by Bill Mesce
I turned to see Harry’s reaction to all this and found him looking back toward the communications table. That’s where Sisto was, standing in front of the wireless, head bowed, listening to the desperate fragments wafting in and out of the static. I wondered – as I’m sure he was wondering – if any of them represented members of Love Company still fighting in the Three Villages.
Corporal Bott answered the question for us when he came into the dining room with his report: “Hey, Lieutenant? It’s all quiet down there now. Thought you should know.”
I don’t know if the others could see it, but from where I was standing I could see Sisto’s eyes close as he nodded Bott back outside.
“Lieutenant, I have to go down there,” Van Damm said.
Andy Thom shook his head disbelievingly. “Colonel, with all respect, what you got to do is see one of those Army headshrinkers if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
“Nobody has to go with me, Sergeant. But I have to see what’s going on down there. That is what they pay me for.”
“I’ll go with you,” Sisto said.
“I don’t need anybody to go with me,” replied Van Damm. “No need to risk – ”
“I’m going with you,” Sisto declared more firmly, reaching for his helmet and carbine. “You got your job to do, I got mine.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost 0630. We’ve got a half–hour, maybe 40 minutes before sun–up. We should get a move on before the fog burns off. Juan, you’re in command. If it’s still quiet in a half–hour, start rotating the men inside, half at a time, give ‘em a chance to warm up and get some hot food. If we’re not back by 0800, or you hear jack boots coming down that road, fuck what Battalion says; load up everybody, bug out west, don’t stop until you get to Atlantic City.”
I stood with Harry and Bonilla by the road, watching Sisto and Van Damm walk briskly up the road, looking quite small against the wall of dark trees along the other side of the firebreak.
I saw the concern – nae, an almost mournful look – on Harry’s face. “Don’t you be worried about that one,” I offered in comfort. “The lad’s got nine lives.”
Harry shook his head over my misunderstanding. “I’m worried he may not want to come back.”
Juan Bonilla sniffled and spat into the snow. “Calma, viejos. I don’ know what all is goin’ on wi’ you ‘n’ the l’tenan’ – it don’ look good – but no importa. He’ll come back ‘s lon’ as is possible.”
“You sound quite sure, Sargento,” I challenged.
“Oh, he won’ come back for he–se’f.” He nodded at the lads keenly watching their commanding officer disappear round the bend of the road and into the draw. “For them, he try to come back.”
*
There was something of the rabbinical scholar the way Peter Ricks and Spiro Makris sat studiously hunched before their respective consoles. Every so often some communication would come through one or the other piece of equipment, their respective backs would stiffen, heads cock, and they would make a diligent notation or two on the situation map lying between them.
I could hear the second breakfast shift shuffling into the lounge, the clatter of a ladle in the stew pot and against the tin rim of mess kit plates.
“Jesus, McQuill, how much meat was on that fuckin’ thing?”
“Y’all weren’t complainin’ yesterday.”
“Yeah, I know, but c’mon! I ate this shit for lunch, dinner, a midnight snack, and now this. It gets old, ya know?”
I looked across the table to where Harry sat slumped, brooding into his coffee cup. “Och, well, I suppose it’s possible, eh?”
“Hm?”
“I suppose if one were to be served veal scallops, lightly breaded and sautéed in a nice, light white wine, and to have to eat it morning, noon, and night…even that could grow tiresome, eh?”
He shook his head as if coming awake. “Sorry, Eddie; what’d you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Dominick was right about that kid, the one they call Chicken. I saw him writing another letter. He hasn’t even had a chance to send the last one off.” He looked about the dining room, but he was considering something larger than the room. “I haven’t written home since I left Rome.”
I thought that so unlike him I must have visibly reacted for he smiled a bit ashamedly.
“I…” He frowned, not quite understanding it himself. “I…don’t know what to tell her anymore.”
I was hardly qualified to give counsel in that regard so I remained silent for a bit. “Listen, Harry, last night…”
“Yes?”
“I’d never ask you to violate a confidence, but you and Dominick…well, did you talk last night?”
“Quite a bit. He didn’t sleep much. And when he did…” A shudder.
“Well, I’m sure you can understand my curiosity. Did he…?”
“Did he decide anything?”
“Aye.”
He recalled the discussion with an ironic smile. “He said we’d talk about it in the morning. That hasn’t worked out too well as you might’ve guessed.” The smile was replaced by a grave, brooding air. “It might all be academic now. But if he decides not to turn himself in…I won’t have a problem with that.” He noted my doubtful look. His countenance grew softer and I wasn’t quite sure in the light of the Coleman lantern, but I thought his eyes began to glisten. “Whatever hell that boy goes to in his sleep, there’s not a court–martial in the world that could punish him more than that.”
McQuill, still at his look–out post upstairs: “It’s them! They’re comin’ back!”
*
It was a gathering of the chieftains as we crowded round the map–covered table: Andy Thom and Farron, Peter Ricks and Bonilla, Harry and myself. And Dominick Sisto and Van Damm.
Sisto and Van Damm were still blotch–faced and sniffling from the biting cold, their hands cupped about the steaming cups of coffee Bonilla had brought them from the lounge.
Van Damm took a sip of his coffee, winced as it scalded his tongue, then looked down at the map, let out an enormous sigh. “If you’re waiting for good news, you’ve got a looong–arse wait,” he said bleakly. He waved one gloved hand over the map, like some oracle divining a message in the grid lines and squiggles: “It’s big. It’s very big. Captain Ricks has a kind of overview from the bits and pieces he’s been picking up on the radio and what Battalion has passed along to us.” Van Damm nodded at Ricks to take over.
Like a doctor about to render a terminal diagnosis, Ricks took a moment and a deep breath before sketching out the German cancer spreading on the map:
“The krauts forced the river opposite the 9th Armored Division just south of us, and the 4th Infantry Division beyond that. There’s also heavy enemy activity north of us in front of the 106th Division; it looks like the krauts have made a major push through the Losheim Gap.”
“Jesus…” Andy Thom whispered.
“Aw, fuck!” from the more vituperative Farron.
“They’re opening up the whole Ardennes front,” Van Damm concluded. “And you fellas know there’s not a whole helluva lot standing in their way anywhere along that line.
“The spine of the Keystone’s defensive line runs along this high ground, this ridge that runs parallel to the Our. The 110th Regiment – to which your battalion is attached – holds this part of that line: Regimental HQ at Clervaux, roadblocks at Heinerscheid, Marnach, Hosingen, Holzthum, Weiler, all connected by this road the troops call Skyline Drive.”
“Tha’s wha’ they was hittin’ with the artillery prep,” said Bonilla, “all those positions.”
“Right. The krauts seem to be moving to cut Skyline Drive in a number of places in order to isolate and reduce the 110th’s strong points. All of these key points – Marnach, Hosingen, most of these places, even Clervaux – are already under attack. They must’ve pulled the same thing they pulled at the Three Villages: infiltration troops must’ve come across during the night, dug in around these places
, then attacked as soon as the artillery barrage lifted. Now, once they hold this high ground and control this stretch of Skyline Drive, there’s not much left to hold them between the ridge and here.” He planted a finger on an oblong under which was the legend BASTOGNE. “This is a major hub. If the krauts get into Bastogne, that gives them access to a road network that can open up this whole central part of the Ardennes for them.
“All of the 110th’s positions along the Skyline are still holding but these kraut attack units are strictly infantry. It becomes a different ball game once they bring armor onto the field, and for armor they need bridges. Right now, they’re trying for the bridges at Ouren north of us. South of us, their engineers are throwing a bridge across at Dasburg, and they’re also in a fight for the bridge at Gemund.”
“And this is us – ” Peter Ricks stabbed a finger at the penciled–in gasthaus site on the road between La Pont du Ste. Marc and Heinerscheid “ – right in the middle.”
“If they break through at Ouren and Marnach, they’ll seal us up and pick us off like a pimple,” Andy Thom pronounced unhappily.
“How close did y’all get?” Farron asked. “What’s it look like down there?”
Sisto shook his head and Van Damm said, “It looks like somebody kicked over a fucking ant hill. And they’re not our ants.”
“Next time you open your mouth to those color guys, go easy,” Sisto said. “We found that roadblock they tangled with. Looks like it was a helluva fight.”
“Their engineers are working to shore up the bridge at Ste. Marc so it’ll support armor,” Van Damm continued, “but I don’t think they’ll wait for that. They’re shoving infantry across the footbridges at Velôt and Osthaus as fast as they can. Right now, it looks like they’ve got better than a battalion on this side of the river. Once they get a full regiment across, they’ll probably push out with one battalion down that road you see about ten feet out the front door. We’ll probably see some light recons even before that.”
“How soon before they start moving?” Peter Ricks asked.
Van Damm looked at his watch. “Soon.”
There was a rather odd pause, just then. After a moment, I realized I was waiting on the same thing all the others were: we were turned toward Dominick Sisto. Sisto’s eyes remained on the map I think as much to avoid looking into ours as much as anything else. His face – I had never seen a countenance so conflicted. Anger, fear, frustration, sadness, calculation, reluctance – it all warred back and forth across that young face.
“Lootenant.” Andy Thom spoke quietly, as if not meaning to interrupt whatever thought process was at work. “Lootenant.”
Sisto finally looked up. He smiled, sadly.
“Lootenant, how come you’re not sayin, ‘Ok, Andy, saddle ‘em up ‘n’ let’s get the hell outta here!’”
“Because he sees it, Sargeant,” Van Damm answered.
“Sees what?”
Van Damm’s finger ran along that section of the map representing the draw that led down to La Pont du Ste. Marc. “You’ve got a perfect bottleneck out there.”
It struck us all the same way: a chill that brought us all erect, a pressure – like fingers – on the throat.
“If you fellas are thinkin’ what I’m afraid you’re thinkin’,” ventured a trepidatious Andy Thom, “I hope you’ll stop thinkin’ it.”
Peter Ricks considered the map with a knowing smile. “Thermopaylae.”
Van Damm nodded. “I’d give my teeth for even one hundred Spartans.”
It being his first contribution to the discussion, Harry prefaced with a loud, “Ahem,” before saying, “I don’t pretend to be quite as well–educated as you boys and I certainly don’t have your combat savvy. But what came to my mind was the Alamo.”
“Thermopaylae” was a word that was a bit beyond Farron, but “Alamo” he could understand. “Ya know, the sarge here – ” meaning Andy Thom “ – called it right when y’all wanted to go down t’ Ste. Marc ‘n’ he said you were kinda nuts! Colonel, sir, you gotta be outta your ever–lovin’ mind!”
Van Damm shrugged, not about to deny the accusation.
Andy Thom, evidently thinking the G–2 officer beyond reasonable argument, turned to Dominick Sisto. “Lootenant, they had less men on this side of the river when they took out the whole company! We lost our bazookas and mortars with the Weapons Platoon! Now this joker wants us to stand up to a whole battalion? With what? We got Farron’s tin can ‘n’ what else? A squad ‘n’ a bit! We get in front of that kraut column and we’re gonna get ploughed right under!”
But Dominick Sisto never looked up from the map.
“Dominick,” Harry pressed quietly, “you can’t seriously be considering this.” When there was no answer, Harry grabbed him by the arm, hoping to shake him from whatever trance the map seemed to have thrown over him. “Dominick!”
“We can’t hold ‘em; he knows that,” Peter Ricks said, his eyes also glued to the map. “But we can slow ‘em up.” He looked up at Bonilla. “You have mines? Rifle grenades? Anything heavy?”
Bonilla shook his head. “We stocked up pretty good on ammo ‘n’ han’ g’enades, but the heavies’ thin’ we got is a .30 cal.”
Farron turned to Andy Thom. “This one’s nuts, too! ‘N’ the greaser!” Here, Bonilla smiled tolerantly though I was mildly surprised he didn’t snap Farron in two.
“What is all this hooey? They don’t let you carry rank these days unless you’re some kinda screwball?”
Van Damm held up a hand for patience. “Listen for a sec, ok? Everything about this attack says the Germans are trying to pull off a 1940 style blitzkrieg. Apply overwhelming force to a soft spot, hit hard, hit fast, and keep hitting and moving. Don’t worry about your flanks; just keep hitting the enemy pow–pow–pow so he never gets a chance to catch his breath and re–group. As long as all the columns keep advancing, each of them winds up protecting the flanks of its neighbors. Once those krauts in Ste. Marc get by us, look…” His grease pencil slashed across the map. “They can squeeze Ouren from the south against the troops they already have there pressing from the north and east. They can flank Marnach and Clervaux from the north. But slow ‘em up, the columns north and south of us are now wide open in the flank. That leaves them just two choices: either they have to pull troops out of the attack to secure their open flanks – ”
“Or they gotta pull up ‘n’ wait for the slowpokes,” observed Bonilla.
“Either way, it slows up the German advance throughout the sector.”
“For what?” Harry demanded. “An hour maybe?”
“Oh, I think we could probably hold ‘em for a couple of hours,” Peter Ricks calculated coolly. “With a little luck.”
Harry shook his head. “A couple of hours? That’s worth it? That makes that big a difference?”
The hard look on Van Damm’s face was answer enough.
“You got no authority here!” Farron accused Van Damm.
Van Damm nodded. “No, I have no command authority over you. And, frankly, I don’t have the guts to ask you to do this.” He turned to Dominick. “But I don’t have to, do I?”
“Lootenant!” Andy Thom pleaded. “Until that barrage this morning, mosta these kids’ve never even been – ”
Dominick Sisto had been holding his helmet in his hand, his gloved fingers intertwined with the bands inside his liner. He raised the helmet up and brought it down on the table so hard I thought the wood would split and the table collapse. He turned and stormed out of the room, we heard the front door of the inn explode open.
For a moment, the rest of us stood awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes, but then Harry was off after Dominick. And I trotted off after Harry.
They were round the back of the inn, out of sight of the men in position along the creek which was to the good for it would doubtless have done little for their morale for them to see their commanding officer hunched over, hands on knees, vomiting into the snow. Harry reached a supporting ar
m round Dominick’s back but the lad shrugged it off as his body racked with another heave.
Finished, he stepped away from the steaming mass, dropped to his knees, scooped up a handful of snow and brought it to his mouth.
When Harry thought the boy had recovered well enough, only then did he dare to speak: “Dominick, please don’t do this.”
Dominick took another mouthful of snow, spat. He scooped up more of the white stuff and rubbed it across his forehead.
“I swear to God, Dominick,” Harry pleaded, “everything about Porter…it’s forgotten. Let’s just go. Get your men loaded up – ”
Sisto turned to Harry, his head cocked curiously. “You think that’s what this is about, Signor? This is my way of not having to go back to a rap on Porter?” He sat back on his heels. For a moment I thought he might laugh. “You think too much of me, Signor. Or not enough.” He rose, dusted the snow of his knees, picked up his helmet from where he’d dropped it. “It’s got nothing to do with that.”
“Then what?” Harry asked.
“That G–2 pal of yours is too goddamn smart for his own good. So am I.”
Harry shook his head, still confused.
Sisto started back for the inn. “It’s why I put us here in the fucking first place.”
*
“I’m not looking to make a bunch of posthumous heroes,” Sisto began.
“What’s ‘posthumous’?” one of the lads whispered. I didn’t quite hear the response, but I did hear an unhappy, “Ohhhh,” in return.
They were all gathered in the lounge, scoffing down the last of the stew, getting a last cup of hot coffee, this at Bonilla’s insistence. It would, he told them, be the last hot food they’d probably see that day, and possibly for days.
There was a sad familiarity to the gathering, like a painting by one of the masters oft copied, this portrait of young soldiery, its boyish faces a mix of eagerness and anxiousness; curiosity and fear. I’d seen it in RAF ready rooms, atop the decks of rain–slicked troop ships awaiting the trip across the Channel to Normandy. I’d seen it in the trenches of the First War, as fresh troops waited for the sound of an officer’s whistle to send them “over the top.”
