Higgins was there, grabbed at Mitchell. “No time for this! Let them go! He’s useless. Get back in line!”
Mitchell dropped back down, breathing heavily, Higgins standing close behind their small blockade.
After a long moment, Higgins said, “Listen!”
Benson heard it now, the sounds too familiar, steel treads on a snow-packed road, the rumble of heavy engines. He turned that way, looked up the main road, nothing but sound, the heavy roar of engines coming closer.
Higgins said, “Down! Get that BAR up here, behind these rocks!”
Benson felt his stomach churning, the hard beat of his heart, laid his rifle on top of the boulder, saw Mitchell shoving more snow up in front, low curses. For one long moment, the village was silent. He looked toward the Shermans, no motion, their hatches closed, crews huddled low, everyone into their cover. He lay on his side, his helmet against the snow, his hands in a paralyzed grip on the rifle.
Beside him, Mitchell slapped the snow. “Hell of a lot of good this is gonna do.”
The first shell impacted in front of them, rocks blowing back past Benson’s cover, a blast of snow and dirt into Benson’s face. The jolt stunned him, screams to one side, and more shells came in, hard concussion, ringing in his ears. He spat dirt from his mouth, pulled his chin in tight to his chest, saw Mitchell, hands on his ears, rolling over, facing him, hot anger. Mitchell spoke, but there was no sound through the roar in Benson’s ears. The ground buckled beneath him, a punch in his side, more shells coming, heavy thumps, tumbling rocks, smoke rolling past. More thunder rolled close by, the Shermans returning fire, and he wanted to see, to know what was coming, what kind of enemy, knew not to look, his brain screaming at him, stay down! He caught a flash of fire, pieces of metal tumbling down, smoking steam in the snow. The fire pulled his eyes that way, and he rose up, saw the flames, one of the Shermans swallowed in a blaze of steel and gasoline. There was machine-gun fire now, pops from rifles close by, more incoming shells whistling past, cracking the air overhead.
Mitchell had his rifle up on the snow, shouted, Benson hearing him, “Kraut tanks! Just tanks! This is no good! We can’t stay here!”
Black smoke rolled over them, raw stink, and Benson heard the rumbling of heavy engines close by. He looked that way, saw the Shermans in motion, one backing up, another spinning furiously, churning snow and debris, smashing through the battered wall of a building. Around them, men were rolling aside, frantic, to escape being crushed. He stared, sick disbelief, the five remaining Shermans all moving back, pulling away from the village, from the enemy still coming. Shellfire ripped the ground, and another of the tanks erupted, the turret rising up, tossed aside, a swirl of flame engulfing the men inside. The surviving tanks roared back toward the woods, one of them firing a round, but they were moving quickly, the enemy shells missing their mark. And now the tanks were gone.
The shelling seemed to stop, a strange silence accented by faint bursts of machine-gun fire up on the far hillside. Benson rolled over, looked at Mitchell, who stared out to the woods behind them where the tanks had gone.
“They left us! They just … left us!”
The ground was rumbling again, steady, the roar of engines coming closer. There were new thumps, out toward the enemy, smoke in the trees behind the village, and Benson shouted, “The artillery!” Yes! That’s it! Our guns will take them out!
Around him, the rifles popped again, Milsaps firing the BAR, the artillery responding to the tanks, the artillery shells coming over scattered, slow, and now the tanks firing again, seeking their new targets, the hillside behind the village bursting into fire. Benson waited for more, but the artillery seemed to slow, then stop, the response to the German tanks meager, weak. Useless. The roar of the tanks continued, the ground vibrating beneath him, and Benson wanted to fire the rifle, glanced up, over his cover, saw the first tanks a hundred yards away, coming fast.
Mitchell yelled close to him, “We have to go! We’re dead!”
Around them, men began to rise, some of them running, following the road out of the village, following the escape of the Shermans. Others were shouting, the officers, dozens of men now up out of their cover, a rush toward the trees. Benson heard Higgins, the sergeant, in a frantic dash behind the cover, “Pull back! Let’s go! Move!”
Benson pulled his knees up, tried to stand, fear and stiffness holding his legs. He peered up over the boulder, the feeble protection, saw the German tanks two abreast, gigantic, more behind them, black exhaust rising up, the sound monstrous, terrifying. The column stretched back into the trees, all rolling closer, and the first two left the main road, rolled out to the side, spreading out on the flat open ground, turrets sweeping side-to-side, a flash of fire, and another, the shell blasting a stone wall. Mitchell was pulling him.
“Let’s go!”
Machine-gun fire sprayed the ground, slicing the snowbank, and Benson pushed his legs in motion, began to run, saw smoke and fire and running men. Some were dropping, cut down hard, the blasts coming again, the German tank guns slicing men in two, fiery rips in the snow, men tossed aside. He ran without thinking, the panic complete, ignored the men around him, passed by the wounded, rips of machine-gun fire in his ears. Some men were pushing past, faster, and Benson stared at the road that led up into the trees, thick with men, too many men, no. The blast came, one thunderous eruption, the road smeared with squirming black stains, black earth and shattered men scattered through the snow. His legs kept pumping, trees to his left, the hillside falling away, the place they had climbed that morning. Machine-gun fire cracked past his head, and men were jumping, stumbling down, moving away from the carnage in the road. Benson followed, the tanks closer still, heavy rattle of the machine guns, the tanks firing point-blank into the fleeing men. He jumped down, over a snowbank, was in the trees now, but there was no brush, no cover, and still the tanks kept up their fire. He stumbled, on his knees, rolled over, close to a fat tree, thick enough for cover, but his legs would not stop, and he was up again, the wave of men moving past, pulling him. One man fell hard, facedown, close in front of him, rolling over, blood pouring from his back, spreading through the snow. Benson jumped over the man, panic erasing the image. The machine-gun fire still whistled past, shattering and slicing trees, and he pushed down the hill, rubber legs, gasping searing pain in his chest, another man falling, more screams, relentless, following him, inside his own mind, his own voice.
DECEMBER 17, 1944, 3 P.M.
The tanks rolled past, two of them, their commanders up, standing tall above their open hatches, oblivious to any threat from the Americans that had scattered away like so many birds. More vehicles came behind, half-tracks, heavy machine guns perched above, manned by crews who were bundled in heavy coats. There were trucks as well, more machine guns, and from the gap in the branches Benson could see the tops of helmets, a dozen or more soldiers in each truck. The column passed in waves of smoke, rattles from the trucks that bounced and jostled their cargo in the uneven mess churned up by the treads of the tanks in front of them. Benson was only a few yards above the road, perched on the embankment beneath a fat spruce. He had a perfect view of the scene, a short parade of enemy power rolling past. Around him there were no more than twenty others, dug into the snow, some, like Benson, using the low canopies of the spruces. He could not stop shivering, his boots soaking through his last pair of dry socks, his coat drenched from melting snow. He shared the shelter of the tree with Mitchell and one other man, a stranger, a straggler from an artillery company. Mitchell held his rifle ready, as though he was preparing to attack the column by himself, and Benson caught Mitchell’s eye, shook his head, Don’t do it. What the hell are you thinking? Benson’s rifle stood up against the tree trunk, close enough, but Benson had no interest in putting up a fight, was curled up tightly in a ball, desperate for warmth. He watched Mitchell, saw clouds of foggy breath in a steady rhythm, and Benson thought, he won’t do anything stupid. It’s just his way. He’s pissed off. Lik
e the sarge. Always pissed off. Maybe it keeps them warm.
Benson put a numb hand inside his jacket, felt for the wet socks, held on to a last flicker of faith that this time they might be drying. It was one strange piece of training that had stayed inside his mind, the words rolling past him in the voice of some nameless lieutenant. Dry your wet socks and underwear against your own skin. The human body has a remarkable ability to provide warmth. And so they were against his skin, the socks warmer but still soaking wet. That idiot lieutenant. I can’t keep any part of my whole damn body warm. How am I supposed to have enough left over to dry any socks? He curled his toes, felt the stinging numbness, shivered again, uncontrollable spasm, saw Mitchell looking at him, concern, nodded, yeah, I’m okay. Mitchell stared out again through the thick branches of the spruce, rose slightly, searching for the best view, and Benson realized that it was growing quiet. The column had passed. There was a long silent moment, no one moving yet, and then, from beyond the tree, the hard whisper. It was Higgins.
“The road’s clear. Let’s go!”
Mitchell was up and out quickly, a shower of wet snow coming down on Benson from the low limbs above his head. The other man looked up, questioning, and Benson said, “We gotta move. Come on.”
“I don’t think I can. My feet …”
The man seemed to curl up tighter, his eyes closing again, and Benson pushed his shoulder, a hard shove.
“No you don’t. I’m not leaving you to freeze to death. Come on!”
He could hear the others, low voices, Higgins there now, leaning low, peering into the cover. “Move it, Private.”
“Sarge, this guy’s having trouble.”
Higgins cursed, launched himself into the canopy of limbs, grabbed the man’s coat collar, said, “Help me drag him out. Gotta get him up and moving. I’m not leaving anyone behind. Get up, soldier! You keep moving, you won’t freeze!”
The man raised his head, seemed to understand, and Benson pulled with the sergeant, dragged the man from under the canopy. Benson saw the others now, up and out of their cover, some marching in place, trying to thaw the misery in their feet, some blowing into hands, puffs of white steam. With Benson’s help, the sergeant pulled the man to his feet, the man responding, holding them away.
“I’m okay. I can do it. Thanks.”
Higgins moved away quickly, stepped down closer to the road, then came back up the hill, pointed out away from the road, said, “Up this way. We can keep an eye on the road. We’ve gotta get far enough west to find our lines.”
They began to move, Benson falling in close behind Mitchell, thought, what lines? That village was our lines, and we got blown to hell. He thought of the Shermans now, a stab of anger. Damn them. Just took off like we weren’t there. Somebody oughta pay for that. Some officer probably yelled retreat ’cause he got scared. You’re in a tank, you jackass. Try doing this in wet boots and a rifle and see how that feels. The anger rolled through him, and he tried not to think about the tanks that had been hit. He had never forgotten the teasing, back in the States, wiseass description of the tanks as steel coffins. Yeah, maybe so. Those Kraut tanks were a whole lot bigger. Maybe stronger too, bigger guns. Maybe … I’d run like hell too. Especially if my buddy got blown sky-high next to me.
He stumbled, focused on the hillside, watch your step, moron. Don’t need a broken ankle. They were climbing, the steps slow and painful, Higgins keeping them well away from the road below. The hill crested, thinner trees, and Higgins stopped, held up a hand, turned, waited for the men to gather close.
“Stay here, stay low. I’m gonna see what’s beyond this ridge. This looks like it drops off pretty steep on the far side.”
Benson watched the sergeant go, careful, slipping from tree to tree, disappearing beyond the crest, and in a short minute Higgins was back, waving them forward. The march began again, up and over, the woods spreading out below them, more of the tall pines, no brush, knee-deep snow, and now Benson could see the village. Like the others he had seen in this horrific country, it sat low in the bottom of a bowl of hills, narrow roads leading out into tight valleys. Higgins led them down quickly, Benson’s wet boots kicking up snow in front of him as he half slid down the hill. He braced himself against a tree, slowing his descent, a stab of pain through his hand, the fingers aching. What the hell are we doing? A damn village could be full of Krauts. But Higgins was moving on, the others as well, some limping badly, and Benson pulled the rifle tight against his shoulder, followed them. Close to the first building, the tree line ended in a small square garden, a low picket fence surrounding dead greenery. Higgins stopped, motioned them low, his eyes darting back toward the men, then into the village, searching ahead. Benson realized now, the village was intact, none of the destruction that had blasted the first village off the map. It was also deathly silent.
They followed Higgins into a narrow lane, houses on both sides, frosted windowpanes, thick-hewn wood doors. Higgins’s alertness was contagious, each man stepping slowly, stopping at each gap between the houses, peering cautiously around corners. Benson heard his heartbeat, the rifle in his hands now, a quick check of the clip, no time for surprises from an empty M-1. They moved past a larger building, a sign above a wide door, meaningless foreign words, the lane ending at a wider open square. In the snow were heavy tracks, tanks treads and rubber tires, the snow flattened to an icy glaze. Higgins waved them back away from the square into a side street, narrow again, and Benson did as the others did, crouched low beneath the windows. Higgins waved to one side, pointed to an alley to the right, sending several men in that direction with a low whisper.
“Stay parallel to us. Either no one’s home, or they know we’re here. I think no one’s home.”
Higgins waited for the men to move away, made a quick motion forward to the others close behind him.
“Spread out, both sides of the street. You see anybody at all, don’t keep it to yourself.”
Benson stayed close to Higgins, Mitchell as well, and two of the others Benson ignored. The sergeant rose slightly, peeked into a window, and Benson did the same, saw curtains, then an opening, dark interior, furniture, no one moving.
Higgins whispered, “Krauts have been here, for sure. Where the hell are the people?”
Beside Benson, Lane was there, said, “Hey, Sarge, how about we try to find something to eat?”
“My idea exactly. Stay together. We’ll do it carefully, each side of the street.”
Higgins pointed to a door across the street, the men nodding, pushing inward, the door opening slowly. The men slipped inside, one man standing upright, his rifle pointed in, covering the rest.
Higgins looked back, pointed to Mitchell, said, “I’ll stay out here with Lane. You take the other three, go into this one.”
Mitchell was at the door, tried to open it, stood back, said, “Locked. They locked the damn door.”
Mitchell raised his rifle, brought the butt down hard, the doorknob coming apart. He pushed the door with one boot until it gave way. Benson wanted to say something, Careful, a trap, but Mitchell was inside, the others following. Benson was the last one in, keeping his rifle high, pointing at shadows in jerking motions. The house was dark, musty, the smell of old ashes in a fireplace. Mitchell pointed his rifle into a small kitchen, stepped inside, knelt, began searching cabinets, made a low yelp.
“Ha! Try this, boys!”
The other two men moved that way, and Mitchell began to toss glass jars out onto the floor, looked back at Benson, tossed one toward him. It was some kind of fruit, and Mitchell tossed him another. “They left us some chow. Damn nice of them.”
The treasure seemed to relax them all.
Higgins was there, said, “The boys over there found a whole ham. At least we can eat.”
The festive mood was spreading, men poking into other rooms. Benson stuffed the jar in his jacket, examined the room, a soft plush couch, dark red velvet, a chair, small tables, a gas lamp. There was a photograph on one wall abo
ve a thick wood table, and he moved closer, saw a family, the sober stare of one old man flanked by two women, one standing close behind a younger boy. There were smiles from the others, the woman with her hand on the boy’s shoulder, a scene of warmth, affection. Benson backed away, scanned the artifacts in the room, a scattering of objects on a mantel over a dark fireplace. There was a porcelain vase, old, and beside it, another photograph in a thick wood frame. Benson leaned close, saw the same old man, but younger now, an army uniform, medals. The mantel was scattered with other bits of the family’s life, a crucifix standing upright inside a domed glass box, another small vase, something to hold a small bouquet of flowers. The wall itself was dark, reddish brown wallpaper, peeling, one seam coming apart. Thick wood beams were overhead, low and oppressive, and Benson felt uneasy, guilty, looked around at the others as they rummaged into more of the rooms. Some of the men were becoming playful, one man emerging with a dress in his hand, red and yellow flowers on white cotton.
“By damn, look at this! My gal’d look like a million bucks in this. There’s more, too, lots of ’em. Lady shoes too.”
Benson realized, cotton.
“Hey, cut up some of that stuff. It’ll go in our boots, help dry ’em out.”
The man looked at the dress, his enthusiasm rising. “Yeah, good idea. Warmer too.”
The man’s bayonet came out, the dress ripped, sliced into pieces. He handed a few to Benson, said, “Hey, you guys. I’ll get some more, make a bunch of small pieces.”
From the kitchen, Mitchell said, “Look for socks too. Gals might wear ’em around here. Check every drawer.”
The man with the bayonet disappeared into a back room, and Benson stuffed the cloth pieces into his pocket, thought of pulling off his boots. No, not now. There might not be time. The sarge likes to haul his ass out of places pretty quick.