For What He Could Become Read online

  Bill grabbed Coric’s hand and squeezed hard. “The Lord is my shepherd…”

  Coric closed his eyes and concentrated hard on taking his next breath.

  Bill said, “…Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

  Coric sucked some air between his teeth and then his face relaxed. Even as Bill went on, “…Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” he knew he was gone.

  There was another burst of machine-gun fire from the SP gun, then nothing. They waited, occasionally looking through the grass to see if anyone was coming. No one ventured from the road, and after thirty minutes they heard the armor start up. It turned around and they all watched as the command car led the SP gun back down the road.

  The men drifted over to look at Coric. They had traded one for one. Coric for the German officer. And what had either side gained from the two deaths? The Germans had gone back to their unit, and five of the original six men of his patrol would move on toward the American lines. Nothing had changed except that within a quarter of an hour two men, unknown to each other, had left this life in a violent manner and without their families knowing they’d left it.

  Bill hugged the bank and cried softly. It was one thing to see men killed fifty yards away in another foxhole, or see the enemy drop as they ran toward your lines, and quite another to have a friend killed ten feet from you in the same ditch.

  As he drew another breath his side stung and burned. He looked down and saw blood coming out of a hole in his coat. Slowly he laid down his rifle and removed his coat. There was a jagged tear in his shirt and long underwear. Wayne saw it and scrambled over.

  He opened the coat and shirt and gently pushed Bill against the bank. A small ugly piece of shrapnel had cut through Bill’s coat and lodged between his lower ribs. It had torn the flesh and bruised the bones. Wayne held the tear open and glared at the wound.

  He looked Bill in the eye and said, “I don’t know if I should try and take it out or not.”

  “Leave it,” Bill said. “Sprinkle some sulfa powder on it, bandage it.”

  He closed his eyes and sucked in air through his teeth.

  When Wayne finished no one seemed eager to rush out of the ditch. He reached down, picked off Coric’s coat, and laid it over Bill.

  “I don’t want it,” Bill said.

  “He doesn’t need it any more,” Wayne said.

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Bill, we’ve left dead men all over this country, don’t let this one cause you to make bad decisions. We need everyone thinking right to get out of here.” He spread the coat over Bill. Bill turned his head, tears tracking through the caked dirt on his face.

  Most of the men noticed the silence. The war had passed them by, almost as if they were the last remnants of some forgotten force no longer relevant. Abandoned by their officers, their comrades surrendered, they were drifting around Belgium like a piece of bark on a small creek, going with the flow here, circling in a whirlpool briefly, then bouncing against the bank to flow downstream again.

  Wayne urged them to eat some of the cheese and bread before they took off. They chewed at it but their jaw muscles were slow and they all bowed their heads like their helmets were too burdensome to bear.

  Wayne put an arm under Bills shoulder and boosted him up. “Let’s go, old warrior.”

  “Wayne - take point and lead us to a safe place,” Bill said.

  Wayne led the patrol to a corner of a field where a small triangle of woods had been left in a low spot next to a creek. It was far enough back from the road that the chances were they wouldn’t be seen.

  Bill organized a perimeter and waited for dark with two watching while the others slept. There would be no fire, but the extra coat and the blankets would keep them warm. Wayne filled the canteens from the creek, and they ate the bread and cheese. Then the patrol settled down with only their eyes moving.

  Bill looked at them - this good group of guys that had somehow banded together. What were the chances of any five or six guys from the regiment doing this well?

  When it was full dark, Wayne crawled up to Bill. “What say I make a little circle and see what we’re up against?”

  Bill frowned. “I don’t like it. I’d like us all here if we had a problem.”

  “Indians were made for crawling around in the dark. I might find a way out of here without exposing the whole squad.”

  Bill looked up. “No moon. Don’t make it long. No more than an hour.”

  Noise travels far on cold air, and Bill could hear farmertype noises, lids on milk cans, animal sounds. If he just sat and relaxed he heard more sounds than if he strained to hear.

  A half-hour later Wayne came in. “We’re in luck,” he said. “There’s a German aid station in a field about half a mile from here and away from anything else. Looks like they’re bringing back their wounded from the front. There aren’t many able-bodied men around, mostly medical staff. They have food and med supplies. What would you say we hit them, get you taken care of, grab some food, and take off running?”

  Bill looked at him and then at the men. “Think we can do it?”

  Wayne nodded.

  The men said nothing.

  “You guys game?” Bill asked.

  They looked at each other, then nodded their heads.

  “Okay,” Bill said. “Mount up.”

  He let Wayne lead the way. It seemed more like a mile to the aid station, and his wound throbbed all the way. They crawled up behind a tent that had a light inside. There was one guard near the entry and exit of the compound and one between two tents on the side of the field.

  Wayne pointed and whispered, “That tent’s the mess hall.”

  “Okay. Take Peter with you and get some chow, then we’ll find a medic and get me patched up. How many krauts here?”

  “Eight, maybe ten at the most,” Wayne said.

  Bill looked to his left. He would take Eric and John and set up the gun between the two tents in the background, where the gun could sweep the entrance and anybody who stepped out in front of the tents.

  They slid silently across the frozen ground. In the dark, Eric came upon a sentry having a smoke. Before he could drop his cigarette, unsling his rifle, and shoot, Eric jammed a knife into his stomach. There was a gurgling sound and the man went down, but the knife thrust didn’t kill him. Bill grabbed him, clamping his hand over his mouth, and stabbed him in the throat.

  The German was squirming, the steam rising from the warm blood draining down his neck and into his tunic. Bill sawed at his throat, reaching for the artery, the man flailing his arms, banging his wristwatch on Bill’s helmet. It seemed like the struggle went on forever, the noise surely heard by others. At last the German went limp. Bill fell to his hands and knees, breathing hard, and looked at the bloody knife in his hand.

  Good God, what have they made of me?

  Peter came back with a musette bag over his shoulder.

  “Wayne’s got a medic. Come on.” He reached for Bill’s hand, saw the blood and knife. “You okay?”

  “Hell no, I’m not okay.” Bill pointed at the dead German.

  Peter glared at the still form. “Come on.”

  They entered a tent at the far right corner of the compound. Wayne had a knife against the throat of the medic, whose eyes grew wide when he saw Bill come through the flap, blood on his arm and the front of his coat. Peter tied the flap shut and knelt down to guard the entrance.

  Bill removed his coat and shirt and sat on the table. Wayne grabbed hold of the medic’s collar and pressed the point of his knife in his kidney, hard enough to let him know that was where the knife would enter if he didn’t do the job.

  The medic looked at the embedded shrapnel, then, glancing at Wayne, cautiously moved toward the tray of instruments. It took five minutes of frantic work for the medic to remove the shrapnel and bandage the wound. Bill had never seen a doctor work so quickly, but then he’d never seen anyone work
with a knife at his kidney.

  He put his clothes back on while Peter and Wayne taped the medic’s mouth, hands, and feet and laid him on his stomach on the ground. They then pulled his feet up and ran tape around the ankles and across the forehead, pulling his body into an inverted ‘C’. Bill thought that quite creative and even managed a smile as Wayne whispered several times, “Schoenberg…Schoenberg.” The medic looked at him.

  Peter untied the flap and peered out. There was no one in the area. Eric lifted the gun, John grabbed the tripod, and the patrol headed toward Schoenberg.

  A quarter of a mile out of the camp, Wayne turned hard right and followed a fence line to a corner where he turned again, heading this time southwest toward Bastogne.

  “Hurt?” Wayne asked Bill.

  “Everything hurts.”

  “Here.” He handed Bill some bread. “Soak this up in your mouth and it isn’t half bad. I think it’s pumpernickel.”

  He checked to see that the safety was on and that his ammo bandolier was straight, easy to get to, and wasn’t resting on his wound. He took a breath to see how deep he could breathe without pain, looked around at the men, and took the lead.

  They walked all night without encountering another person. Before dawn they settled into a defensive perimeter inside some short brush that offered no protection from bullets but did shield them from sight. From that position they could observe a small lane that ran generally east and west and noticed farmers using it to move livestock to fields.

  At midday they heard heavy equipment coming up the road.

  “Man, I hope that’s ours,” Wayne said.

  Eric and John had set the gun up and Bill looked over it now to see if they had a good field of fire.

  “What makes you think it’s ours?” Eric said.

  “Didn’t. Just said I hoped it was.”

  John crawled out to get a better look, then wiggled back. “They’re tanks with a white star on the turret. Gotta be ours.”

  They looked at Bill.

  “Wayne, go take a look. I can’t crawl with this rib.”

  Wayne took off his helmet and crawled out where John had been. He was a long time out there before he inched his way back.

  “Well, they’re US tanks, all right, but I don’t know who’s manning them. Could be krauts.”

  “How we gonna find out?” John asked.

  Bill was thinking about that and right now he didn’t have a good answer.

  “Hell’s fire,” Peter said. “I’ll take off my coat and shirt and run out to them. If they take me in I’ll let you know what they are.”

  “Tell you what we do,” Bill said. “Let’s work our way to the roadside and see if we can hear them or make a more positive identification. I’m not eager to get shot by our guys or by them.”

  “No sense all of us going,” Wayne said. “Let me sneak up there and see what I can pick up.” He took off his heavy coat and laid his rifle on it.

  “You’re not taking your rifle?” Eric asked.

  “Want to stay light on my feet,” Wayne said.

  Bill put out his hand and grabbed his sleeve. “Wayne. Take it real slow and easy.”

  “I will.”

  “Yeah. I just don’t want to go through the rest of this war without you.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Their eyes locked for a moment.

  Finally Wayne said, “Man, you look grimy.” He smiled and left. Within twenty yards Bill couldn’t see him any more.

  From their position Bill could see several approaches to the road, and he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of Wayne. The armored column halted, and several GI’s came out of the tanks with Thompson .45’s held by a strap on their shoulder. Bill saw Wayne walk out of the brush with his hands held high and saw the men frisk him. Finally Wayne put his hands down and pointed toward the patrol. Bill could see the GI’s looking at them. Wayne motioned for them to come down.

  Bill’s face broke a smile. “Looks like we’re home, guys.”

  Eric said, “Man, I hope this is the last time I have to break this gun down, I’m wearing this thing out just moving it.”

  John grabbed the tripod and the patrol started across the ground. Bill picked up Wayne’s coat and rifle and trudged toward the waiting tanks.

  “John, do you feel lighter?” Wayne asked.

  “No.”

  “Eric, Peter…you guys feel lighter?”

  “No,” they said.

  Bill felt like he could jump from the ground right to the top of the tank. He knew Wayne could. As they approached the tanks, Bill squared his shoulders and straightened his back. He leveled his helmet and with a rifle on each shoulder walked evenly.

  “Eric, John, Peter—line up with me abreast. Let’s march in battle line.”

  It wasn’t really marching. The ground was frozen and uneven and they couldn’t step properly, but the four men came across the last fifty yards like a military unit. They stopped next to Wayne and ten feet from the two GI’s with Tommy guns. One of the GI’s, a sergeant, saluted Bill.

  “Welcome back, Corporal,” he said. “You did a good job. Your patrol can stand down.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” He handed the rifle and coat to Wayne. “My men and I are—“

  “I know, Corporal. The private here was telling me where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. We need to be moving. There’s a truck back about a hundred yards. We’ve radioed them—they’ll pick you up and you can report when we get to the line.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” Bill said.

  The GI’s got in their tanks and the column cranked away. The noise was terrific as the vehicles went by.

  The patrol climbed into the back of the truck through the canvas curtain and flopped on the benches. When their eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, they saw forms on the floor. Then they could make out boots. There were six frozen corpses tied to the front of the truck bed.

  Bill removed his helmet and lowered his head. The others did the same.

  “I wonder if they’ll ever find Coric,” Peter said.

  “I doubt it,” Bill said. “I couldn’t even find that ditch now if I tried.”

  “I think I could,” John said. “Wayne could.”

  Wayne shook his head. “Coric’s better off out there than in this truck.”

  They were silent for some time. Finally Peter said, “What day is this, do you suppose?”

  “It’s Christmas Day,” Wayne said. “That’s what the tankers said.”

  “Christmas?” John said.

  In Bill’s wildest dreams he didn’t think he would be here on a Christmas. He thought of home and family and feasting. Wonder what they’re doing at home?

  “Bill,” Eric said, “do you get any help from prayer?”

  Bill looked at him.

  “I have on occasion. It’s been a while.”

  “Could you think of a prayer that would be good now?”

  Bill thought back to the Episcopal bishop. It seemed so long ago, and yet it had been only a few years.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t know that I’ve ever heard one that would work for this, but I’ll try.” He bowed his head. “God our heavenly father, look down on us this day. Let your hand guide those on patrol and in the lines, help the wounded, and comfort the dying. Be with us now and forevermore. Amen.”

  He cleared his throat and swallowed, the lump staying lodged there. Feet shuffled softly on the floor of the truck bed.

  “Amen,” several voices chimed in.

  Sergeant Atterley opened the door and ushered the men into the room. They formed a straight line and came to attention.

  An officer who identified himself as Lieutenant Cole went to one end of the line and, as if he were reviewing troops on the parade grounds, proceeded to walk down the line, stopping in front of each man and looking him over carefully eyeto-eye. Bill was sure he was noting the disheveled appearance, dirty weapons, and stench of the men. After he had checked each man he wen
t to the front, spread his legs, and clasped his hands behind him in a loose parade-rest position.

  Looking at Bill, he said, “You’re the ranking soldier, Corporal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened to the rest of your outfit?”

  “They surrendered, sir.”

  “Was that the order of the day, Corporal?” It seemed to Bill that the lieutenant put a lot of emphasis on “corporal”.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then why didn’t you surrender, Corporal?”

  “Didn’t want to spend the rest of the war as a prisoner, sir.”

  “I see.”

  Lieutenant Cole released himself from the parade rest position, slapped his leg with the riding crop, and paced back and forth twice in front of the men.

  “The 106th is being re-formed on the Rhine. In the meantime we’ll keep you here until I can contact some officers in the 106th to verify your story. I personally think you’re deserters. You will surrender your weapons and be placed under guard.”

  “Follow me, Corporal.” Sergeant Atterley led the patrol through the immediate camp towards the brig, which was a barbed-wire enclosure attached to a building that reminded Bill of a chicken house he’d seen along the Yukon River. As they neared the enclosure, the sergeant veered left between two tents and toward a vehicle parking area. When they got to the last row of vehicles, he stopped.

  Bill noticed they were behind a large truck and not visible from the rest of the camp.

  “The lieutenant wants me to take you guys to the brig,” Atterley said, “but I’m not gonna do it. There are no written orders for you, so stay on this road until you come to the field hospital. It’s down the road about a mile. Check in there with Captain Rhodes. Tell him Sergeant Atterley sent you. Tell him your story. Get some medical attention for that wound, and he’ll see you get back to the 106th. You guys have done your fighting.”

  Bill extended his hand. “Thanks, Sarge.”

  Sergeant Atterley shook his hand. “Get going,” he said and turned and walked toward the brig, ducking behind various vehicles along the route.