AUDIE MURPHY was the most decorated American soldier during World War II. He went on to a long film career, starring in The Red Badge of Courage , The Quiet American , and his own To Hell and Back . He was killed in a plane crash in 1971 at age forty-six.
ON a hill just inland from the invasion beaches of Sicily, a soldier sits on a rock. His helmet is off; and the hot sunshine glints through his coppery hair. With the sleeve of his shirt he wipes the sweat from his face; then with chin in palm he leans forward in thought.
The company is taking a break. We sprawl upon the slope, loosen the straps of our gear, and gaze at the blue sky. It is my first day of combat; and so far the action of the unit has been undramatic and disappointingly slow.
Just trust the army to get things fouled up. If the landing schedule had not gone snafu, we would have come ashore with the assault waves. That was what I wanted. I had primed myself for the big moment. Then the timing got snarled in the predawn confusion; and we came in late, chugging ashore like a bunch of clucks in a ferryboat.
The assault troops had already taken the beach. The battle had moved inland. So for several hours we have tramped over fields and hills without direct contact with the enemy.
It is true that the landing was not exactly an excursion. There was some big stuff smashing about; and from various points came the rattle of small arms. But we soon got used to that.
Used to it!
A shell crashes on a nearby hill; the earth quivers; and the black smoke boils. A man, imitating Jack Bennys Rochester, shouts, Hey, boss. A cahgo of crap just landed on Pigtail Ridge. A ripple of laughter follows the announcement. Hey, boss. Change that name to No-Tail Ridge. The tail go with the cahgo.
The second shell is different. Something terrible and immediate about its whistle makes my scalp start prickling. I grab my helmet and flip over on my stomach. The explosion is thunderous. Steel fragments whine, and the ground seems to jump up and hit me in the face.
Silence again. I raise my head. The sour fumes of powder have caused an epidemic of coughing.
Hey, boss. The cahgo
The voice snaps. We all see it. The redheaded soldier has tumbled from the rock. Blood trickles from his mouth and nose.
Beltsky, a veteran of the fighting in North Africa, is the first to reach him. One glance from his professional eye is sufficient.
Turning to a man, he says, Get his ammo. He wont be needing it. You will.
Who me? I got plenty of ammo.
Get the ammo. Dont argue.
Snuffy Jones does not like the idea at all. A frown crawls over his sallow face; and beneath a receding chin, his Adams apple bobs nervously. With shaky fingers he removes the ammunition from the cartridge belt. One would think he was trying to neutralize a booby trap.
Who is he? asks Brandon.
He was a guy named Griffin, Kerrigan answers. I got likkered up with him once in Africa. Told me he was married and had a couple kids.
Thats rough. Brandons eyes are suddenly deep and thoughtful.
He could have stayed out, I guess. But he volunteered. Had to get into the big show.
Novak, the Pole, has been listening with mouth agape. Now his lips curl savagely. The sonsabeeches! he growls to nobody in particular.
Unfolding a gas cape, Beltsky covers the body with it.
Thatll do him a lot of good now, says Brandon.
Its to keep the flies from blowing him, explains Horse-FaceJohnson soberly. Flies go to work on em right away. Fellow from the last war told me they swell up like balloons. Used em for pillows out in No-Mans Land. Soft enough but they wouldnt keep quiet. They was always losing wind in the dead of the night. Such sighing and whistling you never heard.
For chrisake, shut up, says Kerrigan.
Johnsons blue eyes twinkle sardonically. His long, lean face stretches into a grin. And his laugh is like the soft whinny of of a horse.
Dont let it get you down, son. Used to be skittish myself till I worked as an undertakers assistant out in Minnesota. Took my baths in embalming fluid. Slept in coffins during the slack hours. Grave error. Damned nigh got buried one day when I got mistook for the late departed.
Shut up!
Its the dying truth, son.
Then why didnt you get hooked up with a body-snatching outfit? You look like a natural for the buzzard detail.
Why, you know, son, the army wouldnt be guilty of giving a man a job he knowed anything about. Got tired of the racket anyhow. Couldnt argue with the late departeds. Whatever I said they was always dead right.
Oh, for chrisake, mutters Kerrigan pleadingly.
Whee-he-he-he.
Okay, men, says Beltsky. Youve seen how it happens. Maybe you know now this game is played for keeps. Everybody on your feet. All right there, whats the matter with you?
Me? drawls Snuffy. Im gittin up. Just give me time. Snapped-to once so fast that I mislocated my backbone.
Would you like to be carried on a stretcher?
Stretch who?
Okay. Okay. Lets move across Sicily.
He was just sitting there on the rock, says Steiner, his face filled with awe. I was looking at him just a minute before.
So what? snaps Antonio irritably. He shouldnta beenmakin like a pigeon. He oughta kept his head down. He taps himself on the chest. You didnt see me givin out wit the coos, did you?
How could he know it was coming?
Aw nuts! You could hear it comin a mile.
As we plod over the hills in sweat-soaked clothes, the uneasiness passes from my stomach to my mind. So it happens as easily as that. You sit on a quiet slope with chin in hand. In the distance a gun slams; and the next minute you are dead.
Maybe my notions about war were all cockeyed. How do you pit skill against skill if you cannot even see the enemy? Where is the glamour in blistered feet and a growling stomach? And where is the expected adventure? Well, whatever comes, it was my own idea. I had asked for it. I had always wanted to be a soldier.
The years roll back; and in my mind, I see a pair of hands. Calloused and streaked with dirt, they looked like claws; and they shook as they cupped around the match flame. He puffed on the cigarette. And as I waited, all ears, he bent over in a fit of coughing.
Its that gas, he explained. Nearly eighteen years, and its still hangin on.
But you knowed where they were, I said.
From the shade of the tree, he gazed over the cotton fields.
Of course, I knowed where they was, he said. Any ijiot would have. It was still early mornin; and when they crawled through the field, they shook the dew off the wheat. So every blessed one of em left a dark streak behind. That give their positions away.
So what did you do?
What would you done? I lined up my sights on the machine gun and waited.
A machine gun?
Yeah. Its the devils own weepon. When they got to the edge of the patch, I could see em plain. There was nothin to it. I just pulled the trigger and let em have it.
Fascinated, I glanced at the hands again, picking out the trigger finger. You killed em?
I didnt do em any good.
Did they shoot at you?
Now what do you think? This was war. But I kept my head down and got along all right until that night they thowed over the gas. We didnt get the alarm until Id already breathed a lungful.
