“It’s the best infantry rifle in the world,” Damon told him. “You take good care of it and it’ll take good care of you.”
“I aim to take good care of it. Only trouble is, it’s got too danged many tricky parts.”
“Is it true you fired a possible at a thousand yards, Sarge?” Ferguson asked.
“That’s right.”
“Thought I was stringing you, did you?” Devlin laughed at Ferguson. “I was lying right alongside him when he did it, too. You better learn to believe what your old NCOs tell you.”
“Lot of good marksmanship is going to do us,” Poletti said. He was a nervous, somber boy from Newark, left-handed and a poor shot. “Sneaking up and down in trenches, can’t see a blessed thing fifty feet away anyhow.”
“Remember that Frog officer they had over there to show us how to cut wire?” Turner asked them. “He just about laughed his head off watching us playing at skirmishers. ‘Zees ees not zee bockskeen backwoods,’” he mimicked, holding his nose. “‘Zees is our war … ’”
Damon, who had been listening to this exchange, said: “Well, we’re not going to be in trenches all the time.”
“How come? That’s what these poor jokers been doing for years, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to go through those German trenches and break out into the open. We’re going to force them to fight our way.”
“Hot damn! When we going to do that, Sarge?” Raebyrne crowed, and Damon noticed that now everybody in the room was watching him.
“Sooner than you think,” he said meaningfully, although he hadn’t the faintest idea what that meant. “Major Caldwell said that’s what the strategy is. And if you haven’t learned what you need to when we break out, you’re the ones that’ll pay.”
“Then what do we have to learn all the trench warfare for?” Ferguson pursued.
“Because you’ve got to learn both. Trench warfare until we break out, and extended order afterward. Flanking tactics, what you’ve been doing. Can’t you follow that?”
“Sure, I can follow that, Sarge.”
“What I don’t understand is why we have to do that close-order drill all the time,” Brewster began earnestly. With the blanket over his head and shoulders he looked like a troubled young acolyte. “I can understand having to learn how to shoot and throw grenades, the bayonet practice. But why should we have to spend hours and hours learning right-front-into-line and on-right-by-squads and all that? and the manual of arms?”
Damon sighed, and laced his fingers together. Three beds down, Devlin was watching him and grinning. He remembered Major Caldwell smiling indulgently at First Sergeant Hassolt’s angry chronicle of incessant rookie questions. “The American soldier has always wanted to know why, Sergeant. Baron von Steuben remarked on it at Valley Forge. Don’t discourage it—it’s a good thing. It’s what distinguishes him from any other private soldier the world over—this feeling that it’s his right to know why he’s doing something. And why shouldn’t he know? It’s his life he’s risking, isn’t it?”
“Because that’s what being a soldier is,” he replied patiently now.
“But I don’t see the reason for it.”
“The reason is to learn to obey commands, to move quickly in unison.”
“But if the object—”
“Let me finish. It’s all part and parcel of being a good soldier. Because there’s going to come a time—and it’s not too far away, either—when you’re going to be where all hell’s breaking loose. Where you won’t be able to hear yourself think, and where the temptation will be to do nothing and care less … and if you’ve learned to obey commands, to move without having to think about it, it’ll make all the difference in the world.”
There was a little pause. Brewster had dropped his eyes and was looking down at his slender white hands. Now somebody’ll ask you how do you know what combat is like, and then what’ll you say? Damon thought. You don’t know any more about it than they do … He’d heard Jumbo and Hassolt and some of the older men talking about battle—the confusion and fear and the mounting desire to cower, hide, lie still; but that was all he knew himself.
“Well, sure, Sarge, I can take a holt of that,” Raebyrne said after a moment. He made a violent grimace and scratched the top of his head. “Only thing, it leads me to a little ponder.”
“Go ahead,” Damon said wearily.
“Well now, supposing—I mean just supposing now, this here’s what old Brewster would call one of them hypothical questions—supposing the hoosier giving the commands is giving the wrong ones?”
The barracks room was completely quiet now. Rain dripped flatly from the eaves, and in the next building somebody sneezed and broke into a fit of coughing. Even Devlin had stopped smiling and was watching Sam somberly, like the others.
“Well, that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about,” he said slowly. “You don’t even need to give it a thought. We’ve got the best there is in the whole U.S. Army, right here. Black Jack Pershing said so himself, if you need proof. Don’t you worry, when we go over there’s going to be no mistakes made by anybody.”
“But, Sarge … just supposing all hell’s broke loose, as you say, and the officer forgets the command, or he goes loose in the lid?”
Damon let his eyes rove slowly around the room. Very solemnly and distinctly he said: “Why, then obviously the thing to do is tell that officer he’s a God damn incompetent fool and that you want to go back and do it all over again.”
The long room broke into laughter.
“Old Sarge!” Raebyrne cackled, and slapped his skinny thigh. “That’s a good one, damn if it isn’t. You ever think of going into vaudee-ville?”
“I’d rather entertain you boys all day.”
“I’m still not entirely convinced,” Brewster observed. “Your original argument, I mean, not Reb’s.”
Damon got to his feet. “Well,” he said, “you wait and see.” That was the phrase that checked them every time: you wait and see. Yes, and he would have to wait and see, too. They all would.
A whistle shrilled out in the street; again.
“All right,” he said in a different tone, and buckled on his pistol belt. “Let’s go, you deep thinkers: rifles, belts, helmets, combat packs. Fall out. On the double …”
2
“Ugly frigging thing,” Krazewski said. Crouching over the Chauchat automatic rifle, he yanked at the stock, twisting it on its bipod. “Look at it.”
It was ugly. The bolt recoil section thrust back over the stock awkwardly, the left-hand grip looked as if it had been stripped from an eggbeater, the pistol grip felt angular and unpleasant to the hand. The whole contrivance might have been put together by a very imaginative and warlike nine-year-old boy. After the Springfield’s clean, efficient lines it was ridiculous.
Raebyrne whistled. “What did the Froggies make it out of—salmon tins and baling wire?”
“It’s ugly,” Krazewski repeated sullenly.
“What do you care?” Damon said to him. “You going to enter a beauty contest with it?” He tapped the half-moon magazine. “That carries fifteen rounds. Your Springfield carries five. It’s got a screen to hide muzzle flash and you can reload in less time than it takes to tell.” He paused. “Anyway, we’re wasting time. This is the automatic weapon they’ve given us and this is what we’re going to use.”
Krazewski rocked back on his heels and picked it up. “It’s heavy.”
Damon looked at the big private carefully. “It weighs eighteen pounds. The Lewis gun the Limeys use weighs twenty-six. Would you rather carry that instead?”
Krazewski swung it back and forth against his hip. “Ain’t worth a frig,” he rumbled. “Let somebody else take the damn thing.” He stared at Damon in sullen defiance.
“For Christ sake, Kraz,” Ferguson said, and Devlin began: “Now look here, Krazewski—” but Damon stopped him with a gesture. There was a silence in the two squads. He studied Krazewski a moment, his tongue i
n his cheek. This had been coming for some time, and now it was right here in front of him. Krazewski had been all right when they first got over. He was a huge man, not tall but mountainous in his bulk, with the slow humor of the Slav. He had been conscientious and steady, and Damon had thought of him as good NCO material; but the confinement and monotony of the training schedule, the long, chill months of drill and guard duty and police details had turned him morose and rebellious. He had been up for drunkenness twice, once for a fight with an engineer from the 17th, a man he’d beaten senseless and robbed into the bargain. Damon had read him off twice in the past week for slovenly appearance. It was too bad: if they’d gone right into combat he’d have probably done all right—but if they’d gone right into combat the battalion would have been slaughtered; and the battalion was a good deal more important than Private Stephen Krazewski of Gary, Indiana.
The Pole was still staring at Damon, his little eyes holding just a trace of crafty amusement. He was waiting to see what the Sergeant would do. Well. You stopped this kind of thing at once, or you didn’t stop it at all.
“Look, Krazewski,” he said. “You’re the biggest man in the platoon, and you’ve got the makings of a reasonably fair marksman, and that’s why I picked you. I still think I’m right. Now you’re the Chauchat gunner for the second squad and that’s all there is to it.”
For answer Krazewski put the gun down and slapped his big hands against his breeches. His breath came quickly on the dry, cold air. “And suppose I say the hell with it.”
The others were rigid, watching the antagonists with amazement and alarm. Sergeant Thomas’ voice came clearly from another group near them on the parade ground.
Very quietly Damon said: “Krazewski, pick up that gun.”
Krazewski gazed back at him, motionless. Just when Sam was about to leap at him he bent slowly down and picked up the Chauchat, the very casualness of the gesture an insult. “You got the stripes on your arm, Damon.”
“That’s right. I do.” He paused. “What’s the matter—aren’t you man enough to carry it?”
Krazewski’s eyes narrowed to points of light. “I’m man enough to do more than that, Damon.”
“All right,” Sam snapped, “I’ll see you behind the latrines after we secure. And I won’t have the stripes on my arm.” The Pole’s eyes widened again: he hadn’t foreseen this. He had sought the battle, Damon saw, but when it came in this manner it surprised him. That was good. He went on: “For now, you’ll do as I say, and when I say it. Now give me that,” and he deftly plucked the automatic rifle out of Krazewski’s hands and turned to the others.
“All right. Now, I’m going to strip this weapon once, then you’ll all do it; and then I’ll do it once more.” His voice was perfectly even. Raebyrne was wearing his broad grin, Devlin looked worried, Ferguson and Brewster were gazing at him in astonishment. “It is carried on the hip, for assault fire. It is most effective fired semiautomatically. The loader will keep close to the gunner at all times: it is his duty to reload—insert the clip, like this—and to take over the gun if the gunner is hit.
“Now: this is a long-recoil weapon, which means that the barrel-mount movement is over four inches. This necessitates a tube around the barrel mount—this sleeve—which retains heat excessively.” They were crowded around him closely now, listening, watching him with something like awe. “Two springs are necessary for a brake system for this long barrel movement: the barrel recoil spring”—his hands were moving very quickly now, sliding and turning, setting the plates and coils and cylinders of metal deftly on a piece of tarpaulin—“and the bolt recoil spring. This one. Now, your key pieces are these: the extractor and extractor pin and spring—here—and the ejector—here—the firing pin, and bolt stem pin. Now, they’ve had a little trouble with the extractor, and the instructors’ advice is for the gunner to carry a spare with him at all times.” He paused. “This gun that Krazewski thinks is so ugly is what is going to give you the volume of fire on your flanks, to enable you to get in close to enemy positions.” He had not once glanced at Krazewski—he knew instinctively that to ignore him completely would unsettle him more than anything else, now that the issue was joined.
“Tsonka,” he said to a solidly built towheaded boy from Wyoming, “you’re his loader. You will position yourself on Krazewski’s right side, and feed the clips from this musette bag, as needed—like this.” He paused again. “All right. Krazewski as gunner will strip the weapon first. Then Tsonka, then Raebyrne, then Turner.” The silence was still impressive. He turned and looked at Brewster’s thin, white, anxious face. “And the reason all of you are going to learn how to fire and operate the Chauchat automatic rifle is because if everybody in the squad gets killed but one man, I want that one man to be firing a Chauchat.”
He handed the reassembled gun to Krazewski. “Okay. Go ahead.” The Gary man glanced at him uncertainly, looked down. Damon shoved his hands in his pockets and watched Krazewski begin to field-strip the weapon.
“What are you going to do with him, Sam? Call in a barrage of seventy-fives on him, hit him with a log when he isn’t looking?” Damon made no reply and Devlin went on, “Hell, you should have run him up. Let Crowder iron him out.”
They walked quickly across the drill field toward barracks. The wind was icy cold, snow still lay on the ground in faint, powdery trails, like strewn salt; the ground crackled under their boots.
“Would you?” Sam said after a moment.
Devlin grinned and shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell I’d have done.”
“Well, I do.” They entered the long cold room which was already empty. The Sergeant took off his overcoat, web belt and pistol and hung them up on one of the pegs at the head of his straw mattress. “Company punishment will ruin him, Dev. It’ll just feed his gripe—he’ll become a stockade rebel and be fit for nothing. This is between him and me: let’s keep it that way. If I can’t take care of him I’m not fit to wear three stripes.”
Devlin watched him a moment. “You set yourself too many rules.”
“Maybe.”
“What if it was Jess Willard?”
Damon grinned. “Then I’d challenge him to a grenade-throwing match.”
“With live grenades, I suppose. Sam, you can’t always make everyone behave the way you want.”
“Think so?” He handed Devlin his watch and his wallet and jackknife. “Let’s go.”
“For Christ sake, keep away from him, now.”
“I will.”
“Don’t let him get hold of you. They say he can twist horseshoes.”
The latrines were set up in a muddy little field behind the stables for the officers’ mounts and the remains of some old building, whose solitary wall was pocked and mossy with age. The word had spread fast; half the company was milling around the large enclosure, laughing and joking and slapping their arms against their sides to keep warm. Krazewski was standing with a blanket around his shoulders, surrounded by three or four others, among them Tukela, who also came from Gary, and who was talking to him earnestly, making short, quick little feints with his hands. Krazewski was paying no attention to the advice. Surrounded by all these well-wishers, he’d got his assurance back; catching sight of Damon he gave a thick, rumbling laugh, and called:
“Well … I thought for a minute there you weren’t going to show up.”
“When I say I’m going to do something, Krazewski, you can bet three months’ pay on it.”
“I thought you said there weren’t going to be no stripes on your arms.”
“Hold your water,” Damon answered shortly. He took off his tunic and handed it to Devlin. The cold wind stung his shoulders and back. Well: he’d be warm enough in a minute or two. “All right, now,” he said, raising his voice. “Give us a little room.”
The chatter of talk fell away and the crowd gave back, Devlin pushing them into a rough oval in front of the wall. Krazewski snapped the blanket from his shoulders and Tukela folded it ove
r his arm. Damon set himself, studying the barrel chest and massive biceps. Someone called something but he was conscious only of the voice, not the words. Krazewski was strong as a bull, but he was not quick. He was holding his hands low, more like a wrestler than a boxer, and he was circling cautiously, his eyes barely visible in the thick slab of his face. You must make him lead, Damon thought. Make him come to you.
“What you waiting for, Polack?” he taunted suddenly. “More help?”
Krazewski swore and rushed at him then, his right hand drawn back like a club. Damon danced to the right and snapped a left into his face, felt the cartilage give. He ducked the right hand, drove his own right into the face again and moved away quickly. There were muttered exclamations from the crowd. Krazewski’s nose was bleeding now, running red into his mouth, and his eyes were wide with surprise and rage. He came on again in a still wilder rush, swinging both hands. Damon caught the right on his arm and hit him in the eye, once more in the face, and ducked away—leaped in and belted him three more times as fast as he could move his hands. The body was no good, it was like trying to hurt a tree trunk; he would have to blind him, stun him, make him vulnerable.
Moving away from Krazewski’s next rush he slipped in the mud, fell forward on his hands, thrust himself up again. The Gunner’s knee caught him full in the chest. Straightening he caught a glimpse of Krazewski’s face streaming blood, immensely close—and then felt a blow on the side of his head which spun him almost completely around. He moved to the left instinctively. His head was ringing. He slipped again—the ground was like wet glass now—took another blow on the cheek, and his neck cracked like a snapped stick. He got his feet under him, caught the Pole in the eye and full on the jaw. Then Krazewski was on him and had him around the body with both arms, his hands locked, and was bending him backward. He heard Devlin shout, “Let go, you stupid Polack son of a bitch!” and other voices calling: “No! No! Leave ’em alone …”