Spearhead: A Novel of World War II

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SPEARHEAD

By

MARTIN ABZUG

Table of contents

Contents

Table of contents 4

DEDICATION 5

1. ADVANCE 6

2. RECOGNITION 75

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 132

DEDICATION

* * *

To Bella, my wife.

* * *

He must not be a man but a statue of brass or stone whose bowels do not melt when he beholds the bloody tragedies of this war.—WILLIAM PENN

from "An Essay Towards the Present and Future Peace of Europe"—1693

* * *

"Du, mein Sohn, bist fromm und klug,

Gottesfürchtig, stark genug,

Und es wird dir leicht gelingen,

Jenen Joab umzubringen."—HEINRICH HEINE

1. ADVANCE

Captain Hollis could not keep his head up any longer. He did not want to fade out; they were too near the new position. In a short time it would be daylight and C for Charley Battery would be in swing again.

To keep awake he thought of the problem they would soon have to face. Things had been going fine when early in the past evening Headquarters had received word that a couple of kraut divisions had broken through in south Belgium, and one of them was swinging north. Hollis was confident that the Americans would stop them. He knew that his own men would hold their own. Their 105 howitzers were the finest light artillery pieces in existence. His men worked them so fast that the guns resembled omnivorous little animals....

His eyes closed and he slid over in the back seat of the command car, his head touching Lieutenant Knupfer’s shoulder. Knupfer grinned and felt embarrassed. Hollis was so weak, he thought. Knupfer lit his pipe, holding the flame long enough to look at the Captain’s face. It appeared thinner and longer than usual and was blackened by a week’s stubble. Its cheeks were sunken, its mouth strained and drawn, its lips purple with cold. Knupfer had seen dead men who looked better, he thought, letting the match die in his frozen fingers without feeling the flame. It was a wonder how Hollis could sleep in the cold car, and under those circumstances.

Knupfer was worried. The convoy was moving too slowly. At any time now the doughs and tanks might contact the forward elements of the enemy, and the artillery support would still be on the road, unprepared. He looked at his watch. 0423. Using a flashlight, he opened his map and located the point where they were to emplace the guns. It was about five miles from the small Belgian town of H—————-, which patrols had just reported as being in German hands. The town saddled a pair of important roads in the Ardennes region, and he knew that it was going to be difficult to push them out of it, despite what the optimistic Hollis thought.

Whoah! Knupfer said.

Captain Hollis had fallen over, almost into his lap. He picked him up and forced him back as gently as he could. It was almost laughable to see what physical exhaustion could do to a man. It made the Captain seem so childlike and powerless that Knupfer was glad Fernandez was too busy driving to see what was going on in the rear of the peep. Private First Class Fernandez was the kind of boy who would talk about it.

Hollis grunted and slipped down again, but Knupfer let him come this time. To make room he moved into the front seat, taking the portable radio away. It was no good to them; the krauts were too near.

What do you want? Fernandez asked, irritably. He was numb with cold and angry at the world. He hailed from southern California and had never before seen such weather.

Came over to keep you company, man!

Don’t kid me. You come because the BC is shut-eye and does not talk to you. He is sleeping since we pulled out of the last position.

Knupfer smiled but did not answer. He did not like to criticize a man behind his back. He preferred to tell the man directly about his faults. Actually, he knew, Hollis’ sleeping was not the result of resignation, but rather due to the fact that he was not able to fight off weariness as well as the others could.

When the hell are we getting there, Knupfer?

Soon. Why, Bug?

I’m freezing. I want to shoot the howitzer until it’s a good and hot baby—then I want to warm my hands on it.

That’s okay with me, Bug.

It was a typical thing for Fernandez to say, Knupfer thought. The boy was called The Bug mainly because he said things that sounded off the beaten track. For another thing, he did not keep things to himself. In four months of combat service in Europe he had seen something of what war does, even to strong men. The strong and silent stuff was bunk to him. He knew that if he was going to get it it wouldn’t matter how much he talked; if he was going to come through, as he believed he was, he would have problems that needed talking about. He was not ashamed of the fact that he was not rugged. He took pride in his trimness, of the fact that he was pretty-like, with black hair that had still managed to stay curly under his helmet. He carefully preserved his moustache, even under the adverse conditions of war, by carrying a small scissors and mirror in one of the pockets of his jacket. Although they sometimes laughed at him, the men respected him. They liked him for his colorful personality and because he talked well. They liked him for the fact that he could also listen. When one of them griped in his presence or told him a tough-luck story he did not tell the man to see the Chaplain or to try to get Congress to pass a new law. He would listen to the fellow and try to help him. If he could not help, and most cases were beyond anybody’s help, he would manage to find time to throw the bull with the afflicted one until the latter felt better.

Through the celluloid window of the side flap Lieutenant John Knupfer watched the country pass by in the gray early morning light. Rolling fields, trees edged with the remnants of snow, thick brambles. Slight rises in the road leveled off into large stretches of flatland, and now and then the road would twist through stretches of forest.

Look over there, Fernandez said, breaking the silence in the car. Knupfer followed his gaze and was surprised to see the convoy all lit up in front of them. He was gripped with fear, stronger because of the suddenness of the scene. He was now certain that Germans were near, and were shooting flares to illumine the trucks. The convoy had slowed up in uncertainty.

The light persisted, and Knupfer realized that it could not be the light of flares. It was a steady light, orange in color. He saw the fire—on one side of the road a farmhouse was burning.

A jeep sped by. Knupfer pushed out the flap in time to glimpse Colonel Pratt of Divisional Artillery speeding up the road in his jeep. Keep going! he was shouting to the trucks. Captain Hollis bolted upright in the rear seat.

Who’s that? Knupfer, what’s up?

There’s a fire off right—the road is all lit up. I hope they don’t spot us. Pratt ought to have the fire put out!

Hollis sighed audibly. The Lieutenant was an alarmist, a nervous, jumpy, battle-worn dud. In his mind he cursed the whole American Army for having sent him into combat. They were already passing out of the light of the fire, and there was still no shooting from enemy guns, wherever they were. Hollis wished he could have steady officers. A week before First Lieutenant Goss, the executive officer of the Battery, had been unluckily killed by shrapnel. He had been thinking about making one of the other officers the executive but could come to no decision. Barbieri could not be depended upon—he dreamed about women too much. Ware was too quiet and had not shown much ability. He was good as a motor officer but was too slow at the guns. From the point of view of combat experience Knupfer was the most logical choice, but he was too headstrong and difficult to get along with. Captain Hollis had requested a replacement and decided that he would be better off to wait. In the meantime he would try to develop Ware, whom he liked best. Ware would also be acceptable to Colonel Pratt, he was sure.

He leaned over. How do you feel, Fernandy? (He preferred to pronounce it that way—it was easier for him.)

Okay.

Do you want to drive some more?

Sure. Don’t worry about me, Fernandez said, testily.

Captain Hollis frowned. He had been awakened for nothing, and, to top that off, his driver was talking back to him. He had always thought that Fernandez had too much nerve for one man. Fortunately, the boy was a good soldier. He was fast at the guns, a wizard at fixing a motor. He had been an auto mechanic before the war. The motors had been taking a bad beating— even now, he thought, he could hear trouble in the jeep’s motor.

Say, Fernandy!

Yes?

What’s wrong with this car?

I don’t know. I have to pull over off the road and take a look.

Never mind that now. I thought that since you’re so experienced you’d be able to tell right off.

Fernandez managed to keep his mouth shut for a moment and listened to the sound of the motor.

It is not bad, he said. Maybe the gas—it’s like I am—too cold.

It was certainly cold in the car, Lieutenant Knupfer thought. France had been muddy, but here it was snow and mist and cold. It numbed a man’s skin and left his bones aching.

Knupfer had been sleeping less than an hour when Captain Hollis leaned over and bathed his flashlight on the man’s face. It was a small, boyish face which hardly looked as if it belonged to a man of thirty-three, a father of two kids. His helmet, which had been dented in Italy, had slipped off, revealing light, straight hair that went back neatly off a high white forehead.

Knupfer sat up and looked around, sleepily.

Sorry, Captain Hollis said. We’ll have to be on the alert from here on out.

I had enough for a while, I guess, Knupfer said in his normally quiet, pleasant voice. He had learned to waken suddenly without being grouchy. War has a way of teaching men that physical discomforts are trivial.

Fernandez listened to what had been going on behind him and grew angrier as he thought about it. There was no reason for Knupfer to get up—he had not slept for days, whereas the Captain had had much sleep. Fernandez wanted to speak to Knupfer, to warn him. He knew that Captain Hollis had it in for the Lieutenant. He figured that it was jealousy. Knupfer had had more experience as a soldier; he had been through the campaigns in Africa, Sicily and Italy, while he, Hollis, had only been in action for a few months. Knupfer was new with the Battery, but Fernandez knew that the Captain did not like him. More than anything else, Fernandez knew, was the fact that Hollis was jealous of the Lieutenant’s popularity with most of the men. They had taken to him from the beginning.

Private Gurnicke drove the No. 1 truck, which rode behind the command car. The officers and non-coms had agreed to take turns riding in the cabs of their respective prime movers, but Gurnicke did not like the system. He was happy only when he had either a furlough paper or a wheel in his hand. Now that he could not get a furlough he was forced to settle for the wheel. He was a short, very stocky man of twenty-nine who had been an automobile racing driver before the war.

How about it? First Sergeant Dudash, who was sitting next to him in the cab, wanted to know.

Give somebody else a chance to drive, will ya!

Guiding the wheel with one hand Gurnicke turned and looked through the small rear window into the rear of the truck. It was still dark outside but he could see the forms of what vaguely resembled men piled up in a big heap on the floor, one on top of another, in abandon.

Well, how about it?

Look at ‘em in there, Dudash. Ain’t it a shame? Those guys are tired! Real sad-sacks. How can you be that way, for Christ’s sakes? Let ‘em sleep.

I’m giving the orders around here. Get back in there and call somebody else in to drive. You had enough.

Aw, no, Gurnicke said.

Aw, yeah. I’ll take the wheel in the meantime.

Gurnicke paused. He was a man who found difficulty in finding words. I tell ya I’m okay. Look at me—ain’t I okay? I got a head that’s clear as a gaze-ball.

Who wants to look? I don’t want to be a fortuneteller, Dudash said sourly.

Gurnicke suspected that Dudash was angry. It was hard to tell when Dudash was sore because he never raised his voice, no matter what. All that happened was that his nostrils worked in and out like the gills of a fish, but it was impossible for Gurnicke to see his nose.

What are ya scared about? Sleep don’t bother me. I can outdrive any of you guys even without it, Gurnicke said, as if convincing himself. But he could not hold back a loud yawn.

Get your ass back there, Dudash said, in disgust. You’ll wreck the damn truck!

Gurnicke held his ground. He was not one to take it from anybody, from top sergeants up and down.

Not me, boss. I keep the wheel.

The hell you say! Go back there and get Murphy up. It’s his turn to take over.

Gurnicke could practically hear the First Sergeant’s gills working, but he did not care. Not me, Dude, he said. I like it right here.

I’m not askin’ you whether you like it or not. I’m tellin’ you!

Gimme a court-martial. Hang me by the tail.

Don’t sass me, louse!

I’m not sassin’ you.

Then do what I say.

Gurnicke screwed his face up in an attempted expression of pity. He had been in an accident in an auto race in Indianapolis, and his face had virtually been cut off and sewn back on. He had remained with a deep scar that ran from one ear down along his chin to the other. Don’t wake them kids, he pleaded. They’re dead to the world.

Dudash grinned. So nice of you, kid. I’m going to write every guy’s mother about you.

I’ll tell you something else. You look sort of pooped too, Dudash. Why don’t you go back there and pile on yourself?

Why don’t you take a flyin’ one to the moon, Gurnicke? I’ll fix your wagon for talkin’ back.

Fix me a little discharge, Section 2.

I’ll fix your section, you mean. Wait till we hit garrison again, Bullhead. Your initials will be K.P.

You don’t scare me none. We’re eatin’ out of cans right now.

You’ll be eatin’ out of garbage cans.

Gurnicke had been saving his haymaker, and decided that it was time to let loose. Don’t get yourself het-up like that, Dude, he said. You spoil your looks when you do.

Dudash was silent. He was very sensitive about his appearance. His nickname Dude was not only derived from his actual name but was also used to describe him. He always managed to look so neat that he was also called The Look. In the States he had been a swoon boy; walking down the streets of a town on a Saturday he had drawn more feminine eyes than any of the other GI’s. Even in combat he somehow managed to keep his good appearance. When the other men looked as if they had been rolling in mud for a month he looked as if he was expecting the Inspector General. He was constantly combing his hair, especially before going into a battle, and was a man who looked clean-shaven