Germans.
From Switzerland to the English Channel, the French had lined their border with trenches and barbed wire, four rows of each separating them from Germany. Now, almost four years later, the grim sight before him defined what had become known as the Western Front.
He was dying for a cigarette. And in the deadly silence, a song suddenly echoed in his head.
K-K-K-Katy, K-K-K-Katy,
You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore…
It was their first day on the line. They were marching down a road past a park on the outskirts of a French town called Chateau Thierry, heading north toward a game preserve called Belleau Wood. One of the squads started singing, as if it were a parade. One platoon singing one song, a second company answering with another.
K-K-K-Katy, K-K-K-Katy,
You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore,
When the m-m-m-moon shine’s, over the c-c-c-cowshed,
I’ll be w-w-w-waiting at the g-g-g-garden door.
Answered by:
You may forget the gas and shells, parlay-voo,
You may forget the gas and shells, parlay-voo,
You may forget the gas and shells,
But you’ll never forget the mademoiselles,
Hinky-dinky parlay-voo.
They were still singing when the Germans fired the first volley. Machine guns. His men went down like string-cut puppets.
Barely six months ago.
Baptism day.
Behind him, the radiophone buzzed, its ring muzzled to prevent the enemy, a few hundred yards away, from hearing it.
The radioman, a clean-cheeked youngster, answered it, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand. He gave the receiver to Culhane, who could feel the youngster’s hand shaking as he took it. The nineteen-year-old had developed the shakes after only two weeks on the front.
“Culhane,” he whispered.
“Brodie, this is Jack Grover. The major wants to have a chat. I’m on the radiophone by the five-mile post.”
“Stay where you are,” Brodie answered, “I’ll come to you. You’ll never get that tricycle of yours through this damn muck.”
“Appreciate that,” Grover answered with a chuckle, and the radio went dead.
“Relax, kid,” Culhane’s voice was calm and deep as an animal’s growl as he handed the phone back to the radioman. “Nothing’s gonna happen for three or four hours. Think about something else. Think about your girl back home or Christmas or something. Fear’s worse than the real thing.”
He checked his watch in the masked glow of his flashlight. It was three-fifteen.
“I gotta run back to HQ,” he told the kid. “Cover the stutter gun.” He grabbed his rifle, crawled out of the nest, and headed east in a crouch toward the dirt road four hundred feet away, mud snatching at his boots with every step.
Grover was waiting on the motorcycle when Culhane emerged from the dark. His clothing and face were caked with mud, he was unshaven, and his eyes were dulled by lack of sleep.
“Jesus, you look like hell,” Grover said as Culhane clambered into the sidecar.
“Haven’t you heard, this is hell,” Culhane answered. Grover wheeled around and headed back down the muddy road.
Temporary HQ was a two-room bunker a mile from no-man’s-land. It had wood-plank floors, sandbags for walls, and the ceiling was made of fence posts and logs. The first room was occupied by the top sergeant, a beefy old-timer named Paul March. Wooden planks stretched between upended ammo boxes substituted for a desk. A radioman named Caldone was huddled over his equipment and a runner was catching a nap on a cot in the corner. A tattered piece of burlap served as a door to the other room, the major’s office.
“How’s it going up there?” March said to Culhane.
“Wanna take a guess?”
“No thanks,” March said. “Let me be surprised in a couple of hours when we join you for tea and crumpets.” He walked to the burlap curtain and knocked on the wooden frame that supported it.
“Yes?” The voice from inside the room was deep, with the soft roll of the South in it.
“Sergeant Culhane’s here, Major.”
“Good, show him in.”
They entered, saluted, and Major Merrill walked around his desk to grab Culhane by the arm.
“Good to see you, Brodie,” he said.
“Glad I’m still around.”
The major was a big man, broad-shouldered and muscular, his hair trimmed almost to the scalp, his dark blue eyes dulled by too many attacks and counterattacks and too many “regret” letters written to mothers or wives or sisters. He was a year younger than Culhane, but the war had put ten years on his face. Culhane had served under him for two years, starting when the battalion was formed in South Carolina. Merrill was a compassionate man in a business where compassion was a liability.
“Jesus, you’re a wreck,” he said to Culhane.
“So I’ve been told,” Culhane answered. Haunted eyes peered out from his mud-caked face.
Major Merrill looked Culhane over.
“Sergeant March,” the major called.
“Yes, sir,” March answered, peering through the burlap curtain.
“Do you think you can find me a pair of dry boots, ten-and-a-half C, and some dry socks and puttees?”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
To Culhane, the major said, “I could hear your boots squishing when you came down the steps. A soldier has a right to go into battle with dry feet, damn it. Sorry I can’t get you a fresh uniform.”
“I’ll be up to my ass in mud two minutes after I leave here, anyway,” Culhane said. “But it’ll be nice to have dry feet for a little while. Thanks. Okay if I smoke?”
“Of course.”
Merrill watched Culhane’s mud-caked hands as he took out a pouch of tobacco, papers, and matches wrapped in tinfoil to keep them dry. Not a tremor, he thought, as he watched Culhane roll the cigarette and light it.
Culhane took out a roughly sketched map and spread it out on Merrill’s table, but Merrill pointed to the other curtain in the room.
“There’s a makeshift sink and some clean water in there. Why don’t you wash up before we talk. My razor and strop’s in there if you want to grab a quick shave. I’ll get us some coffee.”
March came back with fresh footwear, and Culhane put on the socks and boots. When he returned to Merrill’s office, there were two tin cups of coffee sitting on the table. Merrill took a silver flask from his back pocket and laced both with brandy while Culhane rolled another cigarette.
“According to our intelligence, whoever the hell they are, the Germans are lining up to take another crack at us,” Merrill said.
“What a surprise,” said Culhane. “When?”
“Dawn.”
Culhane looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s the weather look like?”
“We’re supposed to pick up some wind about sunrise. That’ll clear the fog, then it’s going to be a bright, sunny day.”
“A break for us, for a change.”
“If we can stop them this time, I think they’re beat. They need to make this breakthrough and get behind our
