No Less Than Victory
By three in the morning, their exhaustion took over, and the sergeants halted them long enough to share whatever rations they might happen to be carrying. Most of the men had backpacks still, and the K rations emerged, canteens passed, whispered thank-yous. Higgins had stopped his own squad close to a creek, some of the men refilling their canteens, Benson among them, no concern now for caution about bad water, some long-ago lecture by a lieutenant reading from some manual. Thirst had overpowered the fear of dysentery.
There was other suffering as well, and Benson shared the misery in his boots, socks soaked, kept warm by the slogging march. But the cold was taking a toll, and Benson was relieved that Higgins was tolerant, allowing the healthier men to care for the crippled or wounded. Benson had kept spare socks inside his shirt, another lesson from another lieutenant, a clever notion that a man’s body temperature would help dry them. But even those were soaked, this time by his own sweat. The constant movement kept away the astonishing cold, but when they paused, as they did with the K rations, the cold swallowed them, wet gloves and boots chilling rapidly, canteens freezing, men suffering from sneezing fits or coughing, the rasping sound of some new sickness. The sergeants could only respond by moving them again, in case the Germans were close, some patrol perhaps hearing the sounds and sweeping down on them before any of them could react.
There were few heavy weapons among the men Benson had seen, but the rifles were there, nearly all the men carrying some kind of weapon. Among his own squad, there was one BAR, carried by the wide-shouldered Milsaps, a quiet man whom Benson liked. Higgins kept Milsaps in front of their makeshift column, not just for firepower, but in case the heavy weapon wore the man down. Higgins would not let anyone fall back, no one abandoned. At every stop, all the sergeants made quick head counts, and Benson began to feel more respect for Higgins than he had just for a sergeant’s stripes. Higgins cared about his men, even men he didn’t know, and in the desperate darkness the other sergeants were sharing the responsibility, keeping as many men together as they could. As he trudged through the footsteps of the men in front of him, Benson understood what a leader was.
DECEMBER 17, 1944, DAWN
It had become light enough to see the treetops above them, and Higgins motioned them to lie low. He signaled to the others to spread out wide to one side, then crawled forward alone in the snow, up a steep incline. Others continued to come up, spreading out along the base of the hill, whispers, pointing, questions. Benson watching the trail Higgins had left, glancing at the men around him. Some were familiar, Mitchell staring ahead, rifle ready, prepared to move quickly if Higgins ran into some kind of trouble. Lane was there as well, frightened, exhausted, the same look on the faces of others, men Benson didn’t know, the same look they saw when they looked at him. Around Benson no one spoke, but there were low voices up ahead, up the rise, and every man jerked to attention, rifles ready.
Higgins was there suddenly, slipping and stumbling down through the snow, sliding on his own icy trail, tired relief on his face. “Come on! We found our boys.”
All along the hillside, the men began to move, climbing, mostly in single file. The trees were thinning out, tall pines, but above, the ground flattened out, scattered trees, hills beyond. The clearing was a quarter mile across, and nestled in the center were the remnants of a town, shattered buildings, mostly stone, most without roofs, the wreckage of walls. Benson could see now that the village sat in a wide bowl, had heard of this, a scene so typical throughout these hills. This one was small, no more than a dozen structures, all destroyed. The roads ran out in three directions, one climbing the hill out on the far side, and everywhere there were pockmarks of black, the effects of artillery shells. All through the village and beyond, men were in motion, seeking cover, shoving aside debris, creating dugouts and barricades. There was sound too, heavy engines, and Benson saw them now, the great hulks, marked by dull white stars, tanks. They rolled out of the hillside on the left, a solid line of six, the beloved Shermans, and Benson shivered, felt as though they were rescued, heard cheering from somewhere in front. The tanks spread out, seeking some kind of cover in the wreckage of the buildings, jerking to a halt, the turrets all pointing their cannon to the right, down the main road. Benson looked that way, saw open ground, more shattered homes, and beyond, the road climbing up another hill. He searched for Higgins, saw men still staggering up out of the woods, climbing up through the deep ravine, more men than Benson realized were a part of their nightlong march. Some just sat in the snow, too tired to understand what was happening in front of them, why the blasted village was crawling with activity. Benson spotted the sergeant and, with him, another familiar face, haggard weariness. It was Captain Moore. Benson moved that way, others with him, Mitchell close, and Moore looked toward them, scanned the faces, focused on the BAR, nodded.
“Thank God. I didn’t think this many of our boys made it. Most of these men are from Charlie and Easy companies. Captain Spence made it, and a few of the platoon commanders. You boys are lucky as hell.”
Higgins said, “Where should we go, sir? We’re ready to fight.”
“You better be. We’re not going anywhere else until somebody at HQ tells us to. Colonel Nagle was here a few minutes ago, Cavender’s exec, told us that General Jones has ordered us to hold this position. I haven’t seen the battalion commander at all. No idea where the HQ command post ended up, if they made it out at all. We’ve got people beyond that hill to the north, some of Able Company, trying to link up to the Four Two Two, but I don’t know what’s happening up there. The enemy is up there pretty thick, pushing hard toward Saint Vith. I was told we’ve got armor support coming. The entire Seventh Armored Division is on its way, but nobody knows when they’ll get here. The colonel was pretty pissed, but not much he can do about it.”
Moore scanned the village, Benson seeing what he saw. The tank engines had shut down, and their hatches were open, men with binoculars staring out toward the hills to the east. Around them, some of the infantry were moving into the open spaces behind the tanks, using them for cover. Closer to the edge of the woods, a machine-gun crew was crawling into place, one man carrying a tripod, men digging furiously, burying the gun into a good line of fire. Close by, others were moving out beyond the edge of the village, through the trees, digging into banks of snow. He saw a pair of mortar crews, more digging, the men putting their weapons into position, boxes of shells stacked up close by. Through the entire scene were the riflemen, some chopping at the frozen ground with the brim of their helmets or small shovels, a struggle against frozen earth. On the far side of the village, a line of men stretched up into the far woods, some setting up embankments of snow or hauling bits of wood from the tree line behind them, logs and branches. They were building makeshift barricades, poor substitutes for foxholes, but the only cover they had.
Moore seemed to appraise the position, then said to Higgins, “Put your men along the edge of this road, down toward the ravine. Pile up whatever you can and check your weapons.”
Higgins said, “Sir, where’s the enemy? This seems awfully vulnerable here. The high ground is all around us.”
Moore sneezed, wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat. “If I knew where the enemy was, I’d be a damn general. This isn’t a tactics drill, Sergeant. We didn’t pick this ground. Orders are to try to keep this intersection open. Every damn village around here sits in the bottom of a big damn eggcup. High ground in every direction. If the enemy brings artillery up to that far ridgeline, we’re sitting ducks. But the colonel says they’re moving everywhere in this sector, advancing as quick as we let them. They haven’t shown any signs of digging artillery in anywhere. Looks to me like they’re trying to bust right through us. Some of our field artillery was able to pull back, and they’ve set up behind us, up in those trees. But it isn’t much. Some of our boys had to leave their guns behind, which hurts like hell, but I saw some of the seventy-fives, so maybe we can hold off some tanks.”
There were
new sounds, jeeps, a column of four rolling down from the wooded hillside behind the village. Moore said, “Now what? That’s the exec again, Nagle. And Colonel Cavender. I’m sure this’ll be good news.”
Benson stood silently, watched the men pour forward, clean coats, clean-shaven faces, men who had not slept in foxholes or marched all night through the woods. Moore moved toward the jeeps, and Benson heard the talk, hot and angry. Beside him, Mitchell said, “Sounds like the captain is getting his ass chewed. Sounds like he was just following orders. But this sure doesn’t look like a place I wanna be if the Krauts roll over that hillside.”
Moore suddenly shouted, “Then send one of those high-brass sons of bitches out here, and he can see it for himself!”
Benson watched the others, officers reacting to the outburst with quiet words, self-conscious glances toward the men around them, some tugging nervously at their clean coats. Cavender put a hand on Moore’s shoulder, leaning in close, discreet words the men around them wouldn’t hear.
The officers continued to huddle, the discussion calming, and Mitchell said, “I guess they can’t string up a field officer right now. The colonel’s letting Moore throw off steam. He’s probably as lost as the rest of us.”
Higgins was moving through the men, putting them in motion, said, “Keep your mouth shut, soldier. We’ve got enough problems without you worrying about the officers. Dig in along a line … this way. Put your right flank against the trees at the drop-off. If the Krauts show up here, it’ll be on that main road, most likely. The captain says they’re leading with tanks, not infantry.”
Mitchell moved toward a dip in the roadside, and Benson followed, saw rocks, began to dig around them, numb fingers, the wind now slapping against his face. The sweat on his face had turned to stinging pain, and he rubbed his fingers through the thin gloves, more pain, his fingertips split and raw. He grabbed a small boulder, tried to free it from the frozen ground, but it wouldn’t move, his hands useless, no strength.
Mitchell chopped at the edge of the rock with his bayonet, the icy dirt unyielding. “Dammit! How are we supposed to dig in?”
Benson kept probing the roadside, found a larger rock, loose, and Mitchell was there quickly, rolling the rock forward, a shallow depression left behind.
Mitchell said, “Well, there’s your foxhole.” He began pushing against the snow, forming an embankment, close beside the boulder. “It gets hot, I’m gonna join you behind that rock.”
Benson felt guilty, said, “Thanks. My hands are hurting bad. Don’t know what the hell happened.”
“Cold and wet, kiddo. Used to happen to me on hunting trips. Don’t worry about it. The snow’ll work. As long as they can’t see me, I’m okay.”
Around them, the others were working, mostly with snow, adding to the defensive position, makeshift cover from whatever they could find. Benson knelt behind the rock, glanced out to the east, up the road where Higgins had pointed. He looked past the men on his right, down toward the trees, no one there, thought, what if they’re wrong? What if infantry comes around us? What happened to those Krauts we were shooting at? The questions were fogging his mind, no answers to clear them away.
Mitchell slid down behind his mound of snow, said, “Sit down, Eddie. Let the officers run the show.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He crouched on one knee, the misery of the cold spreading through every limb. But he was curious still, focused on the gathering of officers, saw one man with a radio, his hand covering his mouth as he spoke into the handset. The others were staring out across to the far trees, orders going out to men who moved quickly, and Benson thought, the lieutenants, I guess. Or sergeants. He thought of Greeley, the inept lieutenant. Field officers. A good way to describe the first guys who get killed.
Benson heard the man at the radio now, the hand uncovering his mouth, no more discretion, frustration in the man’s voice. “Sir, there is no sign of them right here. But they’ve moved into Schönberg, and I have reports of a column to the north, at Hervert. We’re doing all we can to pull back and consolidate, but we’ve lost contact with the Four Two Two, and no one has heard a thing from the Ninety-ninth since this started.”
The man paused, and Benson saw disgust on his face.
“Sir, it might be better if you talked to Colonel Cavender directly.”
Cavender took the radio, listened for a long moment, then said, “General Jones, with all due respect, General Middleton needs to understand that his order is a little late. The line you are ordering me to hold was overrun by the enemy last night. Those villages he wants us to defend are all in enemy hands.” He paused, listening. “Yes, sir. My apologies to the general for his error. Yes, sir, I understand. I haven’t heard anything from either regiment. The Four Two Four is well south of us, and the enemy shoved a wedge through the gap pretty easily. As your aide said, sir, we were cut off to the north, so we have no contact with the Ninety-ninth. Yes, sir. We’ll hold out here as long as we can. We have retreating infantry still finding us, and this position is getting stronger. One platoon of tanks has come in, and we have a few mortars and heavy machine guns. May I ask, sir, when is the rest of the armor coming up?” There was a pause, and Cavender lowered his head. “I understand, sir. Thank you, sir. Good luck to you as well, sir.”
Cavender handed the radio back to his aide, turned to the other officers, another quick huddle, and now he said to Captain Moore, “The corps commander ordered us to hold at all costs along a north–south line the Germans took eight hours ago. Neither division nor corps HQ has any idea what’s going on out here. The Seventh Armored Division has been ordered to move up and meet the enemy’s advance, but General Jones has no idea when they might actually get here. Maybe hours, maybe tomorrow.”
Cavender looked around, shook his head, looked out toward the hill to the east. He pointed, said, “Who’s that? Are those our boys?”
There were shouts, and Benson saw movement up along the far ridge, men emerging from the trees, coming down toward the road. They were dressed in dark coats, the helmets familiar, a straggling mass of men gathering in the open, coming off the hill. He raised his rifle, instinct, watched as they came closer. Some began to run, could see the protection of the village, others moved in slow plodding steps. They continued to emerge from the trees on the ridge, and Benson thought, there’s gotta be a hundred of ’em, maybe more. The road was a thickening column, a steady flow closer now, and Benson saw up on the hillside wounded, limping men with dirty rags wrapped on legs, bandages on heads, men helping others, supporting them. Others moved with quick steps, rifles in hand, a few glancing back where they had come from. Benson saw one man stumble, holding a bloody wound on his thigh, a medic moving out quickly from the village, kneeling to help. More calls went out, more medics running out to meet the wounded, but the others began to pour into the village, ignoring the barricades, the snowbanks, jogging past the tanks.
Benson heard the voices rising as they passed.
“They’re right behind us! They’re coming!”
“Go! They’re coming! Pull back!”
Officers moved out from the village, a chaos of shouting, some of the officers searching, finding their own men. Some of the men seemed to calm, responding to orders, grateful, moving into line, obeying officers they knew, others falling down beside strangers, still willing to fight. But many more did not stop, pushed through, climbed the logs, kicked through snow, a mad scramble through the wreckage of the village in a steady unstoppable wave.
The medics continued their work, some calling for litter bearers, the worst of the wounded hauled back to some kind of cover. Some still limped forward, but Benson saw one man shoved aside, another wave of men emerging from the tree line in full panic. Benson wanted to go forward, help the medics, saw Moore moving out into the road, grabbing one man, yelling something, and Benson saw the man’s face, a lieutenant, terrified, Moore ramming the man with sharp words. The lieutenant seemed to stagger, and Moore dragged him by the
coat, back behind the defense, a hard shout, “Get control of your men! We have to hold here! You hear me?”
The man seemed to listen, and Moore released him, the lieutenant responding by running, joining those who had lost control. Moore yelled after the man, put a hand on his pistol, and Benson stared in horror, but the pistol stayed in its holster. Moore ignored the man now, moved away toward more of the refugees, another effort to stop the flow.
Higgins absorbed the scene, some of the men stopping in the ruins of the village, a dirty frightened mob, many voices, officers trying to take control, sergeants grabbing men by the shirt, pulling them down into the makeshift defensive line. Benson looked again toward Cavender, but the jeeps were pulling away, the men in the clean coats moving back up the hill into the trees, back behind the riflemen and the machine-gun and mortar crews, far back from the six Sherman tanks that anchored the entire position. More men were coming down the hill, stragglers, more wounded, the medics still in motion, far out in the open. He fought the need to help, flexed his painful fingers, nothing you can do. He looked to the north, the third road winding away from the village in that direction, disappearing into the woods above. He could see a roadblock, a splotch of black, troops hunkering down, spread out into the tall trees. He realized now, this is the whole thing, the battlefield. This is us, the Four Two Three, or a bunch of it anyway. Maybe all that’s left.
Men were still giving orders, and Benson saw the last of the wounded carried back, the road clear, bloody snow and churned-up tracks. One man suddenly came up from the woods to the right, pure panic, searching, wild fear in his eyes, a high-pitched cry, “We’re going to die!”
The man began to run close behind them, and Benson saw Mitchell launch himself up, a shoulder in the man’s side, a hard fall, the man’s face in the snow. Mitchell kicked the man hard in the side, yelled, “You damn coward! Get up! Fight!”