‘We broke through to you guys.’
‘Who did?’
‘2nd Battalion, 358th.’
‘When?’
‘An hour ago. Didn’t you hear us?’
Ben could not remember the last hour—or any hour -from the trench. Like sand in an hourglass, the bodies were how Ben had measured time with the dying platoon.
‘No. There was just fighting.’
Phineas said nothing for moments. His eyes studied Ben, seeming to measure him. Ben wondered how bad he must look and saw that Phineas wanted that experience for himself, the heroism of surviving, the haggard tale.
‘Tell me about it.’
Ben shrugged. The men of 2nd Platoon had not lived a. tale on Mont Castre. There was no story to tell, just misery and terror. Phineas was eager for combat and proof. The bulge of the Colt showed at his waist. Ben wanted to sleep, not relive the trench. But Phineas had come for him, so he spoke.
‘Sundown yesterday they started shelling us. They didn’t let up more than an hour at a time. They had this awful little loudspeaker they used to ask us to surrender. The voice was the same every time, some high-pitched Kraut. You could tell by the sound of his voice in the dark they were getting closer. Then somewhere this morning before the sun came up they stopped talking. They shelled us for an hour straight. When it was over, that’s when they hit hardest, from both directions. The boys were low on ammo, no one had slept a wink since I don’t know when. The medic went down, the radio was dead, only one sergeant was left. It was... there was... some grenades got into the trench. We ... I don’t know how, we kept them back. There couldn’t have been a hundred rounds left in the whole platoon. Then they just went back to shelling us. All day. A couple of the boys, they wanted to get up and hightail it, I guess they just ran out of steam. There wasn’t anyplace to go. First one, then two more later on, they stood up. I couldn’t... I wasn’t close enough, I don’t know. The rest, we just... I don’t want to, Phineas. That’s enough.’
Ben shook his head, saying no. His head would not stop shaking side to side, the shake became a tremor, as if something were trying to hatch out of him. He gritted his teeth and could not look at Phineas. The little chaplain tried to wrap his arms around Ben, but Ben parried him off. Phineas held his ground and took Ben in an embrace, laying his nose to Ben’s shoulder and clasping hard. Ben trembled, out of control. He closed his eyes and listened to Phineas pray for him.
Ben calmed. Phineas let go. Embarrassment stained Ben’s breathing but Phineas blinked and smiled, certain that God had eased his friend. Ben saw that Phineas had allotted him heroism, and by being Ben’s friend, by comforting him, Phineas Allenby had pilfered some for himself.
Ben turned at bootsteps above the trench. Even with Phineas and the 358th here for his rescue, Ben tensed until he saw Captain Whitcomb drop down.
The officer had faded in thirty hours, growing thinner and raven-eyed. He folded fast to his knees, not confident like the newcomers that a man could stay above cover.
He aimed a filthy finger at Ben.
‘I don’t want to hear one word out of you, Chaplain. This is an order. The trail’s open again, and I don’t know for how long. I’m telling you to get your butt down Mont Castre to the aid station.’
Ben could not consider this. A little sleep, a meal, he’d be fine. But the look on Whitcomb did not invite cavil. The man had been pared down to a blade of a figure, perhaps because his whole company had been cut down by the Germans. Young Captain Whitcomb had lost bits of himself along with his winnowed command.
‘If I see you up on the line in the next few days, believe me, I will hog-tie you myself and deliver you to the first boat back to England. You take me serious at this, Chaplain. Get out of here and get some rest. Your friend here will see you down the trail.’
Whitcomb looked at Phineas.
‘Thanks for coming to get us, Chaplain. Make sure you tell your boys that.’
‘Will do, Captain.’
Ben felt Whitcomb’s order release him, now he was finished with the trench. Phineas took Ben by the arm and stood, towing him to his feet. He stood in the trench on rickety, knurled knees. Whitcomb gazed at him.
‘By the way. You probably haven’t heard the word. It just came down. Colonel Melrose got the sack yesterday.’
Melrose was the 359th’s CO. Ben had not met him but by all reports he was a good, respected man.
Whitcomb licked his thumb. ‘Reckon somebody had to be the goat for us getting stuck up here. Man, this ass-coverin’ merry-go-round is killin’ us.’
Whitcomb saluted Ben and Phineas, then stalked off across the charred slope. The assault up to the crest of the hill would continue as soon as supplies were hauled in and replacements arrived to flesh out the ravaged 1st and 3rd Battalions. Through a day and a half of incessant attack, no one had surrendered, no piece of this slope had been given back. Men had died here. Hungry, thirsty men had fixed bayonets when their rifles got as empty as their bellies. No matter. Once more the 90th was in turmoil, with blame flying like shrapnel. Every dogface who’d suffered through these woods and was alive to be thankful was now told with the firing of his regimental CO that he had not given, not bled, enough. That he was to blame.
The sun sank on Mont Castre. The Kraut loudspeaker had been shut up. The Mahlman Line would be broken tomorrow by these Tough Ombres, still the U.S. Army’s problem division, with their morale again kicked into the latrine.
Phineas never took his hand from Ben’s shoulder. They clambered up on the ledge. Ben did not speak to the men of the platoon who stayed behind. There was nothing he needed to tell them. They had a wisdom now beyond what he could impart.
He and Phineas joined a long line of soldiers and stretchers tramping down the trail in the fading light. Too many blankets on litters were pulled high, faces masked under the OD wool. On other litters wounded and exhausted boys, all of them veterans now, were grateful to be carried away. Dozens walked on their own. Some, like Ben, had no visible wounds. Ben was too tired to be amazed at the amount of casualties spit out by Mont Castre. Phineas clucked his tongue.
Halfway down the trail, Ben looked through the remnants of the forest to the flat fields at the hill’s foot. There, a convoy of Jimmies with their shaded little lights began to pull up and form echelons. Soldiers jumped out of the beds. Through the stumps and charcoal trees Ben heard sergeants yelling at the soldiers to line up. These soldiers were replacements in clean uniforms. They milled like cattle in the field until voices prodded them to order.
Ben pulled his arm from Phineas’s grip.
‘Let’s hurry,’ he said, speeding his pace down the slope.
‘They’ll be alright,’ Phineas insisted, ‘they’re not your concern. Let ‘em alone.’
Phineas believed that Ben wanted to get down the trail to speak to the replacements, to maybe give them a prayer or encouragement. Ben did not say otherwise. He wanted only to get off the trail. He could not bear to see the new boys pass.
~ * ~
White Dog tapped a pen on the bistro table. Ersatz coffee steamed at his elbow. His legs were crossed. He brushed a crumb of patisserie off the knee of his baggy slacks.
A Gene Krupa drum solo nibbled in his brain, distracting his attention from the café. No matter. He had excellent security. Two men watched the front door; one, the back. A network of urchins, all on the candy-bar payroll, loitered in the alleys. A motorcycle waited stashed behind some garbage cans.
White Dog wondered if Gene Krupa was the best drummer in the world. The world seemed to think so, but they hadn’t heard this new kid, Gaston Léonard. No one had heard Léonard play yet, not outside Paris. The Krauts didn’t give a damn about jazz. Léonard could play his butt off. The day’s coming, White Dog thought. A lot of stuff’s going to start when America finally gets here.
White Dog had decided to wait only a few more minutes when his men stopped a fellow at the door. Except for White Dog, the café was closed. The owner, paid in meat, stayed in
the kitchen and only came out to serve him a coffee and a sweet. White Dog liked this custom, where the French knocked off for two or three hours in the middle of every afternoon. The Frogs figured a long, leisurely lunch eaten at home was the best practice of a civilized folk. It was one of many things the Krauts had failed to stamp out about Paris. Besides, the chronic shortage of food and the high prices in restaurants made :t cheaper for the Frogs to eat in their own homes. Everything’s got two reasons, the one you say and the one you don’t. White Dog smiled hello and stood.
‘Bonjour. Êtes-vous Voltaire?’
The newcomer was short and stocky, thicker in the middle than White Dog. His jowls jiggled when he answered with a laugh and a handshake.
‘Je ne suis pas Voltaire. Je suis Hugo. Voltaire ne vient pas aux reunions personnellement.’
White Dog and the man who said his name was Hugo sat. The owner, keeping a close eye if not an ear, appeared with coffee and another pastry. White Dog and Hugo waited for the man in his apron to bustle away.
‘So Voltaire doesn’t come to meetings personally?’ White Dog spoke in English to keep his henchmen and the café owner from eavesdropping.
Hugo answered in English. ‘No. He sends others.’
‘Or maybe he just doesn’t want to meet with me. Is that it, maybe?’
Hugo eyed White Dog. He cocked his head and answered carefully.
‘I will carry your request.’
‘Do that, mon ami. I prefer Voltaire to Hugo anyway. Do you guys have a Balzac, too?’
‘Oui.’
‘Maybe send him next time.’
The fat little man who went by the name Hugo slurped his coffee, amused and probably dangerous. He was an odd-looking gangster, not like the ones White Dog had grown up reading about. Dillinger, Clyde Barrow, Machine Gun Kelly—they were real tough guys. This bad-egg Hugo looked more like Capone, soft and mean. White Dog had grown soft, too, flabby from beignets and cognac, pale from shadows. He wondered if he had the same nasty eyes that Hugo had trained on him. White Dog considered making a jest, that he was thinking about renaming his own gang the White Dog Band, giving his men names like Dizzy, Basie, Duke, and Tatum. He eyed Hugo and figured the grim little shit wouldn’t get the humor.
Hugo held his saucer under the cup while he sipped. It was a fey French gesture, annoying to White Dog. Americans just drink the damn coffee, he thought.
Hugo finished his coffee. He showed no distaste for the fact that it was not real, just chicory.
‘I may ask you a question now?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Where is Monsieur Acier?’
White Dog licked his lips, pausing to give Hugo an impious look.
‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’ Hugo asked.
‘Gone. He got picked up. Last month.’
‘How unlucky.’
‘I almost got grabbed myself. The Gestapo did a crackdown. Chased the hell out of me.’
‘You were fortunate to get away.’
‘Very. Anyway, I’m running things now.’
‘Yes. So you say.’
‘Listen,’ White Dog said, ‘I got everything you want. And what I don’t have, I can get. Is that gonna be a problem for Voltaire?’
‘I think not. We would merely like to know you can be trusted.’
‘Let’s just say I have ambition. You have ambition, Hugo?’
‘Oui. We all must, or there is no reason.’
The reason you say, White Dog thought, and the one you don’t.
‘Then we see eye to eye.’
‘Voltaire will be relieved.’
White Dog uncrossed his legs. He pushed the hem of his silk jacket behind his hip to lean across the little bistro table.
‘Let me tell you something, Hugo. When the Yanks get here—and they will get here—who do you think they’re going to deal with? You and your Frog buddies, a bunch of gangland wannabes, or me, an American? A shot-down pilot, one of their own. Hmm?’
‘You. Certainement. However, Voltaire is of the opinion the Americans might also have dealt nicely with Monsieur Acier.’
‘Acier didn’t have a plan. He didn’t think big.’
Hugo ran a finger along the rim of his coffee cup. ‘You are a big thinker.’
‘You got that right. The Yanks are gonna be here before summer’s out. I’m ready for them.’
‘Comment?’
‘Here’s what I’m proposing. I’m gonna specialize in gasoline. Everybody else will be running crap like chocolate bars, nylons, butter. Not me. I got it all worked out. I got a system, and I got the network. Nothing, I mean nothing, is going to be available in more quantity, and at a higher price, than gas. You know this. I’m talking about millions of gallons.’
‘I believe that will be so. You Americans love your machines.’
‘Paris is gonna explode. For four years, the Krauts have kept the whole city down. As soon as they’re gone, the demand for everything, you name it, is gonna go through the roof. And how are all those goods going to move around? Got any idea? Trucks. And what do trucks run on?’
Hugo inclined his head. ‘Gasoline.’
White Dog dug a thumb under his suspenders. He snapped the elastic against his linen shirt and sat back in his chair. ‘Gasoline.’
Hugo grinned, enjoying this Yank showmanship. White Dog didn’t care that this Frenchman might consider his suspender snapping, his thumb now pointing into his own chest, vulgar.
‘I will inform Monsieur Voltaire of your big plan. Gasoline. It may help him forget his fondness for Monsieur Acier.’
White Dog pointed one finger like a pistol, to say: You got it.
Hugo asked, ‘Chien Blanc? Why is this your surnom? White Dog. I see the white, you are quite pale, you know. But why a dog?’
Hugo finished his poor coffee and dabbed his iips with a handkerchief. White Dog struggled not to loathe this man. Hugo was a saggy, jowly criminal with manners affected to be superior. I’ve got to get out of here soon, White Dog thought, or I’m going to shoot one of these Frog bastards.
He beamed toothily, unconcerned that he was making himself a lampoon in his roomy suit, spats, and skinny moustache. It was a way to spit some America on this sissy Frenchman.
‘Because I’m your best friend,’ he answered.
~ * ~
THIRD
Gregarious, extrovertive, strongly attached to group and family. Easygoing—line of least resistance, not physically lazy. Very sensitive. Resentful of correction. Easily hurt by criticism in public. Mentally lazy, not retentive. Ruled by instinct and emotion rather than by reason. Has to be made to face facts, prone to escapism ... Lies easily. Can only be led, not driven.
Excerpt from a War Department memo:
‘Certain Characteristics of the Negro Which Affect
Command of Negro Troops’
~ * ~
D+35
July 11
Joe Amos opened his eyes to a white face leaning close.
‘Joe Amos.’
He sat up on the cot.
Joe Amos whispered back, ‘What you need, Lieutenant?’
Garner patted him on his bare shoulder and motioned to follow him outside. The air in the bivouac tent stank of exhaustion, drivers too wiped out to shower or brush their teeth. The smell of snores, farts, and socks added to the humidity leaching from the damp ground. Someone had griped that France got more rain in June and July ‘44 than in any month-and-a-half period of the twentieth century. But the last two days had been hot and dry and the earth seemed finally to be wringing itself out.
Joe Amos tugged on his OD undershirt. He eased from the flimsy mattress and headed for the tent flap held open by Garner.
Outside, he asked, ‘What time is it?’
‘0500. I’ve got a detail I want you to head up this morning.’
‘Alright.’ Garner held three cartons of Chesterfields. Those for me?’
Garner did not smile. He treated the question as ludic
rous.
‘No. These belong to Major Clay. At 0700, you’ll lead a squad of ten trucks up to UTAH. You’ll pick up a company of Airborne that’s coming ashore this morning. Take ‘em up to Cherbourg.’
‘No problem.’
Garner lifted the boxes of smokes. He waggled them in front of Joe Amos like they were stacks of dollars.
‘It turns out that the Kraut General in charge of defending Cherbourg, ol’ Von Schlieben, he got himself and his garrison ready for a nice long siege. They stocked a bunch of underground shelters with everything they’d need. Apparently, that included the biggest collection of French wines, champagne, and brandy that anyone has ever seen on this earth.’
David Robbins - [World War II 04] Page 25
