Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

by Bill Mesce

  Smallest – and southernmost – of the three was Osthaus. Osthaus was not so much a municipality as a small, unincorporated group of shops and cafés on the Luxembourg side of the Our which had sprouted round a border station, bus depot, and a gasthaus (Der Osthaus from which the little residential clot drew its unofficial name) which had once catered to pre–war pedestrian traffic coming across a nearby footbridge from Germany. One of Love Company’s rifle platoons, a machine gun squad from the company’s Heavy Weapons Platoon, along with a single light tank – about 45 men in total – were garrisoned in Osthaus; a force nearly outnumbering the residential population.

  A half–kilometer north, situated about a quarter of the way between the river and Heinerscheid, was the hamlet of Pont du Ste. Marc – St. Mark’s Bridge. An idyllic little stopover for cross–border tourists (again, this was during the pre–war days), the hamlet sat on high ground looking down on its namesake bridge, a centuries–old but sturdy affair of stone built in the days when its builders’ concern was for nothing greater than the occasional passing ox cart. Another rifle platoon, as well as the company’s mortars and another machine gun squad, were billeted here along with three light tanks.

  A few hundred yards north of St. Mark’s Bridge, round an eastward bend in the Our, was an even smaller site than Osthaus called Velôt which had sprung up round the western base of yet another footbridge. This was the station for Love Company’s last rifle platoon, last machine gun squad, and another light tank.

  Spider Valence and Big Man Wright had made Pont du Ste. Marc their first stop. They located a garage that had been used by the tourist buses which used to pass through the hamlet in more peaceable times. Though small – it evidently had never needed to serve more than two vehicles at a time – it was ample for their purposes, yet still too large to be properly warmed by the petrol heater they’d brought with them in their quarter–ton lorry. Valence and Wright had been charged with making the tanks suitable for winter combat. This meant slapping white paint across the slab–sided hulls as camouflage, and attaching “duckbills” to their treads. Called “duckbills” because of their vague resemblance to the water fowl’s appendage of the same name, the attachments were rectangular blocks sledgehammered into the open edge of the treads, extending their width and thereby hopefully providing the tank with better traction in mud and snow.

  Valence and Wright spread out their tools, their supply of duckbills, tins of white paint and the broad brooms they would use to administer the paint along the garage floor. They fired up their petrol heater, set a pot of coffee atop to simmer. Big Man Wright set a lead foil packet of cornbread sent him from home next to the coffeepot and soon the dank air of the garage was upgraded with the aroma of percolating coffee and warm cornbread. Valence stood at the garage door and guided the first tank into the workspace. As soon as the tank’s driver obeyed Valence’s signal to cut the engine, the four–men crew bounded out of the cold interior to huddle about the heater.

  The tank – as all the tanks supporting Love Company were – was listed in the U.S. Army inventory as the M3A1. The Brits – who had used it in the early days of the North Africa Desert Campaign – impressed with the tank’s easy handling and maintenance had dubbed it the “Honey,” while the Americans had christened it the General Stuart. As impressive as the Stuart may have been cutting through the Saharan sands in 1940, by the winter of 1944 it was obsolete, and the 14–tonner seemed almost toylike in comparison to the heavier, sleeker, better armed German panzers.

  “You could pay me white man’s wages ‘n’ I still wouldn’t climb in one a these things,” Spider Valance had once opined to Big Man Wright. “You ever see one a them kraut heavies?” He was referring to the German “Tiger,” a 55–ton behemoth. “One a them can keep one a these as a pet!”

  Valence and Wright wryly noted the name stenciled on the turret of this particular Stuart – “Rebel Yell” – along with a rough painting of the “Stars and Bars” battle flag of the American Confederacy. Each respectively mused that it would not be an unpleasant part of their duties to cover up both with a layer of whitewash.

  Valance’s part of the winterizing operation was preparatory. He laid out the duckbills alongside the tank, inserting the ends as far as he could muscle them into the edge of the tread. Wright selected a ten pound sledgehammer from their supply of tools and slowly followed along the length of the tank, hammering the duckbills into place. He hummed as he worked, occasionally allowing a murmured lyric to slip past his lips. With Wright coming from a family of dedicated Baptists, they were always the words from one spiritual or another.

  Big Man Wright took the sledge in his two, beefy hands and set to work. The edge of the duckbills didn’t present much of a target and occasionally the head of Wright’s sledge would miss and clang off a bogie wheel. Big Man would sometimes wince, pause to flex the sting out of his hand.

  “Y’all’d think if this was all ya got t’ do, y’all’d be expert at it.” The rather sneery tone came from the Stuart’s commander, a stubby, pug–faced, choleric–hued buck sergeant named Farron.

  Valence and Wright exchanged a quick glance. They had done their basic training together in Louisiana, and their specialty training at Ft. Knox, both stints providing ample enough experience of sneery remarks from white colleagues to allow them to quickly assay the nature of the author. But as to origin…

  “Georgia?” Valence whispered to Wright. But his Pittsburgh ear was not as finely–tuned as Wright’s.

  A barely perceptible shake of the head from Big Man. “One o’ mine. ‘Bama boy.” If the light had been better in the garage, Sergeant Farron and his crew might have seen just the slightest twitch at the corner of Big Man Wright’s mouth: a repressed smile.

  “I mean, damn, boy, alls ya gotta do is spend all day bangin’ on ‘em things with a stick! ‘N’ for that, ya got all the comforts a home here, dontcha? Ya got yer coffee here, ‘n’ some cornbread. Bet yer mammy done send that, dint she, boy?”

  “C’mon, Sarge,” one of the crewmen said, a tentative suggestion of restraint.

  “Ah, leave off!” Farron snapped at the crewman. “Just burns my butt to be freezin’ my tail off in that junk ‘n’ these boys got the life a Riley in here ‘n’ for all that he cain’t hit them things worth a damn! We’re gonna be here all damn winter waitin’ for Jazzbo there to finish up!”

  Farron’s crewmen looked past the sergeant to the two Negroes with apologetic but helpless looks. Farron, after all, wore the stripes.

  “Ah guesses ah jus’ don’ have no knack fo’ it, Sargeant, Suh,” mumbled Wright.

  “Ah guesses so!” mocked Farron. “Do better givin’ that hammer to some monkey outta the trees to do it!”

  It was Spider Valence’s turn to repress a smile. This was something Big Man Wright did so well, thickening up his drawl, putting on a blank, hapless look. Isaiah Wright had studied engineering at Tuskegee University and had it not been for a slight case of nearsightedness he might very well have spent the war flying P–51s with the Red Tail Angels – the all–Negro fighter squadrons operating with the Fifteenth Air Force that had been cultivated at the Army Air Forces Flying Training Program at Tuskegee.

  “Not like I’m anxious to go back out in the cold,” another crewman said.

  Farron fixed him with a glare as effective as any verbal rebuke, and it was clear to the sergeant that his nigger–loving crew (and they would have to be nigger–lovers not to automatically second his pronouncements) was missing his point.

  “You think you can do better, any other time I’d say you’re more ‘n’ welcome, Sarge,” Spider Valence offered.

  “I ain’t here to do yer damn job fer ya, boy.”

  “Well, if you cain’t do it no better – ”

  “I didn’t say that, boy, ‘n’ don’t you be sassin’ me.”

  “I didn’t mean to be sassin’ nobody, Sarge,” Valence said, nicely striding deference and assertiveness. “It’s just we got two more ta
nks to do here ‘n’ then we gotta be up the river to do – ”

  Farron dismissively waved him to silence. “Here comes the tale a woe! Save it, boy! You gimme that hammer, I’ll do one of ‘em ‘n’ show you how it’s done. Give it here, boy!” Farron held his hand out for the sledge.

  Valence stood between Farron and Wright. “Cain’t do it, Sarge. You get back to work, Big Man. I done told y’all we ain’t got no time for messin’ ‘round like this, Sarge!”

  “Know what I think?” Farron’s small eyes grew beadier, his fleshy face more red. “I think yer ‘fraid I’m gonna show yer boy up!”

  “Know what I think, Sarge?” Valence retorted. “I think I got a bleached–white lootenant back in Luxembourg City lookin’ for any excuse to ream my ass I don’t get my job done today! He’s a ‘Bama crackuh jus’ like you, Sarge, so you know what kinda shit gonna come down on my haid!”

  Behind his shoulder, Big Man Wright nodded in a simpleton’s agreement.

  “I ain’t puttin’ us up for that kinda whuppin’ jus’ to show you up, Sarge, sorry! You take it someplace else.”

  Valence turned, nodded at Wright to continue his work as the smaller man returned to pre–setting the duckbills.

  “To show me up?” Farron turned to his crew with a look that translated as, “Can you believe the gaul of this uppity little bastard?” He turned back to Spider and Big Man. “Ok, boy, I know y’all won’t git off yer arse unless it’s to save a whuppin’ or ‘cause there’s somethin’ in it for you. A fin.”

  Valance shook his head, continuing with his work. “Believe me, Sarge, I’d like nothin’ better than to see my man whup you but – ”

  “A fin is what I got, Jazzbo. A fin ‘n’ the guts! You ‘n’ yer boy got either?”

  Valence straightened up. “A fin ain’t all that much, Sarge.”

  Farron’s color took on an even deeper red. “Ain’t all that much? When either a y’all seen five dollars all in one place ‘fore ya got in the Army?”

  “Well, we’re in the Army now, Sarge. Jus’ like the song say.”

  Rankling Farron as much as the diffident Negro in front of him was the growing chorus of mocking giggles from his own crew. One of them sang a few bars of, We’re In the Army Now, and another muttered, “C’mon, Sarge, put up or shut up!”

  “Knock it off!” Farron barked.

  “If y’all’re tapped out, Sarge, y’all can throw somethin’ in ‘sides cash. That be ok with you, Big Man?”

  Big Man Wright shrugged as if it was all a matter of greater complexity than he was capable of understanding.

  “Rufe!” Farron called. “Get up there ‘n’ see what we got in the kitty!”

  A lanky, spotty–faced lad touched his chest as if to say, “Who me?”

  “Get up there! You go deaf on me?”

  Rufe clambered up on the hull, bent the top half of his lean frame into the turret hatch. “Ain’t too much, Sarge,” came his muffled voice. He extracted himself, tossed a few items down to Farron.

  “Ok,” said Farron. “Five bucks, two cartons a Luckies, and some Swiss chocolate.”

  A moan from one of the other crewman. “That’s my chocolate, Sarge! You’re breakin’ my heart!”

  “Shuddup, Reese! C’mon, Jazzbo, we ain’t talkin’ no D–bars here! This is honest–to–God–from–the–guys–who–thunk–the–stuff–up chocolate! Swizzerland, boy, understand?” Farron turned to Wright. “Chocolate?”

  “Ah ain’t too much on chocolate, Sarge,” Wright said, hesitant to make offense.

  “Oh, Je–sus, boy – ”

  “Well, I like chocolate,” Spider volunteered.

  Big Man Wright’s molasses–hued face split in a childish grin. “Well, ok, Spiduh, ‘cause y’all like chocolate.”

  “Ok, let’s get it straight,” Spider said in summation, “there’s the smokes – two cartons – the chocolate, ‘n’ five bucks.”

  “‘N’ yer gonna match it with what?”

  Spider reached into his pocket and set a crisp ten dollar bill down on the tank deck by Big Man Wright’s head. “Y’all set yours down there. The five dollars, too. Gives the man his inspiration.”

  “I was savin’ that chocolate for my birthday,” Reese grumbled.

  “Didn’t I tell y’all t’ shuddup?” Farron snarled. “How we gonna do this?” he asked Valence.

  “Each o’ you gets three duckbills. I’ll set ‘em for you. You can look, make sure I do ‘em all the same. You can have one a your boys say, ‘Go!’ First one done gets the pot.”

  “Rufe!” Farron commanded. “You call it! The rest a y’all watch this boy ‘n’ make sure this goes all square!”

  Farron selected another ten–pound sledge and the two men stood in tandem by the tread of the tank.

  Before Rufe could start the competition, Big Man Wright raised a hand for a pause. “Jus’ a second if y’all don’ mind.” Wright shucked off his windcheater and for the first time the breadth of his piston–like biceps was perceptible as they inflated the baggy sleeves of his coveralls. He went to where the tools were laid out, set down his sledge, then picked up a massive–headed twenty–pound hammer which he seemed to handle as easily as a broomstick.

  For the first time, Farron’s confidence wavered. “Hey, now…”

  “C’mon, Sarge, the bet’s all made!” Spider Valence declared.

  His own crewmen began to taunt him. “Can’t back down now, Sarge!” “He’s just tryin’ to spook ya, Sarge!” But the motivation seemed to be less in the nature of support than to provoke Farron further into an already threatening disaster.

  “Look, Sarge,” Valence cooed, “if y’all jus’ wanna call it a day and forfeit – ”

  Farron suddenly firmed up and his face now grew so red it looked as if it might spontaneously combust. “Forfeit my arse! C’mon, boy, start the ball rollin’!”

  Rufe called, “Go!”

  Big Man Wright wielded the twenty–pound hammer with one arm. In a swing that looked relaxed and casual, he slammed each duckbill home with a single blow. He was finished while Farron was still hammering on his second duckbill, his sledge ringing off the bogie wheels in a shower of sparks as much as it landed on its target.

  Farron had just begun a fugue of protestations when they were silenced by a loud, “Oye!” from the thick–chested figure of Juan Bonilla in the garage doorway, a Thompson submachine gun in one hand, and an olive drab Government Issue kerchief held to his running nose with the other. “You!” He wagged the stained kerchief in Farron’s direction. “Soon’s this heap is finish’, you take the road wes’. Quarter–mile you see a hotel–like. Company CP. Tha’s your new position.”

  “Says who?” Farron growled unhappily.

  Bonilla sneezed into the kerchief. “Hey, amigo, tell me how to join your part a the Army where somebody give you an order ‘n’ you get to say, ‘Fock off!’ Me, Moe, Larry ‘n’ Curly says who.” At the mention of the last three names, Bonilla touched a finger to the three “rockers” on the set of first sergeant stripes on his sleeve, their newly issued brightness sharply contrasting with his age–faded combat fatigues. “You wanna make more shit outta this, your l’tenan’ is down a street wi’ my l’tenan’ tryin’ to figger out how to make a company ack like a b’ttalion. Go give them a headache like I got, tu sabe? You got somethin’ else to say?”

  Farron grunted something approaching an acquiescence. Bonilla now flagged Valence. “That your truck outside, hombre? I need that truck.”

  “Whoa, hold up, Sarge! Them wheels is signed out to me. Somethin’ happens to that truck – ”

  “I need somethin’ bigger ‘n’ a jeep ‘n’ all there is in this dump is wha’ you got. So, fine, you love your truck so much, pick up your shit. You’re goin’ wi’ me.”

  Valence jerked a thumb at the tank. “What about – ”

  “Mucho grande there can finish up what he’s doin’ ‘n’ the gringos can do the paint.”

  “Us?” Farron proteste
d.

  “Si! ‘Us!’ You ain’ union, Sarge, ‘n’ nobody gotta be no Da Vinci to slap on whitewash!”

  Farron was so angry he nearly glowed with heat. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ on a crutch! This ain’t fair, Sarge!”

  “They right down the street like I say, hombre. Go tell them!” To Valence. “You. Warm up your engine, amigo.”

  “Hey, Spider!” Big Man Wright called as Valence followed Bonilla out the door to where the quarter–ton was parked outside. Wright had unwrapped the slab of chocolate, broken it cleanly down the middle and tossed half to his partner. Valence, in turn, snapped his portion in half and handed one piece to Bonilla. As Valence and Bonilla disappeared outside, Wright turned to the disheartened Reese who was taking up a broom and tin of white paint. “Hey!” Reese turned to find Wright holding out half of his portion of the chocolate bar. “Happy Birthday, Mr. Reese.”

  Reese smiled a thanks.

  Wright turned back to his work to find Farron glaring at him. “I’d offer you some Sargeant,” he said with the clean diction befitting a graduate of Tuskegee University, “but it wasn’t yours to begin with.” He popped the slab of chocolate in his mouth.

  “I thought you didn’t like chocolate,” Farron accused.

  Wright responded with a gloating smile. “But you can help yourself to a piece of that cornbread. It is from my mother, Sarge, and she does do it up just fine!”

  “This is sad,” Bonilla said through a mouthful of chocolate. “Me bein’ sick I can’ even taste this shit.”

  “Well don’t throw it out!” Valence warned. “If you don’t want it – ”

  “Oh, I’ll eat it!” Bonilla grinned. “I jus’ wisht I could taste it.”

  Bonilla directed Valence on the road east out of Pont du Ste. Marc, heading toward the Our. Just before the entrance to the bridge he pointed to a gap in the shrubbery along the left shoulder of the road. “Turn on that road.”

  “Road my ass!” Valence declared as he found himself wrestling the quarter–ton lorry along what he considered to be nothing more than an oversized hiking path. The angle of the Our River gorge at that point was severe enough that Valence worried a sharp bounce might turn the heavily listing quarter–ton on its side, and he found himself constantly squirming to keep from sliding sideways out of his seat. Valence noted Bonilla’s attention seemed to be split between the opposite bank, and the near shore where the bloated river had marked its rise and falls with tiered crusts of ice. “We lookin’ for somethin’ in particular?” Valence asked.