Harroway nodded, in obvious agreement with the engineer’s common sense. Benson waited for something from Greeley, the man who was supposedly in charge. As they began to stir, the men adjusting their ammo belts, a last check of rifles, Greeley looked at Higgins, said, “Sergeant, put men on each flank, and keep them spread out. I suppose … I should stay up close to the point. Captain Harroway, will your man string out his wire as we go?”
Harroway’s expression didn’t change. “No, Lieutenant. We don’t know exactly where we’re going yet. We don’t need to waste wire by wandering all over hell trying to find the right spot. I find a good observation point, it’ll be your job to make a beeline back here. My man’s done this before, but you’ll need to take the shortest route you can. Use your compass.”
Greeley nodded furiously. “Compass. Yes, of course.” He dug through his jacket pockets, pulled out a small box, studied it. Benson watched Harroway’s face, the observer shaking his head, a subtle gesture.
Harroway pointed to the metal detector, said to the engineer, “Lieutenant, that thing working?”
The engineer’s private adjusted his headphones, nodded toward the engineer, who said, “We’re all set here. Let’s go find your hilltop.”
Benson was on the left flank, spread out several yards from Mitchell. The others were picking their way through the thinly spaced trees, a formation straight from Greeley’s training manual. But this time the training made sense, the men keeping enough distance between them so that any disaster, a mine or artillery shell, or a sudden burst of fire from an enemy position, wouldn’t take out the entire squad.
Benson stepped slowly, precisely, his breathing in hard bursts of white, no other sounds but the soft slurping crunch of the snow. He tried to calm himself, focus on his pace, his footsteps, but his heart wouldn’t listen, rapid pounding, his eyes straining to see through the tall trees, beyond, searching for anything else, anything that was not a tree. His mind raced as quickly as his heart, and he flinched at flashes of motion, targets flitting in and out of his vision, imaginary shapes, the sounds of the men closest to him magnified, Mitchell’s soft footsteps like a drumbeat. Behind him, he could hear faint gasps, knew it was Yunis, the man’s peculiar breathing, and the sound rolled over him, high-pitched, Benson’s brain exploding with hate for this whining brat of a man. You can’t even breathe right. Shut up!
He tried to focus, sweat all through his clothing, wet feet, his fresh socks already absorbing the foot-deep snow. There was pain in his hands, the thin wool gloves wrapped hard on the rifle, too hard, and he loosened his grip, flexed stiff fingers, glanced at the clip, the gun loaded. You didn’t forget that. You sure? He thought of the observer, all business, knows his stuff. He’s … where? Back there somewhere. Keeping an eye on his man with all that damn wire. How much fits on a spool, anyway? He said there’s enough. How can he be sure? Do your jobs. He glanced to the right, could see glimpses of the engineer out front, and his private, the terrified kid, swinging the metal detector back and forth in a sweeping arc, the round plate close to the snowy ground. Benson wondered just what it was he was listening to, what kind of signal a mine would give the man. How’d you get that job, anyway? Maybe you decided to be an engineer, so the first thing they do is teach you how to be fodder for mines. Trust that stupid-looking broomstick thing. God help him. I hope it works.
Benson stared ahead again, the trees unending, snow blown up in piles against the trunks. To the right a hand went up, Greeley’s signal, and Benson froze, silent, straining to hear, to see anything in the trees in front. And then he saw the tracks.
The trees seemed to open for a narrow trail, a trail someone had used to find their way through these woods. There were more tracks now, where men had walked in a spread formation, the snow punched with lines of footprints. The squad was frozen in place, men dropping down, Benson on one knee. He saw Greeley still holding his hand in the air, as though he had forgotten to lower it again. The others were all down low, easing in behind trees. Benson was only a few yards from the first line of footprints, and he eyed a fat pine, on the far side of the trail, crept forward slowly, holding to his hard breaths, trying to keep silent. He paused at the tracks, looked down into the snow, the tread of a boot, perfectly preserved, fresh. He felt a surge of panic, dammit dammit, they’re out here too. Where? How long ago? The tracks were heading out to his left, beyond the flank of the patrol, and Benson’s brain took over, reason through the fear. They’re moving away, that way, toward … what? Our lines? Maybe we should warn somebody. How? Are we sure they’re Krauts? He looked toward Greeley, saw him talking silently to the engineer, the artillery observer joining them, pointing toward the left, in front of Benson. The ground rose up that way, and Benson could see that the tracks followed the contour of the hill, crossing the squad’s path at a ninety-degree angle. Greeley stood, looking back toward his men, the engineer already in motion, moving up the hill. On the hillside, the trees were thicker, some of the fat low spruces, and Benson saw Greeley point to him, stopping him, while the rest of the squad moved his way. Benson tried to understand, yes, they’re going to swing this way. Hang back, let the point pass me. His brain wouldn’t hold the thought, his eyes going down to the boot prints in the snow, perfect, ridges on the soles. Unfamiliar. German. The squad moved past him, climbing, and Benson saw Mitchell, the glare, Mitchell staring at him, silent words, a question. You okay? Benson responded with a nod, felt calmed by his friend, saw Mitchell gripping the rifle, pointing it out, up the hill, a signal. All right, yes, I know. We have to climb now.
Greeley was still looking back, and Benson saw his face clearly, glistening sweat, wild eyes, turning away now, starting the climb behind the other officers. The man with the metal detector had it up on his shoulder, and Benson tried to understand that, thought, no mines here? It’s steep, maybe no place for a minefield. He respected the engineer, the man just as blunt as Harroway, officers who knew their stuff. Why can’t they be in charge?
Benson was climbing now, hard breaths, felt the uneven footing, saw the tight gaps between the spruce trees, the engineer’s words, booby traps, picked his way slowly, searched for wire, stupid, the snow too deep, nothing to see. In the narrow passages, he stepped high, saw Mitchell and the others doing the same, thought of a marching band, something from high school, now an odd nightmare, soldiers marching in silence, driven by the beat of their hearts, trying not to die. The trees hid everything now, no open ground, just the slope, sweat soaking him, salt in his eyes. He wiped at one eye with the soggy wool of his glove, useless, blinked furiously, tried to clear his vision. The snow cover was thinning beneath his boots, no more than a couple of inches, much of it trapped by the heavy canopy of the trees above him. He was suddenly hemmed in, a cluster of small young pines, searched for a gap, saw it, shallow snow, Look for a wire. He eased up close, stepped high again, his foot coming down softly, a light crunch of snow. Up the hill, he glimpsed a wide swath of small rocks, spread out in both directions, a sloping wall, steeper still. Above the rocks there was nothing, open ground, no trees. It was the road.
He pushed through the saplings carefully, heard a rock tumble to his right, someone climbing. He waited, stared up toward the road, the rocky embankment taller than he was. Others were climbing, more rocks rolling down, hollow sounds echoing through the woods. He took a hard, cold breath, anchored his foot on a flat rock, pushed himself up, had to use one hand, steadying himself, rocks tumbling away under his boots. His boots fought for grip, and he cursed, thought, this has gotta be the junk they built the road with. One boot gave way, slipped, his knee coming down hard on a pointed rock. He cursed, fought the cry, cursed again. His head was at the road level, and he saw the others, all kneeling on the edge of the road, no one moving. He was up with them now, rubbed the pain in his knee, watched as the entire squad gradually emerged up from the thick trees. The officers motioned silently, keeping them down low, everyone holding to the near side of the road. The edge of the road offe
red no cover, and Benson slid one foot back, feeling where the ground fell away, thought, anybody shoots, I’m going right back down there. The road was several yards wide, and he stared nervously to his left, to the flank, his flank, saw that the road stretched on for a hundred yards, then curved away to the right, hugging the hillside. He realized now, there were no tracks in the road. He tried to think, what’s that mean? No one’s been here. Not us … not them. Snow … six inches maybe. How long? Hell I don’t know. But we’re in the wide damn open right here. He looked toward the officers, more talk among them, the road curving away in that direction as well. The artillery observer was animated, pointing up across the road, and Benson understood, yep, let’s get off this damn road and up that hill. The man with the metal detector stood, adjusted his earphones, began working again. He was moving slowly across the road, and Benson watched the sweep of the pie plate, left and right, the man focused, precise, listening for what? The private reached the far side of the road, and the engineer was close behind him, waved to the men spread out along the side of the road, motioning them closer. Of course, Benson thought. Cross at that place. The safe place. Thank God for metal detectors. He saw Greeley move across, tiptoes, like some idiot bird picking his steps. The others followed, two riflemen first, the engineer, more of the squad, and the man with the coils of wire. They began to climb up off the road, slipping quickly into the trees above, and Benson waited his turn, then followed close behind Mitchell, Yunis behind him, the man’s grating gasps even louder. Benson ignored him, happy to be off the road, felt the trees around him wrapping him, comforting, a blanket of cover. The formation took shape again, Benson sliding out to the left, and he saw the observer, Harroway, moving up to the lead, low whispers to Greeley, then to the engineer, and now the observer took the point. Good, Benson thought. We gotta be close to something. That guy knows his stuff.
They climbed with slow rhythm, silence all around them, the trees thinning out, tall again, but there were still the clusters of the fat spruces, and Benson stared at them, glanced at Mitchell, thought, yep, those would be damn good places to hide. He scanned for tracks, nothing large enough to be human, saw smaller trails, thought, a rabbit maybe, or a fox, God knows what else. He moved past a fat spruce, snow on the branches, tried to see through to the open area underneath. He poked the rifle in, finger on the trigger, moved a limb, heard a harsh whisper, Higgins, startling him, the sergeant moving quickly, closing on him from behind.
“Get your ass up this hill! You trying to get blown to hell? You souvenir hunting? Move!”
Benson obeyed, heat on his neck, felt supremely stupid. Mitchell was looking at him, a smile, shaking his head. Benson avoided Mitchell’s ridicule, thought, yeah, okay, I’m an idiot. But there might have been a Kraut in there. And, sure, he’d have waited for me to poke my rifle up his nose. Up ahead, the trees thinned, and off to his left Benson could see a white field, trees in the distance, the hillside falling away. The men at the point stopped again, the hand signal, down, and Benson knelt in the snow, tried to ignore the soaking wetness. But he couldn’t ignore his feet, the growing misery inside his boots. He had a spare pair of socks in his jacket, but there was no time, and he glanced around, tried to see what the officers were looking at, heard whispering again, thought, they’re having another meeting. Officers are good at that. Now one man moved away, low to the ground, quick darting movements, Harroway, and Benson watched him, his own weariness giving way to something new, urgency. After a short minute Harroway returned, a hand signal, pointing at two of the riflemen, waving them forward. Harroway dropped to his knees again, crawled, the others doing the same, the three men disappearing upward through the trees. Benson could only wait, curious, Mitchell glancing at him, a shrug. In short minutes the three men returned, relief on their faces, one of them, Lane, the bully, obviously shaking. Harroway moved close to Greeley and the engineer, a quiet explanation, Greeley glancing around at his men, nervous. Benson thought of moving closer, no, stay here. They want you to know, they’ll tell you. Gotta be Krauts, though. What else could it be? He strained to see up the hill, past the trees, nothing, just the snow, low limbs, stumps. Stumps. He felt a jolt in his chest. Someone cut some trees down. Why? To see? To see us? He pulled himself lower, the rifle ready, his breathing sharp. Where the hell are they? Now Harroway signaled back down the hill, and the man with the wire responded quickly, silently, Harroway motioning to him, Up. Harroway led the way, the wire man following, the two retracing the tracks up the hill. Benson’s heart was still thundering, and he watched them as far as he could see them. Greeley was slipping slowly back, moving toward each of the men, the men responding to his words by flattening down, low in the snow. Now Greeley pointed to him, waved him forward, Mitchell as well, more men moving up from that side of the formation.
When they were close, Greeley whispered, barely audible, pointing up beyond the crest. “Krauts were dug in all over this hill, but they’re gone, at least for now. The captain says he thinks they pulled back, but there’s no way to know. But he’s got his observation post, and he’s setting up. He wants us to stay back, not do anything to draw attention, but I think we need to get out around him, keep an eye out.”
Higgins was there now, the sergeant puffing hard. “No, sir. He said stay here. The Krauts are here somewhere. We’ve got to be damn close to their lines, and there have to be more of them patrolling out here, especially on a hill this size. We should listen to the captain and stay put. He’s done this before. We … haven’t, sir.”
Greeley seemed confused, his good idea shot to pieces.
“Then we should get out of here. We’re just sitting ducks right here.”
Benson saw the engineer moving toward them, realized now that the man had slipped away, was returning from the edge of the hill.
The engineer leaned in close to Greeley, said, “Lieutenant, the enemy is all over that ridgeline across this valley. No more than three hundred yards. Keep your men low, but we can’t pull back until the observation point is set up. That’s why we’re out here. I suggest you crawl up there with no more than two men, rifles, just in case some Kraut wanders by. We can’t waste too much daylight before the Krauts swarm all over this hill. There are tracks all over the place on the far side.”
Greeley nodded, seemed lost in thought, uncertainty. “All right.” He nodded toward Mitchell and Benson. “You two. Keep quiet! Follow me!”
Greeley crawled away, and Mitchell followed, Benson close behind, Mitchell’s boots kicking snow in his face. They moved up, winding past the thicker trees. In front of him, Greeley stopped, flattened out, and Benson saw his chest heaving, the man’s fear contagious. Greeley looked back toward them, said nothing, pointed with a single finger to the right. It was a foxhole. Benson moved the rifle, but Mitchell was crawling again, and Benson heard the observer’s words in his mind. They pulled out. No one home. There were more holes, a ragged line stretching away along the side of the hill, some partially covered with tree limbs, the snow barely disguising them. Benson stared at the closest dugout, wanted to see to the bottom, to make sure, but Mitchell was moving away behind Greeley, farther up the hill. Benson tried to control his breathing, put his face down, close to the snow, calming himself. He started to crawl again, more foxholes, one large dugout, logs on top, but there were no tracks in the snow, no one had been here since how long, he thought. A full day for sure. Greeley stopped now, Mitchell moving up beside him, and Benson could see Harroway working in a stand of small saplings, a small shovel piling snow up in a mound. The wire man was working as well, the wooden wheels lying in the snow, a small box emerging from the man’s backpack. Mitchell grabbed Benson, startling him, tugging hard at his shirt, pointing out with one finger. Greeley was staring that way, and Benson saw the hillside falling away in a sharp drop, another hill beyond, bare hilltop, coated with fallen trees, but it was not random. The trees were crisscrossed, a makeshift wall, good protection, and Benson could see flickers of movement, men slippin
g in and out of their cover. Greeley whispered something, and Benson followed his stare, downward, could see the trails in the hillside, many tracks, and down between them a narrow pass, thickets of timber. But there were stumps and cut trees there as well, openings, and Benson saw more men, small dark shapes.
He eased up close to Mitchell, who said, “Krauts! Lots of ’em!”
Benson gripped the rifle hard, felt a bolt of terror, saw Mitchell slide his rifle forward in the snow as though to aim. A voice shouted in Benson’s head, no, that’s stupid! What the hell? But Benson couldn’t help himself, did the same, sighted the rifle at the movement far down the hill. There was no stiffness in his fingers now, no stinging pain from the wet gloves. He tried to see through the rifle’s iron sights, but he was shaking, and he fought to keep his eyes clear of sweat, but it was futile. What do we do now? He scanned the valley, guessed the distance, yeah, could be three hundred yards, maybe less. They don’t see us … so, do we attack them? That’s idiotic. Captain Moore said find a prisoner. Well, there they are. Hell if I’m going down there to grab one. Not even Greeley is stupid enough to try that.