Casualties of War: The Advocate Trilgy

by Bill Mesce

  Ricks was standing over him, his hook held out, his other hand holding the Thompson pointed in the direction of the crest. “C’mon, Harry, stop fucking around! Grab on!”

  With a wheeze, Harry pulled himself to his feet, his vision – still unclear – providing a blurry picture of VanDerMeer and Traeger, bringing their weapons up, a look up the hill, the Germans now half–way along the crest, some of them raising their rifles to their shoulders, Ricks bringing up the muzzle of his Thompson…

  “Hold your fire, Captain!” VanDerMeer said quietly, lowering his own weapon.

  Harry turned again to look uphill. The man Harry instinctively took to be the leader of the German patrol – standing a bit apart and further forward then the others – held out a hand and waved down the weapons of his men. He looked down on the small American party for a moment, half–turned about to give a quick order to his men, and then – as if nothing beyond the routine program had occurred – led them in a resumption of their walk along the hilltop.

  “Well…hell,” VanDerMeer said in a relieved hush, like a prayer, his face easing into a thankful, respectful smile.

  “I guess we ain’t worth botherin’ with,” commented Traeger. “Fine with me. I’ll take my days any way I can get ‘em.”

  VanDerMeer took the lead and then continued down the hill, Ricks supporting a limping Harry.

  Before they proceeded on through the shattered remains of the hillside forest, Harry tugged at Ricks to pause, and he turned about for another look to the hilltop.

  The German squad leader had paused at the edge of the crest, resting one arm on the machine pistol slung under his arm, allowing his men to precede him down into the saddle. He turned, saw Harry, and for a moment the two were locked in a gaze. Through the falling snow and the gray light, beneath the shadow of his helmet’s brim, the German’s face was invisible. He raised a hand. Maybe a hullo. Maybe just an acknowledgement.

  Harry raised his own in return. He and Ricks turned to follow VanDerMeer down the hill.

  “Maybe…” the lieutenant contemplated, “Maybe it’s just nobody wanted any dying today. You fellas are lucky. You’re Christmas presents came early.”

  CHAPTER TEN: Megiddo

  “YOU KNOW WHY HE DID IT.” The snow had tapered off late that afternoon, and now, as our jeep wound its way southward, the overcast sky was rapidly fading from a grim gray to a brooding black. Harry was trying to navigate the narrow, snow–covered road by the feeble light of the cat’s eye headlamps. We had been sitting in a funereal silence, no one willing to be the first to speak. Ricks was shifting about the rear seat per the usual, searching for a comfortable perch, as he idly swam cracker after cracker through an open tin of cheese spread and ham from a K–ration carton in his lap.

  I could almost sense the impatience from the rear seat; he felt it’d be proper for Harry to begin. And when the leader of our troop had not been forthcoming, Ricks felt compelled to make the opening declaration, ignoble as it was through a mouthful of cracker and cheese spread.

  “I said – ”

  “No I don’t,” Harry responded.

  Dryly: “Really.”

  “In Italy I saw him shoot a wounded German just to shut him up so he could get some sleep,” Harry said. A befuddled shake of his head. “I don’t know why he does anything. Not any more.” I suspect Harry was considering more than the actions of Dominick Sisto.

  “You know as well as I do that if he hadn’t done it, they’d all be still up on that hill for the birds to pick over. So? What’re you going to do? Turn him in?”

  Harry was silent a long while. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Ricks sighed exasperatedly. “You’re hoping he’ll ‘do the right thing’ and turn himself in. That’ll get you off the hook; you won’t have to decide. What if he doesn’t? What if he decides – ”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.” I could hear Ricks shifting about, again, but this had less to do with his discomfort than a rising anger. “And if he does turn himself in?”

  “I’ll defend him. You said yourself, there’s a number of extenuating circumstances – ”

  “You kill me, Harry, you really do!” Ricks exploded derisively. “‘I’ve got a special two–for–one offer for you today, Dominick! I turn you in and defend you.’ Jesus, Harry, I’d love to know how your conscience makes that work.”

  “I didn’t say I’d turn him – ”

  “Then what’re we doing here, Harry?” he demanded. “What have we been doing?”

  Harry grew quiet, again. His lips pursed, his eyes strained to keep the small band of illuminated road in sight. “I have to hear what he has to say about it.”

  Ricks tossed his ration carton on the floor. “You must be lying to yourself, Harry, because you’re too good a lawyer to be this stupid! Those ‘extenuating circumstances’ aren’t going to extenuate jack shit! You can make a case to the Army that you had to disobey a bad order. You can even relieve a bad commander. But they have a pretty intolerant attitude about you putting a pill in your CO’s head, even if he’s a total fuck–up! On a good day, the most running room they’d give you is to argue degree. They’ll let him off easy with 20 years hard labor in Leavenworth instead of eighty–sixing him. But you won’t get a good day, Harry.

  “He lied about it. Which, to them, means you lied about it! You made Dominick out to be a hero who saved all those sweet young boys from those fuck–ups Porter and Joyce! And now you give them this? They’re going to feel like they got played for saps…and they’d be right. The funny thing is they won’t know you got played for a sap, too!”

  “We all did,” Harry grumbled. “That doesn’t bother you?”

  Ricks shook his head. “Why should it? I’d’ve done the same thing he did! Except I wouldn’t’ve waited for the third day to pip him!”

  Which only seemed to make Harry sink deeper into his seat behind the wheel.

  “You might wind up getting that kid stood against a wall,” railed Ricks, “and for who? Porter? Today, you saw what Porter did on that hill! As far as I’m concerned, it’s a wash. You don’t have to like it, but I’m telling you, Harry, I’m begging you: let it go. He deserves a walk. Me? I’d like to go down there and shake his hand.” He awaited a reaction from Harry. When there was none, he leaned forward, close to the older man’s ear. “You live with what I did, Harry. Why not this?”

  I saw Harry’s chest heave, heard the heavy sigh. “Because I didn’t help raise you.”

  But the remark elicited nothing but disdain from Ricks. “I think it’s this.” He held his prosthesis out between the front seats. “You think this was penance enough. Maybe if Dominick managed to get a foot blown off – ”

  “Stop it.”

  Ricks reached into the rear of the jeep with his hook, snagged Porter’s helmet by the strap and dropped it in Harry’s lap. “This gives you qualms, Harry? Krauts have wives and kids, too. You going to cry for them?”

  At that, Harry stomped on the brakes and the jeep slid this way and that on the snow before skidding to a halt almost crosswise in the roadway. He turned in his seat, thrust Porter’s helmet into Ricks’ chest pushing the captain back into the rear seat. “You don’t want to come along? Fine!” from between clenched jaws, his index finger bringing the point home jabbing Ricks in the center of his chest. “You’ve got ‘qualms’? I’ll leave your arse at the next town! But if you’re going to take this ride with me…you–keep–your–god–damned–mouth–shut!”

  Frankly, I thought they were going to come to blows at that very moment. But then Ricks sat back in his seat, held up his arms in a gesture of compliance. Harry returned to the wheel, brought the jeep about, and we were on our way again.

  I let several of those oppressively quiet minutes go by before I ventured to speak. “Here now, old chap, I’m not criticizing mind you, but Peter has a point in that we do need to have a discussion about what we intend to do when we get there.”
/>   Harry took his eyes away from the road a moment to see if I was evidencing any sympathy for Ricks’ position. What he saw was an honest curiosity.

  He shrugged. “‘We’ won’t do anything. This is my call.” A worried shake of his head. “And I wish to God I knew.”

  *

  The 28th Division HQ staff in Wiltz referred us to 110th Regimental HQ in Clervaux who pointed us to the battalion HQ of the 3/103rd in Heinerscheid housed in a wee one–room schoolhouse. By then it was well on past nightfall, and most of the HQ staff was still off to evening mess. Among the few personnel still on duty we found Ernest Schup supping at a teacher’s desk. At our entry, he looked up and quickly – in order – displayed surprise, amusement, suspicion. As we drew near I noted he now wore captain’s bars on his collar.

  He stood, saluted Harry, then shook hands with us all. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever be happy to see you gentlemen again, but it is good to see you.”

  I congratulated him on his promotion.

  “I am now the battalion exec,” he said with sham grandeur. “In fact, I’m the acting CO until they dig up somebody to bring in. Which means, for all intents and purposes, I am ruler of all I survey!” Then, with a more earnest – and mournful – modesty: “Fact is, I just think there wasn’t anybody left for them to stick in the slot.”

  “It’s deserved, Captain,” Harry said. “We’re looking for Dominick.”

  He nodded as if he’d surmised as much. He led us to one of the several easels about the room sporting situation maps and outlined for us the disposition of Love Company’s platoons along the Our. “Sisto’s hard to grab hold of. He always seems to be…I don’t know, he always seems to think there’s something for him to check on. I think he’s driving himself a bit hard. Frankly, I’m a little worried about him. You’re best bet will be here.” His finger sat on a notation indicating a company headquarters on the road between Heinerscheid and Pont du Ste. Marc, closer to the latter. “If he’s not there, that’s the place to wait for him.”

  “There’s nothing there.”

  “Nothing you’d find on the map. I’m not sure what you’d call it – a lodge? An inn? A little hotel. About a half a kilometer from Ste. Marc. That’s where the company CP is set up. He’s got to sleep some time and that’s where he does it. Even if he doesn’t do it for long.” He studied our three grave faces studying the map. “Look, I know you’re not going to tell me, but I have to ask: is he in trouble?”

  “There’s a few things I need to ask him,” Harry said. “And I’d prefer if no one called on ahead to let him know we were coming.”

  Ricks returned Schup’s wary look with a sly grin. “We’d like to surprise him,” Ricks said.

  *

  “How far did he say?” I asked.

  “Not quite a mile,” Harry answered.

  “Do you think we missed it?” Ricks asked.

  “He said we couldn’t miss it,” Harry said. “It’s out in a clearing.”

  “A clearing?” I pressed my face against the plastic window of the canvas door of the jeep. “It’s so bloody dark out there I can’t even see the edge of the road! We could pass straight through the – ”

  “Fuck!”

  “Jesus!”

  I contributed something appropriate as well as Harry jumped on the brake pedal and the jeep began skid. I had a flash view of two startled faces in the narrow cat’s eye beams, standing in the middle of the road ahead of us, transfixed at the sight of our jeep sliding slowly toward them. There was no collision, thankfully, the jeep settling to a stop just inches short of their wide–eyed selves.

  Harry went from rigid with alarm to relieved collapse. “Oh, man! What the hell are those eight–balls – . Hey!” Amazement. “I’ll be damned…” Harry’s face broke into a sudden smile and he quickly hauled himself out onto the road. “Andy!”

  I squinted through the mud– and snow–splattered windscreen. There were two great–coated riflemen ahead of us, each hanging on to the end of a rope the other end of which was tied to seven good meters of fir which they’d been dragging down the center of the road. One of the men – the one with a buck sergeant’s three chevrons on his arm – was Andy Thom.

  “Colonel!” He made as if to salute but Voss would have none of it, grabbing Thom’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically.

  Voss flicked a thumb at the lad’s sergeant stripes. “Were they giving away promotions this week? Everybody out here has one! I’m kidding! Good for you, Andy!”

  The lad seemed less enthusiastic about his advancement than Harry, one gloved hand unconsciously scratching at the chevrons as if they’d been sewn directly onto his skin. “Yeah. Good for me. Hey, Colonel, I oughta introduce you. Hey, Corpuscle! Step on up here.” The other trooper was a short, chubby lad, a bit owlish with his wire–rimmed spectacles. “Colonel, this is my squad assistant, Corporal Lyle Bott.”

  Young Bott snapped off a salute to Harry. “The sarge says I should slug the first officer I see. Then I’ll lose my stripes and he says I’ll be a happier man all my days. What do you recommend, Sir?” If he was joking, he was brilliant at deadpan.

  “I don’t know about the hitting an officer part – ”

  “Hell!” Ricks called out from the back seat. “A few jabs to the head might knock some sense into some officers I know!”

  Andy Thom either didn’t pick up on the barbed edge to Ricks’ comment, or was ignoring it. He smiled as he stuck his head in the door of the jeep. “Is that Captain Ricks in there? Damned if it isn’t! And Mr. Owen, too! This is like a school re– …” The smile dropped, he slowly straightened and stepped back from the jeep as if it were something toxic. He’d always been a bright lad; he sensed this was hardly a social visit. “What’s going on, Colonel?”

  Harry made no pretense that this was something other than serious. “Where’s the boss, Andy?”

  “Making his rounds. He’s not back yet. You can wait for him at the CP. That’s where we were heading.”

  And now Harry did smile as he nodded at the snow–dappled fir at their feet. “With this?”

  Andy Thom seemed relieved to have his attention on something other than the purpose of our visit. “The first command decision I’ve made I feel good about. Figgered it’s gettin’ on Christmas. Gotta have a tree for Christmas. Had my pick of any tree on the lot!”

  The smiles faded, they seemed awkward about each other.

  Then, “Why don’t you show us the way, Andy?”

  *

  There hadn’t been much to see of the place outside: a shapeless hulk some yards off the road barely perceptible in the darkness, the shadowy shapes of some outbuildings and what might’ve been a scout tank parked alongside. But inside, even in the dim lamp of Coleman lanterns, the inn still retained much of its pre–war gingerbread house coziness. Most of the men had collected in a bar cum lounge just off the snug little lobby. Opposite, in a wee dining room, I espied a familiar face sitting in the glow of a lantern before a table on which sat the bulky forms of an SCR509 wireless set and the company switchboard. A petrol heater was placed strategically close to the operator’s posterior.

  Spiro Makris had been deeply immersed in an Army manual on wireless operation (in point of fact, it had not been his face I’d first recognized, but the crop of curly hair peeping above the top of the book). I stepped into the room as quietly as I could until I was nearly looming over him. “I hear they’ll be turning it into a film,” I said.

  He looked over the edge of the book, his face taking on a surprised smile. “Oh, hi, Mr. Owen! Who’s that out in the lobby? That Captain Ricks? And the Colonel? Damn, it’s the whole ol’ gang, isn’t it?”

  “Good to see you, Spiro,” I said. I pointed to the manual. “Thinking of giving up your amateur status?”

  “Funny thing, yeah. Ya get dragged into lugging it around then you get an interest.” A mystified shrug. “So, why not, right? I kinda figured out the switchboard on my own, but this other monster, I still don’t k
now much more than how to turn it on, no matter how many times I read this stuff. But the lieutenant, he says he’ll put in the papers to send me to radio school if I want. I got thinking, ya know, maybe I learn how electric stuff works; I could take that home with me, open up one of those little radio repair places? Beats hell outta being on my feet all day sewing shoe soles. I think my poppa’d like one of his kids getting outta that factory.”

  “Bravo, Spiro! Onward and upward, eh? A Greco–American Horatio Alger tale, eh?”

  He blinked, confused. “I guess.”

  “Any word from the lieutenant?” Andy Thom called from behind me.

  Makris flashed a look at his watch. “He checked in from Osthaus about an hour ago, said he was heading back to Ste. Marc but I haven’t heard anything since.”

  “Give a yell if you do.” For some reason this report perturbed Andy Thom and he exited shaking his head.

  I begged Makris’ pardon as I followed the others across the lobby to the bar. There was a wonderfully bright flame in the fireplace giving the room a cheeriness that it probably didn’t warrant what with the litter of bedrolls on the floor, rifles stacked here and there, ration cartons and tins littered about. The fragrant scent of the burning wood – along with whatever scrumptious victuals were bubbling in a pot hanging over the fire – went a long way toward obfuscating the bunkroom odor of unwashed, unshaven men crowded together, of stale cigarette smoke hanging about the upper reaches of the room in a thin, bluish layer of cloud. There were, I guessed at a glance, at least – and probably more than – a dozen bodies in there.

  “No room at the inn?” Harry said noting the crowded lounge.

  Andy Thom explained that the inn had no fuel for its furnace, nor electricity for its lights, nor running water. Of the ten rooms upstairs, only the one situated near the chimney flue had a fireplace, and that room was reserved for Sisto and Juan Bonilla. “I think,” Andy Thom said, with a feigned leer, “it’s a bridal suite.” For the rest of the men, crowding in the lounge, however uncomfortable, was preferable to shivering the night away in the comfy but frigid little guestrooms.