To Hell and Back Page 3

I shout for the squad to move up. We carry Steiner’s body to the highway, where it will be easily found. In death, he still bears the look of innocent wonder. He could not have lived long after tumbling. The bullet ripped an artery in his throat.

  The heat of summer has passed, and a sharpness is in the air. It is October. When we pause on our marches, Novak gazes over the earth, sniffing strangely. He must be thinking of the season and harvest. He grew up on a farm in Poland and has a feeling for land.

  In his squat, gnarled body, one can see the record of toil. His knotted muscles bulge through his clothes. The long, hairy arms dangle like an ape’s; the hands are large and calloused. In his eyes is a strange, broken light which heightens the habitual sadness of his features.

  We all like him. He is a top-notch soldier, seldom complaining and fearing little. He has a great love for coffee and cigarettes, of which he can never get enough. They must have been scarce items in his former days. When drafted, he had been in America only five years; so he has not got used to the idea of plenty. He is forever scrounging; and his pack is crammed with extra rations. But there is nothing selfish about Novak. He would divide his last drop of blood with a comrade; or his last bit of lead with the enemy.

  To him all Germans, dead, living, or wounded, fall into one class: “Sonsabeeches.” He hates them personally and passionately.

  “They ruin Poland; they ruin America,” he says one night when we are holed up together. “Is a good country, America. By gah, I know. Is to eat, is to speak, is to drink as you will. Is America. Is to work, to save, to buy a farm maybe; and nobody take it from you.”

  “You want a farm?”

  “Sure. A lil farm; few babies. I write to the girl and say, ‘Mike’s coming back. You wait. Few years in the steel mill; then the farm. You wait.’”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She don’t answer yet. She’s busy working too. You got a girl?”

  “No.”

  “Thass bad. Everybody should have girl.”

  “I know it.”

  “My Alice speak good English. By gah, she teach the babies speak without accent. You wait. You like her. Blue eyes, yellow hair, and built like a smokestack.”

  “Smokestack?”

  “Yeah. Round. Tall.”

  “Sounds okay. How long have you known her?”

  “Few months. Few dates. But she wait. I write her.”

  “When?”

  “Africa, I think.”

  “So that’s why you’ve always got your nose poked in the mail bag.”

  “Sure. Why not? Some day she write. Planty time.”

  “Yeah. She’ll write.”

  “She’s wan popular girl, but I sue her up.”

  “Sue her up?”

  “Sure. Give her lotsa things. Beads. Ring. Hat. Clock with a bird on it. By gah, she don’t forget Mike.”

  “No. It’s in the bag.”

  “She’s no bag.”

  “I didn’t mean that. It’s another way of saying she’s all sowed up.”

  “In the bag, hey. It’s a good English?”

  “It’s bad English. Slang. Was it a cuckoo clock?”

  “Coocoo. Boocoo. Elgin. What’s the differance. It’s a fine clock. Fifteen dollars and ninety-eight cents, with tax.”

  “What did she give you?”

  “She give me planty when I go home. You wait.”

  “You ever figure on not going home?”

  “Who me? Naw. I go home. Sonsabeeches don’t get me, you betcha.”

  “I’ll bet we’re in for a soaking. Clouds are getting lower than Kerrigan’s mind.”

  “Sure. I smell it. So what? We get a bat.”

  We got more than a bath. The good weather is temporarily over. But the drive does not let up. As we plod through the country, seeking contact with the enemy, the rain slashes down, wetting us to the skins.

  Some are also wet internally. The natives, whether from fear or friendliness, have been slipping the men bottles of wine as we pass through the villages.

  Snuffy is drunk. Reeling through the mud, he sings, “Glory, glory, halleluja, for I am marchin’ on.” His voice is about as musical as a crow’s.

  “That guy claims to’ve been a bootlegger,” snorts Kerrigan. “Be like a rabbit running a lettuce market.”

  “Probably invented the blind staggers and the seven-day hangover.”

  “Yeah. The smoke from the Smoky Mountains got in his brain.”

  “A little wine is good for the stomach,” declares Snuffy, his eyes beginning to flame. “But cussin’ is a bombernation. Repent and mend your ways, Kerrigan. Hell yawns for an Arshman.”

  “If you pass out, we’re going to drag you to the front and throw you to the krauts.”

  “Repent, brother. Been aimin’ to talk to you about your language. There’s time yet for salvation.”

  We stop for a break in a deserted house. Snuffy strips down to his underwear and falls asleep in a large box. When we are ready to leave, he answers our pleas with snores. Kerrigan and I drag the box out into the rain. Snuffy awakes with a mighty oath.

  At dusk, we halt in a grove, with orders to dig in. Novak’s prowling eyes discover a strawstack.

  “We sleep tonight like a hotel,” he says. “Soft like a goose feather.”

  “Yeah. Complete with running water.”

  “We fix that too. You wait.”

  As we load our arms with straw, voices sound on the opposite side of the stack, but we pay no attention to them. There is plenty of straw for us all.

  “We make a roof too. Weave. I show you. We get dry, you betcha.”

  “We’d better get some sack-time in tonight. Tomorrow things are liable to start popping.”

  “Sure. We get it easy too long.”

  As we prepare to leave, two straw-laden figures round the stack.

  “You build a cover too. Is easy. You weave,” says Novak.

  “Gott im Himmel.”

  “Sonsabeeches.”

  For an instant, the four of us stand stupidly sharing a mutual paralysis of surprise. Then, still clutching our straw, we take off.

  If those two Germans ran any faster than we, they must have broken some track records.

  3

  THE RAIN still falls in a steady drizzle when we reach the banks of the Volturno river. It is early night when we creep up to a dugout built by the enemy. It is supposed to be abandoned. But Kerrigan is not sure. He is a stickler for front-line courtesy. Before entering strange places, he first sends in his favorite calling card, a sputtering grenade.

  We crouch on the slope while he sneaks up to the mouth of the tunnel leading into the cave. At the sound of the explosion, we dive for the dugout entrance, rolling over a wall of sandbags. The krauts may be just curious enough about the noise to send up a flare.

  The interior of the cave is as dark as a bat’s wing; and the biting fumes of powder linger in the damp air. There is another smell too. The sour stench of decaying food and moldy clothing tells us that the Germans have been up to their usual job of bad housekeeping.

  Striking matches, we carefully search for booby traps. Even Snuffy Jones bestirs himself to the task.

  The place is evidently safe. Mentally we each mark off a few square feet of the earthen floor and unload our equipment. There is no way of knowing how long we will be here. Our orders are to hold the dugout until we are relieved.

  Swope, a Cherokee Indian, volunteers for the first watch. He has nerves of iron, a fine eye for targets, and a weakness for automatic weapons.

  Novak digs into his pack, hauls out a fat, squat candle, and lights it. Kerrigan sniffs at the procedure. “By the gods above us,” says he, “a holy candle. Our pal has been robbing churches.”

  “I find it in ruins,” Novak explains. “I burn it for you; and may the saints have mercy. Soon in hell you burn like the candle.”

  “Amen,” adds Snuffy. “The sinful sonofabitch.”

  “Fer chrisake,” snarls Antonio, “a
in’t you guys got no respect fer nuttin’.”

  “Respect,” says Kerrigan, spreading his hands out pleadingly. “The boy talks about respect. For what? The ignoramus has been shooting up churches from here to hell-and-gone. Now he speaks of respect.”

  “Aw shadup,” the Italian replies, “you got diarreah of the mout. Out of the whole army, I had the bad luck of gettin’ tied up wit an outfit like this. You’re nuts. Every one of you. Nuts.”

  “Nuts?” Snuffy echoes. “He calls us nuts. Why the guy musta had a pull with the draft board even to git in the army. They take one look at him and say, ‘This guy ain’t got a brain in his head. But he might make a good officer in the air corps.’ ‘But, no,’ says he, ‘please let me be a dogface. I’m a fightin’ fool jus’ foamin’ to go.’ They say, ‘We ain’t doubtin’ the fool part; but it ‘pears to us that the only thing you ever fought was a bowl of macaroni.’”

  It is Kerrigan’s turn to say, “Amen. Keep right on talking, Reverend Jones.”

  “Yep,” Snuffy continues, “they soak him in a barrel of cresote to de-louse him. Then they send him to school to build up his brain till he can tell the hay-foot from straw-foot. Can he learn? No.

  “They give him an intelligent test to see if he’s got enough sense to come out of the rain. He ain’t. They have him try pouring water out of a boot. He don’t know how. ‘Jus’ one thing left,’ they say. ‘Kin he or kin he not pee a hole in the snow?’ They fill him with beer and stake him out in a blizzard. Dog saves him. Comes by and cocks a leg on Antonio, makin’ the purtiest hole you ever see. That done it. Draft board says that man ain’t quite dumb enough for the air corps. Figure he was infantry material when he didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”

  “So they give him a gun,” cuts in Kerrigan; “and ever since he’s been trying to hand that rifle back.”

  “Why don’t you shadup,” says Antonio. “Why don’t you all please step to hell and roast.”

  I crawl through the tunnel to check our position. Swope, with a Browning automatic between his knees, sits quietly behind the sandbag wall.

  “What’s all the noise about inside?” he asks.

  “They’re kidding Antonio. He thinks we’ve lost our sense of respect.”

  “That guy thinks the army’s picking on him.”

  “Yeah. He makes it rough on himself.”

  Across the river a machine gun chatters. A grenade explodes; and we know from the sounds that one of our patrols has been discovered.

  With his gun in readiness, Swope peers through a firing slot in the sandbag wall. If the Germans shoot again, they may reveal their position. But evidently they are too cautious for that. In the quietness we hear only the murmur of the men inside the cave and the gurgle of the river below us.

  The Indian relaxes. “Boy, they’re close,” he says. “That gun couldn’t have been over two hundred yards away.”

  “They’re probably closer than that. They’re supposed to be.”

  “Is the river big?”

  “I don’t think so. But the bridges are all out, and the krauts are dug in like gophers on the other side.”

  “They’ve probably got this joint pin-pointed.”

  “That, I think, is also according to plan. The krauts think we’re going to attack in this area. As I get it, that’s what they’re supposed to think. Our job is to keep them busy while another outfit crosses upstream and hits them from the rear.”

  “So we’re pigeons? The damned decoy?”

  “I guess you could call us that.”

  The Cherokee leans back on his elbow. “Suits me,” he says. “At least we ain’t going wading, and we’re not in the rain.”

  If there is an element of fear in his make-up, I have never seen it.

  When I awake next morning, the artillery is firing sporadically. It is a routine, harassing action, which means that no full-scale attack can be expected immediately. I go out to check the terrain.

  Across the river there is no sign of life. Rain still falls on the shell-battered trees. One tall poplar shimmers goldenly above the muddy water of the river.

  The opposite slope is covered with rock and scrub. If the Germans are there, they are well camouflaged.

  “I heard them talking just before daylight,” says Kerrigan who has been on guard. “I just hope they don’t bring in armor. Heavy stuff would cave in this rat trap.”

  I see a curious shrub in a thicket. Its leaves seem to be turned the wrong way. Borrowing Kerrigan’s Garand, I take a few pot shots at the thicket. From two sides of it comes sniper fire. The bullets plunk into our sandbag wall.

  “Zero and crossfire. If we’re not in a helluva trap, I’ll be a cross-eyed Armenian.”

  Pulling up his trouser legs, Kerrigan scratches circles of bumps about his ankles.

  “What do you suppose is eating on me now?” he asks. “Since hitting this country, I’ve been bit by everything but a mule and a mad dog.”

  “You’ve probably got fleas. I’ve been itching myself.”

  “That’s it. I’ll bet that cave is jumping with fleas.”

  “And lice.”

  “I don’t worry about lice. They’ll all make for Antonio.”

  Inside Novak is heating coffee on a little gasoline stove, which, next to his rifle, is his most precious possession. No matter how long the march or how heavy his equipment, that stove finds a place on his belt. Now its blue, purring flame sounds as cheerful as a cat in a sunny window.

  “Is good our spot here?” asks Novak.

  “Good as a graveyard. Looks like we’re in a trap.”

  “No? You make some coffee.”

  “The krauts are just across the river.”

  “That’s a fine. We eat some breakfast and go kill ’em.”

  Pouring water for my coffee, I notice that my canteen is light.

  “How’s your water holding out, Mike?”

  “It’s about gone. We get some.”

  “Where?”

  “I hear it runnin’ from a pipe on the road last night.”

  “If the krauts have got us pegged, we can’t get out.”

  “We get out. We shoot hell out of ’em.”

  During the day we have nothing to do but pull our shifts at guard and fight insects. Kerrigan’s guess was right. The cave is hopping with fleas.

  Time drags. Snuffy rattles a pair of worn dice in Kerrigan’s face.

  “Go ahead. I’ll fade you,” says the Irishman.

  “On credit?”

  “Hell, no. Cold cash. Ten lira.”

  “Okay. Dice, show this low-down stumblebum what you can do for a real man. Wham. Bam. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Snuffy rolls a twelve. “Hot damn. Midnight. A mighty hard point but I think I can make it.”

  “You horse’s patoot, pass over my dough.”

  “Where I come from twelve is a winner.”

  “Where I come from it’s a crap-out. Give me the folding stuff.”

  “Put it on the war debt.”

  “Do I get my do-re-mi, or do I take it out of your hide?”

  Snuffy reluctantly fishes out the money. Then he gets an inspiration.

  “Kerrigan, I always figure you’re the lousiest guy I ever met. So I’m givin’ you a break. I’ve got another twenty that says I got more fleas on me than you have.”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, you’d be a dead cinch on that proposition. But the bugs have got me hemmed here. It’s a deal; and you’ve got to catch the fleas before they hop.”

  “Play the lice wild.”

  “Just the fleas, man.”

  They shed their clothes and search industriously. I make a side bet on Kerrigan and win ten lira from Horse-Face.

  “Mighta knowed it,” drawls Snuffy. “Them Arshmen draw fleas like the sun draws water.”

  Antonio is glummer than usual. He lacks patience with our situation.

  “All my life I wait to come to Italy,” he says. “And here I am buried like a goddam mole
. I write my old man that the country stinks. ‘Wait’ll you get to Rome,’ he says. ‘Wait’ll you see your grandfather’s place. Then you’ll see the real Italy.’” His voice rises jeeringly. “The real Italy. Rome. In a pig’s eye. We ain’t goin’ nowhere but to another sonofabitchin’ mudhole crawlin’ with lice.”

  “Is no vacation,” declares Novak. “We come here to fight.”

  “Yeah?” Antonio says. “We fight. And fer what? I’m askin’ you: Fer what?”

  “Plenty,” Kerrigan replies. “For sixty bucks a month and a few dog biscuits. For the privilege of living in a nice cool dump like this.”

  “And such other punishment as the court martial may direct,” adds Horse-Face.”

  “For the opportunity of associating with such a bunch of genteel, clean-cut, Christian gentlemen as you find here.”

  “And such other punishment.”

  “For excitement. For adventure.” His voice lowers reverently. “For the cause, my boy. For the cause. If you keep your bowels open and your mouth shut; your head down and your chin up, you too may become a civilian.”

  We have heard the story of Antonio’s grandfather many times. But we still regard it with a cynical tolerance. In the army, life is a bog of monotony marked by moments of excitement. We are used to repetition. So if a man wants to retell his story, well and good. It is a way of passing the time.

  The Italian stares at his boots. “Yeah,” he says, “in a pig’s eye. I’ve seen all I want of the country; and you can have it. But it woulda been nice. I was goin’ to get myself a pass. Maybe a furlough.”

  “Whee-he-he-he,” laughs Horse-Face.

  “So what?” snaps Antonio. “A man’s got a right to a furlough. It says in the regulations.”

  “Whee-he-he-he.”

  “Let him alone. This is getting good,” says Kerrigan. “Tell us about the cousins.”

  Antonio glares, but resumes his tale. “There are eight girls, all living near the old man.”

  “You introduce me?” asks Novak.

  “Huh uh. Remember that dame back home.”

  “She wait. She know nahthin’.”