by Dean Hughes
It couldn’t be that simple. What was he waiting for? When would the two-striper come after him? And yet, that nod, that look, seemed calculated to say something. Wally worried that he was fooling himself, but the manager seemed to have been saying, “It’s over. I’ll leave you alone, and you leave me alone.” But why?
Fred caught up to Wally. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He nodded to me. But that’s all.”
“Maybe he’s ashamed he ran from you. That might be a loss of face, in his mind.”
“Or maybe he’s just waiting. He might come after me tonight.”
“Why would he wait? Back there he had all those guards. If they were going to grab you, that would have been the time.”
“I don’t know. You can never figure these guys out.”
Nothing happened that night. In fact, three days passed, and Wally didn’t see the man. But then one night he was at the gate again, and Wally’s confidence, which had been growing, disappeared. Once again, however, the man stared at Wally, and this time the nod was more discernible, as though he were saying, “Our compromise is still in place. I’m not going to bother you.”
That night, in the cold barracks, Wally speculated with the other men about what had happened–why a man in the manager’s position would let Wally off that way. No one understood, but the popular idea was the one prisoners liked to give for everything these days. The war was coming to an end, and this man–opposite of the others–was being careful so he wouldn’t be held up for war crimes when the Allies took control of Japan.
Wally wasn’t convinced. He was lying on his mat that night, kept awake by the cold and the gnawing disappointment with himself, when the truth hit him–or at least an idea that rang true to him. What seemed to make sense was that the manager had known he was wrong, and that he, too, was ashamed of himself. Like Wally, he had acted rashly. He had struck down a man for no reason, and he was sorry for it. When he had seen Wally’s rage, he had understood it. He had said to himself, “How would I react if someone treated me that way?”
That had to be the answer. It was the only idea that made sense to Wally. And it was by far the most useful way for him to think of it–because it turned the man into someone he could understand, even forgive. Wally knew how completely he had failed when he had made his move to kill the man. He also knew that if he was ever going to get on top of his anger and resentment, he would have to think of the guards and supervisors as people like himself: weaklings, giving way to the worst of human impulses. If he had been ready to commit a murder, how could he judge anyone else?
But it was all a little too abstract and rational. He could pardon this man who had acted with some fairness, but forgiveness for all the others wasn’t in his heart. When he thought of his good friends Warren and Jack, who had died so needlessly back in the Philippines, the bitterness returned to him like a nasty aftertaste. Maybe this one manager had regretted his rash act, but that didn’t diminish the stored-up resentment Wally felt. He might make it through this nightmare, and he might return home; he might even be a stronger, better man in some ways. Maybe the Lord could forgive him for his momentary intent to kill. But what bothered Wally most as he lay there on that cold floor, without so much as an extra winter blanket, was that he saw no escape from the hatred he was harboring. However often he told himself that his anger was his own problem, he knew what he really believed: that these guards had planted that hatred in him. They had won in both ways. They had not only put him through this agony and humiliation; they had also filled him with so much rancor that it was likely to distort his entire life.
Chapter 33
On the day after Christmas, Patton’s Third Army–the 4th Armored Division and two infantry divisions–broke through from the south and opened up a supply line to Bastogne. That, of course, was good news for Alex and the men of the 101st, but all of them ruffled a bit when the tank men suggested that they had ridden in like the cavalry to save the beleaguered paratroopers. “We were doing just fine,” was the usual response. “We’re used to fighting behind the lines.”
Actually, very little changed for Alex. He and his men received underwear and galoshes, and a better supply of ammunition and food–but the flow of supplies had begun with the air drops, before the breakthrough. The men were still dug in at the crest of the hill above the village of Foy. The cold was worse than ever, the snow deeper, and every day, at unpredictable times, the men were hit with fire from German 88s. The shells came quickly; only in the last few seconds before striking could the men hear them. But every soldier knew the high-pitched whine, the hissing sound, and the final whoosh just before the explosion. The shells crashed through the trees and sent jagged spears and chunks of metal slicing through the forest. There were also nightly patrols, and by now all of the men had had turns at crawling about in the snow, trying to locate the German forces. Almost every night men had been shot at, sometimes wounded, sometimes killed. In all, the 121 men of E Company who had been trucked to Bastogne were now down to fewer than 100. Seven, including Campbell, had been buried in shallow, temporary graves in the hardened ground; the others had been wounded and pulled into improvised hospitals in Bastogne. With the encirclement broken, at least some of them could now be evacuated.
With the arrival of Patton’s forces had come newspapers. The men of the 101st were surprised but rather pleased to learn that they had been the focus of worldwide attention. As the German “bulge” had pushed through the Ardennes, one little circle of Allied control had remained on all the maps in every newspaper, and that was Bastogne. Headlines spoke of the “Battling Bastards of the Bastion of Bastogne.” Alex had to laugh at the idea. No one back home would ever understand what it had really been like. It all sounded as though the men had fought to the tune of war songs, their chins held high in the air–not hunkered down in foxholes, fighting the cold as much as the Germans.
The added clothing and blankets did help, but after the misery in Holland, and now these two numbing weeks in frozen foxholes, Alex felt dazed more than frightened. When artillery fire came, he hated the fear, the sound of it, but more wearisome were the nights, which seemed to end only in time to begin again. He found it difficult to imagine ever being truly warm again.
Alex could see what was happening to his men, too. The cold, with the intermittent periods of horror and the daily death, was taking a toll. The men were caked with mud, and none had had a shower for two weeks, but it was the look in their eyes that was unnerving. Alex often saw a kind of vacancy behind those eyes, as if the men had learned, like Alex, not to think, not to hope, not to do anything but stay alive another day. They laughed at times, talked into the night, told stories, and seemed to keep their spirits up, but in odd moments Alex would glance at a man and see his eyes take on an empty, hollow look that seemed a mirror of what he was feeling inside himself.
During those terrible weeks in the mud and rain in Holland, and especially here in these woods, Alex’s way of thinking about the war had changed. He could hardly remember his view of things back when he had signed up to satisfy his conscience, but he rarely thought of politics anymore, of world domination, of evil Nazis. What he thought of was surviving–and keeping his friends alive. He wanted to see Curtis make it, and Duncan, Gourley and Pozernac. Most of the old Toccoa group was gone now, and he didn’t want to lose any more. He also wanted these young men, the replacements, to make it home to their families.
He wondered at times, even if he and his friends survived the coming battles, how deeply they had been changed. His worst fear was that a spirit had been robbed from him that would never come back. He didn’t feel anything holy inside himself anymore. He didn’t blame himself for the killing, but he blamed the killing for what it was doing to him. He wondered what he would be like when he returned to the world where killing was wrong, as it always had been, where civilization shaped people’s behavior, not survival instincts, not this ugly spirit of vengeance that the men tried
to foster in themselves–to justify what they were doing.
But he never spoke of these things with the other men. He had made a careful attempt once to tell his father what he was feeling, but he had found himself unable to express the seriousness of his concerns, and his father’s letter had come back from that other world, where people didn’t understand anything about war. Dad had told him about a conversation with President J. Reuben Clark. President Clark had talked about the terrible influence of war and had said he was sorry if he had pressured him too much to keep the Spirit. The main thing was merely to “do his best” and come home with a testimony. Alex appreciated that, but he had to wonder, did his father or President Clark have any idea what he was actually dealing with?
Alex had made up his mind now that he would never mention the subject at home, if he ever got there. And for now, he tried to keep his mind occupied with other things. His sense of loss, however, was always with him, and behind it all was a self-doubt and disillusionment that he had never known in his life. He felt damaged inside, as though a malignancy were growing in him. He would have to find a cure someday–if a cure was possible–but for now, he couldn’t deal with it, and he wouldn’t.
On New Year’s Eve, the Americans launched a huge volley of fire from every artillery gun. This was a way of telling the soldiers–both American and German–that the Allies had held their own, and the time for counterattack was at hand. Alex felt certain that the major push by the Germans had been stopped, and he was thankful that his men hadn’t come out of it any worse. Some of the battalions had fought in bloody battles and had been decimated. The soldiers in the Second Battalion–Alex’s unit–had suffered, but so far they had not been thrown into the worst of the action. The only problem was, Alex was sure that couldn’t last much longer. Third battalion had had to pull out of Foy, and the town was now occupied by Germans. Now the place would have to be cleared, since it was on the main road to Noville, a town that would have to be retaken as the Allies tried to force the Germans back from the bulge.
New Year’s Day was relatively quiet. Late that afternoon, however, word came that Second Battalion, along with a couple of other units, would make a thrust in the morning to clear the Bois Jacques. It was the first step the Americans had to take before attacking Foy.
That night German bombers struck. This was something that hadn’t happened often, since German air power had been reduced to a minimal force. All the same, bombs fell into the woods that night and made huge craters in the earth. Men in the battalion–even in the company–died again, but Alex’s squad made it through safely.
However much Alex hated life in a foxhole, the idea of moving out was even worse. The great advantage the 101st had possessed until now was that they had been staying put while the enemy had had to attack, out in the open. Movement was slow in all the snow, and men in the fields made easy targets. Now it was the Americans who were going to be on the march, and the Germans who could dig in and hold on.
At first light the troops lined up and got ready to go. They crouched in the snow, which crunched each time someone moved. Alex could sense the fear around him, felt it in himself. His breath was coming in short, tight tugs. He could hear the occasional clank as a man shifted, causing a trigger housing to scrape against a belt grommet or the subtle rub of a pistol handle against the canvas cover of a canteen. There was a no-smoking order, the little flames a sure signal to the other side, but this clearly added to the tension. “I could sure use a smoke,” he kept hearing men whisper.
Finally the whispered order came: “Move out.” The soldiers knew the routine: they were to form a long skirmish line and sweep through the woods. They were to engage any German units they contacted and drive them back. This could end up a simple operation or a terrific firefight; there was no way of predicting which.
The men moved forward, crouching. Alex could see the others in the yellow light of morning, a long line on either side of him. Howie stuck close to Alex, but as they entered the trees, they found, as they had the time before in these woods, that it was difficult to keep contact with the rest of the line. The forest was thick, and the snow muffled the sounds. Many of the men had white cloth draped over their uniforms as camouflage. At times Alex could see no one but Howie, not even the other men in his squad, and it was difficult to know whether he was walking ahead of or behind the rest of the men in the company.
The going was very slow in the deep snow, and the tension kept building. The woods were peaceful, beautiful, with the snow on the pine trees, but each tree was a hiding place, and a sniper could be hidden in any of them. Alex and Howie walked at least a couple of hundred yards into the woods without seeing any sign of the enemy, and then machine-gun fire opened up. Alex dropped onto his stomach. He realized almost instantly, however, that the fire was coming from a point well to his right. The men out there were meeting some solid resistance. He doubted that anyone in his own company was in on that. There were three battalions strung out along this extensive battle line.
Alex got up, as did Howie, and they worked their way forward again. Alex was careful about moving past trees. Brushing a limb could release a load of snow on his head, but even more important, the sudden movement could alert a sniper or a machine-gun team. It was eerie out there, knowing that hundreds of Americans were with him, but feeling quite alone.
Alex was sweating now, and breathing hard. Each time he stepped, his feet plunged deep into the snow, and it was work to pull his galoshes loose and take the next step. He was weighed down with his heavy clothes, his rifle, his pack, all his ammo and equipment.
When American artillery began to fire, the whistle of shells, the explosions in the distance were comforting and disturbing at the same time. It was good to add the artillery pressure on the enemy, but Alex knew that the Germans would return fire. And just as he suspected, when the 88s did open up, they were not directed at the American artillery. The enemy knew what had to be coming, and they zeroed in on the woods. Suddenly shells started dropping into the trees, and Alex dropped down again.
The next few minutes were paralyzing. There was no foxhole to run to, nothing to do but lie in the snow and hope for the best. “Stay flat,” he yelled to Howie. “You’ll be all right.” But that all depended on how close the shells struck; both of them knew that.
“Medic!” Alex heard someone scream. “Help me. I’m hit. Bad!”
Alex kept his head down as the bursts continued. He could hear the sound of breaking, shredding trees, and the disturbing sound of men screaming in pain. But the artillery stopped after only a few minutes. Maybe the Germans were too unsure of their target. “Let’s go,” he told Howie, and they got up and ran. There were more shouts by then, more men calling for medical help. The Germans had been on target and had made a big mistake not to keep the pressure on.
Alex didn’t know how the line was advancing, but he began to hear more machine-gun fire, and he knew that American troops were coming onto German outposts. Then up ahead and off to his left, he heard a machine gun open up, and he saw the flash of muzzle fire. He dropped, but he knew the shooting was aimed at the men directly in front of the gun. “Howie, we need to work our way over there and help those guys–see if we can get some grenades in on that gun.”
“Okay.” Howie moved with him. They crawled through the snow, inching their way toward the machine-gun emplacement.
And then a series of explosions went off. Alex looked up to see that other soldiers had gotten close enough to throw grenades. When the smoke cleared, he saw two Germans running through the trees. Rifle fire was popping behind them, and one of the men went down.
It was getting lighter now, and Alex could see Howie’s face clearly. “That took care of that,” Alex said, and he saw the relief in Howie’s eyes. “Let’s keep moving.”
The hard walk went on for hours, and Alex was careful to wait and watch at times, never to move too far without checking out the possibilities ahead. But all the heavy action seemed to be
on the flanks, and Easy Company was moving straight down the middle of the woods. Alex was able to see other men in his squad more often now, but at one point a sniper held them down for several minutes. The men kept inching forward, crawling, looking for the source of the fire, and finally Gourley was able to spot the man, up in a tree. He squeezed off a round and then shouted, “I got him. Knocked him right out of that tree.”
Gourley hated Germans, loved to kill them. He and Pozernac never seemed to doubt themselves or second-guess what they were doing.
The line moved ahead again. The squad met no further resistance in its sector, and by early afternoon the men made it all the way to a logging road, where they had been instructed to stop and recreate their line. A few men had arrived ahead of Alex and Howie, and all his squad soon arrived. Alex moved up and down the line, checking to make sure everyone was all right. “That was a cakewalk,” Pozernac told Alex. “We lucked out again. Guys were catching hell on both sides of us.”
“We’re not finished yet,” Alex told him.
During the rest of the afternoon, patrols went out searching to find pockets of resistance in the forest beyond the logging road. From all appearances, the Germans had cleared out, however, and as darkness approached, Alex got the command from Lieutenant Owen to have the men dig in for the night.
With all their equipment, and walking through the deep snow, the troops had worked up a sweat, but during these hours of waiting, they had gotten cold. Digging through the snow into the hard ground was a difficult job, but at least the movement was better than sitting around.
The men were working to break their way through the frozen earth when the hiss of artillery filled the woods. Everyone dropped. A couple of shells exploded just beyond their position. Everyone waited for more, and when nothing came, they started digging again, much harder. That pattern followed well into the evening. The Germans never set up a cannonade of fire, but at odd times they would fire a few shells. Some of the men were making trips into the woods to cut tree limbs, and every time the 88s opened up again, there was a mad dash back to the foxholes.
