Company K (Library Alabama Classics) Read online

  If he'd had the slightest sense of decency, he'd have refused the mask, but he took it out of my hand and put it on. I hadn't really meant to give the mask to him. Why should I do a thing of that sort? . . . As soon as I realized what I'd done, I wanted to take the mask away from him, but I couldn't do that with the other men looking on.—You see what an impossible position I was in? . . .

  “Yes,” said the doctor, “I can see that.”

  “What right did he have to take the mask, when I didn't know what I was doing?—What right had he—”

  “It was a fine thing to do,” said the doctor.

  “I tell you I was crazy,” I shouted. “I was sorry the moment I had done it.”

  “Be quiet,” said the doctor, “or you'll start bleeding again.”

  CORPORAL FREDERICK WILLCOXEN

  IT was late October, the Germans were falling back all along the line, releasing towns which they had occupied for four years, and all day we saw French civilians, mostly old men and women, trudging to the rear, loaded down with their personal property. When we fell out for a ten-minute rest, we saw an old woman sitting against the side of a steep hill. Strapped to her back was a huge wicker basket filled with pots and pans and such things. Her face was wrinkled, and she seemed weak and all in. “Christ Almighty!” said Sergeant Halligan, “how can that poor old soul manage to lift such a load?”

  “I don't know,” I said, “but I'm going over and help her carry her stuff up the hill.” I turned and walked toward her, and as I did so, she started shaking her fist at me. I stopped in surprise and spoke to her gently: “Don't be scared, Granny,” I said; “I'm not going to hurt you.” Then I smiled and walked toward her again, but she jumped up, at my approach, making a squeaking noise, and scurried up the side of the hill, basket and all, as quick as a lizard running up a wall. She went up so fast, I stood there with my mouth open. When she got to the top, she spat at me and called me a pig.

  Everybody laughed and tried to kid me. Mart Passy lay on the ground and roared. “Say, Fred,” he called, “ask your girl friend to come down again and carry up the rolling kitchen for us.”

  SERGEANT MARVIN MOONEY

  ONE day in the Argonne Forest we came on a wounded German soldier. It was early in the morning and frost had fallen the night before. The German lay huddled on his belly, and he must have been there all night, because when I turned him over, there was no frost on the place where he had been lying. His face was white and he was shivering. He wore eye-glasses with thick, dirty lenses.

  When he saw me, he begged for a drink of water. I said: “It was different when you were raping Red Cross Nurses and cutting off the legs of children in Belgium, wasn't it? The shoe's on the other foot, now.—Here's some of your own medicine!” Then I straightened out his head with my foot and pounded his face with the butt of my rifle until it was like jelly. After that I opened my canteen and poured all the water I had on the ground, as I didn't want anybody to think it was giving him the water I minded. “Here's a drink of water for you,” I said. . . .

  If you think I'm lying, just ask Fred Terwilliger or Harry Althouse. They were with me at the time. . . . He was a crummy little fellow and his eye-glasses were tied around his ears with two pieces of common twine. His face was white and he kept shivering and rattling his teeth together. He was about five feet six, I should say, although he might have been an inch or so taller than that. Every time I hit him his knees jerked up a little.

  PRIVATE OLIVER TECLAW

  WE were going up to the front line one morning when somebody began calling my name excitedly. “Ollie,” he shouted, “Ollie Teclaw!”

  It was Sergeant Ernest, my old drill sergeant. He used to say I was the worst soldier he ever tried to train, in all of his years of service.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Say, did you ever learn to hold a bayonet proper?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I said; “never did.”

  “Did you get so you could qualify with a rifle?”

  “Never could shoot a rifle, Sarge,” I said; “never could do that.”

  We were getting farther apart and Sergeant Ernest cupped his mouth with his hands and began to shout: “How about grenades? Can you throw grenades?”

  “No better than I could in training camp,” I said.

  Ernest shook his head and groaned. “For Christ sake! Hasn't nobody killed you yet?” he shouted.

  “Uh-uh,” I said. . . . “Not so far.”

  PRIVATE FRANKLIN GOOD

  IT was November. The nights were cold and there was frost on the ground in the mornings. The roads were frozen, and hard as iron. The trees were all bare of leaves and their branches made a whispering sound in the wind like sandpaper. In the forest before us, the Germans were retreating steadily, their ammunition and equipment littering their trenches, their wounded abandoned on the ground. We came through the forest cautiously, watching out for mines.

  We came on all that day, steadily. Then, toward dark, we saw the Meuse flowing before us. We hurried, at sight of the river, anxious to cross the bridge and dig in before night fell, but before we reached the bank, there came three explosions and the bridge flung upward before our eyes and slid into the swift current. We stood there looking at the wrecked bridge, blowing on our hands, our breath congealing into steam.

  Then the engineers came up from the rear to construct a pontoon. We began digging in, by the bank, in anticipation of the barrage the Germans were certain to lay down on us. The engineers worked rapidly and the bridge was ready before the barrage began. But somebody had to swim the river and anchor the bridge to the opposite bank. Jerry Blandford volunteered to do this. He took off his clothes and plunged into the icy water, towing the frail pontoon behind him. When he reached the opposite bank, the barrage started. Then he tied the rope around a tree stump and the first man came over. The shells were striking all about us, throwing up spouts of water and clots of mud bigger than a man's body. Then, one by one, we ran quickly across the bridge and took up a position on the other side. At daybreak we were all over. Nine men had been killed crossing and the bridge partially destroyed and repaired three times. When the last man was over, the platoons were reorganized and the attack continued. We turned and looked back at the river and saw the engineers, as busy as ants, building another bridge which would be strong enough to bear the weight of our artillery.

  THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER

  WE were returning from a wiring party that quiet night and the men were in high spirits. Then two Maxims opened a deadly, enfilading fire, and one of my companions threw his hands up and fell without a sound. I stood there confused at the sudden attack, not knowing which way to turn. Then I heard some one shout: “Look out! Look out for the wire!” and I saw my companions, flat on their frightened bellies, scattering in all directions. I started to run, but at that moment something shoved me, and something took my breath away, and I toppled backward, and the wire caught me.

  At first I did not realize that I was wounded. I lay there on the wire, breathing heavily. “I must keep perfectly calm,” I thought. “If I move about, I'll entangle myself so badly that I'll never get out.” Then a white flare went up and in the light that followed I saw my belly was ripped open and that my entrails hung down like a badly arranged bouquet of blue roses. The sight frightened me and I began to struggle, but the more I twisted about, the deeper the barbs sank in. Finally I could not move my legs any more and I knew, then, that I was going to die. So I lay stretched quietly, moaning and spitting blood.

  I could not forget the faces of the men and the way they had scurried off when the machine guns opened up. I remembered a time when I was a little boy and had gone to visit my grandfather, who lived on a farm. Rabbits were eating his cabbages that year, so grandfather had closed all the entrances to his field except one, and he baited that one with lettuce leaves and young carrots. When the field was full of rabbits, the fun began. Grandfather opened the gate and let in the dog, and the hired man stood at the gap
, a broomstick in his hand, breaking the necks of the rabbits as they leaped out. I had stood to one side, I remembered, pitying the rabbits and thinking how stupid they were to let themselves be caught in such an obvious trap.—And now as I lay on the wire, the scene came back to me vividly. . . . I had pitied the rabbits!—I, of all people . . .

  I lay back, my eyes closed, thinking of that. Then I heard the mayor of our town making his annual address in the Soldiers’ Cemetery at home. Fragments of his speech kept floating through my mind: “These men died gloriously on the Field of Honor! . . . Gave their lives gladly in a Noble Cause! . . . What a feeling of exaltation was theirs when Death kissed their mouths and closed their eyes for an Immortal Eternity! . . . ” Suddenly I saw myself, too, a boy in the crowd, my throat tight to keep back the tears, listening enraptured to the speech and believing every word of it; and at that instant I understood clearly why I now lay dying on the wire. . . .

  The first shock had passed and my wounds began to pain me. I had seen other men die on the wire and I had said if it happened to me, I would make no sound, but after a while I couldn't stand the pain any longer and I began to make a shrill, wavering noise. I cried like that for a long time. I couldn't help it. . . .

  Towards daybreak a German sentry crawled out from his post and came to where I lay. “Hush!” he said in a soft voice. “Hush, please!”

  He sat on his haunches and stared at me, a compassionate look in his eyes. Then I began to talk to him: “It's all a lie that people tell each other, and nobody really believes,” I said. . . . “And I'm a part of it, whether I want to be or not.—I'm more a part of it now than ever before: In a few years, when war is over, they'll move my body back home to the Soldiers’ Cemetery, just as they moved the bodies of the soldiers killed before I was born. There will be a brass band and speech making and a beautiful marble shaft with my name chiseled on its base. . . . The mayor will be there also, pointing to my name with his thick, trembling forefinger and shouting meaningless words about glorious deaths and fields of honor. . . . And there will be other little boys in that crowd to listen and believe him, just as I listened and believed!”

  “Hush,” said the German softly. “Hush! . . . Hush!”

  I began to twist about on the wire and to cry again. “I can't stand the thought of that! I can't stand it! . . . I never want to hear military music or high sounding words again: I want to be buried where nobody will ever find me.—I want to be wiped out completely . . . ”

  Then, suddenly, I became silent, for I had seen a way out. I took off my identification tags and threw them into the wire, as far as I could. I tore to pieces the letters and the photographs I carried and scattered the fragments. I threw my helmet away, so that no one could guess my identity from the serial number stamped on the sweatband. Then I lay back exultant!

  The German had risen and stood looking at me, as if puzzled. . . . “I've beaten the orators and the wreath layers at their own game!” I said. . . . “I've beaten them all!—Nobody will ever use me as a symbol. Nobody will ever tell lies over my dead body now! . . . ”

  “Hush,” said the German softly. “Hush! . . . Hush!”

  Then my pain became so unbearable that I began to choke and bite at the wire with my teeth. The German came closer to me, touching my head with his hand. . . .

  “Hush,” he said. . . . “Hush, please . . . ”

  But I could not stop. I thrashed about on the wire and cried in a shrill voice. The German took out his pistol and stood twisting it in his hand, not looking at me. Then he put his arm under my head, lifting me up, and kissed me softly on my cheek, repeating phrases which I could not understand. I saw, then, that he too, had been crying for a long time. . . .

  “Do it quickly!” I said. “Quickly! . . . Quickly!”

  He stood with trembling hands for a moment before he placed the barrel of his pistol against my temple, turned his head away, and fired. My eyes fluttered twice and then closed; my hands clutched and relaxed slowly.

  “I have broken the chain,” I whispered. “I have defeated the inherent stupidity of life.”

  “Hush,” he said. “Hush! . . . Hush! . . . Hush! . . . ”

  PRIVATE CHARLES UPSON

  THE first thing we noticed was the silence of the German artillery. Then our own artillery quit firing. We looked at each other, surprised at the sudden quietness and wondered what was the matter. A runner came up, out of breath, with a message from Divisional. Lieutenant Bartelstone, in command of our company, read it slowly and called his platoon sergeants together. “Pass word to the men to cease firing, the war is over,” he said.

  CORPORAL STEPHEN WALLER

  COMPANY K went into action at 10:15 P.M. December 12th, 1917, at Verdun, France, and ceased fighting on the morning of November 11th, 1918, near Bourmont, having crossed the Meuse River the night before under shell fire; participating, during the period set out above, in the following major operations: Aisne, Aisne-Marne, St. Mihiel and Meuse-Argonne.

  A number of men were cited for bravery, the following decorations having been actually awarded for meritorious service under fire: 10 Croix de Guerre (four of them with palms); 6 Distinguished Service Crosses; 2 Medals Militaire and 1 Congressional Medal of Honor, the latter being awarded to Private Harold Dresser, a man of amazing personal courage.

  The percentage of casualties in killed, wounded in action, missing or evacuated to hospital suffering from disease, was considerably higher than average (332.8) percent.

  Our commanding officer, Terence L. Matlock, Captain, was able and efficient and retained throughout the respect and the admiration to the men who served under him.

  PRIVATE LEO BROGAN

  THE Armistice had been signed, and for three days we had been moving across France, a short day's march behind the evacuating German army. It was raining: a thin, misty rain which fell straight down and penetrated to our shivering skin as we plowed raggedly down the muddy country roads. Seen through the slow rain, the country-side, with its barren brown fields and leafless woods, seemed very desolate, and the ruined villages were lonely against a sky as gray as pewter.

  Occasionally we passed through a village which had been partially rebuilt, or only imperfectly destroyed, in which people still lived, and at such times the inhabitants stood in their doorways, silent, and a little frightened, and watched us go past; or occasionally we passed some splendid country estate which had, by its isolation, escaped any systematic shelling, and stood now, incongruously intact, beside the road, with its brick walls and its iron gates and its untrimmed hedges. It was near such a chateau that we received orders to fall-out for our noon meal. We drew to one side of the road and waited. Presently the company's rolling-kitchen, drawn by old Mamie the galley mule, lumbered up to the head of the column and pulled out from the road into an uncultivated field.

  Hymie White of the Second Platoon slipped out of his pack and stretched his shoulders. When he had got the kinks out of his shoulders and had assembled his mess-gear, the kitchen had been set up and a circle had already formed around it. A boiler of steaming soup was being lifted to the ground by Sidney Borgstead and his assistant cook. Sergeant Mike Olmstead, the company mess-sergeant, who was loudly supervising the preparations for the meal, turned suddenly, and spoke to us: “What are you birds trying to pull off? You get in line, or you don't get no chow, see?” Long association with hungry men had made Mike suspicious of everything. Mike had a lumpy, badly molded face, and a ragged mouth which resembled a small shell hole.

  A line quickly formed and Sid Borgstead commenced dishing out the food. Sergeant Olmstead stood by to see that each man got his fair share. When Hymie White's turn came, he was served with a dipper full of thin soup and a small slice of bread over which a spoonful of corn syrup had been poured. He looked at the scant rations and was furious all of a sudden.

  “That's a hell of a meal to offer a man!” he said. The friendly look was gone from his eyes; his face was flushed and his nostrils dilated. “That
's a fine God damned meal to offer a man!”

  “If you don't like it, put it back in the pot,” said Sergeant Olmstead.

  “I haven't had enough to eat since I joined this bastardly outfit!”

  “Don't tell me your troubles, sonny!”

  “What this company needs most is a new mess-sergeant!”

  “Yeah?” said Sergeant Olmstead. “Well, let me tell you something. I cook what Headquarters issues me, see?”

  It was then that Hymie realized the futility of further argument. He walked back to the roadside where he had left his pack and sat down upon it to eat his meal. He noticed that several very old men and very young children had, in his absence, gathered by the iron gate of the château. They gazed steadily at the soldiers eating their food, following with slow eyes the rhythmic rise and fall of a hundred dirty spoons.

  Presently an old lady, wrapped in a waterproof coat, came hobbling down the long, flag-paved walk that ran from the iron gate to the château. With her was a girl about eight years old: a homely child with tight pigtails and bangs and fat, clumsy legs. Beside the child there walked, sedately, a young fawn, with dappled gray sides and soft brown eyes.

  When the party reached the gate the old lady dramatically placed one bony hand upon her heart and with a wide, inclusive gesture she blew a kiss to the reclining soldiers. Then she began to speak rapidly in French, clutching her heart, or her throat, at intervals, and at intervals pointing to the dull sky. Hymie turned and spoke to Pierre Brockett: “What the hell is the old bag making a speech about?” Brockett, who had been sopping his pan with a morsel of bread to get the last drop of soup, looked up and listened for a moment: “She's thanking the brave soldiers for saving her stricken France, and so on, and so on.” “Oh, is that what it's all about?” said Hymie.