For What He Could Become Page 6

“I’m not eager about it,” Bill said.

  “Me neither. Let’s go check out the area.” Wayne started out of the dugout. An officer was running behind the bunkers and dugouts, stopping at each one to shout something. When he got close to Bill and Wayne he walked over to them. It was Lt. Rob Adams, a former real estate salesman from Portland, Oregon.

  “Hi, guys,” he whispered. “Captain Clark says its okay to load your weapons now. Don’t start shooting unless you’re sure you have a German target in your sights. We don’t want any of our runners or the guys laying wire to get plinked.”

  “What position are we in?” Wayne asked.

  Adams looked away a moment, as if trying to figure out how much to tell them.

  “Well, we’re in a horseshoe facing the German lines over there.” He pointed toward a ridge. “You see those pillboxes? That’s where the enemy is.” He put his hands together to indicate the shape, then said, “Our company is at the back of the horseshoe.”

  He wiped his hands on his jacket, looked both ways, resumed his crouch position, and slipped off into the dark.

  “I say we go look anyway,” Wayne said.

  “Okay.”

  Both men pulled back the bolts of their M-1 rifles and inserted a clip.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” a guy said from the bunker nearby.

  “Just checking out the area,” Wayne said. “Going to find the outhouse.”

  “Well, don’t walk in front of our bunker, we’ve got itchy trigger fingers.”

  “Keep your finger off the trigger,” Bill said.

  A light shone briefly, then blinked out, and it was silent as Bill led the way along the path where the telephone wire had been laid. With the new snow there was enough light to see across the valley where the German pillboxes were poorly concealed. It was too far to shoot with any accuracy but he could see men outlined against the ground and sky.

  Bill stopped and hunched down. They had reached the curve in the horseshoe position and were walking in an oblique line toward the Germans when they heard a motor and a clanking sound. Both men scurried for cover. They listened, barely breathing, then heard the sound again. It came from the ridge behind the German defensive line.

  “What do you think?” Wayne said.

  “Tanks,” Bill said.

  “Let’s go tell someone.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Lt. Adams, maybe.”

  “He’s probably already heard it,” Bill said.

  “What if he hasn’t?”

  “Look. If they’re tanks we’ll all hear them pretty good if they’re coming at us.” He scuttled back to where Wayne was perched behind a tree. “Have you got a good enough feel for the territory now?”

  “I’ve got the shivers in me timbers, that’s what I’ve got. Let’s get back to our little tepee in the ground.”

  “Dinner?” Wayne asked when they got back. He handed Bill a D Bar.

  Bill bit off a chunk of the chocolate concentrate. He made a face and started looking around for his canteen.

  “No wonder they call this stuff Hitler’s Secret Weapon,” he said.

  “We’re gonna need water tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Only Coric and two other GI’s were in line when Bill and Wayne got to the food wagon the next morning. “They’re gonna start serving at 0530,” Coric said. “You guys want coffee?”

  They headed for a coffee urn perched on the tailgate and Bill pushed down on the lever. As the coffee filled his cup he inhaled the steam, his eyes closed and a smile on his face.

  The cook opened the warmer and yelled “come and get it!” Suddenly a thundering barrage of artillery shells tore into the earth, the first rounds landing behind the kitchen truck. Coric dropped his mess kit and cupped his hands over his ears.

  Bill took a gulp of coffee, threw the rest on the ground, and sprinted back towards the dugout. Wayne was three feet ahead of him and dived feet-first through the hole. By the time Bill came up on his feet, Wayne had his rifle pointed out the slit.

  “See anything?” Bill shouted.

  “No. Maybe it’s just an artillery barrage.”

  “Just? What did that captain say about the krauts only having two horse- drawn artillery guns out there?”

  “I don’t think he knew what he was talking about,” Wayne said.

  “They must be working those two horses overtime.”

  Shrapnel zinged through the air and smacked the logs with a hollow thunk. Bill put his hands over his ears and opened his mouth. It helped one minute and not the next. Wayne lay on the floor, arms covering his ears and face. The infantry would be coming after the bombardment.

  Then it stopped. It was so quiet you could hear the wind that was moving the fog out of the valley. It was like the end of a lightning storm, except it didn’t move off, it just stopped.

  A heavy machine gun that opened up to their right. It fired a few rounds, then went silent. Wayne looked out the slit.

  “Holy Mother of God!”

  Bill squeezed in beside him. As far as he could see there were white-clad Germans yelling and firing from the hip as they ran toward the Americans. No one from their platoon was returning fire.

  “What do we do?” Wayne asked.

  “How far do you think they are?”

  “At least four hundred yards.”

  Bill looked at his rifle, then turned the elevation sight two clicks and poked the barrel out the slit, resting it on the lower log.

  “You gonna shoot at them?” Wayne asked.

  “Watch me.” The rifle cracked, and the ejected casing hit Wayne’s helmet. He ducked like he’d been shot.

  “Did you get one?” he said.

  “I don’t know. So damn many out there I can’t tell if one’s down or not.”

  Wayne stuck his rifle out the slit. The rifle recoiled, and a German fell. They were now at 250 yards. Bill adjusted his sight, put in another clip of eight rounds, and resumed firing. His first shot took a German in the chest and spun him completely around. For a second, Bill wondered if he was dead. He watched him. He never moved again.

  I wonder how old he was?

  Wayne had knocked down two and now the Germans were running and weaving across the field, firing from the hip, making difficult targets but not scoring any hits. Bill shuddered, then aimed and fired just like he had been taught in basic training. He quit wondering how old they were and for the first time wondered if he would get any older.

  There was a hollow “whump” and seconds later an explosion in the midst of the leading troops. The weapons platoon had found the range and dropped a few well-directed mortar rounds on the oncoming troops, the detonations throwing up smoke and flying chunks of earth that blotted out the enemy.

  Somebody shouted down the roof opening, “Hang on! Keep firing! We’re going to stop them here!”

  The sputter of American machine guns filled the air. Between the mortar blasts they could make out the .30 and .50 caliber weapons’ almost ceaseless firing.

  “Maybe we oughta get out of here?” Wayne said.

  Bill didn’t reply.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Bill said. “I just don’t—.”

  “Well, I know! They could come over here and drop a grenade in this hole and blow us to kingdom come!”

  Bill looked out the firing slit and could not see any upright Germans, just a lot of still forms in the field. Some of them were lying there because he, Bill Williams, had killed them.

  Quiet stretched out over the battlefield like the fog seeping into every bunker and dugout along the line.

  “How are you for ammo?” Wayne asked.

  Bill checked. “I’m okay.”

  “I think I should go get a couple of bandoliers and see what’s happening.”

  “You’re wanting out of here, aren’t you?” Bill asked.

  “You can’t order me to stay here.”

  Wayne took two steps and was
out of the dugout. Bill stayed at the slit and stared at the bodies in the field. He didn’t know how many or which ones he had killed, but they had died coming to get him. He struggled to determine how he felt about that, how his family would feel if they knew he had killed people. When he conjured up a vision of his mother, she didn’t say anything, just stood near the door of their house and nodded as if she understood he didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t bring his father up. He tried, but the image of him dead in the bedroom with the rifle against his chest caused him to fade out. He had no idea how Ilene would feel about it, or Carl, for that matter.

  The sudden sound of a machine gun shook off his thoughts. Firing erupted along the front, scattered mortar rounds landed between the bunkers. As the next shell exploded, Wayne dived through the bunker opening, his rifle, helmet, and grenades crashing together when he hit the floor. The firing escalated up and down the line as he handed Bill two bandoliers of ammunition and three grenades.

  Bill went back to the slit. He could see the Germans coming across the field. The regiment’s mortars coughed out their rounds, the outgoing whump followed by the explosion down field.

  “Sergeant says to hold,” Wayne said. “Couple of guys wounded but the line’s holding okay. The kitchen truck hightailed it out of here, probably back to Le Havre by now.”

  “Funny how I’m not very hungry. What did it look like out there?”

  “Bodies all over the field. Must be a hundred—at least.”

  “Here they come again.”

  “If they don’t know we’re here, we might let them get closer.”

  “Yeah, but we only got eight shots,” Bill said. “I don’t like this hole. Let’s go up top and fight from there.”

  “Too much shrapnel flying around—trees are all beat up.”

  “You big chicken,” Bill said. “I don’t want ‘em to get real close.”

  “How close?”

  “A hundred yards.”

  “Okay…at a hundred yards we move out.” Wayne hooked grenades on his belt and took up his position at the slit. It was lighter now but drizzling rain, and their breath hung in the cold air inside the dugout.

  There was a slight rattling sound of wood on wood. Wayne’s rifle was shaking against the firing slit.

  “You cold?” Bill asked.

  “Hell no I’m not cold.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “So what?

  The Germans fired from the hip as they advanced across the field. Occasionally a round hit the logs in front of the dugout.

  “What do you think?” Wayne said.

  “Start shooting—now!”

  Wayne’s rifle cracked, then Bill’s. Two men dropped in the field.

  “You shoot from the left and I’ll take the right,” Bill said.

  He swung his rifle and took aim at a soldier coming from his right. His rifle bucked, then locked open and threw the clip into the air. He pulled another clip from his bandolier and pressed it in.

  How much time had he lost—three seconds, maybe? The krauts had got further in those three seconds than ever before. How many were there out there?

  “Are you squeezing your shots?” Wayne yelled. “Didn’t look like you hit anybody that time!”

  Bill aimed at a soldier dressed in white camouflage with crossed OD belts from his shoulders to his waist, firing from the hip as he weaved toward them. Bill counted his steps one way and then the other and shot him as he pivoted to the left, the bullet hitting him where the belts crossed. His arms jerked up, the rifle flew into the air, the helmet fell off his head, and he slammed into the ground.

  “We backing ‘em off?” Wayne asked.

  “Can’t tell.”

  “My God, how many are there out there?”

  “Don’t know,” Bill said. “They’re getting to the hundred-yard marker. What do you think? Should we pile out of here?”

  “You’re the corporal.”

  Bill stuffed two grenades in his pockets and jumped for the steps. Wayne was right behind him.

  “Over there.” Bill pointed and Wayne dashed around him hugged the base of a tree. There was firing everywhere. They saw three white-clad Germans shooting into a bunker and GI’s coming out with their hands up. Bill and Wayne each fired, dropping two, and a GI shot the third.

  Sergeant Conner hollered from behind a grove of busted trees: “Third Platoon—back to the CP!” then bolted to the rear.

  “What’s up?” Bill asked.

  “Do I look like an officer?” Wayne said.

  “Watch behind us. Cover me to that next grove.”

  “Why do you go first?”

  “Okay—you go first—I’ll cover you. Go!”

  The village of Auw had become a sore spot. Captain Clark was organizing a two-company task force to counterattack and drive the Germans back through the bottleneck.

  “Who left a hole in the line?” Bill asked Sergeant Conner.

  “The 14th Cavalry bugged out. The krauts are pouring through there like ants at a picnic.”

  “Horses and all?”

  “Hell, they haven’t had horses for years,” Conner said.

  “So what’s the Third gonna do?”

  “March and fight.”

  “My men haven’t had any food today,” Bill said. “How do you think they can march and fight without food?”

  Sergeant Conner picked up a box of D Bars and passed them around to the men. “This will have to hold us until we get back.”

  “You know,” Bill said, “over and over and over they told us in basic that the officers would take care of the men. So we get here and get fed D Bars for three days. Are the officers eating D bars?”

  “I don’t know,” Conner said.

  “Somebody’s got some explaining to do to me,” Bill said. He grabbed two D bars and turned his back on Conner.

  Fifty yards into the attack the drizzling rain turned to snow aided by a wind that whipped it straight into the men’s faces. Their path into Aux led through forest trails, slippery with blinding snow. Wet, hungry, and tired, they emerged from the forest in mid-afternoon to face a group of houses clustered around a church on a hill. Halfway up the hill the Germans spotted the Third Platoon leading the attack and began firing.

  “Isn’t this great?” Coric shouted from behind a wall. “Can’t stand up, charging uphill, and the krauts looking down our throats.”

  Bill didn’t answer. He was drawing a bead on a sniper in one of the windows. He fired and missed.

  Lt. Adams hunched over then crawled up to Bill. “Gotta get back to Schlausenbach. Command post being attacked. Disengage your men and get the hell back there.” He shook his head then departed.

  The force disengaged and returned over the same route. As they arrived at dusk, the snowstorm abated and the men, weary from the day of run, attack, and return, dug in.

  In their foxhole, which they alternated digging, Bill and Wayne ate their D Bars and contemplated how to make the hole more comfortable now that they were not being shot at.

  “Let’s put a roof on it and get the snow off us,” Bill said.

  “You think it’s worth it?”

  “You dig a hole in the bottom and work out the drain, I’ll work on a roof.”

  Bill slid out, leaving his rifle facing the enemy. He returned with fir branches and an armload of dry grass.

  “Put this grass in your boots. Keep your feet from freezing.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “Under the trees,” Bill said.

  Wayne looked at him. “Some Eskimo trick?”

  “Doesn’t it get cold in Wyoming?”

  “Just in winter.”

  “Winter is what we got here, Wayne.”

  In thirty minutes the foxhole had a roof of fir boughs, a bottom lined with boughs and dried grass, and a decent camouflage front. Except for the wet clothes and lack of food, they were going into the night in good shape.

  “How’re you for water?” Bill asked.


  “What the hell you think? Been eating snow since we got back.”

  Suddenly they both stopped talking. They heard the snow crunch. They looked to their front and sides but didn’t see anyone.

  “Evening, men,” Adams whispered from behind them.

  “Judas Priest, Lieutenant, you scared the hell out of us,” Wayne said.

  “Sorry. Look, the Fourteenth Cav has bugged out and we’re in a tight spot here. Corp is sending the Seventh Armoured in tomorrow to beat these krauts back. We have to hold on till they get here. I don’t know what will happen in the morning, but we bloodied them pretty good today. Just stay tight and keep your front and flanks clear. McNaulty and Krause are on your left, about twenty yards. Who’s on your right?”

  “Don’t know, Lieutenant. Could be Coric.”

  “Well, don’t shoot me while I go find out. You’ve got D Bar’s?”

  “That’s all we got.”

  “We’ll get the kitchen trucks back up here tonight and have a good hot breakfast.” He stood up and walked behind them, disappearing into the snow and mist that was hanging on the tops of the Eifel.

  “Where’s my mess kit?” Bill asked.

  Wayne looked in his pack. “You know what? We threw them down when the artillery started this morning.”

  “We’re gonna be eatin’ D Bars until this war’s over if we don’t have a mess kit.”

  “Quit your bitchin’. Soon as it’s light, I’ll go scrounge a couple and get us some water.”

  “You taking first watch?” Bill asked.

  “Yeah—you got the grass.”

  Bill tried to arrange himself so wet clothing wouldn’t be touching every part of him. He was only partially successful.

  “Wayne,” he said when he had gotten settled, “were you scared today?” He felt more comfortable asking when it was too dark to look him in the eyes.

  “Twice…at least. Once when the artillery started this morning and again when we saw all those krauts coming straight at us. Didn’t think we had enough ammunition between us to kill them all. I thought they’d run right over the top of us, shoot us in that damn hole, and leave us out there to bloat in the snow.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Bill was thinking about that when he started dreaming. Sometimes he couldn’t tell whether he was awake or in a dream. He didn’t think he’d been asleep when Wayne nudged him.