No Less Than Victory

  They surged forward, up and over the fallen tree, and Benson saw the gun, the long barrel of a 150, and the crew, two men moving around it in a slow-motion routine. They were Americans.

  One man was carrying a shell, the loader, staggering to drive the heavy shell into the gun’s breach, and Higgins didn’t wait, shouted, “Hey! Americans! Hey!”

  The men turned, frantic, a pistol coming up, the loader setting the shell down, lurching forward to grab a carbine.

  Higgins shouted again, “Americans! Don’t shoot!”

  They stared back for a moment, and Benson saw dull shock on filthy faces, wide eyes, one man coming forward.

  “You pulling us out?”

  Higgins didn’t seem to know how to respond, and Mitchell said, “No. We’re lost.”

  The man seemed more frantic, stared down the hill behind Benson. “How’d you get up here? That way? There’s no road. Where’s your truck?”

  Higgins responded, “No truck. We walked. Been walking. Got shot up pretty bad, got away from a company of Krauts at a village back that way.”

  The man wasn’t listening, still stared past them, searched the woods.

  “How many … just you three? We can’t stay here. But I can’t leave my gun.”

  Benson moved up close to Higgins, looked past the man, saw the loader standing close beside the 150, the man’s carbine still pointing at them, his eyes an empty stare.

  The first man seemed to focus on Higgins, said, “I’m Lieutenant Carino. Five Nine Oh Field Artillery. That’s Private Woodley. We’ve been waiting for relief.”

  Higgins looked at the cannon, said, “Yeah, we know you guys. You’re with us. Company B, Four Two Three. We got cut off from the rest of our company. Hell, everybody got cut off, I think. Where’s the rest of your unit? You set up along this ridgeline?”

  “They’re gone. I don’t know where. I’m the only one left up here. We need a big truck. The gun’s frozen into the dugout. We can’t move it.”

  Benson felt something strange in the man’s demeanor, the words soft and automatic. He saw now, the wheels of the cannon buried deep in the frozen mud. The loader finally lowered the carbine, stared at them silently, a hopeful smile now on his face.

  Higgins stepped closer to the gun, said, “Who are you shooting at?”

  The lieutenant pointed out over the cut trees, the path of fire cleared days ago by his crew.

  “The enemy’s all over the place. They had artillery positions up on that far ridgeline, and we’ve had a fix on that. Haven’t seen much up there in a couple days. There’s so damn many of them, and we’re doing all we can to keep it hot, but we can’t adjust our fire. We’re down to a dozen shells. We need a truck. Either send us some ammo or pull us out of here.”

  Higgins looked back at Benson, a hint of warning in his eyes.

  “Lieutenant, which way did you bring your gun up here? How was it driven in?”

  The man pointed down the hill, the far side, and Benson stepped forward, saw the wide trail, the deep tracks in the snow.

  The lieutenant said, “My driver left with the damn truck. It got hot here … couple days ago. He just drove away. I’ve got two other men down. We buried them back in those trees, in their foxholes. Took a direct hit. Nothing we can do now but hold out, until you get us out of here. Thank God you’re here.”

  Higgins looked down, said, “Sir, I’m just a sergeant. A squad leader. We got cut off from our rifle company. You’re the first officer we’ve seen since yesterday. The last orders we got were to make our way back to Saint Vith.”

  The man looked at Mitchell, then Benson, and Benson saw an eerie tilt in the man’s stare.

  “Saint Vith. That’s good. Division HQ is there. We can’t leave the gun. My orders …”

  “Sir, come with us. You can’t hold out here. You’re right, the enemy is everywhere. These woods are full of patrols. Somebody’s bound to come up here and shut this gun up. I don’t know how in hell you’ve kept from being shelled, or why no one has overrun your position.”

  “They’ve shelled us, but once the rest of our guns pulled back, the enemy left us alone. If he’s on that ridgeline, we’re making it hot for him.”

  “Sir, you and your man come with us. We’ll follow the road you came in on. We can get the gun … later.”

  The lieutenant turned, his loader reacting by setting his carbine to one side.

  “I can’t do that. I have orders to hold this position. Send us some ammo, or pull us out. We’ll keep up fire as long as we can.”

  Mitchell moved close to Higgins, said softly, “We’ve gotta get going. The Krauts aren’t gonna leave this guy alone for long.”

  Higgins slung his rifle onto his shoulder, said, “Look, sir, we’ve got to keep moving. I’ll tell someone you’re up here.”

  Higgins seemed to hesitate, and Benson watched as the lieutenant moved away, back to his gun. He pointed to the loader, the man obeying, hoisting up the heavy shell, sliding it into the breach. The lieutenant raised his binoculars, staring out toward the only place his gun could target. Benson covered his ears, waited for it, the gun firing again, thunder driving hard through his gut, the loader moving slowly, methodically, picking up another shell.

  NEAR ST. VITH

  DECEMBER 18, 1944, 10:30 P.M.

  The rifle fire streaked past them, and now a wave of machine guns, tracers blinding, cutting past, slicing tree limbs, smacking into rocks. Higgins shouted back toward them, “Get up the hill! Stay low!”

  Benson crawled backward, his boots shoving through the snow, the rifle in one hand. Mitchell was still down in front of him, began to fire back, cursing, the M-1 popping until the clip clinked out. But the German fire continued, a spray through the woods above them, pinning all three men flat to the ground.

  Higgins yelled again, “Move! No shooting! You’re giving us away!”

  Benson felt the ground leveling out behind him, crawled more quickly, a pine tree beside him, and he rolled over, breathing hard, the rifle clamped upright against his chest. Down below, Mitchell had reloaded, emptied another clip, the German fire responding. But Mitchell seemed to realize the futility of his one-man fight, and with his silence the German guns slowed, then stopped. Orders were shouted out from below, a new burst of machine-gun fire, and Benson tried to gauge the distance, impossible, the noises ripping through the darkness, still chattering through the trees above him.

  Higgins, sliding through the snow close by, shouted down the hill to Mitchell, “Back! Let’s go! I’ll leave you here, dammit!”

  Benson had heard that kind of fury before, the sergeant’s voice piercing the dark like a crack of thunder. Benson began to feel the panic, wanted to run, get beyond the ridge, out of the line of fire, but Mitchell was still below, and Benson felt hot frustration with the man’s stubbornness, thought, is he reloading? Why? Dammit, let’s get the hell out of here!

  “Dammit, Kenny! Get up here! Let’s go!”

  The sergeant curled up against a nearby tree, said, “Shut up! They only know where that idiot gorilla is. If he’ll stop shooting …”

  Mitchell was suddenly there, a crouched run, past them, over the crest of the hill. Higgins rose up, began to follow, Benson doing the same, breathless relief, and Mitchell slid down in the snow, cursing in a steady stream, the others finding cover beside him.

  Mitchell said, “Ran out of ammo. No more clips. Sons of bitches! Sons of bitches! They’re coming, count on it. I need some clips! Eddie, give me what you’ve got!”

  Higgins grabbed Mitchell, a low hissing whisper, “Shut the hell up! We need to get out of here! They might be coming, but we can’t fight them! Not here!”

  There was a hard moment, silence, Benson staring at the two silhouettes in the snow. He knew Mitchell’s temper, dangerous, but Higgins was holding him by the arms, not backing away. Benson wanted to say something, Stop this.

  Higgins whispered again, “Let’s go, Private. No more fighting here. That was a whole damn
platoon, and they had heavy weapons. We can’t win this one!” He turned toward Benson. “How many clips you got?”

  “Six, I think.”

  Higgins held out his hand. “Give me two.”

  Benson fumbled with numb fingers, pulled two clips out of his bandolier.

  Higgins again, “Hurry it up! I’ve got five. Here, dammit. Take his, and two of mine. That’s four.”

  Mitchell had calmed down, his breathing still in hard bursts. “Thanks. That’ll do for now. You too, Eddie. Thanks.”

  The sergeant was up now, and Benson saw only the man’s silhouette, knew he was staring back up the hill. Benson turned that way, straining to hear, nothing, and then a low rumble of engines, beyond the ridge.

  Higgins said, “They’re moving off. We’re not worth taking casualties for. If they knew we were only three morons …” He paused, the engines a distant hum now, Mitchell back up on his feet.

  “I wanted to get that jackass on the machine gun. I could see the tracers. Finally got a bead on him, but the damn clip popped out. I’d have had him.”

  Higgins began to move, said, “Yeah, and they’d have sent fifty guys up this hill. How many of them woulda had you? Let’s go.”

  Benson followed the sergeant, who stopped, pausing again, listening.

  “The trucks are heading that way. Let’s keep sorta in the same direction. They gotta know where our lines are.”

  Benson was shaking, thought of the tracers, the slap of the machine-gun bullets on the trees. The brief fight was past, but he felt it now, one knee quivering, giving way, the shivering increasing. He stared at Higgins, fell to one knee, said, “Are you nuts? You wanna stay close to them?”

  Higgins knelt beside him, leaned close, hot sour breath. “Get hold of it, Private. That was a good road. Has to lead somewhere we need to be. They won’t think we’re following them. They got trucks, remember?”

  Mitchell pulled Benson up by the coat collar, said, “He’s okay. Gets a little girlie every now and then. C’mon, Eddie, the sarge’s right. We gotta stay kinda close to the Krauts.”

  Benson felt the hard grip on his collar, slid away from it, felt embarrassed, the fear overwhelming. He forced the calm into his whisper.

  “Sorry. Let’s go.”

  They moved down through the snow, through the tracks of many others, trampled pathways now, the sound of artillery off to one side, a distant machine gun. Close to the Krauts. Benson stared out through the dark woods, the faint carpet of white broken by the tall trees. When the sun went down, Higgins had kept them moving, and no one had complained. They had run out of food, the precious fruit long gone, and the woods were thinning out, none of the thick spruces to give them a shelter. He tried to keep his brain away from the misery, focused on the trees, stepping carefully, the woods less hilly, open ground where soldiers had been, the snow hard and icy, the sudden obstacle of tank tracks, painful stumbling.

  The German convoy had been a surprise, the three men slipping easily down a wide hillside, seeking some trail they could follow. There had been no hint that just below them, a line of trucks were stopped on the road, engines off. But then a voice had called out, a startling yelp of German, someone, a guard perhaps, alert to any noise from the woods around them. The Germans began firing all through the woods, and now Benson realized, they had no idea how many we were, or who. The truck engines had started up in unison, punctuated by fire from the one heavy machine gun, the target that Mitchell so wanted to claim. But the Germans did not seem to want the fight either, the trucks moving away as soon as the shooting started.

  Benson picked his way carefully, saw another set of tank treads, black muddy snow, thought, why were they stopped at all? Dinnertime? Maybe they were lost too. At least they had a road to follow.

  Up ahead, Higgins slowed, then stopped, waiting, and Benson was suddenly alert, what? He saw now, the delay was for him, the other two matching his pace. Throughout the day, Higgins had given Benson every rest he needed, but the lack of food was affecting all of them. When the rags in his boots had been tossed away, they were bloody, something Benson tried not to think about now. The wetness was always there, and he repeated that in his mind, the wetness … snow, water. Not blood. Please God. Not blood.

  They were moving again, Mitchell falling back behind him, single-file through a tight stand of thin trees. They moved for a few more yards, low, thin branches slapping their coats, and suddenly Higgins stopped in front of him, frozen, one hand sharply in the air. Benson obeyed, another wave of panic, exhaustion, and hunger pulling at him. Mitchell was close beside him now, reassuring, a hand on Benson’s back, fingers gripping the coat, pulling Benson slowly downward. Higgins had ducked low, and Benson stared ahead, felt a wave of sickness, sudden, horrible twisting in his gut. He leaned low, scooped out a hole in the snow, put his face down, to muffle the sound. He waited, agonizing seconds, but the sickness passed, and Mitchell grabbed him, a low whisper.

  “Not now, Eddie. They’re right in front of us.”

  Benson felt his heart jump, searched the shadows for Higgins, realized he was low against a tree, facing them. Higgins turned past the tree slowly, Benson’s brain racing, questions, no explanation from Mitchell, nothing to see. He searched the dark, the small trees mostly behind them, a wide swath of open ground in front. A road. Higgins began a slow crawl, and suddenly there was a blast of light, blinding, pushing Benson back, voices.

  “Halt! You’re covered!”

  “Hey, they’re our guys!”

  “What the hell?”

  Benson stayed low, blinded, blinking furiously, held the rifle up in front of him, ready, finger on the trigger. The voices kept coming, and the light was gone now, the darkness a blaze of blue and red ripping his eyes. He stared down, the voices closer, ominous, and he saw a small piercing beam moving across the open ground.

  “Hey! You guys! Look here!”

  Higgins’s voice now, “Four Two Three. Rifle squad. Bruce Higgins, sergeant.”

  “I’ll be damned. Where the hell’d you guys come from? We thought you were infiltrators. Bastards been slipping past us every damn night.”

  “Back off, soldier. All right, Sergeant Higgins. Who won the pennant for the National League last year?”

  There was a strange silent moment, and the voice came again.

  “I said, Higgins, who won the National League pennant last year?”

  “Hell if I know. I’m not a big baseball guy.”

  Benson heard the click of a rifle, felt the burst of words coming out of his brain. “Cardinals! I’m from near Saint Louis! The sarge is from out west. He wouldn’t know. Cardinals. Musial hit three fifty-seven. Kid’s gonna be a star!”

  The flashlight beam found Benson, who tried to avoid the light, his eyes still half blind. He caught motion across the open ground, shadowy figures gathering, and a massive shadow behind them. It was a tank.

  Close in front of him, another man said, “Outside Saint Louis? Where? I’m from Hanes City. You from near there?”

  Benson felt a stab of alarm.

  “Sullivan. Sullivan, Missouri. I never heard of Hanes City.”

  “Good thing, son. I never heard of it either.”

  Another man stepped close, said, “I’m not sure about this, sir. Krauts have been pretty crafty.” He leaned low toward Benson, said, “Look, pal, I’m a Giants fan. Who’s their biggest star?”

  Benson was frantic now, ran names through his head, Dodgers … Giants …

  “Mel Ott, I guess. Hate the damn Giants.”

  The man laughed, backed away, and another man spoke, the man with the flashlight, the voice of an officer.

  “Get these boys what they need. Feed ’em, fix ’em up, send ’em to my tent. The G-2 will wanna talk to them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Benson’s eyes were adjusting to the dark again, and he could see men in motion, some disappearing back into the woods across the open ground, men up on the tank. Four men were staying close, rifles up
on shoulders.

  Higgins said, “What the hell was that about? If Benson hadn’t been a baseball nut, then what? You’d have shot us?”

  “That’s about right. Kraut infiltrators every damn place you look. Nice neat GI uniforms, good English, look just like they’re supposed to look. Don’t know a damn thing about baseball, though. What the hell’s your problem?”

  Higgins said, “Family’s from Los Angeles. Don’t have a damn radio. Never took to the game.”

  Mitchell was beside Benson now, slapped his back, a hearty laugh. “See? I told Eddie he was good for something. You just saved our asses. I couldn’t for the life of me remember who won the pennant last year.”

  Benson began to move with the others, out into the open, hard tracks in the snow, the footing uneven. The voices were blending around him, jokes and low laughter, questions and answers, another hard slap on his back. He felt a swirl of heat, and the sickness came again, his brain spinning in confusion, his knees buckling, the shadows fading away.

  He heard the sound of a radio, talking, garbled scratches. The sounds filled his head, warmth and sunshine, the front porch, his father, baseball, home run, his father slapping the porch railing, angry, that damn Mel Ott. The sunshine was gone now, darkness above him, the stink of medicine, more voices.

  “He’s awake, sir.”