Reluctant Warriors (39 page)

“These other guys are from Pope's old company. They're calling you two real shitheads.”

“Who are the guys?”

“That's not important. Hey, I know that look on your face. Now soldier, Chip, give
it the hell up. It's done!”

“Sir, we scouted. Sometimes people see ya, and shoot at ya, and kill ya when ya scout.
So they saw us, shot at us, and killed Walsh. But they didn't even see us in town
on the damn main road. Walsh was shot 150 yards from this goddamn spot.” Wiley slammed
his fist down on the desk. “That's on the
left
a the line! That must be a good nine
hundred damn yards from their position, so how in hell could we a mucked up?”

Redding sighed. “I have no idea. It's done. Take Dietrich.”

“No!”

Redding looked at Wiley. “I know you like to go alone, but that's orders. Comes straight
from Pope himself. The mission is to be done by two men.”

“Crap.”
Wiley was too tired to complain much. But he had to ask. “Why Dietrich?”

“He knows a little German. Why, what do you have against him?”

“Nothing.”

“Get some rest.”

“Sure.” Wiley spun around and stalked out of the tent.

At dark, the ever-present Sergeant Bracey nudged Wiley awake. “Chip.”

Wiley, all warm in his poncho, yawned and then blinked a few times. He'd been thinking
of a dark-haired girl in Columbia, South Carolina. Just a kid when he'd last seen
her, but he'd been thinking of her more and more. She'd be grown up by now. But she
probably wouldn't want anything to do with a guy like him.

He stood up, slowly, stiff with cold. The last mission came back to his mind. He
thought:
Did I mess that up and get Dennis killed? No. I can't see it. No! Damn,
it feels even colder than last night.

He turned to Bracey, who was still standing there to make sure he got up. “Where's
Dietrich?”

“Loadin' up his canteen. He's ready to go. We got some slop for you at the cook tent.
At least it's hot.”

“Thanks. There's no hurry in this; they're always on the guard
at nightfall.”

Again the last mission played in his head. As tired as he was, it
was easy to blame himself. It was hard to think he might have caused someone's death.

Distracted, unbelievably tired, Wiley made the mistake of splashing water from his
canteen on his face. It was so cold that it jolted him and gave him a sharp pain
in one eye. He winced and slowly walked toward the water vehicle, yawned again, and
almost tripped over a tree root.

“Even German roots hate me,” he muttered.

He thought over the last mission as he got his gear together. What, exactly, had
gone wrong? Maybe they shouldn't have gone through those leaves coming back.

He felt a little better as he checked in his right pocket for the little Colt .25
pistol his grandfather had given him. Its metal was warm, which made him a little
uncomfortable. Then he took his .45 out of the holster and ejected the clip. He saw
that it had the full nine shots, stuffed the clip back in, and pushed it back into
the holster.

He gathered a few other things and joined Dietrich for chow. They talked most of
an hour about how to handle the mission and then shoved off.

If anything, that second night began even darker than the first. But Wiley knew the
ground this time, and Dietrich proved easy to work with, so they made good progress.
In an hour and a half, they crossed the lines and came to the curve in the road where
the vehicle had shot Walsh. They startled a deer about halfway into town. Finally,
they arrived at the cobblestones at the edge of town.

“Nobody here,” Wiley whispered to Dietrich.

The moon rose, much brighter than the previous night. The two men decided to wait
until the clouds obscured the light again. The town was as quiet as the night before,
with very few lights.

Suddenly, a door opened, and they were caught in a bright and blinding
light! There
was a boy in the doorway, perhaps a Hitler Youth. He yelled the alarm and kept yelling
it.

Wiley pointed the little Colt right at the boy's face. He wanted to fire as the stupid
kid continued to yell, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he and Dietrich
bolted off.

Bullets flew around them as they ran, some hitting buildings behind them, some hitting
the pavement in front of them. One hit Dietrich in the left thigh. He fell against
Wiley, and both men went sprawling.

In a second, they were up again, Dietrich limping badly. They ran around a corner
and up a block. In desperation, Wiley kicked open the door of a darkened house, and
the men rushed inside and collapsed in a corner. He reached for his .45 and cocked
it, expecting the door to burst open at any moment.

“Sorry, Chip,” Dietrich gasped. “I should have shot that damn kid but I couldn't.”

“Me neither.” Wiley knew he should look over at Dietrich, but he couldn't. He had
to watch the door. “Shit, truth is we been lucky ta get as far as we did. Town on
alert's bound ta be expectin' scouts.”

Dietrich didn't answer. At the same instant, Wiley felt something warm on the cold
floor. He touched it and knew right away that it was blood.

“Jack, talk to me!”

Dietrich could barely speak. “Don' worry . . . get me up . . . I can . . . I can
. . . wal . . . k.”

Wiley hadn't had any idea the man was so badly hurt. He pulled out a small flashlight
and saw a gaping wound in Dietrich's leg. It was obvious that the man was going into
shock, maybe bleeding to death.

Wiley's stomach lurched. He thought:
I'll be damned if this is goin' ta happen ta
my partner again. I'll give myself up if I hafta.

He bandaged Dietrich as well as he could, the flashlight giving the only light in
the evidently empty house. He managed to pick him up and open the door to the street,
half expecting an avalanche of bullets to crash into them. There was nothing, no
lights, no alarm, no troops.

Wiley walked along several streets, the completely limp Dietrich slung over his shoulders.
He spotted a dim light in a house ahead.

He trotted up as fast as he could while carrying Dietrich's weight. He pounded hard
on the door with the butt of the .45, glad he knew enough German to yell something:
“Raus mit im!”

He pounded on the door again, put Dietrich down on the doorstep, and ran to an alleyway
two doors down. He peered around the corner.

The edge of the door opened, emitting a line of light. Wiley heard voices speaking,
surprised-sounding German. He watched as, slowly, someone pulled Dietrich inside.

That's the best I can do for you, pally
, he thought. Hopefully, whoever lived there
would try to help Dietrich, not kill him.

Wiley went down the alleyway, headed for the edge of town. He thought for a minute
that he should go back to his lines. Then the weight of everything descended on him.
He knew he had to find out the truth about the enemy positions.

Maybe I killed Dennis and got Dietrich shot. Maybe I been gettin' my guys killed
and captured all along.
The idea had been in the back of his mind for some time.
The guys who scout with me all get it one way or another.

He knew the enemy would certainly be on the alert. The logical thing to do was to
go back to his lines, but he couldn't do that. He
had
to prove everything that had
happened wasn't his fault. It wouldn't bring his friends back, but he could prove
that he'd been right in what he'd found. It mattered very little to him that he was
risking his life, perhaps throwing it away.

As carefully as he could, knowing that they must be looking for him, Wiley made his
way out of town toward the German positions. He got closer this time.

He crept through the darkness for nearly two hours, noting the position of troops
and the three tanks. The Germans hadn't moved at all! He couldn't see
why
the other
scouts would have lied, but they had!

Wiley headed back around 0200, passing over to his lines at nearly 0400. As
before,
he made his report to Captain Redding and went back to his poncho-blanket for a couple
of hours of rest.

As soon as he awoke that morning, Wiley went over to the main tent. The first thing
he saw as he walked in was Redding, pacing and smoking a cigarette, obviously upset.

The captain spotted Wiley. “Sergeant, you won't believe this. I told them what you
found last night. They just called and told us the attack's going up the main road,
just like before!”

Wiley stared.
“What?”

“Don't, don't even ask me,” Redding said. “I've been up all night with this. The
same guys that had us attack up the main road and were wrong as hell still have Colonel
Pope's ear. They told him the Germans had moved out of the place.”

“That's ridiculous! I was just there! There are Germans up and down that main road.”

“Pope's friends think they must have gotten in after you. Could they have pulled
out after you did?”

“No! When I saw 'em they weren't showing signs a goin' anywhere! You know how long
it takes ta move tanks and equipment. Those bastards are out-and-out lying!”

Wiley looked Redding right in the eye.

“Well, then they're going to kill us, because the orders have been cut and they tell
me they can't be changed.”

“Great.” Wiley sighed. “Let me get my squad ready.”

The attack was another disaster, with more tanks and men lost, including two of Wiley's
close friends. By noon, it was all over, and the survivors had returned to the company.

Wiley sat silent in his tent, thinking.
McMurtha never could hit anythin' with a
rifle, so, naturally, we called him “Long Shot.”

Wiley's mind wandered, thinking about the time they'd seen a deer on patrol. McMurtha
had emptied an entire eight-shot clip at the animal, from
less than a hundred yards
away, and missed every time! The men had gotten a big laugh out of it. Now he was
dead.