James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“They need smoke, and air cover,” I said. “Do you have a radio here?”

“No,” Harding said. “The communications gear was in the headquarters building, and the cloud cover is too low for air support. Hell, we’re just here to escort the visiting brass, and to observe.” He nearly spit out that last word as he grabbed my arm. “Come on, Boyle. I’ll find a way to call in smoke and get more artillery on that hill. You find your brother and his platoon and help them out, then get word back to me. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yes sir. I’ll send a runner back and let you know how far they’ve gotten.” I sprinted down the street, heading for the north gate that opened to the fields and the storm of steel and death my kid brother had plunged into. Danny, who used to follow me everywhere, who got bullied when I wasn’t around, who was smarter than I was though I never admitted it, who I’d punched in the arm, hard, more times than I could count-Danny, out there, alone. Meaning with no one he could count on. No family, no Irish, no veteran platoon leader. I jumped smoking craters and debris until I was clear of Le Ferriere. As I descended the slope, I could barely make out the tiny shapes of crawling men amidst the smoke and dust of battle. In the distance, three Sherman tanks made their way along a narrow road across the canal, the first good news of the morning. Bad news caught up with the lead Sherman as it blew up, black smoke churning out of every hatch. The other two tanks reversed, not wanting to roll over another Teller mine or into the sights of a hidden antitank gun. They retreated, I went forward, and I couldn’t help thinking they knew what they were doing.

I came across the litter bearers first, hustling the wounded back to aid stations along the canal. Mortar rounds were landing near the closest bridge, so I went into the water, scrambling up the embankment into chaos. Two jeeps, pulling trailers stacked with dead, careened across the field, evading enemy fire so vigorously that the bodies leapt with every jolt, arms and legs bouncing as if they’d come alive. Machine-gun rounds chewed up the fields and zinged over my head, the odd thrum like a hornet buzzing by my ear. White phosphorous rounds began to land to our front, and I knew Harding had managed to get the coordinates to the artillery. Thick white smoke blossomed in the morning air, and I ran until I found the dirt track.

It was crowded with men, prone and pressed tight on either side, up against the cover of the ditch wall. The fields on either side had a gentle rise to them, like a lazy wave about to crest. It was less than a foot high, but when everything else is dead flat, a foot is damn good cover. That’s where the advance on the flanks of the road had stopped. Men had scraped shallow depressions in the soil and rolled into them, protected at least from machine-gun fire. To their rear, a trail of bodies stretched back to the canal.

“Is this Easy Company?” I asked. “Who’s in charge?”

“This here’s Fox Company, and you better get your damn head down,” a corporal snapped at me. “If you got further use for it, that is.” That got a laugh.

“Where is Easy Company?” I stood up, straight as I could. It was crazy, I knew. I’d seen Harding do it a couple of times, taking a chance on stopping a bullet in order to show men he wasn’t afraid and they shouldn’t be either. I didn’t give a damn about morale; I just wanted a straight answer fast. This at least got the corporal’s attention.

“Down that way, Lieutenant,” he said. “We were supposed to follow them, but we got pinned down. There was supposed to be a smoke screen a long time ago.”

“Pinned down, my ass! Where’s your officer?”

“Captain’s right there,” he said, pointing to a medic hunched over a body, bloody compresses scattered on the ground.

“Jesus,” I said, and wished that hadn’t popped out so loud. I was going to have to do something about morale whether I liked it or not. No one else was left standing. “Lieutenants? Platoon sergeants?”

“Dead. Mortar round caught them in a huddle, havin’ themselves a powwow. Captain took us this far, then he took one in the chest. The boys and I took a look and figured this was a good place to hunker down.”

“I’m in command now, Corporal. Get up, we’re heading up to support Easy Company. You,” I said, pointing to a PFC who looked only half scared to death. “You’re my runner. Hightail it back to the village and find Colonel Harding. He’s either at Battalion HQ or in that factory building on the same street. Tell him the advance is stalled and that I’m taking Fox Company forward to locate Easy. You got that?”

“Harding,” he repeated. “The advance is stalled at this point. Fox going forward to find Easy. Who are you?”

“Boyle. Now run there and run back here, fast as you can. Go.” I waited for a few long seconds as he stared up at me. If he refused to go, that was it. If I couldn’t get one GI to head back, I sure as hell wasn’t going to get fifty of them to move up.

“Yes sir,” he said, and was off like a jackrabbit.

“Corporal, if you’re the ranking noncom, then get your men moving. Follow me.”

I didn’t look back, and I didn’t try to rouse the men. That was his job, and I had no idea if he was up to it. I crouched low, to show them that I wasn’t completely insane. I heard the rustle of gear, curses, and the sound of boots on the ground. I broke into a trot, and the sound of men following me into the swirling smoke was the sweetest, most terrible sound of my life. Each death would be on my head.

The sound of mortar fire lessened. The German machine guns slowed their rate of fire, too, sending short bursts into the smoke, hoping for a hit. The crump of explosions ahead of us told me Harding had zeroed in on the hill, which would also make the Krauts keep their heads down. I picked up the pace, figuring the less time upright the better my chances were. Visibility was low, but the track was even and easy to follow.

It was then that I tripped. A dead GI lay half in the ditch, half on the track. I went sprawling and fell onto another body, but this one was alive. I lifted myself up and called for a medic. There were none with us.

“Water,” he gasped in a raspy voice. I looked closer, and saw he must have been hit by shrapnel. His jacket was shredded and bloody, and one side of his face was torn and blackened. “Water, please.”

I unscrewed my canteen and only then did I look at his face; not his wounds, but his face. Steel-rimmed spectacles lay bent and broken by his head. He was a kid, with the same color hair. My hand shook, and I reached for my canteen.

“Danny?”

“Water,” the voice said, fainter.

“Danny!” I poured the water on his face, washing away the blood. His eyes bore into mine, beseeching me.

“Water.”

It wasn’t Danny. I rose and ran, as fast as I could. I couldn’t face that wounded kid, I couldn’t admit to my fear, to how I felt in my heart at that moment of mistaken identity. It was a cowardly thing to do, to leave him like that, I knew. I told myself someone else would give him water, somebody would be glad for the excuse to hang back. But it was all a lie. I was afraid, that’s all. Afraid for Danny and maybe even more afraid for myself. If he died out here, I’d carry that guilt forever.

Now I knew. Now I understood my father. Now I was my father. He’d drummed it into me a million times. Family comes first. The Boyles, then the Boston PD, then Ireland. But family first. That’s what leaving a dead brother on the battlefield does. That’s what finding his brother Frank dead in the trenches of the last war did to him. I felt it in my heart, and it pained me, for all of us.