Once an Eagle (33 page)

“What's eating you, boy,” Raebyrne demanded, “you of the opinion it's full of tadpoles? Damn good chance.”

“Look at it—look at the color of it …”

“You poor ignorant city boy—that's sunshine!”

“It's bad,” Santos muttered. “A Jonah.”

“A what?”

“A sign—an evil sign.”

“Look,” Tsonka declared, “if there's one with your name on it, it'll find you if it has to turn the latch and open the door.”

The light increased, grew still more violent under the bank of clouds. The wind was cold. A big gray car was coming along the road from Apremont, rocking powerfully on its springs as it eased its way in and out of the holes. Its windshield held a placard with three white stars on a red field. At the edge of the courtyard the car slowed and finally stopped.

“Man, just look at that wagon,” Tsonka said. “That's the way to fight this frigging war: from the backseat of a staff limousine.”

Raebyrne gave a long, low whistle. “When I get back home I'm going to get me one of those chariots. Hood so long I'll have to back up two, three times to turn a corner. Just cavort around, proud as Lucifras. I guess you know it's going to be the vee-hicular wonder of the world.”

“What's it going to look like, Reb?”

“Why, it's going to be a Clee-o-patra's barge on diamond wheels. Going to have a pull-out bar stocked with sour-mash bourbon, and a double-size foldaway bed, and a flush toilet that plays ‘Good Morning, Mister Zip-Zip-Zip' every time you pull the solid-gold chain handle. And a wireless connection to the old homestead out at Flat Lick.”

“Where in hell is Flat Lick?” a replacement named Wilts wanted to know.

“Son, you don't want to have to ask that question of your old squad leader. It's spang in the heart of Swain County, in the shadow of Big Smoky. And that's nothing less than God's country in the morning …”

An officer had got out of the car and now was walking briskly toward them: a tall man with a white, handsome face, a captain, wearing an immaculate uniform and riding boots, and carrying a swagger stick capped with thirty- and fifty-caliber shells that sparkled as he moved. The eerie light fell on him until his face and body glowed ruddily; he seemed to materialize out of its scarlet aura, take shape from it. He stepped inside the wrecked iron gate and encountered the company runner, a boy named Nugent, who had just come into the courtyard and was yanking his canteen out of his belt.

“Where is your commanding officer?” the captain asked him.

Nugent was having trouble unscrewing his canteen top; all his desires were focused on the bucket Tsonka was holding. “I don't know,” he answered carelessly.

The officer's eyes flashed. “What do you mean, you don't know?” he said sharply. “You don't know
what?
Is that the way you reply to an officer?”

“No, sir!” Nugent was stunned by this immaculate apparition that had appeared out of nowhere and was now so furious with him. He started to salute with his right hand, which was still holding the canteen—recognized the impropriety of that and tried to shift it surreptitiously to his left hand and in his confusion dropped it. It clattered on the worn stones. He bent over to retrieve it.

“Stand at attention when I'm speaking to you!”

The command froze Nugent erect again; he stood there rigidly, too paralyzed to salute, his eyes wide and bulging. Some of the men around the well had turned apprehensively.

“Now”—the Captain slapped his swagger stick against his pressed breeches—“where is your commanding officer?” But Nugent had been struck dumb. “Are you a complete imbecile?—answer me!”

“He's right over there, Captain,” Tsonka called to him from the well, where he was still filling canteens. “Near the front stoop.”

The tall man turned slowly and stared at Tsonka; there seemed to be no expression on his face. Then very deliberately he walked toward the men at the well. Tsonka, watching him approach, paused, and the rest of the group gave way. There was something unsettling in this officer's manner, his long white imperious face now a deep crimson from the unnatural light, his cold amber eyes; the replacements fluttered nervously.

“You people come-to-attention!”

The group around the well stiffened one by one, with varying degrees of reluctance, until finally Tsonka lowered the bucket and dropped his arms to his sides. In the stillness Raebyrne's voice came very clearly, drawling: “Fer Chrahst sake …”

“That's enough! You people had better learn some military courtesy,” the Captain said. “Discipline is entirely too lax up here. When an officer asks a question he expects to be answered in a smart and respectful manner.” And he passed his eyes over them one by one—a gaze neither spiteful nor indulgent, only severe.

It's his voice, Damon thought, watching; his voice. It was incisive enough, it was pitched neither too high nor too low—but something about it was wrong; it lacked—it lacked human vibrance. Faintly metallic, disembodied, it was like a field order translated into sound; it had no flaws. Damon got to his feet, holding the map in one hand, and said: “May I help you, Captain?”

The officer swung around with that same deliberate, imperious air; nodded, and moved briskly up to him. “Are you in command here?”

“Yes.”

The officer nodded again. “Massengale, First Corps staff. I must see your regimental commander at once.”

“You passed him,” Damon answered. “Colonel Weyburn's CP is in Dammartin, about half a mile along the Thièvremont road.”

“I see.” Massengale's eyes were running distastefully over the line officer's filthy, torn trench coat, the Chauchat slung around his neck, the cartridge belt and enlisted man's haversack. “You
are
an officer …” Damon nodded. “Where are your insignia of rank?”

Without taking his eyes from him Sam carefully removed his helmet, reversed it and held it so that the Captain could see, nearly effaced by mud and a maze of scratches, a large yellow lozenge. “Here.”

Massengale's lips parted in a frosty smile. “I believe that's contrary to regulations, isn't it?”

“I suppose it is,” Damon answered quietly, “but to tell you the truth I don't give too much of a damn.” He leaned around Massengale and called, “All right, boys, as you were”—and before the staff officer could say anything he went on: “Is it your custom to keep weary troops standing needlessly at attention, Captain? That's contrary to regulations, too—as well as being downright bad manners …”

Massengale's face became very smooth and long; his gold eyes glinted. “I find discipline in your command very lax, sir. Very lax indeed. You must remember that discipline is one of the cornerstones of morale. And morale is to all other factors as four is to one.”

Damon bit his lower lip. Beside him Lieutenant Zimmerman was standing worriedly, now and then sniffling; the gang around the well were listening openly to the exchange. He rubbed one hand against his thigh. He felt a towering, raging disgust for this person before him—this immaculate, well-fed prig from staff with his cold, forbidding manner, who quoted Napoleon and could be the emissary only of more bad tidings, of carping disparagement and impossible demands. Holding his voice very level, he said: “Captain, my men have just come from seventy-two hours in the line and forty more in close reserve, during which time they have been under almost constant shell fire. They are tired and hungry and thirsty and they deserve a good rest. Aside from that, their morale is as good as that of any outfit in the American Expeditionary Forces, and perhaps a little bit better. Now if you will kindly take both yourself and that disgusting Packard out of my sight I'll try to go on with my map reading.”

The bucket had stopped in midair; he heard Zimmerman draw in his breath. Massengale's lips came together, and two faint white crescents leaped into place at the corners of his mouth. He snapped his swagger stick under his arm and produced a leatherbound notebook and a slim gold pen from his blouse pocket—a gesture so automatic it had become effortless. “I was willing to overlook the utter absence of military courtesy in the troops of your command, and your own unpardonable appearance, as the unfortunate products of conditions in the field. But I cannot brook any such insolence as this.” He pointed the heel of the pen toward Damon. “Not to me, you understand, but to that authority I represent. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Your name, rank and organization, please.”

“With pleasure. Samuel A. Damon, Captain, Baker Company, Second Battalion. Serial number 03012.”

Massengale started, the pen stopped writing. “You're Damon? Night Clerk Damon?”

“That's right.”

The staff officer's face underwent a swift little quiver of transformation—broke all at once into a frank, utterly charming smile. “I stand corrected, Captain. The error is mine. Completely.” He replaced the notebook and pen. “Why didn't you tell me who you were?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course. Of course it does.” Drawing off his glove he offered his hand to Sam who took it, puzzled. “Anyone with a record like yours would have no disciplinary problem. That's axiomatic.” He lowered his voice perceptibly. “It's just that since the German peace overtures General Bannerman has become concerned about a letdown in the morale of the front-line troops. Their will to fight. He has specifically directed that unrelenting pressure be kept on the enemy forces in the field.”

“Unrelenting pressure.”

“Those are his words.—Well, I've got to be getting on. It's been a pleasure to run into you, Damon, even under circumstances as—irregular as these. No hard feelings, I trust?” The Nebraskan shook his head. “These are days of tumult, I know. Days of tumult and tension. I've been missing out on a good deal of sleep myself.” He smiled again—that lively, charming smile that made him look like a much younger man, and slapped his breeches with his swagger stick. “
Somebody's
got to be the monster from Staff, you know—drive around with changes of orders in a disgusting Packard …” With an airy wave of his gloved hand he turned to go.

He wants it to go on, Damon thought; he gripped the handle of the Chauchat. He doesn't want it ever to be over. He loves it.

“—Wait,” he said suddenly. “What change of orders do you have for us?”

“Oh.” The lean, handsome white face was smooth and remote again. “You are to pass through the Seventy-second and attack on the Delambre-Sylvette Farm line. Oh-ten-hundred hours tomorrow.”

“… the Mont Noir?”

“That's it. Good luck, Damon—I know
you'll
have it! I'll look forward to seeing you again.”

“Sure.” Somberly he watched Massengale stride briskly back to the staff car and get in; the big limousine pulled away, swaying in the slick mud of the road. The company gazed after it like a horde of ragamuffins on the fringe of a society wedding.

“Well, it's a drôle war,” Sam murmured to Zimmerman. “The word is drôle.”

“Yes it is, Captain.”

“See what a help a Medal of Honor can be?” Zimmerman was looking at him uncertainly, not knowing whether to laugh or not, and he chuckled wryly. “That's all right, everybody'll get one if it goes on long enough …”

The sun had vanished behind the layers of sullen dark cloud; it was going to rain again soon, he could smell it in the wind. The map was fluttering ponderously in his hand.

 

It was a
long slope, reaching away to an escarpment of pines. Another long slope to cross, but this time there was no cover. There were shell holes, a few bits of trench that had been dug in an effort to connect some of them and then abandoned; there were some sickly, stunted bushes and a few ragged tufts of grass. That was all. And all around and ahead of Damon men were walking quickly, jerkily, like comical sticks of puppets on wires.

His feet and legs were soaked through, his whole body ached from lying in the rain and muck under a bent piece of tin, waiting for the jump-off time; his stomach alternately griped and heaved. He squinted through the fine drizzle, studying the line of fire at the top of the slope. Bois des Douze Hirondelles. A pretty name. There were no swallows there now. A thousand yards. More—twelve hundred perhaps. And no artillery support. Last night on the phone back to regiment he had raged and pleaded—had finally fallen into a stony acquiescence. Not possible. Very well. Just not possible. But to send men up this mile-long billiard table without artillery—

Morehouse and Warniesz and several others were drifting in toward him and he said, “More interval—keep your interval.” Morehouse glared at him—a look of popeyed outrage, as if he'd just cast the most vicious aspersions on his mother's chastity. “Spread out—to your left,” he said irritably, waving his arm, and reluctantly they drifted back. “Don't bunch up now, boys …”

They always did that, the new men. Misery loved company, fear sought the shelter of kindred flesh. Why not? There was damned little comfort anywhere else. Up ahead Lieutenant Zimmerman was leading the first wave, the tails of his trench coat flapping whitely as he walked. Quiet clung to them. Far off to the left, in the woods below Mont Noir, the rolling patter of machine-gun and automatic-rifle fire, dry as dust, drifted toward them, and in the long valley to their right there was the insistent drumming of battle; but they themselves moved in a cone of silence, broken only by the cry of an officer or noncom. The lines wavered and rippled like a flight of wild geese. But slowly, so slowly. They were no nearer, for all their efforts, they were tramping a treadmill that cunningly slipped them back and back to their jump-off line, and still they plodded forward, the replacements fighting the urge to bunch up, bobbing up and down, up and down.