My Honor Flight (16 page)

Unfortunately,
real war isn’t like the movies.  I think most of the combat stories I told you,
except for Morelli’s charge, resulted in casualties.  We were still pretty high
about Morelli’s charge when we received our next assignment.  Bastogne.  The
heart of the Battle of the Bulge.  The 101st Airborne had been rescued, and we
joined the forces in Bastogne to try to keep the corridor open. 

Buzz Company
was to defend the north edge of town, which faced a forest.  Another damn
forest.  Anyway, the Ninth Platoon was stationed in two buildings—a general store
and a grain mill.  One of those waterwheel mills next to a creek.  They were
separated by a clearing, about a hundred yards apart.  By the time we were in
Bastogne, we had twenty-five men.   So we split into two groups, with some of
the guys in each building.  We walked patrols in the forest twenty-four hours a
day.  Our job for now was defense.

We didn’t
mind the detail at all.  Both buildings had heat!  We had been without heat for
so long that we thought we were in heaven.  We also had all the food we could
eat.  And finally, the grain mill was used as an ammo supply depot, so we had weapons
and cases of ammunition.  If something bad were to happen, we had everything we
needed to hold out.

It was quiet
for a few days, and by the end of that time we were pretty rested, and
healing.  A lot of us had frostbite damage on fingers and toes, but none of it
was severe enough to be considered a reason for discharge.  The combination of
warmth, full bellies, and some lingering euphoria about Morelli’s charge did a
world of good for us.  Humor finally returned to the group after months of
steadily increasing depression.  Oily and Dinger Morelli were returning to
their old selves, joking and teasing everyone.  Tom Duncan set up his rope in
the grain mill and practiced walking across it.  The mill had a catwalk around
an open second floor, so he tied off the rope across the opening.  That looked
dangerous as hell to us, because it was a good six feet off the floor, and the
rope stretched over the actual mill equipment.  One fall, and I’m sure he would
be hurt bad.  But he never did fall.  He would do cartwheels on the rope, and
handstands, and juggle.  It was good entertainment.

One evening I
was playing cards with Trumbull, which wasn’t a good idea because I could never
beat him.  That evening I was holding my own, though.  But just as I was
getting ahead a little, the door swung open.  Big Swede and Morelli charged in.

 “Krauts! 
LOTS of them!” said Morelli.  “I’m telling Cap!”  He turned and ran out toward
the store. 

Big Swede
shut off the lights, crouched, and peered out the window.  “This is not good, boys. 
There are many Germans there!  Maybe hundreds!”

Trumbull and
I looked at each other, shocked.  We’d grown complacent over the last few
days.  I had begun to feel like maybe the war was over, or far away.  I cussed,
got up, and grabbed my gear and rifle.  I put on all my outerwear, because I didn’t
know if we’d be defending from the mill or moving outside.  Trumbull did the
same.  Bo Cooper, Vern Fisher, and Oily Chartelli were in the mill at the time,
and they got their gear too.  It was pretty dark in there, except for some dim
light from the flames of the woodstove.

I was walking
toward a window when Big Swede reached up and grabbed the doorknob and flung
the door open.  Morelli came running in.   He had Stankowski, Herb Johnson, Dan
Rawdon, and Ted Phillips.  We had ten men.  The other fifteen were in the
store.

“We’re
locking down, boys,” said Morelli.  “There’s more of them than we can handle. 
We’ve got to hunker down, look like no one is here, and hope they keep going.  Cap’s
calling in for help.  The tanks are down in the next village.  And there are
only four of them, so this ain’t gonna be pretty.  Get on the floor, get small,
and don’t move.”

Chartelli threw
a bucket of water in the stove to put out the fire.  That would create a bunch
of white smoke, but it would diminish quickly.  He threw in a second one for
good measure.  It was completely black in the room.  Four men squeezed in among
the cases of weapons in a grain storage room.  The rest of us hid behind the
milling equipment or tucked ourselves in the corner between the wall and the
floor, so we were as small as we could be.  Morelli locked the door.  The mill
looked deserted.

I was shaking. 
Hundreds of krauts.  All the troops in our area were split up enough that we couldn’t
get into a common formation.  So for that moment, it would be hundreds against
twenty-five.  I kept looking at the two windows on the ground floor and at the
door’s window.  I didn’t move my head—just my eyes.  Then I froze solid when I
saw a German helmet in the door’s window.  He was looking in, and was looking
straight at me.  I held my breath.  I didn’t know if they could see anything in
the mill, or if it was black to them.  But I figured any movement at all might
be visible.

The knob
clicked as he twisted it back and forth.  He yelled something, but it was
muffled by the door.  Another minute later, a second helmet appeared at the
door, and the knob clicked again.  The second kraut leaned in and looked, and I
could see his breath fog the door’s window.  He wiped it away and shined a flashlight
into the mill.  He scanned back and forth over and over.  Time stopped.  He
just kept scanning.  My heart was pounding!  Could he see us?  Was he counting
how many of us there were? 

I laid there
with my right hand on my rifle, finger near the trigger guard.  We’d planned to
whip our guns around if they came in.  The flashlight disappeared.  After
standing there for another couple of minutes, the two helmets moved on, and
then I started seeing glimpses of other helmets as they walked past the mill. 
I lost track around twenty.  As I watched them continue to pass by, I started
to relax a little.  I had been board-straight for probably fifteen minutes, and
I was soaked in sweat.  I wanted to stretch and move around, but I didn’t want
to risk being detected.

Then we heard
gunshots from the direction of the general store.  There was a bunch of
yelling, and then the krauts were running past our windows toward the store.

 “Shit!”
hissed Morelli.  “Mack, take a look up top.  See what’s going on out there!”

I rolled away
from the wall and ran to the catwalk ladder.  It was more like a shuffle,
because my muscles were all tight from being frozen in position for so long. 
But adrenaline quickly loosened the kinks, and I was on the catwalk.  “Nooooo,”
I whispered.

The krauts
were swarming around the general store.  I could see gunshot flares coming from
the store, and a huge line of kraut guns firing into the store.  The other half
of Buzz Company had been discovered, and they were trapped.

 “They’re
under attack!”  I whispered as loud as I dared.  Germans were still going by
our windows, but now they were running toward the store.

 “Son of a
bitch!”  Chartelli stood up and looked out the windows.  “I can’t see past
these damn krauts.  Mack, you’re the eyes.  What do you see?”

 “There’s at
least fifty to seventy krauts, and they’re surrounding the store.  They’re
pounding it!”

Morelli cussed,
and whirled around, looking at the crates. 

 “Swede and Trumbull,
get cases of grenades up to the catwalks—two cases per window.  FAST!  Fisher,
get up there with me.  Mack and I will each take a window.  Mack, when I tell
you, you start throwing grenades as fast as you can.”

Morelli
dashed up the ladder.  When he saw the scene at the store, his eyes were as big
as baseballs in the dim light from the window.  Swede slid a case next to me,
then another next to it.  Trumbull slammed a crowbar into the top of the crates
and popped the lids.  There was just enough light to make out the compartments
in each crate.  I reached in and yanked out handfuls of straw and threw it to
the floor.  Trumbull was doing the same to the other case as he stood on the
ladder. 

 “You’ve got forty
grenades, Mack.  Make ’em count, because we’re dead if they attack us,” said
Trumbull.  His voice was calm and deliberate.

I nodded
without looking at him.  I was trying to figure out where to throw the
grenades.

 “Trumbull,
keep the grenades coming—hand me one in each hand—I don’t want to run out.  But
keep your damn head down!” 

I slid the
window open, and the noise of gunfire was even louder in the mill as it echoed
into the room.  All the Germans were facing the mill.  But there were so many
damn krauts that they couldn’t all attack the store.  So a lot of them were waiting
back.  They were lying in the snow to avoid getting hit by random shots from
the store.  And they were spread in front of us like fifty sitting ducks!  I
looked over at Morelli, who drew back in surprise.  The Germans were totally
unaware of us, and they were fully exposed to us!

 “Now!”
whispered Morelli.  I pulled the first grenade ring and threw it between two
Germans on the ground.  I didn’t wait at all.  I just pulled the next pin and
threw it about ten feet farther to the right.  I put my open hands out, and
Trumbull put a grenade in each hand.  I closed my hand on the spoons, and
Trumbull pulled the pins.  I threw those two, and turned to get two more, just
as the first grenades exploded.  I didn’t look to see what kind of damage I
did, I just kept grabbing grenades, and chucking them out the window.  All I
could think about was the other half of Buzz Company being trapped in that
general store.  There was no way they could survive that attack, and I had tears
in my eyes as I threw the grenades.  I had probably thrown about a dozen
grenades when I heard a zipping sound, and then I felt warmth on my left
cheek.  I threw the grenade in my hand and lay down on the floor.  I touched my
hand to my cheek, and it was dark when I pulled it back.  I was bleeding.  I
reached up again to feel for the extent of the wound.  That’s when I touched my
ear and knew that it had been shredded by a bullet.  It didn’t hurt.  I was
numb, and I didn’t care about the blood.

 “Keep ’em
coming!”  I said, and I grabbed the next grenades and threw them out.  That’s
the first time I looked out the window.  The Germans had all shifted around to
take cover.  In the open area there were probably thirty or forty men down. 
But the gunfire coming out of the general store was weak—only a couple of guns,
I guessed.

We exhausted
the first crate.  I yelled down to the main floor. 

 “We’re gonna
run out!  We can’t hold them off!”

 “Ya, we are
working on that!” yelled Torgeson.  I didn’t have time to talk, or to look.  I
just kept throwing grenades.  But bullets were pinging the stone mill wall and
the wooden window sill.  The krauts were pounding us just like they were the
general store.  It got so bad that it was a constant pounding all around the
window.  I couldn’t risk standing up any more, so I was chucking grenades
through the window while lying on the catwalk.

I put my
hands out, and Trumbull put a grenade in each.  Then he grabbed my hands, not
letting go. 

 “The last
two!” he yelled over the racket.

We paused,
our hands still together.  Our eyes were locked in the dim light.  We were
talking without saying anything.  We were probably done.  After these grenades,
there would be nothing keeping the krauts away.  I nodded at Trumbull, and he
winked at me.  This was the end.

Morelli and I
finished within a couple of minutes of each other.  When no more grenades fell,
the gunfire let up.  The krauts knew we’d run dry.  I peeked up over the window
sill.  Some Germans were cautiously bent over, approaching the mill.  I sighed
and grabbed my rifle. 

 “Trumbull,
get up here,” I said.  “We need to try to keep them away.”

 “Brace
yourself!” bellowed Big Swede.

 “What?” I
yelled back.

Just then,
the biggest thunder you could ever imagine erupted in the mill, and the room
lit up.  I was disoriented.  What was happening?  Was it German grenades?  And
who turned on the lights?  

It wasn’t
lights.  It was big goddamn thundering Browning machine guns.  A pair of them! 
Torgeson and Chartelli had set them up while we were chucking grenades, and
they were blasting the guns out the windows on the mill floor.  There was one
window by the door, and another on the next wall.   They just kept bursts
firing through the openings.  There was no way a kraut could come through those
windows or door.  But it was deafening in that tiny stone building.  We
couldn’t hear anything else, and the reverberation shuddered through our
bodies.  We clasped our hands over our ears.

I looked out
the window.  There were bodies everywhere from our grenades.  There was still
gunfire.  But it was focused on the store.  They weren’t attacking us anymore. 
The big guns must have scared them away.  At least for now.

Trumbull
joined me at the window.

I nodded
toward the store.  “They don’t have Brownings,” I yelled between gun bursts
from the big guns.

 “The numbers,
Mack.  They ain’t gonna make it.”

I nodded. 
“Morelli!”

He joined us
and looked at the store.  “Jesus.”