David Robbins - [World War II 04]

by Liberation Road (v1. 0) (epub)

  Major Clay broke off and stalked to his covered jeep, Garner at his heels. Most drivers filtered back to their cabs. McGee walked off. Joe Amos spit rainwater off his lips.

  He fingered in his pocket for the new cloth stripe.

  ~ * ~

  D+25

  July 1

  Cigarette smoke roiled against the ceiling, branding the room a jittery place, Ben Kahn was one of the few gathered officers who did not breathe the tension through burning tobacco.

  At the head of the room, General Billups patted the regiment’s CO on the arm, completing some private brief before addressing the seated officers of the 359th. The Colonel sat, leaving Billups standing alone. Ben cast his eyes around the room, a nursery for the damaged church in Beuzeville La Bastille. No more than a dozen of the thirty-five officers were faces he had seen the last time he was with the 359th just ten days ago.

  Billups strode in front of an easel bearing a six-foot-high map. He lifted a long pointer from a table and clapped it against his boot.

  ‘Gentlemen. Good afternoon. Before we begin, I’d like to recognize Chaplain Kahn here.’ With the pointer, Billups accused Ben of being that chaplain.

  ‘The rabbi here is a veteran of the 90th from the Great War. He was at the Argonne and St. Mihiel. He has returned to the fight and for that we are grateful. I’d like the chaplain to offer a prayer for our victory in this great war, as well.’

  Ben, not expecting this, rose. Officers doffed their helmets and lowered their heads. Before he spoke, he gazed at the map; there lay the scribbled futures for thousands of lives. The smoke stung his eyes. He closed them to pray. In two days, when the attack drawn on that map begins, these young officers would have the powers of life and death. Most of these lieutenants and captains and majors were new, the hedgerows chopped down so many before them. The assault may be their first time in combat. The 90th had seen enough of questionable leadership. Ben beseeched this group.

  ‘God. You have brought us all here for a mighty purpose. You have shown us the place for victory. You have given us the tools. And You have given us the strength. We ask now that You give us, too, the will. Let us not shirk from victory. Let us not turn from our mission. Let our courage be Your hand in the fight against darkness in the world. Be with us in life, as we will surely be with You in death. For this we pray. Amen.’

  Ben raised his own head, then sat. Heads bobbed. General Billups made an intense and pinched face at Ben, pleased.

  ‘Everybody got that?’ Billups asked the room. ‘God wants no screwing up. My apologies, Rabbi.’

  Ben inclined his head.

  Billups moved beside the oversized map. The room settled quickly, as nervous men will, taking good hold of themselves.

  The General tapped his pointer to the center, over a series of black X’s.

  ‘How many of you have ever heard of the Mahlman Line? No one? Me neither, not till yesterday. Patrols have told us that this is the meat of the German’s resistance on the whole Norman peninsula.’

  He slid the pointer over a series of wobbly concentric circles, the topographic symbol for high ground.

  ‘This is Mont Castre. Hill 122. It stands right in the middle of the Cotentin, halfway between Carentan here…’ a smack on the east, ‘…and La Haye-du-Puits,’ another to the west.

  ‘Mont Castre is the commanding terrain feature of the entire Norman peninsula. From up here, the Krauts have a good look at every damn thing we do.’

  Billups laid the pointer just to the east of the hill, to a round spot of small, wavy lines.

  ‘Right here is a giant bog called “the Prairies.” The combination of this swamp and the German presence on Hill 122. has blocked all military traffic down the center of the Cotentin. On the western edge of the swamp is the town of Beau Coudray. The Boche have concentrated their arms and men on a salient stretching from the west coast of the Cotentin, anchoring its center on top of Mont Castre, down the eastern slope, to the edge of the swamp and the town of Beau Coudray. This is the Mahlman Line.’

  Billups swung the pointer to the hazy room, indicating the officers.

  ‘Gentlemen. The Tough Ombres are going to chew the Mahlman Line up and spit it out. That is our assignment, and like the rabbi says, we are not going to shirk.’

  Billups went to parade rest in front of the officers. The long pointer wagged in his hands.

  ‘I guess you all know the last resistance in Cherbourg fell two days ago. The Krauts lost four divisions in that battle, and more than twenty-five thousand were captured. The Germans repaid Uncle Sam for our efforts by destroying the entire port. Every damn thing they could blow up, they did. Piers, cranes, bridges, power stations -everything has been dynamited or burned. The harbor is strewn with scuttled ships and mines. It’s going to take weeks if not months to sort that mess out and get supplies flowing out of there. Nonetheless, it was a splendid victory. Many of you in this room know that it should have been a victory for the 90th as well, but it wasn’t. We’ve been left down here to guard the line across the peninsula, picking our way across the hedgerows a field at a time. This has been a lousy duty, no question about it. But now the Tough Ombres are being given another shot at the brass ring, gentlemen. We are being hurled against the hard center of the German force on the Cotentin.’

  Billups wheeled to slap the pointer flat across the map. The report was like a pistol shot, the first round fired in the fight for the center. The officers jerked in their seats.

  ‘The Krauts are up on their hill watching the 90th. Eisenhower, Bradley, Montgomery, the rest of the big shots, they got their eye on us, too. I swear by God, gentlemen, we are going to put on a show for all them sons of bitches watching the Tough Ombres.’

  Ben observed the effect of this talk on the officers. They were not moved by this sort of cheerleading. Billups cast a glare over the men. He took a breath and pursed his lips.

  ‘Alright. Now that COM Z has cleaned up the beaches after that damn storm two weeks ago, and with Cherbourg finally under wraps, we’re back to full supplies and ammo. And more good news. We’re getting some help for this operation. We’re gonna get twelve extra battalions of field artillery. We’re also getting the 712th Tank Battalion attached to the 90th. That’s a lot of guns, and it tells us this is going to be a tough one. But this time we’re going in with firepower, boys.’

  These statements hit home. The 90th had been overmatched slogging through the hedges. Heading into the forest on Mont Castre without big guns would have been suicidal. The mission looked difficult enough even with the extra cannons.

  Billups spent the next fifteen minutes explaining the strategy and alignments for the assault. Pointing to the tall map, he located each regiment of the 90th and presented their objectives. At dawn on July 3, the 358th would commit on the left through St. Jores, the 359th on the right through Prétot, and the 357th would stay in reserve to pass through the 358th and seize Beau Coudray plus the high ground to the south. On the far right, the 82nd Airborne and the 79th Infantry, back from Cherbourg, would attack south against the Mahlman Line’s coastal defenses. But the showpiece of the operation—the forest on top of Mont Castre—belonged to the 358th.

  ‘...and to you,’ Billups concluded, ‘the 359th.’

  Billups stabbed the tip of the pointer to the floor and stood behind it square and firm. Ben thought the General might have made a fine preacher, the brimstone kind.

  ‘Any comments, gentlemen? Excellent. We jump off in two days, at dawn. Get your men supplied and in position. And one last thing. Save some of those cigarettes for your boys. They’ll need them. At some point it might be all you can do for them. Good luck. Dismissed!’

  Ben stood with the officers. At the General’s word, they pocketed their cigarette packs, stubbing the last of their butts. Ben began to file out with them.

  ‘Chaplain,’ Billups called over the shuffling of chairs.

  Ben turned. Billups came beside him in the emptying room.

  ‘That w
as a good prayer, Rabbi. Thank you. The men got your message.’

  ‘With a little nudge from you, General.’

  ‘I’m not a subtle man.’

  ‘How’s the new CO working out?’

  ‘I’m going to answer that by asking you a question in return. How’s the 90th look to you, Rabbi?’

  ‘Still pretty scared. Laying back. The men are hesitant under fire.’

  With a nod, Billups took up this theme.

  ‘That puts extra pressure on my officers to get them to fight. The result is the officers get exposed to more danger. More danger means more casualties, and I wind up with a room full of officers I’ve never seen before. And the cycle just keeps spinning. Fresh officers means no experience, and that means more hesitation. And away she goes.’

  ‘And the new CO?’

  ‘Short. Dumpy. Uninspiring. Does all his commanding from an armchair in a cellar. He’s gloomy and distrustful. Just what we need, a Chicken Little running the Tough Ombres.’

  Billups sighed heavily and stared at his boots. He sucked his teeth in disgust, then perked and patted Ben on the elbow.

  ‘I’ll give you a ride back to the aid station, Padre. We can talk in the jeep.’

  ‘Thank you, General. But I’m figuring on staying up here with the 359th.’

  Billups cocked his head. ‘You heard what I told those men. You saw that map.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What I didn’t tell them was that a platoon of the 358th made a probing attack this morning, south toward Les Sablons. They got their fannies whipped pretty good. Rabbi, the Krauts are ready and they are thick as thieves on this Mahlman Line of theirs. This is not going to be pretty. You’re an old soldier, you know what’s ahead for these troopers. I’ve got to ask you to come back to the aid station. You’ll be needed there.’

  Ben hefted his backpack up to his shoulder. The gesture was meant to tell the General he intended to walk, not ride, from this meeting.

  ‘General, you’re a mentsh. I appreciate your concern. But I’ve already spent too much time at aid stations and graves. For the two weeks I’ve been with the infantry, the 90th has been sitting still in the hedges. Now we’re moving again and I think I know where I’m needed most, sir. These men are heading into battle. Their morale is in the latrine, you’ve said so yourself. But like you said tonight, this is a second chance for the whole division. Let me stay on the front lines, sir. I can help a man in a foxhole keep fighting, but I can’t get a wounded soldier off a stretcher. And we need fighters, General.’

  For a moment, Billups considered Ben. The smoke in the room bled out the open door, clearing the air. The General dug in his pocket for a new pack of cigarettes. He opened the seal, shook a spike onto his lips, and flipped his Zippo lighter. He fired the smoke and blew a white tuft between them.

  The General reached for Ben’s breast pocket where the letter lived. He unbuttoned the flap and shoved the full pack in.

  ‘For the boys, Rabbi. In case you need ‘em.’

  ~ * ~

  D+27

  July 3

  ‘Hey. Hey, Sarge.’

  Even in the dark, lit only by the scarlet of the cat’s eyes ahead, Joe Amos noted how bleary-eyed McGee was. Joe Amos sat up from his slouch on the cab bench.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Joe Amos felt better and stiffer than he ought after just two hours of sleep. Had McGee driven more than his shift? Joe Amos let it go with an appreciative nod. He rubbed knuckles into his sockets and yawned.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Dunno. In line. South somewheres, heading toward Couvains. We’re crawlin’.’

  ‘Alright. You need me to take over?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Joe Amos began the slide left, McGee was lithe and out of the driver’s spot in a flick. The truck had no one at the wheel for a moment but she ran straight. Joe Amos grabbed hold and settled in. McGee laid his head on his joined hands like a child and stilled.

  The Jimmy rolled along in third gear, at twenty miles per hour. The column tonight was long, his whole company of one hundred twenty trucks hauled supplies to the 2nd Infantry driving south for St. Lô. Joe Amos didn’t even know what was in the bed of his Jimmy for this run, he’d dozed while it was loaded at OMAHA around midnight with McGee at the wheel. The feel of the truck told him the load was light, probably food or more new uniforms to replace the chemical suits. Countryside slipped past his windows black and slow as pitch. Not enough light spilled from the convoy to offer any clue where he was, nothing in the terrain gave a hint, just hedges and barns, falling away to dark fields without feature.

  After five minutes of McGee’s deep breathing, the convoy approached a right turn. Soon after, the road crossed the Elle River on a one-lane bridge that had been propped and strengthened by Army engineers. Joe Amos recognized the road south to Couvains.

  On the far side of the bridge, the convoy slowed, then stopped. Joe Amos gave the wheel a frustrated tap. He idled for minutes, inhaling the fumes from under the cat’s eyes and bumper close ahead. The load in the forward Jimmy was labeled as ration crates. Joe Amos figured that was what he likely carried, too, though it made no difference at all what rode in the bed of his truck after ten straight days of twenty-hour shifts, loading and hauling and unloading. Not even the booms of artillery or rifle crackles at the ASPs close to the front shook him or McGee anymore. The drivers were tired and dumb from work under sun and stars and, according to Lieutenant Garner, more rain than France had seen in a century. Joe Amos no longer bragged about the holes in his Jimmy. Everyone knew how he got them and no one had the energy anymore to comment or pat him on the back. The Messerschmitt seemed years ago. Joe Amos hadn’t even stood behind the .50 cal in a week.

  The column inched south, never fast enough to leave third gear. After a long half hour of crickets, clutching, and more inky Normandy, Joe Amos reached a crossroads. There stood an MP with a lantern, directing traffic in white gloves, wearing big letters on his helmet and sleeve. The traffic cop flaunted white-handed movements, cocksure and almost clownish, busily blending the 668th convoy with other columns of military vehicles out of the east.

  Before Joe Amos reached the intersection, the MP waved through a short column of trucks towing anti-aircraft batteries. This was followed by a dozen flatbeds hauling bridgework. Joe Amos’s company was made to idle while the MP waved the bridgers through the intersection. The first 668th driver held at bay by the MP’s white-gloved palm took exception and gunned into the crossroads. The MP tweeted his whistle and waggled the Jimmy to stop and back out, gesturing the engineers’ truck through. The Jimmy driver refused to budge. The tractor drivers jumped out of their cab, the black Jimmy drivers did the same, and by lantern light the MP separated them before a few shoves could turn into fists. Joe Amos listened to the threats from all parties, from kicked butts and whupped asses to arrest and the stockade. No one said anything about anyone’s color. That was good because it let Joe Amos sit back and enjoy the early-morning show.

  Once the Jimmy pulled aside, the engineers ran through the intersection, every truck of them flipping the bird. Finally, Joe Amos was motioned ahead. McGee did not stir.

  Joe Amos forged into the night, not refreshed but awake. Dawn circled, hours distant. He laid his head out the window to dash some cool breeze over his face. More potholes jarred his driving. Twice the convoy diverted off the road into a flattened path through a field because a crater in the pavement remained unfilled. The roads of Normandy were wilting under the constant pounding of American wheels. Lieutenant Garner had said the bridgehead now held over seventy thousand vehicles, most of them trucks; this giant figure was still forty thousand short of target because of the storm and the destruction at Cherbourg. Every day, Joe Amos witnessed examples of how crowded the U.S. force was in the bridgehead, the ruination of the roads, traffic jams, accidents, even fist-fights at intersections like the one back there. The word was that
seventeen hundred vehicles per hour traveled the road Joe Amos drove now.

  The expansion of the bridgehead had been torturously slow. The hedgerows, the seasoned German fighters dug in there, the inexperience of the GIs, all added up to an American slice of France that grew no more than a thousand yards on a good day, and just one hedge or orchard on a typical and costly day.

  More and more men, weapons, and vehicles poured over the beaches. Cherbourg would come online in another month, and the flow would increase, with little extra space to deploy everything. Something, somewhere, had to pop.