Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 29

There are three regiments, each of them with three American officers-two majors and a captain. Each battalion has an advisor, supposed to be a lieutenant, but most of them are noncoms. And there are noncoms with some of the companies. "There's nothing we can tell these people about fighting. They've really got a hard-on for the communists. Vice versa, of course. They learn quick, but most of them don't know diddly s.h.i.t about vehicles, jeeps, trucks, and especially tracked vehicles. That's where you'll come in, Lieutenant."

"Sir, I don't know anything about tracked vehicles," Lowell confessed.

"That figures," the colonel said. "And what's your specialty, Lieutenant?"

"I just finished Ranger School," Felter said.

"Great. We need Rangers here about as much as we need armored officers who don't know anything about tracked vehicles."

"Sir, I can handle some tanks. Drive them, I mean," Felter said. "I've had familiarization training."

Hanrahan looked at Felter with renewed interest.

"Where did you get that?"

"At West Point, sir."

"You went to the Academy?" Hanrahan was now really interested.

"For two years, sir."

"Why did you march away from the Long Gray Line, Lieutenant?" Hanrahan asked, dryly.

"I was commissioned as a linguist, sir."

"What languages?"

"Slavic, mostly, Colonel. German. Some French."

"Greek ?"

"No, sir. I hope to learn it here."

"You will," Hanrahan said. "I can use your Russian, Lieutenant."

Felter nodded, but said nothing.

"I have nothing against West Pointers, Lieutenant," Hanrahan said. "Despite the fact that I too am a product of Beast - Barracks." There was no reaction, though Hanrahan looked closely at Felter's face.

"We're getting a steady supply of ammunition for the 10 mm mortars, and for the 4.2 inchers," Colonel Hanrahan went on. "They fly it in by English seaplane, which can just about manage to land on the lake. We're building up supplies of American small arms ammunition. And we're starting to get some MIs. What I think I'm going to do with you guys is send you around to the companies, one at a time, with either a 01 who speaks Greek, or a Greek who speaks English. You will instruct their officers and noncoms in the MI. They will instruct their men. When they know how to take it apart and put it together again, you bow out. They know all there is to know about shooting.

"We got a couple of armored sergeants here. . . all the noncoms are good men, by the way. You guys just leave them alone, understand? The sergeants will teach you what they can about the M8 armored car, Lieutenant. Keeping them running is your job from here in Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Lowell said.

"Either of you have any questions?" the colonel asked Lowell said nothing. The colonel looked at Felter. "You look as if you have something on your mind, Felter. Let's have it."

"Sir," Felter said. "I just wondered about you being Signal Corps."

"I'm detailed infantry, Lieutenant, if that's what's bothering you. But I'm Signal Corps. I came to Greece in 1942 as a second john to operate a radio station for the OSS. And I stayed. And when the war was over I went home. And now they've sent me back, because I know these people, OK?"

"I didn't mean to sound out of line, sir." Felter said.

"Felter, when I think you're out of line, you'll know it," me colonel said. For the first time, he smiled at them. Lowell was warmed by it, and smiled back.

"If you knew what I was thinking, Lowell, I don't think "u'd be smiling," the colonel said. "For what I was thinking is that instead of the trained, combat-experienced, Greek speaking officers I was promised, I just inherited two lieutenants, one even dumber than the other."

"I would say, sir," Lowell said, "that that would be a reasonable statement of the situation."

I was smiling because it had just occurred to me that while Felter demonstrated his dumbness by asking what a flag waver is doing here, you were too dumb to notice anything was wrong."

But his smile was still warm.

"If you can remember that," he said, "that you are dumb, and keep your mouth shut and your eyes open until you see how things are, and if you can use that Ml, you just might stay alive." He reached into the drawer of his battered desk and came out with a strange-looking bottle and three small water gla.s.ses.

"The c.o.c.ktail hour, gentlemen," he said. "The booze is known as ouzo. It tastes like licorice. After a while you get used to it."

He poured the liquid it) gla.s.ses and handed each of them one.

(Five) No. 12 Company, 113th Regiment, 27th Royal h.e.l.lenic Mountain Division consisted of a Greek captain, a pair of lieutenants, three sergeants, a half dozen corporals, sixty-three other ranks, and an Alabama-reared Greek-American sergeant: The force was just about equally divided between two rock fortresses on either side of a narrow road winding down a valley.

The Greek-American sergeant, who gave his name as Nick, was a pudgy young man in his mid-twenties with curly blond hair. He wore no helmet or any other headgear. He- wore GI OD trousers, a GI sweater, and over that a British battle jacket.

Like everybody else, he wore hobnailed British boots. On the shoulder of the British battle jacket was the Greek cross, above which were superimposed, in Greek and English, the words America. He had a .45 automatic jammed into his waistband; and a Browning automatic rifle was slung over his shoulder.

As the American sergeant walked over to the half-track in which Lieutenant Craig Lowell had driven up the mountainside, Lieutenant Lowell was quite as impressed with him as he had been with the corporal who had called him a "miserable p.i.s.sant" on his first day of basic training.

The difference, Lowell realized, was that I have been sent up here to command him. A chain of thought ran through his mind, triggered by the. 30-06 caliber Browning automatic rifle the sergeant had slung over his shoulder.

The BAR was actually a light machine gun which could empty its 20-round magazine in the time it took to fart.

The weapon, in the hands of somebody who knew how to shoot it, was of the same quality as the Garand. In other words, one h.e.l.l of a fine weapon. Private Lowell had taken a great deal of pleasure on the Fort Dix, New Jersey, rifle range in mastering the BAR; and his proficiency had both awed and annoyed the corporal who hated college boys generally and handsome college boys from Harvard in particular.

The BAR was a heavy sonofab.i.t.c.h, not the sort of thing one carried fifty feet further than one had to. Sergeant Nick What ever he said was not carrying it around for the h.e.l.l of it and certainly not to impress anybody. Furthermore, the sergeant had removed the bipod normally fitted to the barrel to steady the weapon when it was being fired. That suggested that he carried the BAR frequently and as a personal weapon. And that suggested two things: that the sergeant was really a soldier, and that there was something to shoot at.

For the first time, he realized the absurdity of his position.

He had no business being here as a private soldier, and absolutely none as an officer. He wondered why he wasn't terrified. In fact, he was excited. They call that naivete, he thought. Also known as stupidity.

The sergeant touched his hand to his eyebrow in sort of a salute, and Lowell returned it as casually. He had one further thought: that is the kind of salute an experienced sergeant throws a second lieutenant fresh from Officer Candidate School. If this sergeant had any idea that I know about ten percent of what the bottom man in any OCS cla.s.s knows, he would be thumbing his nose at me.

The sergeant looked in the back of the half-track. There was a case of sixteen Ml rifles, plus cases of ammunition, cases of mortar sh.e.l.ls, tin cans of .303 British ammunition, and cases of rations.

"Are those MIs for us?" the sergeant asked.

Lowell looked at the sergeant and wondered what would happen if he told him the truth: "See here, Sarge. Talk about f.u.c.k-ups. I don't know the first f.u.c.king thing about being an officer. What I would like to do is have you take over, tell me what to do, and see if you can keep me from getting hurt."

"Are those for us, Lieutenant?" the sergeant asked again.

"Right," Lieutenant Lowell said, getting out of the truck.

"The idea is that I'm to give basic instruction to the officers." He didn't sound as unsure of himself as he thought he would.

"It's about time we gave these guys something to fight with," Nick said. "Come on in the CP; I'll introduce you to the officers." He took Lowell's arm and led him into a bunker built of sandbags laid around enormous granite boulders.

The commanding officer was an olive-skinned man with a flowing black mustache. There was a five-inch scar on his right cheek. He was the toughest-looking man Lowell had ever seen.

This guy's going to see right through me, Lowell thought.

When the captain offered his hand, his calloused grip was like steel. Incongruously, he smiled at Lowell as if he was really glad to see him.

The other officers were shy.

The captain with the black mustache put his hand on Lowell's shoulder and led him through the rear exit to the bunker. Outside was a mortar position, a 3.5 inch mortar with cases of ammo stacked for use. It was in a natural depression in the boulders, and like the bunker itself, reinforced with sandbags to fill in s.p.a.ces between boulders. There were rifle firing positions around its perimeter.

Still smiling broadly, the captain unslung his Lee-Enfield rifle.

"He says," Nick translated, "that this is what they have now, and would you care to try it?"

"Thank you," Lowell said and took the Lee-Enfield and examined it. He had never seen one up close before he had seen them in the arms room in Athens.

The broadly smiling captain rattled off something else.

"He says he wants you to try it," Nick said.

"What am I supposed to shoot at?" Lowell asked.

The captain seemed to understand that. He took the Enfield back, dropped into an almost p.r.o.ne position in one of the firing positions and aimed down into the valley. There was a small concrete kilometer marker beside the road. Lowell thought it must be at least two hundred yards away.

With sign language, the captain indicated that that was what he meant. He lay down and very quickly pushed the safety off and fired. Lowell realized that around here people always carried a round in the chamber.

A chunk flew off the kilometer marker. The captain got to his feet, rapidly worked the action of the rifle, and handed it to Lowell with another of his broad smiles, which by now Lowell suspected were anything but sincere.

"I guess he wants to see if you know what the f.u.c.k you're talking about," Nick said.

Lowell lowered himself into the firing position.

I'm going to miss that G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing, and then what the f.u.c.k am I going to do?

He fired. There was a puff of dust in the middle of the road.

He had missed by six feet.

He furiously worked the action, chambering another round, and fired again. He missed again and was horribly humiliated.

Both the American, Nick, and the Greek captain were smiling at him. He was supposed to be an expert, and he couldn't hit a foot square target at two hundred yards. He looked at the Enfield's sights, and realized he hadn't the faintest idea how to change them.

"Hand me my MI," he said. When he put the Garand to his shoulder and pushed the safety off, he thought for the first time that he had not fired it. It was not zeroed. It would have been better to have kept the Enfield and try to hit the G.o.dd.a.m.ned kilometer marker with Kentucky windage.

It was too late for that now. He looked at the MI 's receiver, twisting it slightly to examine the sight.

"I've never fired this sonofab.i.t.c.h before," he said, so that Nick could hear him.

Nick looked at him with contempt in his eyes. Lowell understood that he wasn't just humiliating himself but Nick, too, for he was an officer.

And then Lowell knew what to do. "Tell the captain," he said, handing the MI to Nick, "that it would be too easy for me to use this weapon, because it is mine." Nicks' eyebrows went up, and he said nothing.

"Tell him I am going to take an unfired MI from the case," Lowell said, "and zero it with three shots, and then blow that G.o.dd.a.m.ned marker away."

"I hope for both of us that you can produce," Nick said, and then he smiled confidently and spoke in Greek to the captain.

"Tell him to pick any of the rifles," Lowell said.

Nick led the captain to the crate of M Is. The captain looked over the four Garands in the top rack and picked one out. Then he handed it to Lowell. Lowell opened the action and peered down the barrel. It was thick with preserving oil.

Lowell set the elevation at two hundred yards.

"Tell the captain the barrel is oily," he said. "And that I will clean it by firing twice."

Nick repeated the message in Greek. Lowell put a clip in the Garand, pushed the safety off, and shot twice in the air.

Then he took up a sitting position.

"Tell the captain that for a short distance and a target that large, it is not normally necessary to use the p.r.o.ne position."

"Use the p.r.o.ne position, for Christ's sake. Hit that f.u.c.king road marker," Nick said, wearing a broad smile. "Once these guys figure you for a phony or a candy-a.s.s, you're finished."

"Tell him what I said, Sergeant," Lowell said, smiling warmly at Nick, and then decided to go for broke. "And tell him that a good shot normally doesn't have to use a sling."

Nick spoke to the Greek captain.

"Tell him I will now fire three rounds for zero," Lowell said. He aimed very carefully, let out half his breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. By pure coincidence, the sights were almost in zero. The bullet strike was vertically on the target, but two feet to the right.

He aimed and fired the rifle again. The second strike was within a couple inches of the first. Lowell motioned the captain over, pointed to the sight.

"Tell him that sometimes only two shots are necessary for zero," he said. Nick repeated the message. "Tell him that I am moving the sight to the right twelve clicks, and that each click, at that distance, moves the impact two inches." He held up his fingers to ill.u.s.trate. The captain, smiling with transparent insincerity, listened to the translation and nodded his head.

"And now tell him that I am going to demonstrate how to remove a partially emptied clip from the weapon," Lowell said.

Nick made the translation. Lowell ejected the unfired six cartridges and their clip and put a full clip in the weapon.

"s.h.i.t, Lieutenant," Nick said. "I hope you can pull this off.

Lowell put the Garand to his shoulder, lined up the sights, held his breath. and squeezed off the first round. Dead on. A chunk of concrete flew into the air. He then emptied the rifle, firing as quickly as he could line the sights up on the shattered remnants of the concrete road marker. When he was finished, it was difficult to see the road marker; horizontally, about half of it was shot away, and four more inches or so off the left side. With an entirely delightful feeling of triumph, Lowell gave Nick an idiot grin and then stood up. With a Ceremonious bow, he handed the Garand to the captain and then motioned him to sit down in the firing position. He knelt over him, and fed a clip into the weapon.

The captain fired one shot, and then the rest of the clip, rapid fire. He flashed another magnificent smile, got to his feet, and handed Lowell the MI. "Sonab.i.t.c.h!" he said. He reached over, patted Lowell's cheek, and then kissed it. Then he weighed the Garand appreciatively in his hands.

"That don't mean nothing, Lieutenant," Nick said. "s.h.i.t, they even hold hands ! You just impressed the s.h.i.t out of him, is all."