The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
sit under fire in a hole with the sides falling in and eat chocolate bars or make jokes. They’re scared but they can live with it. I don’t know how to be scared with any dignity. I’m scared deep into my bones about being mangled. I see gore, my gore, in a thousand different ways. My fucking love for my own body wipes me out. I get to a point where I’m even scared of being scared. I’m scared I’ll take off and run sometime, and it takes all my nerve just to stay, even when nothing’s happening. Everybody gets to know I’m the tough wop with no balls.
There’s a little Jew-boy, not big enough to wrestle bantam and he gets to be squad leader. He deserves it. He always knows when to move, when to stay; he’s thinking all the time. That’s what a real soldier does. Big-shot Al is spending his time trying not to crap his pants, literally. I’m breathing deeply in and out, trying not to hotfoot it back to the kitchen truck.
And every time I get up enough nerve to turn myself in, go psycho, take my section eight, we’re taken off the line and I try to put myself together again. I’m not sleeping much; I’ve got the GI’s all the time. My hands shake so much I can hardly load a clip. This is all the time, not just when things are tough. It’s like my freaking body has some kind of controls all its own. My mind, my brain, has nothing to do with it.
Lewis and Brenner, Brenner’s the Jew-boy, get it at the crossroads in Ohmsdorf. There’s nobody left from the old group so they make me assistant to Richards. Richards came in as a replacement in the Saar. I sew on the stripes while we’re in battalion reserve. I sew them on with big easy stitches. I don’t figure I’ll have them for long; they’re bound to find me out.
I’m bunking with Harrington. Harrington’s ex-ASTP and got trench foot in the Ardennes in the snow. He came back two weeks ago. He’s smart and knows I’m about to crack. Just before we came off the line he took one of Morgan’s stupid patrols for me. There’s no greater gif t than taking another guy’s patrol. Harrington comes from California. I never knew anybody with the kind of nerves he’s got. He’d sure as hell be squad leader if he hadn’t got trench foot.
I shit bricks day after day in reserve, waiting, thanking God for every extra day. Then we get the word we’re going up to relieve the first battalion in a town called Neuendorf. We’re smack against the Siegfried Line there.
We go in around the edges of the hills under a barrage at night, about two hours before dawn. The first battalion passes us going the other way. They’re giving out with all kinds of cheery messages like ‘Good luck, fuckers, you’re going to need it,’ or ‘Welcome to eighty-eight alley.’ Really great for the old morale; I can feel my stomach turning sour. Three or four eighty-eights and mortars hit near us on the way in. They’re near enough so we have to hit the dirt. Shrapnel is flying. Even in the dark we can see the dark places where they hit. They dig up clods of pasture and scatter them thumping around like cow flop.
We get into the town and there’s not a building standing. It must’ve been bombed; artillery alone couldn’t flatten a town like that. We’re herded into the cellar of what used to be a house. It’s beside the church. The church has a front wall almost intact, the rest is rubble.
Lieutenant Wall, the liaison officer from the first battalion, is still there. Richards and I go over to talk with him. He tells us there’s a town called Reuth on the other side of the valley. It’s starting to get light and he points to some white dots near the horizon about a mile and a half away. Reuth is supposed to be a communications center for this section of the line. The krauts are defending it like crazy men. There’ve been at least ten tiger tanks in and out of the town. There’s been all kinds of patrolling. He says his outfit’s been here in Neuendorf for ten days and has had twenty-seven casualties. He shows us the outposts for our platoon. He tells us we’ll probably have to attack Reuth; the whole division’s being held up here.
When I get back to the cellar, my insides are churning up. When I get scared, my infield gets loose and my head feels empty. I’m already shaking inside. Christ, I’m going to make one crappy assistant squad leader. The only way I can see to get out of all this is to get hit.
The cellar is smoky, smelly but warm. The squad is stretched out sleeping in sacks against the back wall. The fire’s built into an arched hole near the door. It might’ve been used to store potatoes once. There’s no flue so the smoke goes up to the ceiling of the cellar, drifts to the door and up the cellar steps. The smoke comes down to about four feet from the floor and you have to stoop over to breathe or find your way around. There’s a blanket over the doorway, and the only light is the fire. The room smells of smoke, farts, and feet.
I go out again to find the latrine, it’s against what’s left of the back wall of the church. There’s a little path worn through the rubble. The morning light is coming on stronger and taking some of the bite out of the cold. Kohler and Schneider are on post; I can see them standing in the hole out on a small knoll. Christ, I hope there aren’t any patrols. There’ll have to be though if there’s going to be an attack.
I squat and let fly. I’ll probably never take a normal crap again. My asshole hasn’t felt anything solid slide past it in three months. The toilet paper is hung on the handle of an entrenching tool. I wipe about five times to get it all, stand up, button up, then throw a few shovelfuls of dirt over the mess. The latrine’s still deep; should last till the attack anyway.
The next week and a half aren’t actually too bad. We don’t get any of the patrols and we only have the one outpost to man. I get plenty of sleep. I’m hiding in my fart sack in the cellar. The only way they can hurt me is with a direct hit. It’s not likely at a mile and a half. I’m feeling safe but dreading the attack.
When we do go out, it’s four in the morning. We make a long dogleg to the left and into a forest. It’s a pine forest and has a narrow point going over the edge of a hill, and part way down the other side in the direction of Reuth. It’s the closest we can get without going through open country.
We sneak all the way there and to the front edge of the forest without anything coming in. Richards tells us to dig in. It’s about five o’clock and the attack is for seven. Our artillery barrage is going to start at six-thirty. So, here it is, the whole thing over again. The first times, you don’t really believe it’s going to happen. Then, when it is happening, it’s so real, you can’t think of it ever stopping. Now, I know it’s going to happen; pure fear has me tight by the balls.
Harrington and I are down by the point of the forest. As the light comes up, we can see the houses of Reuth. They can’t be more than three or four hundred yards away. Harrington says maybe they’ve pulled out. How the hell can they pull out of a communications center unless they figure on abandoning this whole section of the line? I can’t see the krauts doing a thing like that. Maybe being brave is not thinking too much; or at least being able to fool yourself.
It’s cold and there’s no smoking. Richards has me going around checking to see if everybody has their weapons in order, bandoliers, grenades, stuff like that. I don’t think anybody’s as scared as I am, not even the two new replacements. How the hell can they know? I’m glad to get back to our hole, jump in, and snuggle deep. It feels good to have solid earth against my back. There’s practically nothing smells or feels so comforting as deep earth when you’re scared. No wonder men lived in caves.
We stay down there during the barrage. The heavy stuff is flying over our heads like freight trains. I huddle deeper; I’ve got a real thing about shorts. I can’t stop myself thinking of all the stupid civilians making those shells and then the morons back at corps shooting them off.
At seven we’re up out of the holes. It’s just our luck; we’re the point squad of the point platoon of the point company; probably the point battalion of the point regiment of the point division of the whole pointed American army. Harrington’s first scout and Richards is with him. I’m bringing up the rear. This is where I’m supposed to be. It also happens to be where I want to be. That’s not quite true. I want to be almost anywhere else but out on this slanted field.
We go down the field in close order route march. We look like mad golfers hunched over our clubs, not running, walking fast, everything pulled in, waiting for it.