Reluctant Warriors (40 page)

He refused to wear anythin' but that damn Boston Red Sox baseball hat, backwards,
and the shrapnel from that shell went right through the cap and killed him. Wouldn't
have gone through a helmet. Yeah, he had his faults takin' advantage a recruits in
card games and such, but if anyone ever needed somethin', he'd come up with it after
a while, whatever it was.

He closed his eyes, mopped his hair, and felt pieces of something or other that he
didn't bother to remove. Depressed, he scratched under his chin. In Sicily, once
a bullet had barely creased the underside, and now, half a year later, it itched
maddeningly. It had itched ever since.

And the Swede, Jeff Torgeson. Now that's a good man. I called him the “Big Dumb Swede,”
just 'cause he was high class; he never once complained. But the truth was he was
about the smartest guy I ever knew. I was the dummy! He sat with me a hundred times
correctin' my English, showin' me proper manners. He respected me. College man, Indiana
University, or somethin' like that. He taught me things and made me feel not so much
like a shithead. Mostly, he told me ta try ta let go of the bad things I had growin'
up.

Wiley breathed hard, thinking about how the bullet had hit Torgeson in the shoulder
and spun him around.

I hope he's okay. So, it's been two bad nights, two bad attacks.

He went to sleep.

No one could remember Colonel Pope ever being in such a rage before. For two days,
the regiment had butted its head into the German position, taken terrible casualties,
gotten nowhere. Now they were being ordered to attack a third time.

“What do you mean, we have to attack tomorrow at 0600?” he yelled into the phone.
His face was turning an alarming shade of fuchsia. “That can't be done. I'll remind
you that the casualty rates yesterday and today amount to
twenty percent
of the assault
groups. We face dug-in Tiger tanks in a position that commands the entire goddamn
valley
. We're like fish in a barrel here,
and you want me to
attack
? Without air
support,
that can't be done!
We have four tanks left! Let me talk to the general.”

There was a long pause.

“General?”

The men at headquarters—a major, several captains, half a dozen lieutenants, and
numerous clerks—stood paralyzed. They could hear the voice squalling at the other
end of the phone.

“Sir. . . . Yes, sir. . . . We . . . I . . . Yes,
sir!
”

Pope dropped the phone, and the clerk put it up. The colonel sat for several minutes,
with no one in the tent daring to speak.

Then he sprang up again, as belligerent as before. “Where are those goddamn scouts?”

One of the clerks ran out. A few minutes later, he returned with the scouts in tow:
Sergeant Wiley on one side, and Sergeant Belser and the four other men in his squad
on the other.

“What's this I hear?” Pope snapped at them. “Two groups go out twice and come back
with completely different intelligence. You,” he said to Wiley, “you told Captain
Redding something about a road.”

Wiley stepped forward. His uniform showed signs of wear and tear, with dirt over
a great portion of it and what looked like grease smeared over some of the rest of
it and on his face.

Pope eyed him. “Soldier, you look terrible. You're a disgrace to the uniform.”

Wiley stiffened a bit. “Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“Sir, there's a road, a sunken road, that aims behind the entire enemy position.”

The colonel looked indignant. “Behind their entire position?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose you've seen this road.”

“Yes, sir. Walsh and I walked along it two nights ago. I was on it again last night
with Dietrich.”

“So where the hell are Walsh and Dietrich to confirm your story? I don't see them
here.”

“Walsh was in the aid station down the road, sir. And Dietrich was captured.”

“All right,” Pope said, motioning to two MPs. “You two go and carry Walsh back here.
He's wounded, I take it.”

“He died, sir, bullet in the back.”

“So you have no one to confirm your story.”

Wiley bristled. “No, sir.”

“You, Belser, what about your group?” the colonel asked. “You told us yesterday that
the main road was clear, and we bloodied ourselves hitting it.”

The stocky thirty-year-old spoke up. “Sir, it was clear when we saw it. From what
I hear, this guy goes in there, stomps around, and the Germans get the idea and move
their people around.”

“So, what about last night?”

“We didn't see anyone on the main road at all. But there's no telling. Now we hear
Wiley goes over again and makes a mess of it, so who knows?”

“But the main road was clear.”

“Yes.” The other four men in his squad nodded.

Redding spoke up. “Could I have a word with the colonel?”

“Yes, captain.”

The two men edged over to one side of the tent. Everyone inside could hear every
word they said.

“Colonel, may I suggest that Sergeant Wiley might just be telling the truth?”

“It's the word of five men against his,” the colonel said incredulously. “What possible
reason would he have for making up such a story?”

“What possible reason would those five
men
have for making up such a story?” Pope
replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“I know those men are with your former outfit, sir. But look at their uniforms. They're
clean. Those men haven't been
anywhere
.”

With that, Sergeant Bracey waved all of the men in the tent except the five clerks
outside.

Sergeant Belser and his group went to the edge of the next tent. Wiley followed them.

“You shitheads! You tell the colonel you lied!” he shouted.

“Ahh, fuck off, asshole!” Belser responded.

In less than a second, Wiley had drawn his .45. In front of all of the men, he cocked
it and pointed it at Belser's head. Belser froze.

Completely calm, Wiley walked over to Belser and grabbed him by the throat. “First,
I'm gonna shoot off your goddamn ear.”

Belser tried to get away, but Wiley only tightened his grip.

“Wiley, you're insa . . . You'll fa . . .” Belser managed to get out.

The other members of Belser's group stepped back, looking horrified. None had their
rifles. Belser was the only one with a sidearm, and he was in no shape to draw it
out of his holster.

“Then,” Wiley continued, “I'm gonna shoot your nose off. You'll look real funny without
a nose.”

A lieutenant spoke up. “Soldier, you'd better stop right now. This is a court-martial
offense.”

Another man spoke up, voice tense: “A lot of us might get killed in the attack tomorrow
morning unless Wiley really is telling the truth. I'll put my money on him. Let's
see what happens.”

Wiley paid no attention. He was too busy staring into Belser's frightened eyes.

“Then,” Wiley told him, just as determinedly, “I'm gonna put this gun in your mouth
and blow your goddamn lyin' brains all over that tent behind you. No one's gonna
call me a liar.”

The word
liar
echoed in Wiley's head—not in Belser's voice, but in the slurred, drunken
tones of his father, so long ago.

“Every man here's life is on the line because of you and your asshole pals. For once,
tell the truth. Or for damn sure I'll . . . blow . . . your . . . head . . . right
. . .
off
. If I have ta spend the rest of my life in Fort Leavenworth, I'll do it!”
he shouted.

Belser, panicking, found himself wishing to own up to his lie. But he could not speak.

“That's just fine, you coward,” Wiley growled. “Three seconds and the ear goes.”

Private Melton piped up. “Yes, yes,
we lied!
” He lowered his voice in shame. “We
lied. We hid over at that schoolhouse both nights. We even joked about it and drew
on the board. We didn't go across the lines, just as you said. Belser said there
was no use us getting killed too . . . to just say what he said.”

Private Alters spoke up: “Yeah, that's all true. And after the first night, we had
to say Wiley was lying.”

By this time Belser was crying and looking at the men around him, who stared back.
Someone—Wiley was never sure who—said quietly: “He would've gotten us killed to save
his own skin.”

Wiley let go of the sergeant, who fell against the side of the tent. As he scurried
off, several of the men kicked at him and cursed him. The next day he was busted
to private and transferred out of the regiment with the other four.

The two officers who had watched a foolish offensive destroy their commands were
embroiled in their own argument. The words went back and forth for several minutes
until the colonel had finally had enough.

“I don't like your attitude, captain.”

The normally calm Redding answered indignantly. “May I also point out that my command
has borne the brunt of your offensive the last two days, costing my company nearly
thirty percent casualties?”

“Well, captain, maybe your company could use a change of leadership,” the colonel
snapped.

With that, Redding blew up completely. “
Then do it!
Relieve me!”

“Morton!” a voice came from the entrance of the tent. Both officers turned to see
Colonel Jacob B. Karns III from First Division headquarters.

Karns walked toward the men who, still boiling, said no more. His entrance into the
tent created a sensation. None of the clerks moved an inch. He was not especially
tall or short, fat or thin. But he was one of those
men whose persona dominates a
room and hides any idea of his age or size, which, later, no one could recall. Everything
about him spoke of a man of authority, a man to whom power was a familiar tool. Not
surprisingly, with the appearance of a commanding general, all of the many collateral
conversations among the overworked clerks ceased instantly. But Karns had none of
the usual loudness and bluster of a general, traits which these men had no respect
for at all. Instead, he instantly created a martial spirit inexplicable to any logic.
Those present stood ready to do his bidding, despite having no idea who he was.

The men gawked as Karns took off his camel hair overcoat, the likes of which none
of them had ever seen. It yielded a man immaculate from head to foot. His shoes glistened,
and his uniform fit so perfectly that it seemed an actual part of his body. He was
clean too, which made him stand out among these men who could not even hazard a guess
when they had last bathed. The rest was his demeanor. Completely calm and emotionless,
Karns had the look of a competitor who awaits a great contest supremely confident
that he will dominate its every phase. It was not the look of a friend or an enemy
but of a man to be feared. As even his friends said of him, “He's half electric shock
and the other half we don't even want to talk about.”

Karns, whose father was an assistant chief of staff of the Army in Washington, motioned
calmly to the clerks in the tent. “You men clear out.”

In seconds, the tent looked like an empty warehouse. With the composure that was
to make him a four-star general, Karns spoke almost offhandedly to the two officers.
“You two have got to stop this.” He sat with calm dignity, as though he were holding
court. “You need to step back.”

Although he did not mean it literally, both Pope and Redding stepped back.

“Mort,” Karns said, emphasizing the colonel's name and talking so casually as to
seem disinterested. “I can only imagine the disaster that would befall this storied
regiment, which attacked the heights of Chalpultapec, if you relieved Redding here
and now and then you got relieved tomorrow. I don't need to remind either of you
that many a brave man has sacrificed his
life for us in the last two days. Whatever
else we do, we must
not
dishonor their memories.”

The two arguers nodded almost reverently. Karns motioned, and the two sat.

“I was outside just long enough to hear Wiley, whose work is well known to us, put
the jolt into some other men I took to be scouts as well. Actually, he said he would
blow one of their brains out unless he told the truth.”

“That's a court-martial offense!” Pope said indignantly.

The young colonel's tone turned condescending. “Mort, this one is never going to
see the inside of a courtroom! Not one of those men will testify against that man
if he is right and he saves them from a hopeless attack. I would not testify against
him myself. That's a tough man. I would believe anything he told me.