“Yeah, sorry. I been watching for those snipers. Haven’t seen anything over there. But jeez, I don’t like the shelling. This whole damn hill shakes when those shells come in. We might get buried alive in this mud hole.”
Benson had heard enough.
“I’m going to find the straddle trench.” He rapped his stomach with a cold gloved hand. “Maybe something’ll happen this morning.”
Breakfast is coming up! Stay here and I’ll come get you. They’re sending trucks, a kitchen. Hot food!”
The voice belonged to Sergeant Higgins, and from across the hill heads popped up, shelter-halves were pulled back, the words echoing through the trees.
“Hot food?”
“Yeah! Breakfast!”
Benson glanced at his backpack, the waxy boxes that held the K rations. Thank God. How much of that stuff can a man eat? He looked out across the hillside, the snow-covered shelters coming alive, revealing their occupants, the thought of hot food putting them into motion. Men began to sit up on the sides of the foxholes, rifles standing up in the snow beside them. Benson looked to the side, a low rise, a thicket of trees, could see one of the machine-gun positions, men stirring around their weapon, their own morning routine. The heavier thirty-calibers were water-cooled, though in this weather no one ever expected that a gun barrel would get hot enough to melt. Benson didn’t know enough about the machine guns to understand, but in a hard freeze, there was one problem the gunners had to address, a sight that caused laughter from the riflemen. One of the machine gunners began the routine now, standing upright beside the fat barrel of the gun, his hands maneuvering his pants. Now he began his duty, the stream of urine hitting the gun barrel. The gunners didn’t care for the teasing, but it came anyway, the machine guns made ready for firing by a man’s pee melting the ice around the barrel. Benson had thought it was yet another one of the army’s amazingly stupid rules. If you just fire the gun, won’t that melt the water? Maybe it’s for show. Those guys just like to impress us by peeing on their guns. He glanced at the M-1. Not you, buddy. You’ll work just fine, no matter how cold it is. As long as I keep you clean. He leaned close, mud on the barrel, a crust of brown ice on the clip. Whoops. You need a bath. All right, I’ll clean you right now.
There was a steady rumble of sound now, rolling through the trees, the dull roar of motors. More men emerged from the foxholes, began to search the hillside behind them, knew that the ridgeline rolled unevenly away, sank down into small valleys, a narrow stream. But the kitchen trucks would be coming from only one direction, behind them, and some of the men were already ignoring the sergeant’s instructions, slipping toward the draw, mess kits in hand. Benson listened to the trucks, thought, no, that’s not us. That’s … over there. Just like before.
He strained to hear, said in a hard whisper, “Hey, fellas! Sarge! It’s those trucks again, out there!” He pointed out down the hill and across, to where they knew the Germans were supposed to be. The sounds still came, vague echoes, far in the distance, the noises deadened by the snow cover.
Beside him, the lieutenant was suddenly there, Greeley, another one of those nervous little men, always bent low. He crouched on one knee, pointed along with Benson. “Yep. Same as last night, and yesterday. It’s coming behind that far ridgeline, I think. The Krauts have to be moving some equipment up closer, or more troops.”
The lieutenant turned away, was gone quickly along the hillside.
Yunis was up out of the foxhole, holding his rifle at the ready, and Mitchell ignored him, watched the lieutenant disappear up over the snowy hill. Mitchell said, “Not sure about him, Eddie. He’s a little jumpy.”
Benson was focused again on his M-1, pulled an oily rag from his pocket, attacked the dirt.
“Lieutenant Greeley? He’ll be okay, I guess. He’s as new as the rest of us, but they trained him for this, right?”
Yunis chattered along with him. “Yeah, he’s trained. He’s a good officer. He’ll be good.”
Mitchell shrugged, pulled his coat tighter, looked out again at the fading sounds from the far hills. “Krauts are busy, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s how they keep warm.”
Benson examined the gleam on the gun barrel, worked on the rest of the gun, the steps etched in his brain, one part of their earliest training. They all carried a small can of gun oil, an oily rag, and Benson completed the job, felt the clips on his belt, counted, felt the hand grenades on his jacket, more of the drill. He stared out toward the far hill, could still hear the sounds, mechanical rumblings, some farther away, a steady drone, said, “Maybe they’re having breakfast, bringing up their own kitchen trucks. I guess a Kraut’s gotta eat too.”
“You men! Chow!”
No one hesitated, men moving by platoon back through a narrow draw, trudging through the snow like fat dark rats. Benson followed Mitchell, Yunis behind him, the trampled snow leading to the sudden glorious smells. The trucks were down in a hollow, sheltered by thick trees, men already moving away with filled plates, cups of steaming coffee. Mitchell moved faster, and Benson said, “Last in line, again. I guess the lieutenant forgot about us.”
“The sarge too,” said Yunis. “He was supposed to come tell us.”
Sergeant Higgins was already in line, along with most of the platoon. In the distance, through the taller trees, Benson saw more men, another line, more trucks. As he crept forward, he glimpsed the feast, great heaps of pancakes, the mess orderlies stacking them generously onto plates in quick order. There was syrup as well, one man pouring it from a gallon jug, soaking each plate as it passed by. Benson felt the weight of the pancakes on his mess kit plate, held his cup expectantly, headed toward the coffee barrel, the men moving slower, careful, no spilling. Hot coffee was liquid gold, and Benson could smell it, his stomach suddenly aching with hunger. He filled his cup, the steam rising, and he stared at the gooey mountain on his plate, enjoyed the sight, heard some men saying a blessing, offering thanks. It seemed an odd gesture, and Benson looked around him, saw men stuffing pancakes whole into their mouths, not bothering with a fork. Yeah, I guess we should thank somebody for this. He had never been particularly religious as a child, knew that Mitchell’s family was far more devout, though you’d never know that from hearing Mitchell swear. He moved back up the hill, away from the trucks, thought, best get back to the foxhole. Eat there. He hurried his steps, careful with the coffee, took a sip, scalding his chapped lips. Okay, this is far enough. He leaned against a tree, set the coffee cup gently on a small stump, scooped up the pancakes with his gloved hand, the wool absorbing the syrup, a sticky soggy mess. The pancakes were barely warm, but it didn’t matter, the sweet dough filling him, men around him making odd sounds, all enjoying this strange feast. The plate was empty quickly, and he shoved it down into the snow, rubbed it with his gloves, the snow turning to maple candy in his hands. Hey, there’s an idea. He ate some of the snow, bitter, the crunch of mud from the filth in his gloves. Oh well, I’ll suck the fingers later. No telling when we’ll get this again.
He heard a truck, not like the others, clear and distinct, the grinding of gears, a squeal of brakes. It was there now, parked beside the kitchen, men emerging, a sergeant calling out, “Clean laundry!”
Good God, Benson thought. The sarge was right. Socks! The men around him moved that way by pure instinct, no one’s socks dry anymore. He saw the lieutenant again, Greeley taking charge of his platoon, other officers coming together, keeping order at the truck. The men were mostly quiet, patient, no one making any kind of ruckus in front of the brass. Benson saw the crates, unloading from the back of the truck, bundles handed out to men in line. He moved with them, a man shoving socks into his gut, no time for words, for thank-yous. He could feel the cold in his feet again, had ignored it long enough. Back to the foxhole, let’s get this done.
An officer spoke, and Benson turned, saw the familiar face of the company commander, Captain Moore. Moore waved, said, “Change those socks right now. Every one of you! We’ll have no t
rench foot in this outfit, you hear me? No excuse for it. Keep your damn feet dry. I’m already hearing too much bellyaching about this, and I won’t have it. The army’s got plenty of socks, so use the damn things.”
Benson didn’t know much about the captain, but there was a hard confidence to the man, and Benson had always thought he seemed like the right kind of officer to command the company. The captain began to talk to other officers, and Benson thought, nothing a private needs to hear. Through the trees, he saw a water truck, moved that way, grabbed at the canteen at his waist, nearly empty. Somebody’s gotta keep track of this stuff, he thought. I wonder how they keep that tank from freezing? I guess we could eat snow, but I don’t know about that. Tastes pretty nasty. He waited for the line to move, his canteen filled quickly, began to move up the hill again. The captain was still there, talking to an aide, some corporal Benson didn’t know. Benson stopped, the question too fresh in his mind. All around him, men were moving back to their positions, cradling their dry socks, and Benson moved closer to Moore, said, “Captain? Sir?”
Moore looked at him, no expression. “What is it, soldier?”
“Sir, we keep hearing trucks, lots of ’em, over that way. Sounds like it could be German convoys, sir. They’re moving around a lot.”
Moore seemed annoyed, threw a glance over to one side, and Benson saw Greeley, the lieutenant, cringing at his man’s impudence. Benson felt suddenly very stupid, and Greeley moved closer to him, the small man snaking through the snow, obviously to shut him up.
Moore said, “It’s all right, Lieutenant. Yep, I’ve heard them too. We called that information back to regimental, and they passed it on to division. After that, I’m not sure if anyone gives a damn. You might as well know what I’ve heard officially. Stop so many damn rumors. Colonel Cavender has been told that the Germans aren’t going anywhere, and what we’re hearing is most likely loudspeakers. We’ve been told they like to do that sort of thing, keep us from getting any sleep, especially at night. They’re just trying to scare us. The colonel says as long as we keep our eyes open, nothing’s likely to happen. The Germans have nothing better to do than stir up trouble, and I finally persuaded him to let us have a go at doing the same thing. If it’ll make you feel any better, Private, I’ve been ordered to send out some patrols, poke around a little. We’ll see if we can find those … loudspeakers.” Moore looked at Greeley, who seemed to shrivel. “Lieutenant, have you seen Captain Harroway?”
“Who, sir?”
Moore showed the annoyance again. “Harroway, the artillery observer. He’s coming up here to set up an observation post as far out front as he can go. He’ll need some help, so Company B will put together a patrol, one squad. You’ll lead it, Lieutenant. Your job will be to keep the enemy off Harroway’s back so he can set up his observation post, and maybe you’ll find out what all that racket is over there. You know, those loudspeakers. You’ll run a phone line up with you, so the observer can connect to his gunners behind us. I’m getting tired of having my coffee spilled on my crotch by that shelling, and we’re losing men who haven’t done a damn thing but sit on their asses. If Harroway can find at least one of those German artillery batteries, our boys will take them out. They’re itching back there for something to shoot at.”
Benson saw Greeley’s face sag, thought the man was going to cry. Greeley said, “Right now, sir?”
The captain seemed annoyed at the question. “You’ll start out at midday. That’ll give you enough daylight for the observer to find what he’s looking for, and then get your men back here before dark. The enemy’s out there too, got his own patrols moving all over hell and gone. He’s been real active up in front of the Four Two Two. They’ve grabbed a few of our boys, so they know it’s us on this ridgeline now. Probably pissed them off that they let us swap places with the Second Division right under their noses. I’m guessing they’ll increase patrols in front of us as well, so keep your men quiet and alert. If you’re lucky, you’ll pick up a stray prisoner or two. Division wants to keep track of who’s over there too.” Moore shook his head, said to himself, “Loudspeakers.”
Benson thought, he doesn’t believe that for a minute. Does sound pretty damn stupid.
Moore continued, “I’ll try to find Harroway and send him up your way. Don’t play games out there, Lieutenant. I don’t want anybody getting lost, and I don’t want casualties.”
“Certainly not, sir.”
Moore moved off, and Benson turned quickly, tried to get away from the lieutenant, but the reedy voice found him.
“Private! Find Sergeant Higgins and tell him I need his squad for the patrol. Since this was all your idea, I want to make sure you’re out there with us.”
Benson froze, the order punching him. Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Me and my big damn mouth. He turned, a flinch of a salute in his hand, the automatic reflex, Greeley not seeming to notice. Training had taught them that enemy snipers loved to target officers, and Benson knew not to salute the man, not out here. But maybe, he thought … just this once. He fought the urge, kept his hand low, said, “Yes, sir. I’ll tell Sergeant Higgins.”
“And clean your weapon, Private! I’ll have no dirty rifles in this platoon! We have orders that the men are to shave and keep themselves clean.”
“Shave, sir?” Benson rubbed a hand on the rough wire of his beard.
“Orders, Private. I want this platoon to stand out. The best in the division.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll get to it right away.”
Benson turned, hugged the rifle hard against his shoulder, moved back up through the draw. If that moron thinks I’m going to tell anybody we have to shave … so he can tell all those other idiot lieutenants that his platoon looks spiffier than theirs? And clean up what? The mud? He couldn’t help thinking of the training, Indiana, the orders to police the grounds of the drill area. Pick up every cigarette butt, every piece of … anything. And Greeley thinks we should do that out here? In six inches of snow? Wonderful, he thought. Truly wonderful. You have to open up your big damn mouth to the captain, and this is how you get paid back. You get to go cross-country Kraut hunting. But first, dress for Sunday school and clean your room.
DECEMBER 15, 1944, MIDDAY
Captain Harroway was a small, lean man, sharp eyes, no wasted words. Besides the twelve-man patrol from B Company, the artillery observer had brought his own telephone man, who carried four heavy wooden spools of insulated wire slung across his back. There would be more men accompanying the patrol, another lieutenant, an engineer, who brought his own man as well, a terrified private who carried a metal detector. The private barely spoke, allowed Benson to examine the strange instrument, the private showing it off without pride, more like resignation, as though he would gladly trade it for a rifle. The metal detector had a box at one end, some kind of electronics wired to earphones the man wore beneath his helmet. Opposite the box, connected by a pole the size and length of a broomstick, was a flat disk of metal, what Benson thought looked more like a fancy pie plate than something that could detect mines.
Though Captain Harroway was ranking officer, the patrol would be commanded by Lieutenant Greeley, since escorting Harroway to his observation point would only take them halfway through the mission. The harder job might come afterward, finding a straight line back to the safety of the ridgeline, allowing the telephone man to uncoil his wire, enough presumably to make the connection between the observer and the phone lines on the ridge that led back to the artillery. The patrol included Sergeant Higgins’s entire squad from B Company, ten men plus Higgins himself, rifles, and one BAR. Sergeant Higgins had been no happier about forming a patrol than the privates who would follow him. But there was no time for griping. The observer, Harroway, already seemed to know where they were going.
They huddled around him, the engineer standing to one side, as though the briefing by the artillery observer was already too familiar.
Harroway said, “I’ve been triangulating the incoming artillery a
s best I can from a fairly high elevation behind us. We have a pretty good idea what hole they’re in, just beyond that far ridge. I’ve seen topo maps, and it’s pretty steep up near the road. But down in the woods below that open ground, it flattens out a bit, and that’s where we’ll start. Once we get in the thicker trees, we’ll have to climb, get up to the main road, and cross it without being spotted. The best place for me to see those guns is from above, and I have one hill in mind. Unless the enemy is already dug in there, I should be able to set up a good observation position. I’m certain we have enough wire here to string a phone line back as far as this ridge.” He looked at Greeley. “Lieutenant, this is your show. Since you’re familiar with this terrain, I’ll trust you to lead the way.”
Greeley seemed shocked, glanced at the others. “Uh, Captain, we haven’t sent out any patrols yet. We’ve only been here four days, and there hasn’t been any enemy activity.”
Harroway dropped his head. “I see. Do you know where the minefields are? What the enemy has done to keep us away?”
“Uh, no, sir. Captain Moore had some maps, but we didn’t have time to go over them.”
Beside Benson, Mitchell made a small grunt, and Benson felt the gloom spreading over all of them. We’ve had plenty of time to look at a map, he thought. What the hell else has Greeley been doing?
Behind them, the engineer said, “No matter, Captain. The maps are inaccurate anyway. Everything we’ve been using is off one way or another. Your topo map might be close, but I wouldn’t count on it. That’s why I’m here. Captain Moore asked me to give you a hand.” He looked at Greeley. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, we’ll take the point with the metal detector and make sure we’re not walking into any mined areas. And, another thing. You men should avoid walking between closely spaced trees. I don’t know about these woods here, but farther up the line, there have been booby traps. The Germans like to make use of the low tree limbs, rig up a trip wire tied across, hooked up to a grenade or high explosive. If you see someplace that looks like it could hide something, you step high and careful, no foot dragging. If there’s a trap, you’ll have a better chance if you step over it than through it. We have to assume, since the enemy occupied this ground, that when they pulled back, they mined that road. We’ll take care of that, Captain, clear a path to get us across. We’ll do what we can to get you boys out there safely and bring you back.” He scanned the riflemen, his eyes focusing on Benson for a brief second, then Mitchell, the others. “You do your part. Stay quiet, and keep your eyes out front. Look for any movement. We have a pretty good idea where the enemy has dug in, but they could have shifted around. I don’t want to wander right into a machine-gun nest.”