Clervaux

 

PART TWO

 

Based on the ABC Television Series:  Combat!

Story Copyright 2003 by Terry Pierce

 

 

Thanks, JMcG, for making me an offer I couldn’t refuse…

 

 

 

 

 

They never had a chance.

 

Outnumbered, exhausted, and outflanked, the Americans were flushed from the woods like quail.  They stumbled onto a wide field blanketed by drifts of new-fallen snow as the enemy closed in at their backs.  A sunken road lay a few hundred yards ahead, its sloping sides offering a breastworks suited to a last line of defense.  Slipping, falling, struggling back up, the GIs tried desperately to reach it.

 

The Germans reached the edge of the forest and turned the field into a bloodbath.                  

 

The first American to be hit staggered, dropped his M1, and fell to his knees.  Gushing blood from a hole in his neck, he tore at his collar, frantic to breathe.  A soldier nearby grabbed the wounded man’s arm while shouting at him to get up.  Before the GI could react, another volley of shots cut both men down.

 

The other Americans returned fire.  A machinegun roared and bullets chased them in jagged lines kicking up clouds of snow.  Tracers zipped past, piercing the air like glowing javelins.  Within seconds, another GI fell. 

 

He clamped a hand over the gaping hole in his right thigh and his severed artery.  Gasping for air, he yanked open his first aid pouch.  The slush around him turned dark red as he unwrapped and tried to flap open a bandage.  More bullets snapped by his ears, and startled, he dropped it.  He clawed for the wet gauze, beginning to see double, and finally panicking, howled for help.      

         

A soldier farther ahead heard the agonized cry.  Turning, he saw the bleeding man collapse.  He changed directions, running serpentine, firing his M1 from the hip.  As he got close to his squad mate, the burst from a Schmeisser caught him full in the chest.  Knocked backward off his feet, he slid into a snowdrift, a crumpled, khaki heap.            

 

His commander saw the rifleman’s death a split second before being shot in the face.  The bullet slammed into his right cheek, snapped his head sideways, and exited his mouth.  Losing his submachine gun, he fell to his hands and knees.  Blood splattered the snow beneath him as he wavered, choking on his severed tongue, but he collected himself, drew his sidearm, and raised his head.  The Germans watched incredulously as the lone American struggled to stand.  It wasn’t until he was upright and swinging the gun around toward them, that they finished him off.

 

Silence settled over the landscape and not a single American moved.  Blood collected around the bodies in steaming pools that stained the killing field red.  Rushing forward to descend like vultures on the corpses, the Germans pushed and shoved each other, stripping the dead of cigarettes, gloves, and boots. 

 

Less than a quarter of a mile away, Saunders’ squad stood frozen in place.  The snow sifting between the men and the shadowy evergreens was the only buffer between safety and discovery by the enemy.  For a moment, no one spoke in the sudden ominous silence.  Then as another barrage started up in the distance, Littlejohn uneasily shuffled his feet.                    

 

“Who else you figure is out here?” he whispered.

 

“You mean besides Krauts?” Kirby whispered back.

 

Littlejohn squinted sideways.  “Of course that’s who I mean.”   

 

“Must be a small unit,” Doc said, cupping a hand over his red nose.  “I didn’t hear more’n a couple automatics and a few M1s.”

 

“That’s what I heard too,” Littlejohn agreed.    

 

“What do you think, Sarge?” Doc asked.

 

“I don’t know…”  Saunders murmured, going back to his compass and trying to get an azimuth.  He leveled it and peered at its radiolite markers.  “Could be a gun crew that got overrun…some GIs from the roadblock…another patrol.”  He saw the squad was still on course and, relieved, snapped the compass shut. 

 

Whattaya think happened to ‘em?” Littlejohn asked, his voice muffled by the coat collar buttoned up around his throat.

                 

“They got hit,” Kirby said.  “And by a big Kraut unit that’s pretty close.” 

 

“Then get going,” Saunders said, looking up, “before we get hit by it too.”

 

He signaled Caje keeping watch farther away, and the scout waved, stepped out from cover, and pointed the men north.

 

They trudged forward in a loose diamond formation, Saunders limping along at the rear.  He worried about the late hour and night falling so early this time of year.  If any more time was wasted dodging German patrols, waiting for bigger units to pass, or just trying to walk on the slippery mix of snow, moss, and pine needles, the squad could get caught in the woods after dark.

 

He stumbled over a root and, thrown off balance, grabbed at a nearby fir.  Latching onto a branch, he pulled a shower of snow down on him.  A heavy clump hit his back and, biting off an oath, he fell to his hands and knees.                            

 

Endless, he thought.  It was endless.  The cold.  The worries.  The misery.

 

He used to look forward to weather like this a few years ago.  Sledding, ice skating, getting into snowball fights...

 

Snowball fights.

 

He wiped his face and sucked in some air, nauseated at the thought.  Fighting, combat, battling on and on…to hell with heavenly peace.  He felt around for the Thompson and, blinking snow from his eyes, thought grimly of all the latrine rumors he’d heard recently…but known better than to believe.

 

Home for Christmas.  The whole VIII Corps.  First to Berlin, then shipped stateside in a couple of weeks.

 

Hell, he’d be glad just to get out of these woods.

 

He pushed up, clenching his teeth as pain flared in his calves, and staggered to his feet.  He leaned against the tree trunk and adjusted his helmet.  Squinting at Doc’s bloody coat just disappearing through the next row of trees, he brushed off his arms, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and lurched forward to catch up. 

 

Doc was plodding along behind Littlejohn, who was preoccupied with thoughts of the Dasburg-Bastogne Highway.  Concerned that Krauts would be on it, Littlejohn fingered one of the two clips of ammunition Caje had shared.  Eventually, he increased his pace, sidled in closer to Kirby, and in a low voice asked, “Do you figure the Krauts’ve got that bridge up yet?”

 

Kirby moved his eyes from the firs on his right back to those on his left.  “If they do, I’m thumbin’ a ride back to town.”

 

“On what?  A panzer?”

 

“C’mon, Littlejohn.”  Kirby turned his head.  “On the first GI wheels I see.”

 

“Then you think no matter where the Kraut tanks are, our guys’ll be pulling out of Marnach?”

 

Kirby shrugged and looked back into the forest.  “If the new CO’s got any sense.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, with all the tanks the Krauts got across that river…”

 

“Unless they’re already on this side,” Littlejohn interjected.

 

“…the company’ll hafta pull back.”  Kirby swept out a hand as if to dismiss Littlejohn’s pessimism.  “It can’t hold off all that Kraut armor we heard.  Not without some help from ours anyway.  So if Captain Elsbourne ain’t buckin’ for a promotion, he’ll have our guys advancin’ to the rear.

 

“But what if the colonel’s got support moving up?”

 

“So what if he does?” 

 

“We’re still attached to the 110th , right?”

 

Kirby frowned.

 

“If the reserve’s trucking forward,” Littlejohn went on, “the company’ll stay put.  And that means Sarge’ll probably get us a lift right back to Marnach.”

 

Kirby’s eyebrows shot up.  “But the whole Kraut army’s on the move!  What’s a few Bloody Bucket guys and one lousy rifle company at half strength gonna do?  The brass’d be nuts to make us try to hold on to that burg.”

 

“Well, that’s what they wanted Fox Company to do last month when it was attached to the 112th.  Those guys didn’t have anything in Schmidt except for the couple bazookas and mortars they dragged though the ravine at their backs.  And you heard what happened when the Krauts moved in their tank reinforcements; the 112th got clobbered.  Then when it fell back to Kommerscheidt, it got clobbered there too.  If it hadn’t have been for some of the fellas bugging out, nobody would’ve made it back to Vossenack.”

 

Kirby said nothing, but gritted his teeth.

 

Littlejohn, oblivious, went on.

 

“And don’t forget we were supposed to take that road junction at Rafflesbrand, even though the Krauts had the whole place mined…plus all those bunkers…boy, I’ll bet I haven’t seen that much concertina wire since we hit Omaha…”

 

“Littlejohn, do me a favor, will you?” Kirby interrupted.

 

“Sure, Kirby.  What is it?”

 

“Drop back and cheer up Doc.” 

 

Surprised, Littlejohn halted.

 

Grumbling, Kirby trudged on.

 

Doc approached and, glancing Littlejohn’s way, smiled encouragement as he continued past.  Littlejohn watched the medic’s back a moment, then shrugged, hefted his rifle, and double timed to catch up.  When Doc looked his way a second time, Littlejohn asked, “Do you figure the Krauts’ve got that bridge up yet?”

 

Caje, alone in front of the group, peered carefully into the gray and white maze of trees.  Looking for snipers, trip wires, and Grenadiers wearing winter camouflage, he strained his eyes to catch anything out of the ordinary in the bleak December light.  He spotted a patch of ice and went around it, knowing better than to risk cracking through the frozen puddle and warning the enemy of his presence.  Another ambush…another round of being cornered and outnumbered, and…

 

Caje pushed away the thought and ground the heel of his hand into the bandage on his face, trying to relieve the itchiness underneath.  He wondered if Germans were on the highway.  If they were, it would mean keeping to the woods.  Plus even more hills to climb.  And with the way his…

 

Caje shook his head.  So much for that smiling and cheerfully accepting your lot in life crap.

 

He shifted his rifle to cope with its weight.  It seemed to be getting heavier by the minute.  So was his wet, mud-caked overcoat.  He glanced up at the icicles forming on the brim of his helmet and, pulling his head lower into his collar, wondered how things could possibly get worse.

 

McCall suddenly loomed in his thoughts, and Caje knew exactly how things could get worse. McCall had been alive this morning, bumming cigarettes, baiting Kirby, griping about going out on another patrol.  Now he was just another bloody, frozen corpse.  And with the Kraut push going on, KIAs might never be recovered.  McCall would lie over here and rot while his folks wondered where he was, whether he’d suffered, why they’d never get to bury their son…

 

Caje shook his head again, irritated at becoming distracted.  Too much more of that kind of thinking and he’d get himself killed next.

 

Besides, he thought, a familiar dull ache in his chest, brooding over dead men never brought any back.

 

He forced himself to concentrate and soon noticed a change in the pattern of trees.  A clearing, a road, maybe another firebreak was probably straight ahead.  He’d seen Saunders and the Kraut’s maps and knew that the latter lay at the base of the next ridge.  Pausing, he listened carefully, but he couldn’t hear anything except the men behind him and far-off explosions.  Still, that didn’t mean too much.  With at least a Kraut division sneaking up to the Our, by now half the German army could be using whatever was up there as a route of march.

 

Unsnapping the next pouch on his cartridge belt, he gave Kirby a high sign.  Kirby signaled the rest of the squad to hold up as Caje eased himself forward to check things out.  Keeping his breathing even, his muscles loose, Caje carefully slid his numb fingers along his rifle’s stock.  He took up the slack on its trigger and, ready to react if so much as a pinecone dropped, darted his eyes back and forth.     

 

The silence was unnerving, the footing treacherous.  A sudden plopping noise sounded, and Caje jerked sideways, whipping his rifle to the right.  He caught sight of a nearby fir bowing under a heavy layer of snow and got out of the way as another clump slid off its branches.  Pausing to draw in a shaky breath, he made sure nothing else was moving, then threaded his way between more fallen pine boughs and tangles of brush.  When he neared the edge of the woods, he drew up behind a large spruce and looked out into the clearing.

 

It was the firebreak, all right, but one wider than most.

 

He turned his head left, then right, listening intently and trying to guess at the break’s width.  Fog had again begun settling over everything, its milky fingers clutching at the growing shadows drawn like curtains between the trees.  In the cloudy atmosphere, he couldn’t see much, but things seemed quiet enough and, easing up a bit, he pressed his fingertips into the bandage on his cheek.

 

He shifted his gaze to the ridge lying beyond the firebreak.  Lurking in the mists, it loomed ominously, a nearly vertical slope covered with more of the endless rows of evergreens planted by the local lumber interests.  But somewhere up there, the Dasburg-Bastogne Highway slashed its way through the pines crowning its heights and led in snaky curves to Clervaux snuggled up against the ridge’s northwest slope.

 

His hopes soaring at the thought of that, Caje glanced around again in a last security check.  Then he backtracked a short distance and waved the other men up.  Moving his hand to his left shoulder, he probed at it gingerly until he spotted Doc and Saunders coming forward.  He quickly dropped his hand to the M1’s receiver, and folding his palm over it to keep its action from freezing, he watched the squad form up.

 

Whattaya got?” Saunders asked when he drew near, his face red, his breath short.               

 

“It’s the firebreak,” Caje answered, noticing he wasn’t the only one the day’s hike was taking a toll on.  “And it looks clear.”

 

Saunders thought of the two maps in his coat and took in what there was of a view over the scout’s shoulder.  “And beyond that?”

 

“The ridge and highway, I figure, but it’s pretty hard to see.”

 

“Okay.  Better check it out.”  Saunders reached down to tug closed the slit Doc had cut in the left leg of his pants.  “You ready?”

 

Caje wondered if Saunders knew about the blood still smeared on his face.  “As I’ll ever be.”

 

“Shake a leg.”

 

Caje turned away, pulling up his rifle, and retraced his steps.  Saunders waved Kirby left and Littlejohn right as they followed.  The two men crept farther off, down the tree line, to get into position to provide Caje cover.  Caje moved back toward the spruce, while Saunders and Doc hunkered behind a nearby log.

 

Caje checked his cartridge belt, making sure the flap over the last clip he had was still open.  A nerve in his cheek twitched.  The firebreak seemed empty, but who knew what lay on its other side? 

 

He’d never get used to this job, he decided, no matter how many times he did it.

 

Nodding at Saunders, he took a deep breath.  Saunders, Kirby, and Littlejohn raised their weapons as Caje pushed the scarf mantling his head back from his face.  He exhaled slowly, checked the safety on his rifle a last time, and stepped out into the open.

 

Nothing happened.

 

His heart drumming quick-time, he took another step.  Only fifty feet, he told himself.  The firebreak couldn’t be more than fifty feet across.  And if no one shot him while he was in it, maybe the woods over there would be safe.

 

The snow became deeper, and he lifted his legs higher to keep it out of his boots.  Frozen ruts left behind by lumber carts threw him off balance, and Caje broke out in a cold sweat.  He hoped he wouldn’t slip and twist an ankle as he picked his way more carefully between snow-covered lumps.  By the time he reached the halfway point, he was breathing hard and wondering if he’d ever make it across.

 

At least he could finally see the weeds lining the opposite side of the firebreak…weeds that looked sculpted in ice…ice that would make a helluva lot of noise if he tried to push his way…

 

Something suddenly crashed out of the underbrush.  Caje spun to shoot it as a black whirlwind roared, throwing his aim off.  He swung the Garand in a vicious arc to meet the streaking blur hurtling toward him, but struck and thrown backward in a smoky red spray, he hit the ground hard, rolled once, then slid forward into darkness.

 

“Doc!”  In the tree line, Saunders lunged for the medic.  “Keep your head down!”    

 

Doc sucked icy air into his lungs, his muscles coiled for action after the explosion.

 

Sarge!”  It was Kirby, his voice too high, his face white.

 

“Shut up!” Saunders yelled, still holding on to Doc.  “Just keep your mouth shut!”

 

He shoved the medic into the snow, threw a leg over him, and hissed, “Stay down!  You got it?  Stay put right here!”

 

Doc trembled as adrenaline raced through him, but closed his eyes, nodded, and forced himself to lie still.

 

Saunders let him go, yanked out the maps he was carrying, and ran his eyes over the grids.

 

“The firebreak’s not marked,” he muttered.  “The damned thing’s not supposed to be mined…”

 

He looked up again through frosty clouds of his breath.  Maybe Krauts were laying mines over there and Caje had seen them so that’s why he’d twisted around like that.  Or maybe the Kraut engineers were finished and some unit had set up defensive positions on the ridge flanking the highway…

 

Sarge, Caje might be alive…” Doc tried.

 

“And he might be dead,” Saunders cut him off. 

 

He jammed the maps back into his coat and, with his heart in his throat, crawled off Doc and toward the spruce Caje had hidden behind.  He had a fast decision to make and didn’t have time for arguments.  More Krauts were close behind and had probably heard that blast.      

 

He hugged the tree and shinnied up its rough bark.  Getting to his feet, he leaned past it, but he wasn’t prepared to see Caje lying face down, surrounded by body parts, a crumpled, bloody mess.  Saunders’ knees suddenly went weak and he snapped his eyes shut, his thoughts scattering in a whirling kaleidoscope of panic. 

 

“…the squad’s old men…chewed up and spit out again…whattaya wanna do next, Sargewhattaya wanna do next…”

 

What did he want to do?  Shut down.  Let it all go.  Walk into a bullet and put an end to this whole damn…

 

Sarge?”

 

But that was bullshit.  He’d do what he always did.  Just like the medic.

 

Keep it together, suck it up.  Push on and not crap out on the rest of the men.

 

And the war would go on and on and on…

 

“All right, Doc,” Saunders said, opening his eyes.  “I’m getting a fix on things.”

 

Doc lay down again, relieved, but watching him. 

 

Saunders cleared his throat, steadied himself against the tree, and looked back at Caje.  The first thing to do was figure out if the guy was KIA.  The only problem was it was damned hard to tell.  Not only were the fog and storm cutting down on visibility, but Caje’s scarf and right arm covered his face.  And snow hid most of what was left of him, making it impossible to see which limbs had been blown off.  But considering all the blood and the force of the blast…

 

Saunders stared at the smoking black crater, wondering how a Bouncing Betty could have thrown Caje like that.  Castrate a man, take off a foot, but lob him a dozen feet?  It was hard to believe anything of the guy was left.

 

Saunders wondered whether to go out there himself.  Check on the soldier…try to pull him out.  But he’d risk getting himself blown up, or even walk into a field of fire if the Krauts were already holding the highway and dug in below it.  And if Caje was dead, it wouldn’t make sense.  He should follow the break west, see if he could bypass the Krauts, find some other way to get the map and the rest of his men back…

 

The hell he would.

 

Saunders swung up the Thompson and fired a burst across the firebreak.  He raked the trees with half the bullets left in the gun’s magazine.  Startled, Kirby and Littlejohn yanked up their weapons, but Saunders yelled at them to keep their heads down.  He listened to the silence, then swung out from behind the tree and emptied the rest of the magazine.

 

Not so much as a Mauser answered his challenge.

 

He eased up and tipped back his helmet, hopeful now the enemy wasn’t in the woods past the clearing.  After throwing away the magazine, ducking under the Thompson’s sling, and situating the gun crossways on his back, he beckoned to Kirby.

 

“I’m going out there…see if I can reach Caje.”  He reached into his coat and raised his voice, so Littlejohn could also hear.  “Give me cover, but don’t shoot unless you see something.  If I don’t make it, get out of here and into Clervaux whatever way you can.”

 

Kirby didn’t say anything.  He only watched Saunders unholster his Colt and flip off its safety.  Saunders glanced at him, then over at Doc and Littlejohn.  He saw that if he'd wanted a volunteer to go out into the firebreak, he could've had his pick.

 

He jacked a round into the Colt's chamber and directed Kirby to take his spot behind the spruce.  Kirby hugged the back of the tree, and he and Littlejohn raised their rifles as Doc pushed up just high enough to see over the logs.  Saunders pulled down his helmet again, then looking around a last time, he cautiously moved out into the open.

 

In the silence, Saunders felt their eyes on him…their eyes and a hundred gray phantoms’.  He stepped carefully into the first of Caje’s footprints, flicking his gaze back and forth between the tracks in the snow and the ridge.  Lifting his legs high enough to strain his torn calf muscles, he forced himself to ignore the pain and to concentrate.

 

Move left…careful…careful…step down lightly.  Watch for Krauts…find the next track…raise the right foot.  Line up the boot…easy…easy…

 

He talked himself through the first few yards of the clearing, his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.  He didn’t know what was worse – the slow, torturous progress he was making or nearing what might be Caje’s corpse.  But when he saw Caje move, his heart nearly stopped.

 

Caje!” he murmured in disbelief that turned instantly into panic when he realized what would happen next.  “Don’t move!”  He raised his voice.  “Stay down!”

 

Caje pulled his hand away from his face and groggily lifted his head.

 

Dammit,” Saunders muttered, nearly missing his next mark.  The blast had affected Caje's hearing, and facing the ridge, the soldier couldn’t see anyone signaling him, but if he didn’t stop moving, he’d get himself blown to bits.

 

Caje pushed up, wobbling on his hands and knees.  He shook his head, coughed, and fell into a sitting position.  Dazed, he wiped some of the blood off his face and stared at his hands. 

 

Saunders again felt a mixture of relief and mind-numbing terror.  Caje was alive and miraculously intact, but could trigger a chain reaction of explosions across the firebreak.  Trying to swallow past his constricted throat, Saunders took two more quick steps forward, sweat sliding down his ribs.  He overshot one of Caje’s tracks and, hitting a rut, felt his heel slip out from under him.  Fighting wildly for balance, he tottered forward another step and barely managed to nail the next footprint.  He paused, trembling, to straighten up and through the hair spilling into his eyes saw Caje grope for the scarf that had slipped down his back.  Horrified, Saunders knew what would happen next.

 

Caje would get the scarf over his head, then reach for his helmet.  And when he spotted the Garand lying farther away…

 

Caje!”

 

His heart beating like a stopwatch ticking off his and Caje’s last few seconds, Saunders took half a dozen more reckless steps.  Seeing Caje get his legs under him, lurch to his feet, and begin looking for the M1, Saunders came in close, shoved the Colt into his belt, and lunged forward to grab him. 

 

Caje swung around, and Saunders ducked a solid right hook.  He glommed onto Caje’s shoulders before the soldier could cock back another fist.

 

Caje!  It’s me - Saunders!”

 

Caje blinked and staggered back.

 

Saunders yanked him in close.

 

Caje made a choked sound, his face pinched.

 

“Stay put,” Saunders hissed.  “You’re in a minefield.  You understand?  A minefield!”

 

Caje clenched his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, and tried to absorb what the sergeant was telling him.  “A…minefield?”

 

“That’s right.”  Saunders said, remembering Caje’s shoulder wound and moving his hands lower.  “A minefield.”

 

“I was in a…firebreak.”

 

“You’re in the firebreak,” Saunders agreed, “but it’s mined.”

 

Caje gulped the December air, shuddering, and soon nodded his understanding.

 

“An animal…an animal.  It came right at me,” he said, opening his eyes as a bit of color returned to his cheeks.  “I think that’s what happened, anyway…”

 

Saunders tried to assess his injuries.  “Where’re you hit?”

 

Caje focused on the squad leader.  “I’m okay.  Okay.  Just hit my head…after something knocked the wind out of me.”

 

Saunders, his gloves red because of the blood covering the man, stared in disbelief.

 

Caje turned his head left, then still wobbling, tried to look over his right shoulder.  “You see it?”  He was too close to Saunders to twist around.  “Behind me?”

 

Saunders kept a hand on each of Caje’s arms and looked to see what he was talking about.  A torn carcass lay in the bomb crater a few yards away, strips of hide, pieces of bone, and chunks of flesh surrounding it.  Closest to Caje lay what was left of a head and, surprised, Saunders realized what had happened.

 

“A boar charged you?” he said, stunned by the size of the animal’s tusks.

 

Caje was looking at the blood on his coat.  “I got this all over me…”