But I’m low man on the totem pole at this conference, nobody’s paying any attention to my ranting and raving. Finally, after I give my little speech about how it’s impossible, and Lieutenant Anderson gives his, Sergeant Ethridge comes on heavy.
‘This is what I&R is supposed to do, Wharton. It’s intelligence reconnaissance. You can’t just sit back here on your fat asses and play at being intelligent, you’ve got to go out and reconnoitre.’
‘Wharton, you’re to take out this patrol and I want the whole Second Squad to go with you. I don’t want to hear another word. Just do some reconnaissance work for a change and check this out. That’s your job.’
Major Woods, who’s been starting to back off on the idea of the patrol himself, is now effusive with his enthusiasm and ‘go get ’em’ mentality.
What can I do? I mean, I know what I should do. I should refuse to take out the patrol. I should just say no.
But I don’t.
After the meeting, I try talking to Ethridge and he accuses me of being yellow. That’s true, but it’s not for him to say. He’s never even been out on a patrol. I go back to the squad and tell them what’s happened. These are all bright guys. They figure it out fast. They’re a little pissed off at me for not protecting them, but they’re willing to do it.
‘Look,’ I say quietly to them when we’re all together, ‘we’re going to put on snowsuits and whiten our rifles. We’re going out to where they can’t see us from here, not even at the outposts. Then we’re going to flop in the snow. We’ll be cold, but we’re going to stay out for maybe an hour, and stay alive. Then we’ll come trooping back in and say we didn’t see anything.’
I pause. No one speaks. I go on.
‘If tomorrow some other outfit is stupid enough to go out there and they run into trouble, we’re sorry, but it is not an I&R patrol.’
There isn’t much argument. Nobody’s happy but we agree. We prepare ourselves as best we can. It’s a scary patrol, just going out there, no matter what. We need to go a long way from where we are here, visible all the way, until we’re out of sight of the perimeter guard, and of the regular dog soldiers on line out there. It’s the only way. We need somehow to be invisible but we’ll be visible as hell. I mean it’s not a full moonlight night but there’s some moonlight, enough so when you stand you cast a shadow. White casts a dark shadow on white no matter how you do it. You think you’re invisible but you’re not.
So we take off around midnight or so, assuming Jerry will have minimum guard out, that is, if there’s anyone there at all, and if there’s going to be trouble. The problem is we don’t actually know what to expect; we’re going out blind.
Right at the ridge line, above this long open uphill plain of snow, is a pine forest. It worries me, anything could be in there, even tanks. Just in front of the trees is where these questionable lumps covered with snow are located. But, when one is out there in the snow it’s hard to figure what they are.
We go in standard patrol formation, at five yard intervals with two scouts out. I’m the third one in line, just behind the scouts. Then the rest of the squad is behind me, followed by the assistant squad leader, Russ. We’re trooping along through the snow; it’s deep enough to get in our galoshes. I’m looking back constantly, more than anyone else, trying to estimate the distances. Just how visible are we, from behind, as well as from in front? Now we’re out in the deep snow we’re practically snow blind, and there’s a light ground fog. It’s hard to figure just how far we’ve come. When is it they won’t be able to see us from the outposts? In my mind, the real enemy, as far as we’re concerned, is behind us. We slog on out there in the open snow and I give the signal to hit the ground, that is, the snow. Then I turn around, on my knees. I have a pair of binoculars on me which I’m not supposed to have. Binoculars are for officers. I took this pair from a dead German officer.
I look back and can still see the guys back in the foxholes on the perimeter. We’re not far enough out yet. I look forward and can’t see anything; no way I can figure out what those lumps are either. I whisper back along the line:
‘I think we’ll go another hundred yards, then we’ll have guaranteed we did it, they won’t be able to see where our footsteps end in daylight, with everybody charging out on the attack. Because they’ll be attacking at dawn, they’ll trample down our footsteps without seeing them.’
I guess there’s a good psychological reason for armies always attacking at dawn. They say it catches the enemy when he’s least expecting it, theoretically. But, you’re also sending out your own troops at their least vital time. Why do humans, especially military humans, like to do things the hard way? I’m not saying war can be fun, but it doesn’t have to be so hard.
So we scramble up again, wiping the snow off. We’re moving forward and can see a lump looming up slightly to our right. It’s one I hadn’t seen at all before. It looks just like a railroad overpass, but I don’t see any railroad tracks. I’m thoroughly confused. So we hit the ground fast and stay there. Nothing happens.
I whisper to one of the two scouts, Richards.
‘I’m going up to go look into this one, I don’t think there’s really anything there; but if we go and look in we can at least back up our story.’
Richards stands up.
‘Sure, that’s okay with me. I’ll go with you and give you cover.’
When we get up close, he volunteers to check this bump out himself. Somewhere about here, I should have called the whole thing off. We didn’t really need to know what was under that questionable railroad overpass.
But no, I stretch out in the snow with my rifle to cover him. He goes forward and round a corner of snow and disappears into a hole.
The next thing I know, he comes tearing out of there, running like hell. Behind him is rifle fire and he hits the ground trying to get his rifle up. It looks as if half the German army comes storming on out after him.
I start firing madly, fifteen rounds from my carbine, then I’m trying to switch the clip. Here we are, this is real war, shooting at each other like cowboys and Indians. Then the Germans see there are others behind me and dash back into their hole. I don’t know how it happens, but they must have a phone there.
What we thought might be a railroad overpass is a bunker, and is one of a set. There are two others up higher. This one has its back turned to protect the other bunkers. We’ve walked straight into a trap.
The whole squad is smack in the middle of an open snow covered field, the forest line is up the hill ahead of us. From its edge now starts machine gun fire, crossfire, covering where the whole squad is spread out. They’re shouting, shooting, screaming, hollering, running, falling, trying to get away but they’re all caught in this devastating crossfire. Nothing has happened to me yet, but both the scouts are down. The assistant squad leader, Russ, was shot down right away and Cochran, the one who was supposed to supply covering fire for me, is down too, I see him thrashing in the snow.
Instead of an M1 rifle he had a carbine. He’d filed down the sear like mine, making it automatic. So he had fifteen shots. That seems like a lot of fire power, but it’s not enough. It should also be the perfect weapon for this short distance, but it’s not enough.
I look back and see most of the squad being mowed down. Some are running and some are trying to hunker down and return fire, but it’s hopeless. I figure there’s no way I can stay here, and no way I can surrender. These people aren’t interested in me surrendering.
I figure if I can just run fast enough up the hill I can maybe get between the lines of fire of those machine guns. I can tell already that they’re just sweeping back and forth, they’re not hand-held guns, they’re mounted, and therefore have a particular limited traverse. If I can get into the cone between where they reach, I’ll have half a chance. This all runs through my mind in seconds. I take off faster than I can think. I jump back and forth expecting every second to have my head blown off or feel my legs go out from under me.
Somehow, by a miracle, I get between the bunkers and above the crossfire. I work my way into the forest. I look downhill and nobody’s moving, none of us, and no Germans. I keep looking, but I don’t think there’s anyone to see, anyone alive, that is.
This is a strong point we’ve run into not a defensive line. It’s one strong point in their system of defence. When they’re in retreat they set these up to defend their rear. Usually they have telephone connection with the main body of troops to let them know when someone attacks. For us it’s the worst it could have been, we definitely walked right into it blind.
I do, luckily, break out so I’m behind the field of fire of those two machine guns. I stretch out to get my breath and up chuck. I don’t know what else is hidden in this forest. Slowly, I work my way sideways, then, later, carefully back through the perimeter of another company down the line. I’m lucky I don’t get myself killed by them. I’m hollering and screaming, ‘American, I’m American, don’t shoot, don’t shoot.’ D-3 all over again.
I come with my hands up, my carbine dangling on my shoulder, up to their foxhole. Two GIs I’ve never seen are in it, I drop like a dead man, trembling all over, feeling horribly guilty about everything, at the same time, scared to death. These GIs let me rest a little, then lead me back to a kitchen tent. From there, at about 0-six hundred, I’m worked back to where I’m supposed to be, at Headquarters Company. The corps artillery has started like thunder in a fish bowl.
By this time I’ve gotten some of my strength and morale back, also about fifty per cent of my reason, at the most. I’m mad-angry as well as scared. My guilt had transformed itself into pure, unadulterated, murderous anger. I’m insane with it. I know Ethridge is bunking in one of those A tents with the motor pool guys. It’s farther back than it’s supposed to be. I’m convinced he’s a physical coward, even worse than I am.
I should have known he’d be way back there. He digs himself a foxhole, or has it dug for him, every time we set up camp. I don’t blame him. We’ve recognised each other, it’s a mutuality which is not respect.
I go in the tent and find the cot with Ethridge in it, sleeping on his back, big belly out, wearing his GI underwear, three blankets, more than any of us have. I’m amazed he isn’t in his hole. These are the things I note in passing. I still have my rifle with me. I stand over his bed and yell, curse him. As he wakes, staring, I jam the butt of my rifle down hard in the centre of his fat stomach. I don’t shoot him, you’ve got to give me credit. I want to, but I don’t. It turns out later this blow cracked the bottom of his sternum and broke four ribs on one side. I had no idea I’d hit him that hard. But it did wake him up. I got his attention.
He slides off his cot, groaning, stands. I swing my rifle and smack him in the face. His face turns red with blood, he’s screaming. I’m out of control. I’m yelling about what a yellow assed coward he is, and tell him how the whole squad is dead out there in the snow because of him. I’m so worked up, I can hardly talk. I can’t breathe. Three motor pool guys roll out of their cots. One has some kind of heavy duty flashlight they use for repairs on the jeeps. He hits me with it then shines it in my eyes. They see Ethridge standing there, rocking back and forth, crying and cursing, frothing blood. They jump me and throw me on the ground. I don’t even struggle. I don’t have the strength left. I can only cry.
Ethridge is such a mess they call in the medics. They converge and I’m pulled back, my rifle’s taken.
They don’t want to wake the Company Commander yet. They take turns standing guard over me in an empty pup tent. When Anderson comes, he’s in shock and begins reading the riot act to me.
‘What the hell happened?’
I just sit there.
‘Where’s the rest of the squad?’
I look up at him, at his clean, white face.
‘Dead, they’re all dead Lieutenant, thanks to you and Ethridge.’
It turns out I’m wrong. One other guy, one of the new rifleman replacements, did the same thing I did, following me instinctively. I’m the squad leader, so he’s just following me.
Somehow he worked his way back up into the woods. He comes in afterward through C Company. The rest of the squad is still out there, all dead, no one moving. They find them all the next day. I don’t go out to look. I’m confined to quarters.
COURT MARTIAL
The next day I’m called in front of Colonel Douglas Moore, our Regimental Commander. The S2, Lieutenant Anderson, and the PFC who escaped with me, are there. I tell what we’d come on and how fast it all happened. After the Colonel goes through a lot of nonsense about abandoning my men, I tell how I think it was all Sergeant Ethridge’s fault. He’s the one who insisted on the patrol although both Lieutenant Anderson and I tried to point out the danger involved. Major Wood didn’t know enough to know how dangerous and stupid it all was. It just wasn’t the kind of patrol an I&R platoon does. Lieutenant Anderson backs me up. Neither of us really badmouths the new S2 major, Major Wood. It’d only make things worse.
Things are quiet. The Colonel looks us over seriously. In my mind, I can still see him that night wrapped in a shawl, his feet in a bucket of hot water.
‘Soldier, this warrants a special or general court martial, you all know that. Sergeant Ethridge can never serve in the army again. He doesn’t have enough teeth. I’ve recommended him for an honorable discharge, a purple heart and a bronze star. He’ll receive a full pension as a disabled veteran.’
He pauses.
‘And you, Sergeant Wharton, due to extenuating circumstances, this is only a summary court martial. It will not be marked against you in your service record except as that. However, you are hereby broken in rank to buck private and transferred out of Headquarters Company back to K Company in the Third Battalion. I don’t want to hear any more about this disgraceful incident.’
He pauses to see I’ve got the message.
‘At ease,’ he says, then continues: ‘Off the record, do you realise what you’ve done, Wharton, attacking a superior non-commissioned officer? You almost killed him. I just got back the medical report from the field hospital. His military career is definitely over. Maybe you did him a favour. Frankly, he’d gotten to the point where he wasn’t doing his job, he was scared all the time and taking it out on the men. I would have had to replace him.’
‘As for you, Wharton, I’m going to try keeping this a summary court martial and see if we can get by with it. I don’t think Major Wood is going to make anything of this because he doesn’t want it known how he set up this patrol under these conditions.’
Now this regular army bird colonel, Colonel Moore, has control over not just the I&R. He has an entire band within Regimental Headquarters. There are a whole raft of people, the cooks, the laundry and the motor pool people, who really don’t have much to do with war. They just keep things going. They’re headquarters’ personnel. The I&R is the only part of a headquarters company which usually has anything to do with actual fighting and even we, most of the time, rarely do. Ours is a soft berth compared to a line company, except when we need to go on these nutty patrols. So, I’m not enthusiastic about going up to a line company.
That day I’m broken back to private. I clear my things from the company kitchen truck and ship out of the Intelligence and Reconnaissance platoon back to my original company, K Company.
There have been considerable recent losses in K Company so I’m put in as a replacement. It’s a dangerous situation to be in. As a new replacement I’ll get all the toughest jobs, but I’m happy to get off with my skin, even if it’s only temporary. To be honest, I was really hoping they’d go all the way, send me back and put me in prison. Anything to get out of combat. Lucky Ethridge.
However, at the same time, I’m worried about being stuck with a dishonourable discharge and a whole mess of terrible things I’ve been conditioned to fear. Even though I know war is a dumb thing, I don’t want to come out of it with the lifelong stigma of a dishonourable discharge.
I recognise now that the only heroes of wars are the conscientious objectors. But all the junk they’d pumped into my eighteen year old mind was against me. I didn’t have enough information and, also, I probably didn’t have enough courage.
As soon as I’m packed I get driven, over muddy roads, by the Headquarters Company cook. He’d been a friend of Ethridge, so he sees me as the villain and won’t speak to me the whole way. I know the entire motor pool is against me. They’d won a lot of money from Ethridge playing poker and I’ve almost killed the golden goose.
When I get to K Company, after I’ve checked in with the Company Commander, I hunt around to find my old K Company friends, but most of them are gone, killed or wounded. They’ve been continuously on the attack since the time I left them, and it stays that way.
CHAMPAGNE PARTY
Because I’d been a sergeant and an old member of the company, the Commander of K Company, Captain Wall, kind of takes me under his wing. He moves me up pretty fast. Not as fast as they moved Sergeant Hunt, the trigamist, but fast enough. I find out Captain Wall is the fifth K Company Commander, the other four were killed. And Captain Wall looks as if he might have already been killed and doesn’t know it.
That bad patrol I took out and lost left me on the edge of sanity, if there’d been any left. I can’t work at anything consistently. I just spend my time constantly thinking, ‘How can I get out of this, how can I manage to stay alive and not kill any more people?’
In March, I’m saved from going psycho by being wounded. It’s a minor wound, a piece of shrapnel in my wrist and another lodged in my groin, but the fascinating thing is after they’ve repaired the shrapnel wounds, I spend my time wandering all around the hospital having a hard time standing up.