Reluctant Warriors (32 page)

“Lad, glad to see you.”

“Sergeant.”

The two men shook hands. Wiley could tell from the uniform that the man was a Ranger.

“How many men you got with you?”

“Just me, sergeant.”

“Oh. Well, that'll have to do. I need to get my captain out of here.”

Wiley noticed a man in a bloody uniform lying in the depression about fifteen feet
away. He took a couple of steps closer, then stopped. The man was obviously dead.

That sure ain't Christopher
, Wiley thought.

“Lad, he was my captain,” the big man said in reverence. “I got him straight from
the States, green as they come.”

Wiley was puzzled. What was he supposed to do now?

The sergeant continued. “He made a good officer. You should have seen him back at
Kasserine shouting orders in such a calm way. We made a good stand there with a rag-tag
group of men.” He shook his head and smiled. “A good stand. We commandeered a half-track
with a seventy-five on it and set up behind a huge boulder and held 'em up an hour
or so till one of those new Panther tanks came up and blew us out of the way.”

“Sarge, I'm lookin' for my lieutenant, Christopher. You seen him?”

“No, lad,” the big man said, turning toward the dead man.

“Sarge, we gotta get outta here before those guys come back. And I need ta go on
and look for my lieutenant.”

“Okay, lad” the big man said calmly, “but I'm not gonna leave him here so they can
desecrate him. You know, they even steal your socks.”

The two walked over to the captain. Wiley looked at the dead man. He was a good-looking
man in his early twenties, tall and lanky. He had taken a serious wound in his side,
as evidenced by the big stain that had come through his jacket. The American flag
patch on one shoulder was further
evidence of a Ranger. The sergeant slouched down
next to his officer, shaking his head.

“The Germans overran us and a lot of men got captured or killed. Only a couple of
us got away. We came back maybe ten miles dodging patrols, and some hours later heard
a big battle up ahead.”

“Yeah, we finally held 'em up.”

“We got split up from the others. The captain and I got trapped here by the guys
you saw. We held 'em off as best we could, but late yesterday they flushed us and
he got that wound you see. He was a good young officer.”

Wiley thought:
I'm sorry for this guy, but I gotta look for my lieutenant.
He saw
a Williams carbine under the officer's leg, with no clip in it. Four or five feet
from it was the Thompson the scout had heard firing, no clip left in it either.

“Sergeant, we gotta get outta here.”

“Yes, lad, I'm ready. Help me get him up. I'll carry him back.”

Wiley helped lift the dead man up onto the sergeant's shoulder. The sergeant walked
with his burden toward the lip of the depression several feet off, but struggled
to step up the one-foot side.

“Lad,” he said, “help me!”

The scout tried to help him up. But the angle was too much for the two exhausted
men, and all three fell back, hard, into the depression.

Wiley stopped to catch his breath. “Sergeant, we don't got enough strength left to
do this.”

“Well–” the Sergeant began, but stopped.

The wind carried intermittent heavy motor sounds their way: sputtering, stopping,
then in a few seconds again cutting through the crisp air. Wiley stepped out of the
depression, reached for his glasses, and gazed to the southeast.

“Looks like several vehicles headed this away. One . . . looks like . . . two, three
half-tracks and a hundred or so infantry maybe half a mile or more off.”

“Private, you go back up on that incline and cover us.”

“Yonder, sergeant?”

The big man looked up at Wiley. “Yes. I'll bury him.”

Wiley took off his helmet and set it down next to the sergeant. “Use that. Sergeant,
it ain't gonna be long before that column gets here. I have orders ta look for my
lieutenant. I'm goin' to head off ta the south before those troops get here.”

The sergeant nodded, then picked up the helmet and began digging into the sand.

Wiley walked away to the south, keeping the base of the peak about one hundred yards
to his right. He had to assume that there were no Germans between him and the column.

This is another one of those chances a scout hasta take
, he thought. With his young
man's bravado, he didn't even bother to stoop.
At this range a German looking directly
at me, even with their super binoculars, couldn't pick me out in this olive drab.

In twenty minutes, the column's direction became clearer. They were headed more behind
him and toward the sergeant. After some minutes, Wiley began to stoop. At the same
time, a larger picture began to occur to him. He slowed down to think things over,
standing still for a moment.

I wonder if I'm doin' the right thing? Maybe nothin' I can do'll make this mission
a success. How can I find Christopher or anybody else by walkin' on the ground like
this? He could be in a low spot ten feet away and I'd walk right by. At least I could
see if I got up in those rocks. Naw, that can't work neither. That column is comin'
close to here. So, if I find the guy or some other guy, I can't get him out the way
I come. And now the Germans'll be blockin' the road behind 'em too. So, how am I
supposed to get a guy out? Even if I found a guy and could get behind that column,
it would be twenty miles gettin' back to our lines, and I can't make that one; I
just can't carry a guy that far!

Wiley was now completely confused.

That sergeant looked tired. Maybe he'll need help in gettin' away. I know the way
ta get back, but he don't. Seems a shame to let the guy get captured or killed after
all he's been through. Besides goin' back for him, what other choice I got?

He looked at the German column. It was now abreast of him, but five hundred yards
off. With them closer to the sergeant's position with every second, he needed to
decide what to do, right now!

He started to walk back toward the sergeant.

This mission's completely fucked!
he thought
. I might as well shoot myself in the
head as try ta get across that damn highway. The retreat took place near the damn
highway and the Germans have the damn highway. If Christopher's over there, they
already got him! If I do this, I'm givin' up my mission, givin' up on Christopher.
Yeah, but at least I can help one guy I know for sure is still alive.

Still stooping, he began to run toward the sergeant's position. He stayed almost
parallel to the enemy column, which was now somewhat ahead of him and angling closer
every minute. Then one of the half-track's motors roared, and he stopped immediately.

It was the same sound that had caused him to panic in the pass when the onslaught
of the enemy vehicles seemed to be unstoppable. He had never seen one of their tanks
or half-tracks disabled. He crouched, and his mind immediately began to race out
of control.

How can I get outta here? Out, out, away from here! I can't hurt them! Those men
inside the machines will see me, roar their engines, and run me over with those giant
tracks like they did those other guys. They'll laugh as they crush my bones into
thousands of pieces!

He imagined his flesh and blood oozing out between the gaps in the steel tracks.
He rose up just as one of the half-tracks turned slightly in his direction. His eyes
almost popped out of his head!

They've seen me!

Wiley panicked. He began to back step, and then he turned and ran away from the sergeant's
position, not even stooping, his heart pounding. But he had only gone about forty
yards when he stopped instantly.

There! There in front of me, somethin' is movin'. I'm trapped! They'll trap me between
them! They'll run me over with those tracks!

He ran back in the sergeant's direction, all thought of his mission blown from his
mind. The thought of falling in front of the massive treads terrorized him, and the
laughter of the enemy echoed in his head over and over again.

I have ta get away! There's only one way out, up the incline! I must get there. They
can't follow me there!

He ran wildly toward the incline five hundred yards away, his gear
bouncing violently.
He held on to his rifle only because he didn't know he was holding it. His rations
flopped out of his bag, but his other gear remained despite his gyrations.

He fled for several minutes. Then he looked back toward the Germans, tripped, and
fell into one of the endless depressions, knocking the wind out of himself.

As he slowly raised his head, something startled him. There, not thirty feet from
him, fully visible beyond a few bushes in the next depression was the sergeant! Panting,
Wiley failed to notice that the man was motionless, sitting with his back against
the lip of the depression, his legs splayed at almost a ninety-degree angle.

That sergeant, he'll protect me from those tracks!
Wiley thought.

The scout crawled toward the man on all fours, up the side of the lip, and into the
next depression. But he stopped as he came within ten feet. The man's eyes were open.
He was dead!

The exhaustion from the run, the fall, and the shock of seeing the man dead cut the
panic from Wiley's mind.

“How could you be dead?” he said breathlessly. “We were just talkin'.” Dragging his
rifle on the ground by the strap, he edged toward the man.

For the first time, he looked at the sergeant carefully and noticed what he had failed
to notice before on the grimy uniform.

There's blood several places where it came through his pants,
he thought. Still breathing
hard, he got closer and noticed more.
There's a small hole through his left side
just below the beltline. And a second wound to his right leg under the groin.

Looking further, he discovered a hole through the man's left boot, where one of the
straps was torn away.
I couldn't have moved five feet with those holes in me
, Wiley
thought in wonderment. He sat back on his haunches with a miserable look on his face.

Damn
, he thought sadly.
He never said he was hurt. I looked him in the face and never
saw any sign a pain. He seemed okay.

Wiley sat down, almost unable to move, heedless of the approaching enemy.

I'm so sorry for this man. He gave his life. I hope it was worth it.

Carefully, he pulled off the sergeant's dog tags and read the name. “Blaik, George
T.”

Wiley was motionless for a few more seconds. Then he noticed the mound of freshly
turned sand nearby and the glint of metal atop it. He picked up the metallic thing:
the captain's tags, which Blaik had laid on the freshly dug grave.

Wiley heard the heavy motor sounds again and stood up. Without even getting out of
the depression, he could see a half-track about a hundred yards off, going by obliquely.

The panic gone from his mind, he turned to go. Then his eye caught the dead man's
Browning .45 automatic, still in the holster. He stooped a little, lifted the holster's
flap and took it out. He pressed the button for the magazine, and the nine-shot clip
ejected. There were two bullets still in it, and he could see one in the chamber.

“The guy had three shots left,” he said out loud. “Three goddam shots.”

He cradled the gun in both hands. A determined look came on his face.

“I'm gonna take this gun and use it as he would of, honor him.”

With its enormous, nearly deafening sound, the half-track passed by and out of view.
A wave of fear went through Wiley again. He thought he had only one chance, to go
right now. He stood again to see if the machine was headed back his way, but it proceeded
on.

“I'm sorry ta leave you here, sorry I can't bury you so that the damn A-rabs can't
desecrate your body, but you know I have ta save myself. Troops behind that thing'll
see me soon enough.”

Wiley stooped again, went to the side of the depression away from the enemy, and
flopped down. He looked back.

“He was a good soldier,” he muttered in reverence.

Wiley crawled the two hundred yards to the escarpment and plopped down behind a giant
rock. By now he felt absolutely exhausted.
I know they won't follow me here
, he thought.

He felt relaxed for the first time in nearly two days, and he slept for a few minutes.
He was awakened by motor sounds passing by.

He looked around the boulder to see that he was relatively safe and sat down again.
His thoughts ran back to a time before the war and to another sergeant, his Basic
drill sergeant at Fort Jackson in South Carolina.

What would First Sergeant Betts think a the way I acted today?
he wondered.
I'm ashamed.
Will I ever make a good soldier?

Wiley had gone into the Army as a sixteen-year-old from Summersville, West Virginia.
One day in 1940, while he was working as a clerk in a store, he noticed a poster
in a store window:

JOIN THE ARMY AND SEE THE WORLD!

It had a picture of a handsome soldier with a pretty Asian girl. The tall, rawboned
boy had straightened up. “This is a crap job I got here livin' in the back a this
store. What I gotta lose?”

He'd walked a block to the Army recruiter's office on Main Street, telling the man
behind the desk that he was eighteen.

“That's fine, Bud, but you have to have a parent or guardian sign this form.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

Taking the form, he'd walked out the door, signed it himself, walked back in, and
plopped it down on the desk.