No Less Than Victory
It was full dark now, and he looked back toward the trees, wondering, where the hell are those litter bearers? The snow was blanketing the dead men, black stains where the last warmth still rose, a low cloud of steam drifting up from the great rip in the lieutenant’s body. The temperature was dropping quickly, and he pulled his coat tighter around him, the wetness all through his pants and his boots, a pair of clean socks still in his pocket. That’s the first thing I gotta do, he thought. Well, maybe the second thing. I gotta eat something. I’m hungry as hell.
He heard a familiar rumble coming from the east, far out beyond the hills they had hiked. It was faint at first; then there were singular sounds, steel wheels, the echoes drifting across the bowl of open ground. He stared that way, the noise flowing in from different directions. They’re early tonight, he thought. Wonder if it really is loudspeakers, just to scare us? Why would they do that? Some idiot general thinks they’re gonna chase us away just because they’re showing off that they have tanks? We have tanks too, you know. So, they’re over there busy as hell, moving men around. So are we. You need to fake that? Captain Moore doesn’t believe it, that’s for sure. Wonder what it sounds like out there on that hill, to Captain Harroway? He’s right on top of those Krauts in that one valley. Maybe he sees something. Benson thought of the wire man, the private with the deep drawl. Good man, that one. Knows his job. Gotta be from Mississippi or Alabama, someplace like that. Wonder what Harroway’s first phone call will be? Once he’s hooked up, I guess he’ll tell his artillery boys what to do, and we’ll start some shelling of our own. God, I’d love to see that, be up there on that hilltop when our guns bust up those Krauts. Hell of a responsibility. I wonder if he can tell where those loudspeakers are, bust those up too. Benson looked out toward the far ridges, too dark to see, the sounds of machines rolling all across the hills and roads to the east. Maybe Captain Moore’s right, because if those are loudspeakers, there’s gotta be a boatload of them.
DECEMBER 15, 1944
After the squad had left him alone, he had sat consumed by the agony of impatience. It was always like that, and Harroway was not one to stare at treetops and pass the time in idle dreaming. It was the worst part of his job, nothing to do but wait for the squad to find its way back home. If they didn’t make it, the only way he would know might be the sounds of an ambush or a firefight, sometimes by accident, two patrols stumbling into each other, neither side knowing just what to do. The firing might last until one entire patrol was killed or captured, or until dark, when someone in charge found the guts to lead his men out of the woods, someone confident enough to find his way to his own lines. If there was no sound of a fight, the only other sign of trouble would be a dead telephone, and he might never find out just what had gone wrong.
In these hills, with such poor visibility, the patrols were amazingly dangerous. The Germans knew that as well, but it was their own ground, and they had seemed eager to send out far more patrols than the Americans. Harroway knew that some men from the 106th had already been captured, and so the enemy would know just who it was that held these ridges to the west, would know that the troop movements had been made right under their noses, a fresh division to replace the battle-weary Second Division. The Germans had increased patrols day and night, but it was the night patrols that were worse for the Americans, mainly because the 106th had never faced the enemy at all, much less in the dark. Often there was no firing at all, the Germans adept at slipping through the lines of foxholes, or sitting low in the timber, a silent ambush that would pick off a man too careless to pay attention to where the trail to the straddle trench was. In the short time the 106th had been in position, all three of the infantry regiments had crawled out to meet the snowy dawn, only to discover footprints in the timber close by, just beyond the booby traps and noisemakers. The Germans seem to know just how close they could come, and too often the Americans had no idea they had come at all. The men who had been on guard duty had endured the inevitable wrath of frightened lieutenants, but it was not always the guards’ fault. The Germans knew these woods too well and were very good at night patrols. Worse, for the Americans who had been ordered to patrol in what they thought to be the relative safety of daytime, there was a miserable discovery. The Germans had snowsuits, white coveralls that allowed them to hide virtually undetected even as the Americans moved right past them. There was terror enough for the men on these patrols without being ambushed from behind.
He had been annoyed with the inexperienced Lieutenant Greeley, who didn’t seem to understand that he shouldn’t haul his entire squad to the crest of the hill. The trees up high were more widely spaced than the thickets in the deeper draws, and anyone who was paying attention could spot movement against the blanket of white on the hillside. We stand out in these woods like preachers in a whorehouse, but I didn’t have time to give that lieutenant a tactics lesson. Not all his fault, though. You’d figure someone would have thought of winter camouflage gear. One thing for certain, whoever designed these coats might have been thinking warm, but they sure as hell weren’t thinking snow. Snow is white, you know. Does somebody at supply not understand that? That’s because those people don’t ever get shot at. Try it sometime, General.
Harroway had done his own job preparing his observation dugout as quickly as it could be done, relying on his own experience, and his wire man, to make sure nothing went wrong. The short one-sided battle didn’t seem to have caused much trouble for the squad, no screams, thank God. By the time the shooting had stopped, the Germans seemed to be aiming far below and behind him. But once he was completely alone, Harroway had another reason for vigilance. It was observer’s paranoia, wondering always if some German was hidden somewhere close by, watching the whole operation. A smart one would sit tight and allow the patrol to leave, then slip up on the observer and kill him in his hole. No one back at the command post would have any idea why the man was never heard from again. There was just enough of a crunch to the snow to allow him to hear someone close, and in that first hour he kept his carbine upright in his hands, nervously ready. The carbines were smaller and lighter than the M-1, and mostly despised by the field officers who carried them. They were notoriously unreliable and inaccurate beyond short range. But the spotters knew that any enemy soldier they might confront would almost certainly be right on top of them. It was all about defense, about the spotter being spotted himself. Harroway had no interest in trying out his marksmanship on some distant infantryman, and no need to reveal himself in his lonely observation post by attempting a firefight. Like most of the observers, he carried a .45 in his belt. In close quarters, it was a much more reliable way to get out of a jam.
As it grew dark, the phone had not yet begun to function, and so Harroway had nothing to do but scan the maps and, if possible, take a nap. His dugout was just deep enough beneath the soft dirt and snow cover to keep him hidden completely, the saplings he had cut a natural protective roof. He had slid down into as much comfort as he could make, had learned long ago what many of the artillery spotters knew, dig a curved hole to rest your back.
They had tried using wireless radios, but their range was far too short, and the rugged hills and timber country here made that even worse. Harroway had confidence in his wire man, the slow-talking boy from Mississippi. The young man seemed to be able to do his job no matter what kind of trouble the patrol might encounter. Harroway had even offered to help carry the spools of wire, but the young man had an impressively strong back, never seemed to lag behind from the weight of so much wire. Even in combat conditions or the worst terrain imaginable, if it was possible to spool out that wire, the young man with the soft drawl would find a way.
He had tried to sleep, but the silence from the telephone kept him awake. It was a little unusual to have an entire German battery spread out right under your nose, and Harroway knew that once communications was established with the American artillery, it would take very little time to zero in on this wonderful target. The map he carrie
d had been reasonably accurate, a surprise, gridlines showing the valley below him almost precisely where it actually was. All he had needed was someone back there he could tell about it.
Harroway had waited a full hour before trying the phone, still listening intently for any sounds of a fight behind him, anything that would cause a delay for the patrol itself or, worse, its destruction. The only sound had been a strange thump, far behind, and he had wondered if it was sound bouncing off the hillsides, probably the echo from a distant mortar round. He had hoped to have the phone operational before dark, but with the sky dead and gray, there was little chance of that. When the snow began to fall, he could only pull his blanket of branches over his head and wait, happy that the snow might cover the patrol’s tracks and make his own camouflage that much better. When the hour finally passed, he began testing the phone, anxious, knowing that his wire man might be bogged down somewhere, or still trying to find someone who could hook him up in a communications post. And then, with dull darkness spread over the Germans beneath him, the phone had suddenly come alive.
The first shell had come down far to the right, at the mouth of the valley, and he had called in that adjustment, the second shell dead straight but too long, smacking against the distant ridge, fifty yards above the valley floor. Again, he gave the artilleryman the adjustment, and now he clamped the telephone receiver hard to his ear, waited for the response. The voice came, choppy and erratic, but it was exactly the voice he wanted to hear.
“Roger that, Hawk One.”
He waited for the next shell, braced himself for the sound, counted the seconds, eleven … twelve … and now it came, arcing over, the impact thumping into the hillside below him, igniting in a flash of fire. But the impact was too short, the shell exploding up the hill, in his direction. Dammit! They’re overcorrecting.
“Big Boy, this is Hawk One. One hundred fifty too short. Try again!”
“Roger, Hawk One.”
Harroway took a long breath, counted again, and the shell came over more quickly this time. Now the valley floor erupted, the shell from the 105 coming down precisely on target. He wanted to cheer, knew better, fought the excitement, knew not to shout anything into the fragile phone connection. He rose slightly, heard noises from down below, thought, casualties certainly, medics running around. They don’t know what’s about to happen. They think we’re just dinking around, random, and we got one lucky one. He stared down into the fiery darkness, thought of the Germans still hidden in their holes, the new men scared, the veterans calming them down with their arrogant weariness. Sorry, boys. But there’s nothing random about this. I’ve got your position dead center. He clamped the telephone to his ear again, leaned down, facing the bottom of his dugout.
“Hawk One. Strike. Repeat. Strike. Cut them loose, Big Boy.”
“Roger, Hawk One.”
Harroway put the phone away, leaned back in the dugout, knew what was coming. He held his breath, perfect silence, the old habit, counting in his mind, nine … ten … and now the air above him was torn apart with streaks of light, a roar of sounds, the valley bursting into fire, bright flashes he closed his eyes to avoid. After a short pause, more rounds came, and he pictured it in his mind, the gunners working with gleeful precision, loading the 105s, heavy shells rammed into the breach of the four guns. No wait, that’s six this time. The shells came over again, more streaks of light, and he stared up, counted, six, yes! Wonder who’s doing that? Somebody tossed in a couple more guns to help out. Send a Christmas card to that guy.
There was a hard thump from below, one German gun firing, a single response. It was always that way, and he smiled, thought, some officer just got his wits about him. Sorry, pal, it’s not your night. From behind him, the next volley came, the sharp shrieks ripping the air, four in quick succession, then two more, the valley erupting again. The smoke began to find him, rolling up the hillside, and he cursed the stink, covered his face, thought, hell of a time for the wind to change. But there was no other response from below, the valley mostly quiet, patches of flame, a brush fire breaking out, the high explosives hot enough to burn through the wet treetops. He stared down, felt the wind in his face, thought, all right, don’t need any damn forest fire to light up this hillside. Won’t burn up this far anyway. Too much snow. But breathing smoke is no fun at all. I bet those boys down there cleared themselves out a nice piece of open ground under that camouflage, maybe left a few bushes, thick and grassy. Burns like hell. He stood slowly, his head up out of his hole, peered down again, saw movement in the firelight. German troops were scrambling away, some moving up the far hill, survivors from the gun crews or infantrymen who had endured enough. They won’t all leave, he thought. Just like us, they’ve got nice deep holes, and the brave ones will sit and wait until we quit shelling them. Then they’ll creep out, like so many rats, checking on what we’ve done to their wonderful artillery pieces. Scrap metal, Kraut, old boy. Courtesy of Captain Miles Harroway, expert artillery spotter. He smiled at that, tried to imagine the wreckage in the valley floor, the destruction of the German battery. Those were probably Kraut 105s, and they were placed in the dumbest place imaginable. They had a clear field of fire in only one direction, down the mouth of that valley. Unlucky for those boys in the Four Two Three that they happened to be right in the way. And why did the Krauts clear their people off this hill? Where the hell would they be going? Back, I guess. Maybe they were being replaced by new units. Could be that our timing was just right. I bet they were planning to pull that battery out of here too. Harroway had heard too many conversations, his own colonel hearing the reports from intelligence units, that the Germans were almost certain to pull back out of this rugged terrain. No place to spend the winter, and they know we’ve set up shop as though we like it here. Makes sense they’d give it to us, let our boys get the trench foot and frostbite. Some of those Kraut bastards are probably pretty close to their own homes, maybe have some fraulein stashed someplace nearby, or maybe they just want to spend Christmas with their families. Can’t fault them for that. Shouldn’t have left that battery so damn unprotected, though. Too late now. Can’t wait to see the mess down there. Very pretty mess. And if they try to bring up some more guns, I’ll give them another happy hello.
God, I love this job.
It was after ten, no stars, but the snowfall was finally letting up. Harroway crushed the empty K-ration box, thought, what was that? Beef stew? Ham something or other? Hard to tell sometimes. Uncle Sam’s little surprise for us hardworking officers. Harroway had remembered to bring a healthy supply of chocolate bars this time, was savoring one now, couldn’t help thinking of coffee. It was one curse of the forward observer, no coffeepot. He picked up a small envelope, fingered it for a minute, thought of tossing it into the small pile of debris from his dinner. No, I guess I should keep it. You never know. But I sure would like to have a conversation with whatever dumb son of a bitch thought that this powder is supposed to make me believe that it will brew up into a cup of hot chocolate. This stuff has to come from some factory somewhere, where they sweep their floors for sawdust, mix it with brown paint, and then some whiz-bang salesman convinced the army to feed it to us. Somebody’s going to jail if I ever have any say about it. Don’t make me a general unless you want a stink raised. He had tried mixing the powder with melted snow once, in the hope of making something resembling chocolate milk. Drink it? Hell, I could have used that stuff to glue two Krauts together. If I’d have swallowed it, it would have stopped me up for weeks. He still fondled the envelope, reconsidered his thoughts about keeping it, tossed it in the small trash pile.
The cold was settling down on him, the temperature dropping quickly, and he flexed numb fingers. He had already changed socks, but the cold in his boots was relentless, and he reached into his backpack, carefully unwrapped one of the small stubby candles. He glanced up, the makeshift rooftop solid enough, certainly no one perched up anywhere close by who might catch a hint of the glow. A candle could be a luxury,
giving off a surprising amount of warmth in a closed space. He fumbled for the lighter, flicked it, then again, lit the wick. The light was blinding at first, and he held a hand close over it, sheltering the light from above. This might be a stupid idea, he thought. But damn, it’ll make this place pretty cozy. Nothing else for me to do but sleep, since I won’t be able to tell how much damage we did until morning. Even if the Krauts abandon this place, they could open up on us with other batteries nearby. If I’m lucky, I might spot them too, call in some fire again. Might make for another good day’s work.