Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 32

Hanrahan had not responded to the complaints. So far as he was concerned, the key to success in an operation like this was for distinctions between the Americans and the Greeks they were advising to disappear. This wasn't the British Indian Army; the Greeks were not second-cla.s.s citizens. The Greeks had to believe that, within reason, their American advisors lived as they did. Lowell was doing that. It was possible that his behavior would shame some of the other American officers into copying him. Lowell was proof of the colonel's theory.

He was the only junior officer in the division who matter-of factly issued orders directly to Greek soldiers, and more important, had his orders obeyed. If Greek troops didn't like their American officer, they weren't insubordinate; they were simply unable to comprehend what the American wanted unless it was translated for them by one of their own officers. Yet they seemed to have no trouble whatever understanding what Lowell told them to do in his really awful, hundred-word Greek vocabulary.

Hanrahan stepped to the map, checking his memory that No. 12 Company's two rock fortresses were on either side of a truck-capable road.

"When did it begin?" Hanrahan asked.

"About twenty minutes ago," Lowell's voice crackled over the radio. "They took out our signal bunker."

"What are you using?" Hanrahan asked. Across the room, his eyes met those of Mouse Felter, who was standing, his arms folded on his chest, watching and listening.

"The M8 radio, Colonel," Lowell said. The Duke doesn't know diddly s.h.i.t about proper radio security, Hanrahan though. And then he thought that it didn't really matter. "Pericles Six" was obviously known to the Russians as the American advisor's radio code.

"What's your situation?"

"I'm holding," Lowell's voice replied. "But we're running through a lot of ammunition." G.o.dd.a.m.ned Greeks, Hanrahan thought. They regarded an incoming mortar round as a slur on their masculine pride, that had to be answered with a barrage.

"I'm holding?" Hanrahan said, a little annoyed. Lowell was not the commanding officer. He was just the G.o.dd.a.m.ned advisor.

"Captain Demosthatis bought it," Lowell said. "I a.s.sumed command."

"How many other casualties?"

"All the officers," Lowell said. "They've been hitting us pretty hard."

"Mount your operation, Captain Watson," Lt. Co!. Hanrahan ordered. Then he pressed the microphone b.u.t.ton: Duke," he said, "give them t.i.t for tat. I'll run some ammo up there to you." He spoke conversationally, calmly, although his stomach was in painful knots.

"We can't get out of here, Colonel," Lowell said, and even in the frequency-clipped voice that came over the radio, Hanrnhan could hear fear, perhaps even terror in his voice. "They got the motor pool, and when I came out to use the radio in the M8, the tires were all blown."

"No sweat, Duke," Hanrahan replied. "They can't get through your mortars, and we'll get- some ammo up to you right away. I've already given the order."

"You better send some officers, too," Lowell said. "I took a little shrapnel coming out to the M8." Hanrahan's stomach twisted again.

"Well, boy, you just take it easy. We're on our way. What they're trying to do is get some trucks down your road. We know all about it, and we're ready for it."

"Armie Oakley clear with Pericles Six," Craig Lowell's voice, for the first time using the correct radio procedure, came over the radio.

"The cavalry's on the way, Duke," Hanrahan said. "I promise you. Pericles Six, out." He wondered if the message had gotten through. He wondered why Lowell had suddenly broken off radio contact.

He looked around the room. Felter, having checked it, was loading a 30-round magazine into his Thompson submachine gun.

"Sidney," he said.

"Sir?"

"Nothing," Colonel Hanrahan said. "Get moving."

"Colonel, it's Sanford," Felter said, gently, shaming Hanrahan again. Then he put his Limey helmet on his head and left the G- 3 office.

Carrying the Thompson under his right arm like a bird hunter, Felter trotted across the parking lot toward the sandbagged ammo bunker, where several vehicles had already shown up. They were being hurriedly loaded by Greek soldiers.

He heard the peculiar sound of a half-track behind him. When . he turned to look, he saw the driver's face peering out the windshield. The armor plate which could be lowered to protect the driver was in the propped-open position. Felter waved the half-track into position in the column line.

Next he saw the command jeep, an innovation of Captain, Watson's that Lieutenant Felter did not approve. The jeep held their communications radios and had a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on a pedestal. Captain Watson apparently thought of it as his horse. He was going to lead his troops like Light Horse Harry Lee. Bugler, sound the charge!

When the column had been Felter's, he had the third halftrack in line as the command vehicle. The radios would be protected, and so would the commander. If the column were ambushed, the first thing they would take out would be the lead vehicle. The way Watson had it set up, they would lose their communications and their commander to the first bad guy with a machine gun or a grenade.

Felter had tried to set up another group of radios in his halftrack, but Watson had caught him at it and told him it wasn't necessary. He had also taken the opportunity to pointedly remind Felter that he was the column leader, and that simple courtesy, as well as regulations, dictated that Felter consult with the commander before taking any action on his own. A fellow West Pointer should know that.

A General Motors six-by-six, and then another, appeared, and troops poured out the backs. They joined the lines of men handing ammo cases hand-to-hand from the bunkers. The trucks, which carried a 2.5 ton load (and for that reason were also known as "deuce-and-a-halfs") were "new." They had seen World War II, and had been rebuilt in ordnance shops in Germany. The American supply line was begirming to operate.

Felter didn't like the way Watson was running around, excited, almost hysterical. He reminded himself that he knew something about Captain Watson that he shouldn't know. He wished Colonel Hanrahan hadn't told him about the captain's record.

In ten minutes, the column was loaded and ready. Watson stood up in the front seat of his jeep and gave the forward sign.

"Charge!" Felter thought, sarcastically. The drivers of the vehicles behind him had been racing their engines for two minutes, ready to go. They would have followed Watson's jeep the moment it moved. They didn't need a hand signal.

The half-track jerked into motion. He felt like a fool. He was almost knocked off his feet, because he bad been standing up like Watson himself.

He could hear the sound of the mortar barrage, even over the roar of the engines, long before they reached the site of No. 12 Company. As they grew closer, however, the blurred sounds became more distinct, and there were separate noises, cracks, and crumps, and barooms, and the rattle of small arms fire.

Felter thought they were "marching to the sound of the musketry," but he couldn't remember which famous general had said that. They were close enough now to make out the differing sounds of EnfIelds, Mausers, and Garands, of 30 and .50 caliber machine guns; and they were close enough to be able to detect glowing light as mortars were fired and as their sh.e.l.ls landed. There was a low-hanging yellow cloud of dust around the next curve of the road.

Felter leaned over and lowered the armor plate over the driver's windshield. The driver would now have to steer by peering through a slit in the plate. He started to lower the armor plate on his side, and was suddenly thrown against the windshield. The half-track had lurched to a stop.

When he regained his balance, he stood up on the seat.

There was a small cloud of yellow-and-black smoke on the road, fifty yards in front of Captain Watson's jeep. That had been a long round, Felter knew, a fluke. Watson's jeep should now move on.

Watson's jeep did not move on. Watson jumped out of his jeep and ran to the side of the road, the down side, and stood behind a boulder taller-than he was. He looked around for Felter, and when he saw him, signaled him to join him.

Felter left the half-track by climbing over the windshield onto the hood, and then down over the b.u.mper, and the winch in front. He carried the Thompson in his right hand. As he ran toward Captain Watson, another mortar round landed, thirty yards further down the slope from where Captain Watson stood, a hundred yards toward the firefight. Another wild round, the Mouse thought, wondering if he was going to get wiped out by a mistake made by some worker in an ammunition factory. "We can obviously go no farther in this fire," Watson said.

"I intend to set up a defense line at the ridge of that hill." He pointed to the rear.

"They're waiting for this ammunition, Captain," Felter said.

"They've been overrun," Captain Watson said. "Isn't that obvious?"

"I don't think so, sir," Felter said, politely. "I can hear their mortars and automatic weapons."

"Well, then, Lieutenant," Captain Watson said, sarcastically, "if you're so sure, why don't you just recormoiter on your own?"

"Yes, sir," Felter replied, accepting the sarcasm as an order.

He ran back onto the road, and signaled the driver of Captain Watson's jeep to pick him up. The half-track behind the jeep moved as soon as the jeep did. Felter held out his hand, ordering it to stop.

He jumped into the jeep.

"Felter!" Captain Watson shouted at him. "Come back here!" Lieutenant Felter pretended not to hear him.

The jeep carried him three hundred yards down the road.

The positions of No. 12 Company were under heavy fire, wrapped in smoke and dust. But they weren't overrun. He could see muzzle flashes, and somehow his eye caught a mortar round at the apogee of its arc. No. 12 Company was returning fire, all right.

Felter studied the two little fortresses and the road leading to them through his binoculars. The road had been literally hacked out of the mountainside. It was one-way, just wide enough to take a half-track. But there was an advantage to that. If a mortar sh.e.l.l hit above the road, the shrapnel would be thrown sideward and upward. If one hit the slope of the mountain below the road, only a small amount of shrapnel would be thrown so as to strike anything on the road.

It would take a direct hit to knock out one of the column's vehicles. Even if that happened, they could simply push the disabled vehicle off the road and out of the way.

When he was sure of his position, he ran back to his jeep.

The driver already had it turned around.

Captain Watson was where he had left him. For some reason, he had drawn his .45 and was holding it in his right hand, limp, at, his side.

Felter got out of the jeep and ran over to him.

"They're under fire, sir," Felter reported. "But they have not been overrun. And the amount of enemy fire actually landing on the road up there is negligible."

"If they have not yet been overrun," Captain Watson said, in a strained voice, as if forcing himself to speak, "it is just a matter of minutes until they are. And this column cannot survive the fire being brought upon the road."

"Yes, it can, Captain," Felter said, very calmly. "Everything's going to be all right, Captain." Captain Watson looked at him as if he had never seen him before. "We're expected up there, Captain," Felter said, talking slowly and reasonably.

"The colonel told them we would be there. They need our ammo. Sir."

"I'm not going to be responsible for this column being wiped out in any childish display of heroics," Captain Watson said, very clearly, as if he had rehea.r.s.ed what he was going to say.

The Greek captain who served as interpreter, and who rode in the first half-trac came rurming over.

"Is there something you can tell me to tell the men?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Captain," Felter said. "We're moving out."

"We are not moving out!" Captain Watson said, firmly, loudly. "We are withdrawing."

The Greek captain looked from one to the other American.

"Captain, among others, Lieutenant Lowell is on that hilltop," Felter said.

"I'm sick of you, and everybody else, telling me about Lieutenant Lowell," Captain Watson said, his voice very intense. "Lieutenant Lowell this, Duke Lowell that."

Felter felt himself, despite everything, smiling. Captain Watson sounded like Sharon when she was angry.

"Don't you smile at me, Jewboy" Captain Watson said.

"Don't you ever smile at me!"

"Sir, I respectfully request permission to take two of the tracks to the hill while you form a fall-back line," the Mouse said.

"Denied!" Captain Watson sputtered. He was waving his .45 around. "You have your orders, and you will carry them out. Tell the drivers to turn around!" he said to the interpreter.

The interpreter looked at Felter. There was contempt for Watson in his eyes.

"I'll ride in the first track," Felter said to the interpreter.

"We'll leave the wheeled vehicles here until we see what the situation is."

"Felter, I give the orders!" Captain Watson said, almost a shout.

"Sir," Felter said. "I have been ordered by Colonel Hanrahan to reinforce Number 12 Company. I intend to carry out that order."

"You'll obey my orders!" Captain Watson said, and now his voice was shrill.

"Everything's going to be all right, Captain," Felter said, calmly. He raised his hand over his head and made a "windup" gesture. Starters on the tracks ground.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n you, this is mutiny!" Captain Watson said.

Felter ignored him. He started back to the road.

There was the booming crack of a .45 going off. Felter kept walking. There was another shot, and this time Felter heard the bullet whirring beside his head. He stopped, paused motionless a moment, and then turned around.

"One more step and you would have been a dead man," Captain Watson said. He was holding the pistol in both hands, pointing it at Felter.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally Captain Watson got control of himself. Trembling, he lowered the pistol, fumbled to get it back in its holster.

"Get these G.o.dd.a.m.ned vehicles turned around!" he said to the interpreter. Lieutenant Felter raised the muzzle of his Thompson sub. machine gun and pulled the trigger. Captain Watson fell over backward, struck by six .45 caliber bullets traveling at approximately 830 feet per second. And then his body started to slide down the mountainside.

The interpreter looked at Felter.

"Pa.s.s the word to the drivers that if a vehicle is disabled, they are to push it off the road.' Felter said.

"Yes, sir," the interpreter captain said.

(Two) Lt. Colonel Paul T. Hanrahan leaned forward and held up the sheet of paper in his portable typewriter and read what he had written. He looked across his desk at Lieutenant Sanford T. Felter, who sat in a straight-backed chair, his fingers locked together in his lap, staring at nothing. Hanrahan felt very sorry for him, a pity mingled with a surprised admiration. It wasn't the sort of thing he would have expected from Felter. Then Hanrahan ripped the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, took a pen from a pocket sewn to the upper sleeve of his British battle jacket, and signed his name.

"Sidney," he said. "Excuse me, Sanford." Lieutenant Felter stood up.

"Yes, sir?"

"Read this, Sanford," Lt. Col. Hanrahan said. "Read it aloud." Felter took the sheet of paper, and started to read it.

"Aloud, Felter," Hanrahan said. "I said, "read it aloud."

"Dear Mrs. Watson," Felter read, in a strained voice. "By now you have heard from the War Department about the death of your husband. Please forgive the bad typing, but I wanted to get this letter out to you as soon as possible. It will be flown out of here with a young officer who was wounded in the same engagement in which Captain Watson gave his life.

"Captain Watson was commanding a relief column dispatched to relieve a Greek Army unit under heavy enemy attack. Heedless of the personal danger to himself, Captain Watson elected to lead the column in a jeep. En route to the scene of action, the convoy was ambushed by guerrillas. Captain Watson was struck by automatic weapons fire which killed him instantly, and I am sure, painlessly.

"I'm sure you will take some small comfort in knowing that, inspired by Captain Watson's personal example of courage, the junior officer under him rallied his troops and saw the mission brought to a successful conclusion.