoulder at the long phalanx of soldiers, still molting away bits of hardware onto the road. ‘I reckon I’m fine here.’
‘Mind if I join you for a while?’
‘Great. Is Ben okay?’
‘And you’re, of course, Phineas.’
The chaplains shook hands afresh.
‘Little Rock, Arkansas,’ Phineas said.
‘Pittsburgh.’
Ben told Phineas he’d been instructed by General Billups to float between the three regiments, the 357th, 358th, and 359th, to reach all the division’s Jewish soldiers. He intended to stay with these infantry units and not go back to headquarters.
‘I know a lot of the Jewish boys,’ Phineas said, ‘They’ll be glad to see you. I can’t ever pronounce the Shema right. I don’t think people should laugh during a prayer.’
Ben and the little chaplain smiled. In that moment it was a sunny day in France, a stroll with a colleague on a backwoods lane. In the next, the war asserted itself beyond the hedges. Artillery thundered and small arms spurted under the boot-march of the column. Every man cringed and looked up; some soldiers unstrapped their rifles into their hands. Phineas Allenby jerked his eyes to the ground, searching for somewhere to dive. Ben held himself in check, walking erect. He’d grown accustomed long ago to reading the telltales of incoming and out-going artillery. These boys will pick it up, he figured. The shelling and gunfire droned, clearly aimed elsewhere. The thousands on the road firmed more slowly than they’d come undone. The column plodded on. Phineas grimaced, sheepish.
‘We’re a little jittery, I suppose.’
‘It goes away.’
Remaining outside the column, the two walked side by side for a time without speaking. Phineas’s face was flushed. Ben watched him walk, eyes turned down. Thousands of marching boots thumped on their left. Phineas Allenby appeared to want to recede back into the column. He had come unnerved in front of Ben and he seemed to need to deal with the sting of that.
‘Tell me about Colonel Paar.’
Phineas slowly raised his head.
‘He just got the job this morning. The other CO was killed yesterday at Pont l’Abbé, and the assistant CO got wounded. Paar came over from 9th Division. There’s been a big shakeup all across the 90th. New CO at the top, new commanders in almost every regiment and battalion. Them that didn’t get hit pretty much got replaced. So we don’t know much about Paar yet. Or much of anybody, except the men.’
‘What do we know about them?’
Phineas lifted his face full to Ben. He shoved the sinking rim of his helmet off his brow.
‘Ben, you don’t mind me asking -’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You’re a vet, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Phineas nodded and looked straight up the road where the column headed, into the dirt and green unknown for all of them.
‘I figured that, the way you handled yourself back there a few minutes ago when those shells went off. So since you’re an old Army man, I can tell you straight. Without the...’ Phineas leaned closer. He whispered, which was charming and naive. ‘...bullshit.’
‘Please.’
‘I don’t know if you know. It’s been a rough start.’
Ben made no mention of Billups. He wanted to hear from this pint-sized frontline chaplain what had been happening with these troops.
Phineas put his hands in his pockets. He glanced over at Colonel Paar and the staff treading around the regiment’s CO, appearing to measure the distance so he would not be overheard.
‘The 358th jumped off the morning of the 10th. We crossed the Merderet River causeway at Chef-du-Pont before dawn. That went okay—there was some resistance, but we made it over. We got to Picauville pretty good and pushed on to Pont l’Abbé. Right outside that town is where the first German artillery hit us. I’ve never...Lord forgive me, Ben, I have never been through anything like that in my life. The .88s. They’re like some kind of nightmare, you know, but not inside your head. Right there blowing up in your face. I...we, all of us, we hit the ground and we stayed there.’
Phineas spoke apologetically. Ben knew about trying to cram your whole body into your helmet when the explosions start. He understood that every man comes up sorry for what he learns about himself from his first artillery barrage.
Phineas pressed on.
‘Afternoon of the 11th, we went after Pont 1’Abbe. We made good progress behind our own artillery, but we got stopped by machine-gun fire outside the town. That night, we still hadn’t taken it. Next day, we went after it again. That’s when the CO went down. The whole attack fell apart.’
Phineas dropped his gaze again. He seemed to search the road for something, glancing side to side, until Ben realized the little chaplain was slowly shaking his head.
‘The casualties. Two days of fighting. There must’ve been a couple hundred. It was...’
Phineas lifted his head. He stared back at the soldiers tramping along, jangling. Ben looked back, too.
‘They’re good men,’ Phineas told him. ‘They need good leaders, is all.’
‘They need you, too, Phineas. You’re a good man. And you’re in the right place.’
Phineas’s cheeks pinked and he smiled.
‘Thank you, Rabbi. I really hope that’s so.’ He gathered himself to continue the story, to bring Ben and the 358th up to today.
David Robbins - [World War II 04] Page 7
