by Jon Stafford
“No! When I saw ’em they weren’t showing signs a goin’ anywhere! You know how long it takes ta move tanks and equipment. Those bastards are out-and-out lying!”
Wiley looked Redding right in the eye.
“Well, then they’re going to kill us, because the orders have been cut and they tell me they can’t be changed.”
“Great.” Wiley sighed. “Let me get my squad ready.”
The attack was another disaster, with more tanks and men lost, including two of Wiley’s close friends. By noon, it was all over, and the survivors had returned to the company.
Wiley sat silent in his tent, thinking. McMurtha never could hit anythin’ with a rifle, so, naturally, we called him “Long Shot.”
Wiley’s mind wandered, thinking about the time they’d seen a deer on patrol. McMurtha had emptied an entire eight-shot clip at the animal, from less than a hundred yards away, and missed every time! The men had gotten a big laugh out of it. Now he was dead.
He refused to wear anythin’ but that damn Boston Red Sox baseball hat, backwards, and the shrapnel from that shell went right through the cap and killed him. Wouldn’t have gone through a helmet. Yeah, he had his faults takin’ advantage a recruits in card games and such, but if anyone ever needed somethin’, he’d come up with it after a while, whatever it was.
He closed his eyes, mopped his hair, and felt pieces of something or other that he didn’t bother to remove. Depressed, he scratched under his chin. In Sicily, once a bullet had barely creased the underside, and now, half a year later, it itched maddeningly. It had itched ever since.
And the Swede, Jeff Torgeson. Now that’s a good man. I called him the “Big Dumb Swede,” just ’cause he was high class; he never once complained. But the truth was he was about the smartest guy I ever knew. I was the dummy! He sat with me a hundred times correctin’ my English, showin’ me proper manners. He respected me. College man, Indiana University, or somethin’ like that. He taught me things and made me feel not so much like a shithead. Mostly, he told me ta try ta let go of the bad things I had growin’ up.
Wiley breathed hard, thinking about how the bullet had hit Torgeson in the shoulder and spun him around.
I hope he’s okay. So, it’s been two bad nights, two bad attacks.
He went to sleep.
No one could remember Colonel Pope ever being in such a rage before. For two days, the regiment had butted its head into the German position, taken terrible casualties, gotten nowhere. Now they were being ordered to attack a third time.
“What do you mean, we have to attack tomorrow at 0600?” he yelled into the phone. His face was turning an alarming shade of fuchsia. “That can’t be done. I’ll remind you that the casualty rates yesterday and today amount to twenty percent of the assault groups. We face dug-in Tiger tanks in a position that commands the entire goddamn valley. We’re like fish in a barrel here, and you want me to attack? Without air support, that can’t be done! We have four tanks left! Let me talk to the general.”
There was a long pause.
“General?”
The men at headquarters—a major, several captains, half a dozen lieutenants, and numerous clerks—stood paralyzed. They could hear the voice squalling at the other end of the phone.
“Sir. . . . Yes, sir. . . . We . . . I . . . Yes, sir!”
Pope dropped the phone, and the clerk put it up. The colonel sat for several minutes, with no one in the tent daring to speak.
Then he sprang up again, as belligerent as before. “Where are those goddamn scouts?”
One of the clerks ran out. A few minutes later, he returned with the scouts in tow: Sergeant Wiley on one side, and Sergeant Belser and the four other men in his squad on the other.
“What’s this I hear?” Pope snapped at them. “Two groups go out twice and come back with completely different intelligence. You,” he said to Wiley, “you told Captain Redding something about a road.”
Wiley stepped forward. His uniform showed signs of wear and tear, with dirt over a great portion of it and what looked like grease smeared over some of the rest of it and on his face.
Pope eyed him. “Soldier, you look terrible. You’re a disgrace to the uniform.”
Wiley stiffened a bit. “Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“Sir, there’s a road, a sunken road, that aims behind the entire enemy position.”
The colonel looked indignant. “Behind their entire position?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose you’ve seen this road.”
“Yes, sir. Walsh and I walked along it two nights ago. I was on it again last night with Dietrich.”
“So where the hell are Walsh and Dietrich to confirm your story? I don’t see them here.”
“Walsh was in the aid station down the road, sir. And Dietrich was captured.”
“All right,” Pope said, motioning to two MPs. “You two go and carry Walsh back here. He’s wounded, I take it.”
“He died, sir, bullet in the back.”
“So you have no one to confirm your story.”
Wiley bristled. “No, sir.”
“You, Belser, what about your group?” the colonel asked. “You told us yesterday that the main road was clear, and we bloodied ourselves hitting it.”
The stocky thirty-year-old spoke up. “Sir, it was clear when we saw it. From what I hear, this guy goes in there, stomps around, and the Germans get the idea and move their people around.”
“So, what about last night?”
“We didn’t see anyone on the main road at all. But there’s no telling. Now we hear Wiley goes over again and makes a mess of it, so who knows?”
“But the main road was clear.”
“Yes.” The other four men in his squad nodded.
Redding spoke up. “Could I have a word with the colonel?”
“Yes, captain.”
The two men edged over to one side of the tent. Everyone inside could hear every word they said.
“Colonel, may I suggest that Sergeant Wiley might just be telling the truth?”
“It’s the word of five men against his,” the colonel said incredulously. “What possible reason would he have for making up such a story?”
“What possible reason would those five men have for making up such a story?” Pope replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“I know those men are with your former outfit, sir. But look at their uniforms. They’re clean. Those men haven’t been anywhere.”
With that, Sergeant Bracey waved all of the men in the tent except the five clerks outside.
Sergeant Belser and his group went to the edge of the next tent. Wiley followed them.
“You shitheads! You tell the colonel you lied!” he shouted.
“Ahh, fuck off, asshole!” Belser responded.
In less than a second, Wiley had drawn his .45. In front of all of the men, he cocked it and pointed it at Belser’s head. Belser froze.
Completely calm, Wiley walked over to Belser a
nd grabbed him by the throat. “First, I’m gonna shoot off your goddamn ear.”
Belser tried to get away, but Wiley only tightened his grip.
“Wiley, you’re insa . . . You’ll fa . . .” Belser managed to get out.
The other members of Belser’s group stepped back, looking horrified. None had their rifles. Belser was the only one with a sidearm, and he was in no shape to draw it out of his holster.
“Then,” Wiley continued, “I’m gonna shoot your nose off. You’ll look real funny without a nose.”
A lieutenant spoke up. “Soldier, you’d better stop right now. This is a court-martial offense.”
Another man spoke up, voice tense: “A lot of us might get killed in the attack tomorrow morning unless Wiley really is telling the truth. I’ll put my money on him. Let’s see what happens.”
Wiley paid no attention. He was too busy staring into Belser’s frightened eyes.
“Then,” Wiley told him, just as determinedly, “I’m gonna put this gun in your mouth and blow your goddamn lyin’ brains all over that tent behind you. No one’s gonna call me a liar.”
The word liar echoed in Wiley’s head—not in Belser’s voice, but in the slurred, drunken tones of his father, so long ago.
“Every man here’s life is on the line because of you and your asshole pals. For once, tell the truth. Or for damn sure I’ll . . . blow . . . your . . . head . . . right . . . off. If I have ta spend the rest of my life in Fort Leavenworth, I’ll do it!” he shouted.
Belser, panicking, found himself wishing to own up to his lie. But he could not speak.
“That’s just fine, you coward,” Wiley growled. “Three seconds and the ear goes.”
Private Melton piped up. “Yes, yes, we lied!” He lowered his voice in shame. “We lied. We hid over at that schoolhouse both nights. We even joked about it and drew on the board. We didn’t go across the lines, just as you said. Belser said there was no use us getting killed too . . . to just say what he said.”
Private Alters spoke up: “Yeah, that’s all true. And after the first night, we had to say Wiley was lying.”
By this time Belser was crying and looking at the men around him, who stared back. Someone—Wiley was never sure who—said quietly: “He would’ve gotten us killed to save his own skin.”
Wiley let go of the sergeant, who fell against the side of the tent. As he scurried off, several of the men kicked at him and cursed him. The next day he was busted to private and transferred out of the regiment with the other four.
The two officers who had watched a foolish offensive destroy their commands were embroiled in their own argument. The words went back and forth for several minutes until the colonel had finally had enough.
“I don’t like your attitude, captain.”
The normally calm Redding answered indignantly. “May I also point out that my command has borne the brunt of your offensive the last two days, costing my company nearly thirty percent casualties?”
“Well, captain, maybe your company could use a change of leadership,” the colonel snapped.
With that, Redding blew up completely. “Then do it! Relieve me!”
“Morton!” a voice came from the entrance of the tent. Both officers turned to see Colonel Jacob B. Karns III from First Division headquarters.
Karns walked toward the men who, still boiling, said no more. His entrance into the tent created a sensation. None of the clerks moved an inch. He was not especially tall or short, fat or thin. But he was one of those men whose persona dominates a room and hides any idea of his age or size, which, later, no one could recall. Everything about him spoke of a man of authority, a man to whom power was a familiar tool. Not surprisingly, with the appearance of a commanding general, all of the many collateral conversations among the overworked clerks ceased instantly. But Karns had none of the usual loudness and bluster of a general, traits which these men had no respect for at all. Instead, he instantly created a martial spirit inexplicable to any logic. Those present stood ready to do his bidding, despite having no idea who he was.
The men gawked as Karns took off his camel hair overcoat, the likes of which none of them had ever seen. It yielded a man immaculate from head to foot. His shoes glistened, and his uniform fit so perfectly that it seemed an actual part of his body. He was clean too, which made him stand out among these men who could not even hazard a guess when they had last bathed. The rest was his demeanor. Completely calm and emotionless, Karns had the look of a competitor who awaits a great contest supremely confident that he will dominate its every phase. It was not the look of a friend or an enemy but of a man to be feared. As even his friends said of him, “He’s half electric shock and the other half we don’t even want to talk about.”
Karns, whose father was an assistant chief of staff of the Army in Washington, motioned calmly to the clerks in the tent. “You men clear out.”
In seconds, the tent looked like an empty warehouse. With the composure that was to make him a four-star general, Karns spoke almost offhandedly to the two officers. “You two have got to stop this.” He sat with calm dignity, as though he were holding court. “You need to step back.”
Although he did not mean it literally, both Pope and Redding stepped back.
“Mort,” Karns said, emphasizing the colonel’s name and talking so casually as to seem disinterested. “I can only imagine the disaster that would befall this storied regiment, which attacked the heights of Chalpultapec, if you relieved Redding here and now and then you got relieved tomorrow. I don’t need to remind either of you that many a brave man has sacrificed his life for us in the last two days. Whatever else we do, we must not dishonor their memories.”
The two arguers nodded almost reverently. Karns motioned, and the two sat.
“I was outside just long enough to hear Wiley, whose work is well known to us, put the jolt into some other men I took to be scouts as well. Actually, he said he would blow one of their brains out unless he told the truth.”
“That’s a court-martial offense!” Pope said indignantly.
The young colonel’s tone turned condescending. “Mort, this one is never going to see the inside of a courtroom! Not one of those men will testify against that man if he is right and he saves them from a hopeless attack. I would not testify against him myself. That’s a tough man. I would believe anything he told me.
“Besides, afterward, without further ado, the other scouts came clean in front of twenty-five or so witnesses and said that they just made up their reports, which unfortunately we bought.” By this time, the colonel and captain had calmed down. “Captain, if you would not mind stepping out for a moment.”
As Redding left, Karns leaned toward Pope and lowered his voice.
“Look, Mort, I will spill the whole plate. I am sure you have figured out by now that I am here officially. The general is concerned enough to send me down here. I won’t mince words.”
He looked Pope directly in the eyes.
“If you fail to attack tomorrow at 0600, or fail to take Heinzeldorf, I have orders to relieve you of this command, and you will be on the next plane stateside. We know you have a good record. No one, and I mean this sincerely, no one wants you relieve
d. But you must know that Bradley and Ike are behind this bloodbath one hundred percent. It’s some stupid game of Ike’s to convince the British up north that we can fight. They have put a lot of pressure on the general and all of the division commanders.”
He shook his head in disgust. “They are going to use you up, and if you cannot do the job, they are going to put me in here and use me up too. I can tell you, the last thing I want personally is to come back to a regimental command.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Pope said, looking at the ground and nodding slowly.
“Besides that one, the general wants you to give battlefield promotions to qualified noncoms, sergeants.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. We hear that the supply of officers is not too strong for the next two months. You are going to have to make some of your own. That’s the story. All right,” Karns said, his tone turning half bored. “I’ll just sit over here and spy. You won’t even see me.”
“Thanks for the lowdown,” Pope said.
Karns nodded, took up his overcoat, and went to sit in the corner.
Pope turned and yelled for his clerk, Sergeant Justin Romero, to get everyone else back in the tent. As Wiley came back in, Pope motioned for him to come back to the map table. “Sergeant Wiley.”
“Yes, sir!” Wiley wondered if his ordeal before Pope would continue. Or maybe he was about to be arrested.
“All right, sergeant, tell me again. Use this map.” Pope twisted a map around so that the dirty and exhausted young man could demonstrate.
“Sir, the Germans are dug in here just below the town.”
“Tiger tanks?”
“No, not that we saw or heard. We saw three Panthers, here, here, and . . . about here.” He pointed on the map. “Germans are dug in and have Panzerfausts (a bazooka type weapon) all over the place. They haven’t moved anythin’ in the last two days that I can tell.”
