No Less Than Victory

  He shifted his back against the soft dirt behind him, thought of his wire man. Gotta get you some stripes, for sure. You’ve been a private far too long. That’ll give you a pay raise, anyway. God, you saved my ass a few weeks ago. Should put you in for something even better, maybe a Bronze Star.

  In the Hürtgen Forest, barely three weeks prior, they had accomplished the same mission, seeking out a German gun position buried in cover no aircraft could find, if the weather had allowed aircraft to try. In the worst weather many of the Americans had ever seen, the orders had come for a renewed attack out of Aachen, pushing south and east. It was a strategy that must have made perfect sense on paper. But in the terrain of the Hürtgen, the Americans, particularly the Twenty-eighth Infantry Division, had confronted a well-hidden and strongly fortified enemy, and the results had been horrific, some of the worst casualty counts of the entire war. Harroway had seen too much of that, generals well behind the action who drew neat lines on maps. They’re never up here, and by damn, they ought to be.

  Then, with enemy troops swarming past his hidden position, his phone line had suddenly quit, and there was no way to know if it had been found by the Germans, cut by shellfire, or simply failed from a bad connection. But then, in a matter of minutes, there was a voice again, his own man, that syrupy southern drawl. The wire man had moved forward, following the phone line by hand until he found a break. The man had hooked up his own phone to it, to find out if Harroway was even there, whether he had been killed or taken prisoner. When Harroway heard the young man’s voice, he could only respond in small grunts, since German troops were close by him in every direction. Inevitably, the wire had failed again, but the private kept coming, had followed the wire closer still, finding another break, reconnecting it while he hid inside a makeshift brush pile, allowing Harroway to keep his contact with the artillery. For hours after, he had been able to call down shelling on enemy positions that had now moved behind him, closer to the American lines. The Germans were already digging in, seemed confident that they had safely driven the Americans away. But the sudden rain of artillery fire changed their minds, and soon Harroway had heard a flood of German troops moving around him, pulling back, retreating into their first position. When the woods finally cleared, he had scrambled out of his hiding place, following his own wire in miserable darkness, scampering past blasted timber and the debris of two armies. The wire led him straight into the muzzle of an M-1, a sharp surprise to both men. It was his wire man, no more certain who he was than Harroway was of him. But even in panic, the drawling voice had given the young man away, and after a heart-stopping identification, Harroway had hugged the man, a hard unembarrassed embrace. Yeah, he’s earned something, Harroway thought. I’m damn lucky to have him back there. He’s probably sitting in the communications post, waiting for me to come home, like some damn golden retriever. All right, kid. Let’s wait until the sun comes up and see if I have any other reason to be out here.

  DECEMBER 16, 1944, 5 A.M.

  He woke to the rumble of engines. The stiffness in his back kept him in place for a long minute, the usual agony of curling up in a tight foxhole. But there was no grogginess, no hesitation, the sounds rolling toward him from the far ridge, the road beyond his line of sight. The candle was still in one corner of the hole, its wick snuffed out when he tried to sleep. He stared up, tried to rise, pushed his head up slowly, carefully, no disturbing the snowy blanket above him. It was still fully dark, and he sank back down, flicked the lighter at his wristwatch. Five A.M. Damn! How’d you sleep so long? Too quiet, I guess. But not now. What the hell is going on over there?

  He peered up again, farther, daring to stand, easing aside the thin branches. Across the way, the trucks and other vehicles were moving in a steady stream, and he scanned the darkness with his binoculars, looking for any flicker of light, some telltale hint of just what it was he was hearing. It’s four hundred yards across there, easily, he thought. Could be five hundred to that road. Might be time to drop a few dozen rounds on their heads, bust up whatever they’ve got going on. He heard new sounds, far to the left, beyond the valley down below, back around the curve of the hill. There were more engines, a steady roar, and something new, grinding steel. Tanks. He tried to measure the distance, but the hill was deflecting the sounds, and he knew better than to guess. He thought of the road down behind him, the road his own patrol had crossed, thought of the map, lit the candle with shaking fingers. The lighter hesitated, maddeningly, then finally, the small flame, and he held the candle, unsteady, the flame finally igniting the stump of wick. He set the candle down in the soft dirt, grabbed his map, tried to orient himself, the small x he had drawn a few hours ago his best estimate where he was right now. The Krauts are moving … here, back this way. There’s no road on the map, but that’s not unusual. Here’s the road we crossed. Hell, there are roads all over these woods. Trails. Nothing to drive a tank on. He rose up, peered that way, the direction his patrol had retreated. There were no sounds coming up from that direction, and he let out a breath, thought, well, at least they’re not behind me. But that’s a lot of activity over there, and they’re not being shy about the racket.

  The sounds continued, farther away, and he realized the ridgeline across from him was quieting, engines cutting off, the roar growing silent. What the hell? He stared into darkness, nothing, no lights, no sounds, suddenly had the feeling of being utterly alone. He lowered himself slowly, shifted the branches, covering the hole, pieces of glazed snow coming down on him, the crust of ice formed by melting snow from his own heat. He stared at the map, not seeing, his mind racing in confusion. What the hell do I do? My job? Hell, I’d need ten batteries to do anything to that much equipment. But I’ve got to tell them anyway, let them know that Kraut-boy is up to something pretty serious out here. He grabbed the phone, hesitated, thought of Monroe, the ridicule, costing the man his job. Monroe had been in this same position, suddenly confronted with massive sounds, and he had panicked, calling in artillery on forces that turned out to be his own. The casualties had been minor, but the wrath of the men was not, and Monroe was … where? In Antwerp now? Supervising some loading equipment, I think. Calm down, Captain. All you need is some daylight. They have no idea you’re here, and it can stay that way. Eat breakfast or something. He thought of the K rations, nope, not now. Look at the damn map, draw their location as best you can. He had the stub of pencil in his hand, tapped at the map, didn’t know what to do. And now the candle went out.

  He let out a breath, sat in the dark silence, glanced up, no hint of dawn. Relax, dammit. Wait for daylight. You have all the advantages. He suddenly thought of the infantry commander, Moore, right? Yeah, Captain Moore, Company B. Mad as a damn hornet about some jackass up the ladder telling him these trucks out here were fake, that it was just German loudspeakers. Loudspeakers. Somebody back there with a star on his shoulder probably thought that was a pretty clever idea, something he wished he had thought of. All you have to do is pretend you have an army out here with lots of big stuff, guns and tanks. Lions and tigers and bears. Make enough racket and you’ll scare the bejesus out of us poor dumb Americans. Where the hell do these commanders come up with this stuff? But you were right to be pissed off, Captain. The enemy is busy as hell out here, and God knows why. If I’d have had a little more daylight, I might have been able to come up with some good intel, at least. But that wasn’t the priority, not this time.

  Harroway put a hand on his canteen, shook it slightly, thought, half full. By the time I get back to the CP, I’ll be eating snow. Might oughta fill it now. Never know what might happen in the daylight. Germans won’t like that I took out their battery, and somebody might want to do something about it.

  He had gone through that before, a response to his good work from half a dozen German mortars, laying down a barrage of shells all over the most logical place he’d be hiding. It was the only wound he had received, a mortar fragment going through his hand, slicing a piece off one thumb. No need to st
ick around any longer than I have to, he thought, and dawn sounds like a good time to get the hell off this hill. Worst part of this job might be making it back to our lines without some trigger-happy idiot on guard duty taking a shot at me. He pulled at the canteen, took a drink, savored it, pushed the canteen back into its canvas holster.

  And then he heard the voices.

  He froze, every muscle tight, his eyes darting, nothing to see. The crunch of the snow was down the hill in front of him, the voices low mumbles, one sharp whisper, the tones quiet. But the crunches continued, closer, both sides of him, the men moving past, climbing the ridge, more coming up from below. He raised his head slowly, focused on the small dark gap in the branches over his head, one hand sliding slowly out, wrapping around the icy steel of the carbine. There were more whispers, nonsensical sounds, foreign, very close, to one side, and they moved past, another order coming from below, more men streaming along one side of him. He stared up, the carbine moving slowly, one finger moving to the trigger guard, the short barrel pointed up toward the opening. No! You idiot, what are you going to do? It sounds like half a company out there. Just sit still and let them go. Try to guess their number. He wanted to look, try to catch a glimpse, knew better, stayed put, thought of the gear in his hole, where everything was, no accidents, no bumping into anything that might make noise. Did you fasten the canteen? He brushed it with one elbow, felt it secure in place, okay, good. He knew the telephone was beside his left leg, took inventory of the rest, the trash pile, the binoculars around his neck. Just sit still. And stop breathing so hard. It’s only a patrol. A big patrol, maybe. He glanced toward the phone, thought, let them get past, then give a call. Somebody needs to know about this, and the artillery boys owe a few favors to the infantry. What’s that company commander’s name, Moore? Yeah, his guys are green as hell. Don’t need any surprises.

  He pulled the carbine in tight, tugged at his coat, heard a new round of footsteps, more men coming up the hill. One voice called out, stupidly loud, whispers following, low laughter, the footsteps not as noisy now, the crust on the snow obliterated by so many boots. There has to be a hundred of them, he thought. God, just a quick look. No, don’t do it. Patience, Captain. They’ll be gone soon.

  He allowed himself to take a deep breath, still held the carbine tightly, knew it was ridiculous. Somebody steps on this rabbit trap of a roof, and he’ll fall right on top of me. You kill the guy and forty more fill you with holes. Kamarad. That’s the word. Kamarad. Make it loud. Only thing you can do.

  There were hard whispers close by, the obvious authority of an officer, the men still moving, another group coming from below. He began to panic, closed his eyes. Too many of them, and they’re coming up in formation, probably all along this ridge. Maybe more ridges. And all those damn trucks and tanks, whatever the hell else they were moving up those roads. He flinched, a new sound, a sharp roar coming high above. He waited for the impact, but it was not artillery. There were more, exactly the same, some in the distance, and he understood, a sound he had heard before. They’re firing those damn V-1 bombs. Haven’t heard any for a few days, but somebody out there decided it’s time for a fireworks celebration. They’re probably headed to one of the big cities, Antwerp or Liège. Harroway had learned long ago, if you could hear the jet-powered engines on the flying bombs, it meant they were headed somewhere else. Only when the sound stopped did the bomb fall. That’s it, he thought, keep going. Sorry for whoever gets to hear them shut off, but they don’t usually hit anything anyway, just scare hell out of civilians. The V-1s kept passing over, more than a dozen, and he thought, I’ve never seen a launcher, never could get close enough, but boy, that would be a dandy target.

  The wave of V-1s tapered off, some much farther away, to the south, and he focused again on the troops moving past him. There was silence, a brief calm, but then he heard the whispers again, realized, they’re not moving. They’re just … sitting there. He thought of the German foxholes. Well, this was their hill. Maybe they’ve come back. He strained to hear, soft sounds of men settling down, sitting, talking, rifles and canteens. Oh good God, I’m dug in right in the middle of their campground. His mind began to race, and he knew that there was nothing he could do right now—that a strange shadow emerging from a clump of brush would draw someone’s attention. They still might move away, he thought. Worse thing that happens, I’ll just call some fire down on this position right here, maybe a little behind me. That could scare them off, or blow them to hell. The wire won’t survive most likely, but at least I can get something accomplished. I didn’t expect this. They’re supposed to be going home. That’s the other way.

  The ridgeline across from him was suddenly alive with hard thumps, the air overhead streaking with light. The men around him began to cheer, strange, far too loud, their officers shouting them down. But the thunderous sounds increased, far out on both flanks, the light catching his eye, sharp lines in the dark. Artillery … right on time, I guess. It’s a little after five, though. I took out the one battery that used a clock. I guess they decided to make up for it. He tried to feel some amusement at that, but the firing continued, much more firing, many batteries, some close, hidden by the ridge, some farther back. The thunder continued to spread, and he gauged the distance, thought, that road, they moved guns up on that road. A whole lot of guns. I took out a battery and they replaced it with … what? A hundred more? His brain was starting to swirl, his mind grabbing the details of what he was hearing. It was part of his job, part of being an observer. But the rumbling rolled past him in waves he had never heard before, and he thought, what the hell’s going on?

  The artillery was continuous now, the echoes rolling through the valleys around him, the rumble driven deep in his gut. The Germans around him were still making noise, but it was mostly subdued, their talk drowned out by the shrieks from the big guns. He heard a brief command, some officer, but the voice was gone, blotted out by the continuing sounds of batteries that were firing as quickly as their men could reload. He heard every variety of gun, the usual 105s, the dreaded 88s, and the larger 150s. There were ungodly shrieks as well, nebelwerfers, the rocket launchers, six tubes clustered together that spit out their fire in a hellish scream, no other sound like it, what the soldiers called screaming meemies.

  He clenched his hands on the carbine, tried to hold the fear away. My God. They’re firing every damn gun they have. It was becoming clear now, so much training, strategy and tactics, the great barrages of artillery that always meant more than just roughing up the enemy’s positions. And the troops, moving up close, vast formations of infantry, or others, the men who supported their armor, and the Germans always relied on armor. He understood it all now. These Krauts aren’t up here to make camp. They’re waiting here just long enough for the artillery barrage to stop. This is an attack.

  He felt panic, helpless, a blind man who saw too clearly what was about to happen. Somebody’s gotta know, he thought. I can give them the infantry’s position at least, how close they are. What the hell do I do? Risk the call? Whispering on a phone doesn’t work. But I’ve got to do something. Maybe the artillery will keep the Krauts from hearing me. He looked down at the phone, the ground still rumbling beneath him, the only sounds the waves of artillery fire streaking overhead. He put his hand on the phone receiver, and suddenly the entire box rose up, hung in the air beside him. He stared at it, cold shock, the phone box turning slowly, suspended by the wire, and now he knew what was about to happen. The roar of the artillery was all he could hear, but suddenly the sky opened up above him, snow falling in his face, shadows, shapes, and the blinding flash, the sudden hard chatter of a machine gun.

  DECEMBER 16, 1944, 4:45 A.M.

  Sergeant Higgins had them in a semicircle, low beneath a fat pine tree, spoke in clear whispers.

  “It seems that we did such a terrific job yesterday, the captain says we’re going out again tonight. He says it’s our reward. Lucky us. He didn’t mention that killing our lieutenan
t might have been a problem.”

  Beside Benson, Mitchell said, “How soon we getting a new one?”

  Higgins shrugged. “The captain says regimental is working on it. You can bet they’ll find us a ninety-day wonder pretty quick. We’ve got replacements coming in regular.” Higgins took a drink from the coffee cup, looked around in the darkness. “I told the captain that we didn’t need some shiny new second looey to show us how to walk through these woods. But that’s the way it works. They’ll want somebody up here pretty quick to replace Greeley, whether he’s any good or not. But that’s not why he called me back there. Captain Moore wants us to get some night patrol experience. He’s given us the day off, and he says some new people are on their way up here to man these positions, get some frontline experience. When they get here, you slugs can pull back behind those kitchen trucks, get some chow, and sit on your asses all day. Just stay off the roads back there and keep out of everybody’s way. Since we lost our lieutenant, the captain thinks we oughta hang back and let another platoon dig some holes. I suggested they make another straddle trench. Ours is getting pretty gamy. He actually agreed with me, wants to give the new boys some first-rate shovel time.”