Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 30

The Greek captain smiled at the American lieutenant. The American lieutenant smiled back. He smiled so broadly his cheek muscles began to ache. The captain, with an elaborate bow, waved him back to the bunker. He said something else.

"He says he would be deeply honored if you would show him how the magnificent rifle works, so that he and his men may kill many G.o.dless communists with it," Nick said. He watched Lowell's face for his reaction.

"They mean that, Lieutenant," Nick said. "I'm glad you didn't think it was funny."

Lowell felt a strange exhilaration.

"Please tell the captain that I would be honored to attempt to show a magnificent shot such as he is how the U. S. Army rifle functions," he said.

Six) Coordinates C431 / K003 Map, Greece, 1:250000 22 July 1946 To tell the truth, if it wasn't for Ilse he wouldn't mind this at all, Second Lieutenant Craig W. Lowell thought. It was like something out of the movies. The days were pleasantly warm, and the evenings were pleasantly cool, and there was n.o.body jumping on his a.s.s at all.

The simple truth of the matter was that he liked being an officer. Not a polo-playing officer, but a real officer. He had been given a duty, a real military duty, and he took no small pleasure in being able to discharge it, in the realization that he was meeting his responsibility-and well.

It wasn't even as if he were a marksmanship instructor in basic training. He was teaching the teachers. Through him and him alone, first No. 12 Company, and ultimately the entire 113th Regiment, 27th Royal h.e.l.lenic Mountain Division, would be instructed in the proper use of the Ml Garand rifle.

Even Felter acknowledged that Lowell knew what he was doing, and Felter really was a West Pointer and a Ranger, even if he didn't look like it. Lowell was smugly proud that he had his company, No. 12 Company, completely qualified with the MI when Felter was still taking his company's MIs out of their crates. Felter was a good man obviously (otherwise, how would he have gotten to be a Ranger?), but he wasn't a good teacher.

Not a leader of men.

In all modesty, Craig Lowell believed that he had demonstrated his leadership ability by his courses of instruction in the MI. He had first demonstrated to each little group of trainees that with it he could blow the b.a.l.l.s off a horsefly at two hundred yards. This established his personal credentials. Then he had blown away road markers firing the weapon as fast as it would fire, thus establishing the weapon's credibility. After that, with Nick standing beside him translating his short, simple sentences into Greek, it had been a snap. They wanted to learn, and They soaked up the information like a blotter. It was completely unlike basic training had been. n.o.body in basic training had given a s.h.i.t for the Ml rifle. That was, Craig Lowell decided, because it had not been presented to them properly. By the time they actually got to fire it, they were so sick of looking at it, cleaning it, and dry-firing it that they wouldn't have liked it if it had dispensed ice-cold beer.

Later Felter had needed Craig's help with his own company; and he'd been glad to give it. Then Felter had called Colonel Hanrahan and told him that he was having trouble but Lowell was doing splendidly, and that it would seem to make sense to have Lowell continue doing what he did so well so that he could return to see about the tracked vehicles.

Hanrahan had gone along with the suggestion. And now Felter--was back at Ioannina, while Lowell had the Garand rifle training of the whole regiment to himself. It was rather strange, Lowell thought, about Hanrahan and Felter both having gone to West Point. He had always a.s.sociated West Pointers with people like General Waterford and Fat Charley. His kind of people, so to speak. There was no question that Hanrahan was a good officer, but he behaved less like Fat Charley than like an Irish police sergeant.

But there was no question about it, as difficult as it was to believe, both Hanrahan and Felter had at one time marched up 31ld down the drill field at West Point in those funny hats with what looked like a p.u.s.s.y willow bouncing around on top.

Lowell had become rather close to Nick. If Nick suspected :hat Lowell's knowledge of the military had come entirely from basic training, he hadn't made that plain. Aware that he had :impressed Nick just about as much as he had impressed the :::reek captain with that first day's marksmanship exhibition, Lowell had decided that what Nick didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

They shared a stone hut in the No. 12 Company area, taking turns boiling their eggs for breakfast, but eating the rest of their meals with the Greek officers. At night they read by the hissing light of a Coleman lantern. Nick could read Greek, so he got the Greek newspapers that came up and a few Greek magazines and what few books there were. The only thing in english to read was an occasional week-old Stars & Stripes from Germany and a shelf of field and technical manuals. For lack of something else to read, Lowell read the field and tech manuals. Some of them had as much application to what they were doing as the Sat.u.r.day Evening Post, but some of them Lowell found fascinating.

The Infantry Company in the Defense, for example, spelled out in minute detail what 230 officers and men were supposed to do from the emplacement of the .30 and .50 caliber machine guns to the number and placement and depth of "field sanitation facilities, or latrines." Much of the information didn't precisely apply here, but a surprising percentage of it did. Lowell discreetly checked and learned that No. 12 Company's machinegun emplacements more than met the criteria established "by the book." Nick saw nothing unusual in Lowell's spending his evenings reading field manuals. Nick probably presumed that officers ordinarily pa.s.sed their free time expanding their professional knowledge. He did not, in other words, give any sign that he suspected Lowell was discovering for the first time the meaning of such terms as "beaten zones" and "fields of fire" and "ammunition units," and what, precisely, a foxhole was beyond being a hole in the ground in which one took shelter.

Their routine was fairly constant. Every day, late enough in the morning to be warm enough to take the open-jeep trip in relative comfort, Lowell and Nick visited another company along the line. There they'd instruct the officers and senior noncoms in the Ml rifle. Afterward they would share a late lunch with the officers of the company they were visiting, before returning to No. 12 Company. There Lowell would fool around with the Zenith Transoceanic radio (thank G.o.d I bought that, Lowell thought; I would go insane without it) or playa little chess to pa.s.s the time with the Greek officers.

Sometimes, not always, he could pick up the American Forces Network on the short-wave band. That always triggered memories of Ilse, which sometimes depressed him and sometimes cheered him. He missed her terribly and worried about her; and he had to keep pushing back the fear that she would find somebody else. Other times, he was able to tell himself that he had found the woman who would share his life. When his year here was over, he would be rea.s.signed to Germany, and they would be together again for good.

G.o.d, did he miss her! He had a mental image of Ilse on the banks of the Lahr River. That was only three weeks ago! And there hadn't been one letter in all that time.

What was she doing now?

Telling some new guy that she cost a hundred a month, plus rent on their apartment, plus the stuff he could get out of the PX?

Spreading her legs for somebody else? Oh, s.h.i.t!

He forced that thought from his mind. He had read a line from a biography of General George S. Patton: "Never take counsel of your fears." There was obviously a good deal of sense in that, Lowell thought, and reminded himself again that if he had to be in the army, this was the place to be Broadening. That's what it was. A splendid learning experience.

There came the peculiar burrup-burrup ringing sound of a U.S. Army EE-8 field telephone. A head appeared at the door to the bunker, said something in excitement, pointed to the right.

The Greek captain ran to a firing position, dropped onto his belly, and put field gla.s.ses to his eyes. He peered intently, and men suddenly turned and gave orders.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?"

"They got a report of bearers," Nick said.

The enemy! It's about time!

"Sometimes they make a mistake and get seen," Nick said, 3S he walked quickly to a firing position. He set the Browning automatic rifle in place in one of the rifle-firing points and peered off at what appeared to Lowell to be a bare expanse of rock.

Then Lowell saw something move. It was five hundred yards away if it was an inch.

The captain said something that Lowell somehow understood meant, "there." He gave more orders. Soldiers were working on the 3.5 inch mortar now, shifting the weapon, moving its base plate.

The captain gave another of his insurance man smiles to Lowell and waved him to an empty firing position. There was more movement in the valley below, things flit=g between the huge boulders, casting shadows. You had to watch carefully the first time, but almost immediately your eyes began to catch small movements, and you could see there were couple out there, coming down the side of a mountain, moving slowly, but there.

The enemy!

There was the crack of the captain's M 1, followed a moment later by a sharper sound, the burst from Nick's BAR. Lowell himself peering through the sights of his rifle. G.o.d dammed fool. Even if he saw anybody out there, he couldn't hit them. But he put his left hand on the sight of the Ml and cranked the k.n.o.b, and the sight clicked as it rose up.

If one were to be completely honest, he was willing to admit there was something just a bit frightening about all this. Presumably, they, the enemy, will shoot back.

There came the roar of the 3.5 mortar going off behind him, and he felt the blast and his ears hurt. When he looked through the sights again, swinging the rifle from side to side, seeing nothing, he was trembling.

Nick's BAR went off and there was another shot from a rifle. And then there was an explosion out there, the dull crump of the mortar round landing. He saw by the smoke that it was far wide of the mark. The captain said something viciously sarcastic, then turned to his Garand again.

There was suddenly an awful pain in Lowell's bladder. I absolutely have to take a p.i.s.s, he realized.

There came the sound of bullets pa.s.sing overhead, remembered from the pits of the rifle range at Fort Dix. It was all rather amusing then, because the greatest care had been taken to insure that the bullets whistling overhead, however thrilling, would be harmless. There was no such intent here. There was also the sound of ricochets, not unlike the sound in the movies, but infinitely more threatening.

There came the noise that a kitchen knife makes when a large fat Negro, smiling broadly, swings it from behind his head and slices a red ripe watermelon in one fell swoop. On the porch of the mess hall at Camp Kemper. The Negro cook's name had been Ellwood. That is what came to Craig Lowell's mind when he heard the noise.

He turned and saw Nick sprawled on his back on the sunbaked pebbles. He had a shattered watermelon for his head.

Second Lieutenant Craig W. Lowell threw up, and when he had finished heaving, became aware that he had s.h.i.t in his pants. A moment later he had also voided his bladder.

He pulled his arms over his head. I am going to die here.

I am going to have my head blown off. Oh, those dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!

He pushed himself a half inch closer to the top of the rocks protecting him, then an inch, then four inches, to get his head over the top, to see them, the dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. He saw a flicker of yellow flame out of the comer of his eye, and turned his head. There were two of them, lying p.r.o.ne, behind a light machine gun. The gun was on a bipod with a shoulder stock, rather than on a tripod. They were sweeping the position with short bursts of fire, so as not to over heat the barrel.

Where the f.u.c.k is my rifle?

He slid down and then crawled backward to where he had dropped the M I, grabbed the muzzle, and pulled it up to him.

Two bullets. .h.i.t the rocks in front of him, high. They sent splinters into his face, stinging him, before ricocheting with a low whistle. He had a faint impression that he could see one at the top of its apogee.

He slid up on the rocks, laying his hand on a flat spot, laying the forearm in his hand. Fecal matter slid down his inner thigh. s.h.i.t!

He placed his cheek on the stock. He couldn't see the f.u.c.king sights! He was crying. He took his hand from the pistol grip and the trigger and wiped his eyes with his knuckles, then with his fingers, and blinked. The sights came into focus.

The machine gunner paused and then started swinging the muzzle back toward Lowell's position. The MI jumped against Lowell's face. The loader let go of the belt of ammunition and collapsed. The machine gunner looked down at him, and then got to his knees and scooped up the machine gun in both arms.

Craig shot him as he stood erect; again, as he wobbled; again, as he went back on his knees; and then finally, very deliberately, in the head.

That'll teach you, you sonofab.i.t.c.h!

The M l's action was open, smoking slightly, giving off a slight bitter smell of gunpowder and burned oil. Following the example of the Greeks, Craig had wedged the leather rifle strap between the two rows of cartridges in two clips. He pulled one of them loose. The cartridges came out and spilled against the rocks, making a clinking noise. Trembling, he pulled the second clip loose. The cartridges didn't fall out, but they were out of their proper position.

f.u.c.k it!

He laid the empty Ml down and ran over to Nick. Nick's eyes were wide open, very bloodshot, and blood ran out of his eyes, ears, and mouth. The rear of his skull was shattered open. Lowell bent over him and felt the bile rise in his throat.

He took BAR magazines from Nick's pouches and ran with them to the firing position. Then he went and got Nick's BAR and ran back, dragging it by the barrel, the stock banging on the rocks behind him. He dropped onto his belly, breathing heavily, eyes full of sweat again, and pulled the 20-round magazine from the BAR. Though there were cartridges in it, he threw it away anyway, and charged the BAR with a fresh magazine.

He rested the front end of the BAR where he had fired the M I. There were two more men at the machine gun now, one picking up the ammo cans, the other scooping up the machine gun itself.

The BAR jumped in his hands. Two short bursts. There were now four dead men at the machine gun. No.. Three. One of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds was still alive! The BAR jumped again in his hands.

And then one more man came to the machine gun. Didn't you get the message, you sonofab.i.t.c.h? The BAR jumped again, and then stopped. Empty. Lowell ducked behind the rock, pulling the BAR down with him. He changed magazines, then got back in position.

Nothing moved. And there were no yellow flickering muzzle blasts. Just the bluish white clouds of smoke, followed a moment later by the crump as the sound of mortar sh.e.l.l's detonation reached them.

The s.h.i.t was drying, caking, on his leg. He could smell it.

He threw up again, dry. There was nothing left to come out of his stomach. He felt faint and rested his cheek on the rock, smelling the tung oil on the BAR stock as he stared at the empty .30-06 sh.e.l.l casings scattered around him.

When there was quiet, he carefully aligned eight cartridges in a clip and loaded the MI; and leaving the BAR where it was, he went back to Nick. He pulled off his Ike jacket and placed it over Nick's shattered head.

The Greek captain came over to him and made the sign of the cross over Nick, and then, with tears in his eyes, he held Craig Lowell's head against his chest, and very gently kissed the top of his head.

Lowell went to the stone hut he had shared with Nick, took out his bedroll, and took from it all his spare underwear. Then he went to the water barrel, and took off his boots and his pants and dipped a T-shirt in the water barrel and wiped the feces off his legs.

It took a long time. He thought that he was going to be sick again. Then one of the Greeks came up to him. He handed him a pair of Greek (actually English) woolen pants, well worn but clean. And then he handed him a British battle jacket. It had his second lieutenant's bar and his tank on the collar points.

"Thank you," he said. The Greek soldier nodded and pointed to the left epaulet. There was a cheap, gray metal pin pinned to it. The insignia of the I 13th Regiment, 27th Royal h.e.l.lenic Mountain Division. The Greek, who was a pockmarked old fart who needed a shave, reached out and tenderly ran his rough hand over Lowell's face and said something to him. Lowell had no idea what he said, but he smiled and nodded his head.

the Greek bent over and picked up the s.h.i.tty trousers and skivvy shorts and the T-shirt Lowell had used as a s.h.i.t wiper and carried them off.

(Seven) Second Lieutenant Craig W. Lowell, wearing mostly a Greek uniform, was leaning on the stone and sandbag walls of his hut, puffing on his next to last cigar when Lt. Colonel Paul T. Hanrahan and First Lieutenant Sanford T. Felter drove into. No.. 12 Company's area. Hanrahan was driving.

When the weapons carrier stopped, Hanrahan got from behind the wheel and looked at Lowell, who made no move to get off the wall. Hanrahan glanced at the body, which was under a sheet of canvas now. A crucifix rested on top of the canvas. Then he walked toward Lowell.

When he was ten feet away, Lowell pushed himself off the sandbags and saluted. Hanrahan returned the salute as casually.

"You all right, Lieutenant?" Hanrahan asked.

"I'm alive, Colonel."

"What happened to. your face?" Hanrahan asked. Lowell unconsciously put his fingers to the already formed scabs on his face.

"Stone splinters, I think," Lowell said.

Colonel Hanrahan put his finger out and touched the regimental insignia on his epaulet.

"They give that to you?" he asked. The implication was clear, Lowell thought. I am wearing something I should not be wearing.

The Greek captain, seeing what Hanrahan had done, came up and, taking him by the arm, led him behind the bunker where the dead of the engagement were laid out in two rows.

On one side were the Greeks, under cheap cotton flags. On the other the enemy were on their backs with nothing covering them. Captured weapons and supplies were piled between them. The Greek captain led Hanrahan to the end of the line where five bodies lay in a group. A machine gun and some small arms and some supplies were at their feet.

Lowell had seen the bodies before, but only then, when he saw the captain indicating him, did he understand why these bodies and the machine gun were in a special group. These were the men he had killed.

I don't feel a f.u.c.king thing, he realized. Not one f.u.c.king thing. If I'm supposed to be all upset because I have taken human life, I'm not.

"The captain seems to think you're pretty hot stuff, Lowell," Lt. Colonel Hanrahan said, coming back to him. "A regular Sergeant York."

"We're going to need another interpreter up here, Colonel," Lowell said.

"There's one coming with the trucks to get the other bodies and this, stuff," Hanrahan said. "I wanted to come get Nick myself".

They had brought with them in the weapons carrier an American flag and a locally made cheap pine coffin, which was already splitting. Lt. Col. Hanrahan and Lieutenant Felter carried it to the tarpaulin-covered body. Hanrahan and Lowell picked Nick up and put him in the coffin, and then Hanrahan got on his knees and nailed the flag to it. Finally, Hanrahan and Lowell hoisted the coffin into the weapons carrier.

"I'll take care of writing the next of kin," Hanrahan said.

It was the first Lowell had even thought about that.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"And I'll send you some clothes with the other trucks."

"Is the mail coming up with the trucks?" Lowell asked.

Hanrahan pointed to Lt. Sanford T. Felter, who, looking ashamed, handed Lowell his only mail. It was from the Constabulary officer's club. He owed a twenty-five dollar initiation fee and three months dues of ten dollars per month. Unless the bill was paid within seventy-two hours, it said, his commanding officer would be notified.

"The mail is terribly fouled up," Felter said, lamely.

"Yeah, sure it is," Lowell said.

(Eight) After his junior officer had pa.s.sed satisfactorily, more than satisfactorily, through his first engagement, Paul Hanrahan was not surprised that he immediately started going Greek. Although Hanrahan would never have said it out loud, it was the Brotherhood of Arms. Probably without knowing it, and certainly without thinking about it, Lowell had joined the tribe.

The tribe happened to be Greek. He wanted to be like the others, so he dressed like them, thought like them, acted like them.

Within a month, to the disgust of many of the American officers at Ioaninna, Lowell was far over the line. He had helped himself to a supply of British uniforms from a building full of British surplus at loannina. A Greek mama washed it for him to get rid of the awful smell of the British antimoth preservative. He wore a second lieutenant's bar pinned to one collar point, and a U.S. was on the other. These were the only things that distinguished him from a Greek officer.

Under the battle jacket, he wore an open khaki shirt, a GI sweater, and a silk scarf. In one of the Greek companies he :instructed, he had acquired a black leather belt and Luger holster the Germans had left behind. The buckle was a solid bra.s.s affair, cast with the words Got MIT UNS in inch-high letters.

Probably to mock Felter's parachute wings, Hanrahan thought, he had moved the 113th Regimental pin above his breast pocket from his epaulet. Felter had gone Greek only in that he wore British boots and no necktie. Hanrahan sensed that the only reason Felter was wearing his parachutist's wings was that he had noticed Hanrahan wearing his own.