‘Come on, Al. Let’s you and me try it. We can’t stay here! Shit, we’re all going to get killed!’
He moves off and I hate him. I follow him. I keep my eyes on the ground looking for mines. Twice, I step over thin wires between mines. I see one of the little pegs for a shoe mine. I get the shakes so bad, I’m stopped in my tracks. I can’t go on. I’m in the open and I can’t make myself go either way. It’s like on top of the gas tank; I’m paralyzed numb. Harrington is picking his way along. I don’t call out. I look back and Richards is gone. I feel alone. I can’t see anybody and I hope nobody can see me. I sink slowly to the ground.
I don’t know how long I stay like that. I know I should get out my entrenching tool and dig but I can’t make myself do it.
Then, I see somebody coming over the brow of the hill toward me. I scrunch lower. At first it’s just silhouettes, then I see the field green of a kraut soldier. Shaking, I bring my rifle to my cheek and feel for the trigger through my gloves. I pull and nothing happens. They keep coming. I push off the safety and pull again. There’s a tremendous kick. Only then, I remember I still have that phosphorous grenade on the rifle. It hits one of the soldiers and explodes with a flash.
‘Who the hell is that? Hold your fuckin’ fire.’
It’s Richards and he’s brushing madly at a kraut. I rush up the hill, forgetting the mines. I get there and help brush phosphorous off the kraut. He’s sitting on the ground. The phosphorous is like pieces of fire that burn through everything. The kraut is screaming and we brush madly to get all the pieces off. He peels off his overcoat and jacket, there’s a dark red spot on his side where the grenade hit.
‘What the fuck you doing back here? You’re supposed to be with Harrington. I’m using this fucker to pick a path through these fuckin’ mines for the rest of the platoon to get through. You get your ass after Harrington. Tell him to meet up with us at the pine trees just over the hill.’
I start going around the hill in the direction Harrington was going. Now, some mortar is coming in. I think one hits just over the hill in front of me, but then from the flash, I know it isn’t mortar. I start hurrying. I’m stepping over mine wires and past shoe mine triggers like I’m playing hopscotch. I don’t get it. A few minutes ago I couldn’t make myself move.
Harrington’s sitting on the ground. He’s holding onto his knee and rocking back and forth. His rifle’s on the ground beside him. He’s screaming!
‘My God, my God! Mother of God! Mother! My leg!! Oh my God!’
I drop beside him. His face is green. Blood is spurting out between his hands from his knee! I almost vomit when I see it. The bottom part of his leg, below the knee, is hanging by a piece of flesh. Jagged bones stick out from shrunken flesh. The other leg has fragments of shrapnel sticking through the cloth, through the boot, into the flesh. Harrington looks at me and his eyes are black holes.
‘Holy God! I’m bleeding to death! Stop it! Help me, Al! Jesus Christ, help me!’
My hands are shaking but I get my belt off. I wrap it tight where Harrington’s squeezing. I pull it taut and try to make it hold. My fingers are slippery with blood. I get the friction bar of the brass buckle to catch. Harrington lets go with his hands and there’s only a trickle. I take off my aid kit and pull out the bandage. I put the pad over the stump end and wrap the strings above the belt. I take out my canteen and make Harrington take the wound tablets. I’d forgotten the sulfa and try lifting the bandage to scatter it inside. Somehow, I’m making it. Harrington is leaning back on his hands and looking down at his leg hanging there cocked sidewise. The shoe’s been completely blown off and you can see the bones where the flesh is flayed away.
I’m afraid to pull any of the shrapnel pieces out of the other leg. Harrington’s sinking into shock fast. His face is completely white and he’s crying. The hell with Richards; I’m going after a medic. They’re probably all hanging back in the woods. I still haven’t said anything to Harrington. I try to steady my voice.
‘Don’t move! I’ll go get a medic!’
Harrington nods his head. He’s biting his lower lip and holding onto the leg that isn’t blown off. I carefully prop the stump of his other leg onto his helmet. I drive his rifle, barrel first, into the ground so the medics can find him. I look once more at Harrington and start back down the hill.
Jesus, the whole field is solid mines! I’m going against the lines of mines and stepping over one wire after another. I’m amazed I can do it. Maybe I’ve gotten past something in myself. About twenty yards down the hill, I look around to orient myself for bringing the medics back. Harrington lifts one hand; he’s been watching me. I wave and start down the hill again. I haven’t gone three steps when there’s a tremendous explosion. I look back and see Harrington’s limp body in the air. It twists once, then hits the ground with a bounce. I run back, jumping over mines and wires.
He’s torn in half. I can see through his stomach. There’s not a mark on his face and he’s already dead. His intestines glisten and slide in the last gushings of blood. I turn my head and throw up.
There’s no excuse to go back now. I get down on my knees carefully. Harrington must’ve had a shoe mine behind him, between his arms, all the time. He probably just lay back on it. I’m absolutely gripped with fear again.
I don’t know how long I stay there beside Harrington. It could’ve been two minutes or even twenty. My mind is going back and forth, not wanting to work. I know I’m crying; I’m not making it at all.
It begins getting lighter; the fog is lifting; the sun is orange over Reuth. I have to do something. I stand up and start working my way up the hill. I’m walking over mines like walking over cracks in the sidewalk; I know I’m not being careful enough. I’m numb in my mind. I get to the top of the hill.
There’s a grove of trees over to the right. The whole platoon is there. I see Richards. They’re all digging in like crazy. Richards comes running to me.
‘Where the fuck’ve you been? We’re going to be pulling out of here and going into the town in a couple minutes! There’re tanks up there! Who the hell has the tank grenades?’
‘Harrington got it back there; shoe mine.’
‘Shit! Christ, we’ve got to get outta here. Who the hell’s got the tank grenades?’
‘One of the replacements had them. He’s back on the hill.’
‘Christ! What a fucking mess! We need bazookas! Mortars getting closer and we’re fucked if those tanks find us! Where-in-hell’s the Lieutenant?’
Richards is dashing back and forth saying these things. He’s at least as scared as I am but he thinks of things to do. He runs back to the others. I flop on the ground there and hold onto it. I’m going to stay right there. I’m ready to take it all, whatever comes. Let the tanks blast away; let the krauts take me prisoner; give me a court-martial, dishonorable discharge. I’m ready for it all. I’m dead; out of it. I’m not thinking these things out loud but that’s the way it is. I’m past even being scared; past everything. I only want it all to stop.
Then Richards stands up and waves his arms in the ‘let’s go’ signal. Everybody stops digging and gets up. I watch myself get up with them. I’m not thinking anymore. I’m just doing it. I’d make a great lemming. They start over the ridge, Richards first, then Vance and Scanlan, then the other replacement, then me. There are other guys who fall in behind. The whole thing is screwed up.
We go about fifty yards and one of the mortars comes in close. We all hit the ground. When we get up, the replacement turns, looks back, then runs past me down the hill. He’s going to hit a mine for sure.
We go on some more. Still no tanks. Maybe Richards is wrong. My mind is starting to work again. Then it comes fast, no sound. Direct fire, eighty-eight. I’m on the ground; the ground socks my guts. I don’t even hear the motors. Dirt is coming down everywhere. I put up my head and it comes again. The ground thumps under me but I’m still all right. I’m enjoying not caring much; it makes it all so much easier. I feel separa
te, like at a movie of a war.
Somebody’s yelling he’s hit. It’s Vance. He runs past holding his helmet out in his hand. Blood’s flowing. A piece of shrapnel has pinned his hand onto his helmet. I hear a moan in front of me. I look. Scanlan turns his face to me. He’s screaming. It doesn’t look like Scanlan, it’s a death head; bare skull starting to ooze blood.
‘I’m hit! My eyes! I can’t see! Help me, somebody!’
He stands up and wobbles toward me. He can’t see because his whole face’s been wiped off and pulled to one side like a mask. The flesh is hanging over one eye and the other eye is hanging over the bone socket onto his cheek. His nose and upper lip are gone. I can see his teeth sticking into his gums. Some of the teeth are broken and pushed in. I crawl up to him, grab him by the legs and pull him down.
‘Don’t touch your face! You’re hit in the face!’
Scanlan sits on the ground, still holding onto his rifle. I squat in front of him, grab the skin of his face and try to wrap it across into place again. It feels like rubber and is shrunken so it doesn’t fit. I get the nose centered and tell Scanlan to hold onto the end of the flap while I undo my aid kit. For a second, I actually don’t know where my aid kit is. I’m yelling for help but nobody’s behind me anymore and Richards is still on the ground up ahead. I yell again but he doesn’t move.
I take off Scanlan’s aid kit and get out the bandage. I’m scared more stuff is going to come in, but my hands are steady. I wrap the bandage tight around Scanlan’s head and tie it in the back. Scanlan’s having a hard time breathing. He keeps swallowing the blood but more and more blood is leaking out everywhere. The hell with the wound tablets; I’m getting Scanlan back and turning myself in! My mind is working slowly but clearly; I don’t feel like me.
I tell Scanlan to drop his rifle. He isn’t talking anymore, only moaning deeply. He takes off his left glove and there are two fingers in the middle missing. Blood’s pumping out of there, too. I grab his wrist tight, pull him to his feet and start running him back. He’s going to pass out soon and I can’t carry him. I might pass out myself any minute. I’m feeling very empty-eared. Scanlan pulls away from me. He goes back and picks up the glove he just pulled off, the one with the fingers in it. He holds it with his good hand. Jesus Christ! What’s he thinking of?!
Somehow, we get through the mines. This time I go around farther to the right. I only see two masher wires. I’m having a hard time believing in mines anyway. When Harrington got it, it’s as if he defused all of them for me. I have the feeling I could even step on one and it wouldn’t go off. That’s how far gone I am.
We get back to the edge of the wood and there’s Lucessi, the first sergeant. He yells at me.
‘Who is that? Where the hell’re you going?’
I stop and turn Scanlan toward him. He’s my ticket out of hell. It’s lousy, but that’s the way it is. I’m trying to ride Scanlan all the way back to a medic tent.
‘I’m taking Scanlan back, Sarge. He’s hurt bad!’
Lucessi can see that. He can also see I’m scared shitless. He knows what I’m doing. Why the hell should I care what Lucessi thinks anyway? He’s just another fucking wop, even if he is first sergeant. Lucessi is checking Scanlan. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t maybe just make a run for it up to the woods. Lucessi isn’t going to shoot me or anything.
‘Where’s Richards? Where’s the second platoon? Where’s your squad? What the fuck’s going on up there?’
‘Richards says tanks are coming up. He needs bazookas. There’re no anti-tank grenades.’
‘Yeah, and where in hell’s Richards?’
Lucessi is trying to pull the bandage smooth over Scanlan’s face. I’m still holding onto Scanlan’s wrist.
‘He’s up there past the trees. He’s on the ground there where Scanlan got hit. I yelled but he didn’t answer or move.’
That’s how my mind’s working. It’s only then I let myself know that Richards is hit. Richards has had it. Richards got it. I don’t even like Richards, but the shakes start coming. I want to get away, anywhere away. I’m not only running back now; I’m running away. I have a hard time keeping my feet still. But, I’m afraid of Lucessi. I could probably beat the shit out of him one-handed; but I’m afraid. I’m waiting for a chance to run away, hide in the ground, starve to death, anything, just disappear, be alone. I’m still holding onto Scanlan’s wrist to stop the bleeding and he’s fucking around with the glove in his other hand. He pulls something out of the glove and wipes it on his pants. It’s a wedding ring. He puts it in his pocket. Lucessi’s watching me.
‘You get the hell back there, Columbato. If Richards is hit, you’re in charge of the squad. The way things’re going, maybe the whole damned platoon. What a fuck-up. I’ll take Scanlan. I’ll get the bazooka and anti-tank grenades sent up. Now, you haul ass up there!’
He’s already redoing the company organization chart. He’s moving slips of colored paper around in his mind. I hand Scanlan to him and he squeezes the wrist. Blood is dripping from Scanlan’s face all over his field jacket. Lucessi turns and runs Scanlan back toward the woods.
I’m alone again. I know I’m only going up to the trees and hide. I’ll jump in one of those slit trenches the squad was digging. I’ll lie up there and wait till things settle down. Then, maybe I’ll sneak my way back into France, travel at night, find some French family I can hide with. I’m quietly going crazy right out there in the open.
I get across the field again, hopping over wires, trying not to look across to where Harrington is. I make it up to the trees and hide myself in a hollowed-out bit of a hole. I don’t want to dig.
Then it starts. It’s one-five-five; ours. Somebody must’ve given these trees as coordinates and called in division or corp artillery. I jump up and start running madly along the hill toward Reuth. The ground is bouncing and pieces of dirt fly around and thump into me. It’s hitting me in the face as I run, like running through a hailstorm or riding a bicycle behind a truckload of gravel. Then I feel something pull on my left arm and spin me around. I look down and there’s a small hole, shaped like an acorn, on the right side of my left wrist. A drop of blood is oozing slowly out of the hole. It’s dark red. I stop in the middle of the field and stare at it. I close my fist and the little finger stays stiff out. I turn over my hand and there’s no exit hole on the other side. Something breaks inside me and I’m crying. I can go back. I can go to a hospital and be operated on! I can talk to doctors, tell them I’m finished! The war is over!
Another shell hits to the left and I’m knocked down. My ears are ringing and when I wipe my face, my hand comes away wet with blood. I feel all over my face but there’s nothing except where the dirt and pebbles have made little cuts. I start running again. I run till I come to a road on the outskirts of Reuth. I still haven’t seen anybody. I can hear small arms fire up ahead in the town. I see a hole dug on the side of the road. I’ll climb in there and wait till some medic comes for me. I have all the time in the world; the war’s over. Alfonso Columbato is going home as a wounded war hero. I hear another shell coming so I run forward and jump in the hole.
The war isn’t over! There’re two krauts in the hole! I land right on top of them! They struggle out from under me and put their hands on top of their heads. I lean back in the hole and try to cover them with my rifle. I’m scared shitless and they’re smiling at me. The whole thing is crazy. They want me to end the war for them, too. Here we are, three guys in a hole, bucking for civilian.
One’s an old guy, over forty; the other can’t be sixteen. Neither of them has a helmet, just field caps. They keep smiling at me. They’re glad I’m not killing them. I’m glad they’re there, now I have two excuses to go back. I’ll be the wounded war hero coming in with prisoners captured in hand-to-hand combat. Maybe this is the way all heroes are made.
Then the stomping one-five-five starts creeping up the hill. Somebody’s changing the coordinates and marching it right up. The whole world seems t
o be coming down on us. One hits less than ten yards away and the walls of the hole begin crumbling. I feel panic. Here I am so close and now I’m going to get killed for nothing. I lean back and point my rifle at the krauts. I signal them to get up out of the hole. They’re not smiling now, they don’t want to go. I’m getting out of there and I’m taking them with me. I want to end the war for them and I’m going to be a big war hero on top of it all.
They won’t move. I drive my rifle barrel into the ribs of the older guy and yell at him to get out. He jabbers away but he starts climbing and the young one follows him. They leave their rifles and keep their hands on top of their heads. I point with my rifle toward the trees. If anybody were actually looking, it really would look like some kind of war scene with the bloody hero forcing his prisoners back to the lines. I smile to show them that I’m on their side but I’m too scared to bring off a real smile. They have to trust me; we can’t hole up there with that heavy stuff coming in.
We go about thirty yards down the road toward the trees when all sorts of shit comes down on us. This time it’s kraut artillery, not tanks; this is big. The two krauts hit the dirt, still with their hands on top of their heads. I’m sprawled behind them. The whole world is rocking. We’ve got to get the hell down to the woods and in a hurry. We’re going to be massacred if we stay out here in the open. I’m yelling for them to get up and get moving. They can’t hear me, they can’t understand me, and they wouldn’t move if they did. They push their heads deeper into the dirt. I could’ve just left them there and I should’ve. But I’ve got myself convinced I want these prisoners and I also think I know what’s best for them.
I squeeze off a shot over the head of the older guy. He turns around and looks at me. There’s fear in his eyes all right. I give him the ‘get up’ signal with my rifle. He jumps up, then the young one, and they both start running with their hands still on top of their heads. I’m pushing myself up with the butt of my rifle when, BAM, it happens.
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