My Honor Flight (17 page)

That constant
shooting from the krauts that we had endured during our grenade attack?  It was
now focused on the store.  But the store wasn’t built out of stone like the
mill.  It was wood, and they were slowly shredding it.

I thought for
a minute about the men in that store.  I was helpless, watching them get
killed.  But we weren’t part of the battle anymore.  We were safe.  I felt like
a coward.  I shouldn’t be safe while my friends, my brothers, were being
killed.

I went to the
ladder, and started down the catwalk.  The Brownings stopped firing.

 “What’s
going on?” asked Chartelli.

 “Keep
firing!”  I said.  “Don’t let those bastards attack—”

 “Grenades!”
yelled Duncan. 

The Brownings
started up again, but the blast of the grenades rippled through the mill.  I
felt stabs in my arm, but got up and kept going.  I found what I was looking
for.  A case of Thompsons.  I grabbed one, and fumbled for an ammo case in the
flickering light from the Browning flares.  There it was.  A case of
magazines.  I grabbed three magazines and stuffed them in my pockets.  Then I
slammed the fourth one into the gun, turned, and ran back to the ladder and up
to the catwalk.  Morelli, Trumbull, and Fisher just looked at me.  I threw my
rifle strap over my shoulder, same as the Thompson’s strap.  I locked eyes with
Morelli, nodded, walked to the window, and crawled out.

 “What the
fuck?” asked Morelli.

I hung from
the window sill by my hands, let go, and rolled as I landed on the ground so
that I wouldn’t hurt myself.  Then I ducked down along the river next to the
mill’s waterwheel.  No krauts had seen me.  I ran fast along that river for
about fifty yards, then worked along trees until I was behind a big tree trunk,
just to the left of the line of krauts firing on the general store.  They
didn’t know I was there.  I peeked around the tree and couldn’t help smiling. 
There, laid right in front of me, was a long row of krauts on their bellies in
a nice even row. 

I pulled the
trigger on the Thompson, and lit into those krauts without pause.  They were
surprised.  But the Tommy did its job.  I quickly worked it up the line of
krauts on the ground.  Before they could react, I probably killed fifteen of
them.  I emptied the magazine, yanked it out, and slammed in another one.  By that
time some of the Germans started firing at me.  But the big tree provided
cover.  So I stuck the Thompson out from the other side of the tree trunk and
fired again, emptying the magazine blindly.  It was working!  The krauts fell
away, looking for cover across the open space, in trees on the other side of
the clearing.  I slammed in another magazine.  The gunfire was lighter now.  I
hoped they had stopped firing on the store, but I couldn’t dare look.  They
would pick me off.  So I held the Tommy up on the left side of the tree, and
did the same thing, blindly firing. 

When the
third magazine emptied, it dawned on me what I had done.  I sat in the snow,
panting.  I looked at the fourth magazine.  I would be down to my M1 when the
last Thompson mag was empty.  Should I keep shooting randomly, or save it for
when the krauts came?

I thought
about this for a couple of minutes.  Bullets continued to hit the tree, but I
was safe unless they spread out and shot from a different angle.  I decided to
wait. 

It didn’t
take long.  The krauts were working their way around by the mill, and circling to
get me.  The bullets now hit both the front and the right side of the tree
trunk.  They were going to squeeze my cover away until I was forced into the
open.  And since they were firing constantly, I couldn’t aim.  I nodded to
myself.  I thought of Duncan.  He was right.  We were all going to die.  I took
a deep breath, and started to turn the Thompson toward the right side of the
tree.  I figured that maybe I could blindly fire and at least slow their
advance.  There was nowhere for me to run—it was at least fifteen feet to the
nearest tree, and I’d get taken down if I tried to run.  I raised the Thompson
and reached for the trigger, when just then, I heard another Thompson. 
Actually, it sounded like more than one Thompson.  The rounds weren’t pelting
my tree from the right any more.  I decided to take a peek.  I saw powder
flares from the river—three of them!  The guys in the mill followed me! 

I got goose
bumps.  I wasn’t going to die.  So I peeked again around the tree, until I
could see what was going on.  There were dead bodies all over the clearing. 
The gunfire was now focused between the river and the trees across the
clearing, while the big Brownings continued their staccato from the mill.  No
one was shooting at me now.  I ran for the general store.

 “Buzz, it’s
Mackinack!  I’m coming in!”

A German lying
on the ground fired a pistol at me.  I fired at him with the Tommy.

 “Buzz!  I’m
coming in!”

The door was
gone—shot to hell.  I stepped into the store, blinking at the darkness as I
tried to get my eyes to adjust.

 “Anyone
here?”

It was quiet
in the store.  After all the noise outside, it was unnerving.  Moonlight
streamed in through the hundreds of bullet holes.  There was shuffling and some
wood scraping on the floor. 

 “Christ,
Mack,” drawled Tinpan Jones.  “What the hell are you doing here?”  We met in the
darkness.  He hugged me for a long minute.  Didn’t say anything else. 

 “How many
are down?” I asked Tin.

 “Too fucking
many,” growled Cap behind me.  Cap!  He was alive!

Just then a
blast echoed in the clearing.  Tanks!

I stepped
back to the doorway.  There were only four tanks left in the area, and all four
of them were here!  They ripped into the trees for about fifteen minutes.  Then
men walked into the clearing.  GIs.  Lots of GIs.  Over a hundred.  They
approached the store.

 “Could have
used you boys a couple of hours ago,” I said, grinning.

A lieutenant
nodded and shook my hand.  Casualties?

Cap appeared
in the doorway.  “Nine dead.” 

I whirled
around. “Nine?  Who?”

 “Donovan,
McIntire, Moore, Pavelchek, Johnson...  Crimmins, Jackson, Peters, Robertson.”

I stared at
Cap, watching his mouth as he said the names.  I didn’t hear the men from the
mill walk up behind me.

 “We lost three,”
said Morelli.

 “What? 
Who?” I asked.

 “Duncan,
Rawdon, and Cooper.  Grenades,” said Morelli.

 “You
mean...  the grenades when I came down the ladder?” I asked. 

 “Mack, it
wasn’t your fault,” said Morelli.  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done
here?” he asked, sweeping his hand toward the dead Germans outside the store.

I shook my
head as I looked at him, wanting to understand.  Had I done something wrong? 
My head was buzzing from the noise.  Pain began creeping into my shoulder and
my face.  The adrenaline was wearing off.

Cap stepped
next to me.  “Mack, if it hadn’t been for you, none of us would be alive.  You
saved six of us in the store.  And maybe the men in the mill, because the
Germans would have turned to it next.”

I didn’t
care.  I just thought about my friends.  So many of them!  And they were all killed
in an hour or two.  Tom Duncan’s words haunted me.  “We will all die.  There is
no hope.”  The world started spinning, and everything turned black.

I came to,
but felt horrible.  The adrenaline was gone.  In the cold, my body had
stiffened.  My bandaged half-ear throbbed with each heartbeat.  My arm was
stiff and I couldn’t lift it.  My head pounded, and I couldn’t think clearly.  I
felt like I was locked in a giant tin can.  I couldn’t hear anything and all I
could see was the dark ground in front of me.  Cap had a tight grip on my right
arm and he was pulling me along.  He sat me down on a bench in a church
vestibule and then he disappeared.  The church was our HQ.  I just sat there,
staring at the floor.  Cap showed up again. 

 “Drink
this,” he handed me a bottle of something, then he walked into the church.  I
didn’t move.  I held the bottle and stared at the floor.  So many were gone.  I
didn’t want to talk.  I just sat there, hunched over, thinking of my friends
who were dead.

Apparently a
jeep pulled up outside, but I didn’t hear it.  Tears streamed from my eyes.  I
was bawling. 

 “Ten-hut,
soldier!” someone yelled.  I didn’t move.

 “Goddamn it
man, look alive!” he called again.

I sat there
with my left hand open on my lap, and my right hand loosely clutching the
bottle.  I didn’t look up.

I saw a hand grab
at my collar.  The fingers grabbed my coat and firmly shook me.

 “You drunk? 
If you are on detail, your ass is mine!”

I slowly
looked up and saw two piercing blue eyes under a helmet.  It was a Colonel.

 “Snap to,
soldier!  There are men dying around here!” yelled the Colonel.

 “No shit,” I
mumbled, and I tried to open the bottle.  But my left arm was so weak that it
was useless.

 “Boy, do you
know who you are talking to?” The Colonel was pissed off now.

 “Yeah, I’m
talking to some asshole who probably hasn’t had a minute of infantry combat
time!” I said.  What was he going to do?  Discharge me?

Now there
were two hands on my coat, and he yanked me up to my feet.  We were standing
eye to eye.  “How’d you like a court martial, boy?”

I gave him
the meanest glare I could muster.  I squinted and stared right into his eyes.  “Suits
me fine.  SIR!”

That set him
back.  I don’t think he was used to anyone backtalking him.  “Who the hell are
you?  What’s your unit?”

 “I’m Doug
Mackinack.  One of fourteen surviving members of Buzz Company’s Ninth platoon!” 
I yanked myself away from his hands.  “We just got shot to hell.  And I don’t
give a damn if you’re Eisenhower.  SIR!”

You have to
remember that I was eighteen years old at the time.  I’d just lost most of my
friends in this foreign land, I’d been shot, and I’d been combat-hardened for
months and months.

The Colonel
kept those laser eyes on me, for what felt like several minutes.  I didn’t back
off at all.  In fact, I was getting angrier and angrier.  He was some bastard
who probably directed combat from nice warm places like this church.  Probably
never saw real battle.  I wanted him to have to join the platoon.  Take him out
and roast this fresh meat in the heat of battle.  Let him see what war is
really like.

He looked me
up and down.  I watched his eyes change as he saw the ear bandage, the bloody
arm, the uniform caked in dust.  He nodded slowly, looking me in the eyes again.

 “Let’s have
a seat, soldier.”

I shrugged
and flopped back down on the bench.  I didn’t care if he was there or not.  I kept
trying to open the bottle, but my fingers were thick and they wouldn’t bend
right.

 “Give me
that,” he said quietly.

I handed it
over.  He opened it and handed it to me.  I took a swig.  It was brandy, and it
burned as I swallowed.  But I liked the pain.  I could actually feel
something.  So I tipped the bottle and gulped hard.

 “Easy, son,”
the Colonel said, and pushed the bottle down.

We sat there
for a long time, neither of us talking.  I thought of the guys again, and
started crying again.

 “I tell you
what,” the Colonel said.  “Let’s not be soldiers for a while.  Let’s just be
two men sitting on a bench.”

I nodded.

 “You got a
girlfriend?”

I nodded
again.

 “Tell me
about her.”

I started
talking, telling him about Debbie, and how she liked the color lavender, and
she liked lilacs.  I told him about our prom dance, and how beautiful she
looked.  I told him about our plans to go to the University together, how she
was going to be a nurse and I was going to be a teacher.  I just talked on and
on, and he sat there staring into space, nodding and asking me questions.  He
told me about his wife.  We talked about Buzz Company, and my friends.  I told
him some of the stories from our time together.  I made him laugh a few times,
and I made myself cry a few times.

After about twenty
minutes, he put his hand on my leg and squeezed.  “Well, son, I have to go.  It
was a real pleasure to meet you.”

 “You too...
sir.”  He’d regained my respect.  I started to stand up to salute him.  He
waved at me, indicating that I stay seated. 

 “You’ve had
enough Army for today, son.  You just take it easy now.  I’m just sorry my boys
didn’t get here sooner.  I’m sorry you lost your friends.  They were good men.”

 “You’re the
tank commander?” I asked.

He nodded.

 “I
appreciate you guys,” I said.  “We never would have survived it.”

He nodded
again, and turned to head into the command center.  There were a few men
watching us from the open doorway. 

 “What’s your
name, sir?” I asked.

 “Abrams,” he
said, and then he disappeared into the command room.  If I could have crapped
my pants right then, I would have.