Once an Eagle (17 page)

“Not me,” Henderson said with sudden violence. “They're not going to capture
me
again.”

The others were silent, but their faces were harder now. He had to get their assent for this: he knew it. “I know you're beat, but I want to tell you something.” He pointed slowly toward the gray buildings. “They think we're yellow—they think we're only good for running away and giving up. Yellow Americans, no guts. Well, the bastards have got something to learn. It's about time somebody gave them the frigging word …”

“Right, Sam,” Devlin said, “let's go get them.” He got to his feet, and so did Brewster.

“Wait a minute,” Lujak cried. “What the hell is this—do you idiots do everything this guy tells you? Look, he's dreamed this up, he's going to get you killed for nothing at all…”

Damon leaned toward him savagely. “Yes. Maybe you'll get killed. Well, isn't that just too God damn bad! Maybe you'll fall in the latrine tomorrow and suffocate to death anyway. But you're better than all those other guys lying around the embankment railroad tracks—aren't you? I want to stay alive just as much as you do, Lujak—and this is the way I see it and this is the way it's going to be!”

“You're a bastard, you know that?—a bastard—” Lujak began, but Henderson cut him off with a fierce, “Button your lip if you know what's good for you!” and Damon knew he had won.

“All right—now we're going to split up. Dev, take your detail right out to that point of woods down there, and—see that little hump there, that little shelf?—get in behind that and work your way as far as you can along it. If you draw fire, stay where you are and return it. If you hear
me
draw fire, get up and rush the place. All right?” Devlin nodded. “I'm going to go around to the right and up that drainage ditch or whatever it is, and in through that triangular break in the wall between those apple trees. See it? Give me about five minutes before you start out of the woods. I want to be just as close as I can get.”

“Suppose they spot you first, Sam?”

“I don't think they will. They're looking for trouble to the south and southeast, they'll have set up facing that way.” He looked at the ring of faces. “Reb? You want to come with me?”

“That's what I signed up for.”

Brewster said. “Let me come, Sarge …”

Damon smiled. “I'm afraid not, Tim. Your nose has got in the way of your eyes. And I need a woodsman for this one.”

“I can use cover,” Henderson said.

Damon studied him a moment; the man looked steadier than before. He had large, capable hands and carried himself well. “Where you from?”

“Aroostook County. Maine woods.”

“Can you track deer?” Henderson nodded. “All right. That's it.” He turned. “Dev, the rest are all yours. Will you take the two Mausers?”

“Only three of you, Sam?” Their eyes locked for a moment. “What if they've got a detail sitting around downstairs?”

“They won't. That's what I've just figured out. You know why those two came out without their weapons? Because they came down from the tower. If they'd been just inside that door, one of them at least would have had his rifle and helmet.”

“It's a gamble …” Schilz murmured.

“Sure, it's a gamble. But it's a gamble we're going to win.” He turned to Lujak with soft ferocity. “And
you
are going to do what Corporal Devlin says—and no questions asked. Is that clear?”

Lujak paled and swallowed. “Yes,” he muttered. “It's clear.”

“What about us?” Burgess said, indicating Jason. “Me and this other fellow here?”

“You both stay here and keep quiet. You're no worse off than if we'd tried to get you south across that field. When we secure the place we'll come get you. That's a promise. And it won't be long.”

 

He moved with
infinite patience, his rifle held easily in the crooks of his elbows. The wheat was high, and darker than the wheat back home; their molasses-colored tassels bobbed gently above his head, bending down to him. He reached the ditch, waited for Raebyrne and Henderson, and then moved more rapidly, pausing every ten feet or so and listening. He encountered a German knapsack with broken straps, abandoned or blown from the back of some attacker, and a holed canteen. Insects hummed overhead, and far off, over the edge of the woods, an observation balloon hung like a fat silvery earthworm. He felt no fear at all. There was only the ditch and the blunt, dark tower of the farmhouse gliding along above the wheat halms. Twice he stopped and studied the tower, but could see nothing moving behind the louvers. Behind him he could hear Raebyrne crawling, a faint, slithering rustle.

He reached the edge of the wheat and raised his head cautiously. The view from the woods had foreshortened the distance: it was a good forty feet to the wall. A cart lay on its side, shattered, one wheel high in the air, its steel rim glinting in the sun. The apple trees, laden with small golden fruit, drooped in the still heat. He felt a tremendous thirst, and swallowed noisily. His watch said 11:48. Nine and a half minutes since they'd started. A lark danced high overhead, threw out a liquid burst of melody and fell away downwind, and with the sight of the bird he felt all at once immeasurably tired, assailed by fears. What if Devlin couldn't make it to that hummock-like ledge? What if a German was watching him right now through those slanted shutters? If there were a gun or a few riflemen down on that vast ground floor of the barn they would all be dead in minutes—

Don't think of that. The thing was to get in there, get over behind the wall. Eleven minutes. Time enough. He rose to one knee, lifted himself soundlessly and ran to the overturned cart and crouched there, breathing through his open mouth. He crept to the break in the wall, one hand on the dusty yellow mortar. So far so good. He turned back to signal Raebyrne—froze as he heard a short burst of machine gun fire.
Tak-a-tak-a-tak-a.
Maxim gun. They were up there. A rifle cracked, then another; he thought he heard a cry.

He put his head around the broken edge of wall, withdrew it. There was the cavernous opening. A wagon stood inside, a caisson—he could see the square green chest in the gloom. Nothing had moved.

It was at that moment that he heard the second machine gun, its clamor riding in over the first—and now beyond all doubt a series of high, yelping cries. Hit. Someone was hit. Oh, the bastards! He ducked through the break in the wall. A strand of barbed wire almost tore his helmet off, another snagged his right leg, crazy looping strands; he wrenched free in a series of frantic, tottering hops, hurdled over more wire and raced across the little courtyard under the clattering noise of the guns. The stone well with its little iron windlass, a scythe lying on the packed dirt with its broad scimitar blade and wooden cradle, half a dozen sacks full of grain, or dirt—his eyes found them all with a singular clarity, riveted on them; left them behind. He leaped over a high stone lintel, half-blinded by the sudden gloom, tripped on something and sprawled into a crate, banging his helmet against the wood, his breath singing in his lungs. He raised his head and looked right into a young, wild face, a shock of bright blond hair. A German, sitting propped up on a little platform. His tunic was open and his chest was heavily bandaged, and his right arm. Near him a body lay facedown, half-covered by a tarpaulin. Immediately above his head Damon heard the Maxim firing in long, even runs, muffled through the heavily timbered ceiling. For a brief, terrible moment he and the wounded German stared at each other. Then the machine gun stopped, the German opened his mouth to cry out in warning, and Damon bayoneted him through the throat. The boy fell over on his side. Blood spurted in swift dark jets over the white gauze.

No one. There was no one else. The caisson was loaded with some packs and boxes and that was all. He glanced back toward the doorway. He was alone. Ahead of him was a stairway of heavy timbers that turned twice on itself as it rose to the tower room. There might be a man on guard posted on the stairs, at one of the turns. No. There would be no one. Hurry. He had to hurry. If he only had grenades! He searched the two dead Germans in furious haste, found none on them, and straightened.

All right, then.

He snapped his rifle off safety, drew his pistol and ran a round into the chamber, hooked his little finger through the trigger guard. He crossed the room, went up ten steps and peered around the corner, swiftly ducking his head back in. No one. Good. The Maxim paused and started again, a long, yammering burst, and he went up the next flight two at a time, around the next turn, the next, and there they were—a vivid, quick tableau in the dim light coming in through the slits of the louvers: the gunner, bareheaded, hunched forward over his spade grips; his belt feeder easing the glittering belt of cartridges into the guides; the helper on his knees prying the cover from a box of belts; behind them an officer standing immaculate and erect, his field glasses to his eyes, on his face a squinting half-smile, like some count inspecting a rare and beautiful collection of lepidoptera—and on the far side of the gun, staring straight at him, a grenadier sitting on his hams with his back against the wall. But this man was unwounded and he had a Mauser rifle lying across his thighs.

Then everything happened at once. The grenadier raised his rifle, the helper too saw Damon and cried out, reaching for his Mauser. Damon, his knee on the third step from the top of the flight, fired; the grenadier doubled over himself without a sound; he shifted to the helper, who leaped up and then flopped out and down, slapping his hand against the floor. The officer swung toward Damon—in one motion flung the glasses at him and clutched at his pistol holster; the glasses struck Damon's helmet, drove it down over his eyes. He flipped it back with his left hand, his head ringing, in time to see the belt feeder drop the belt and duck behind the gun while the gunner wrenched at the mount, trying desperately to swing the gun around—a frantic series of actions that seemed to contain whole eternities of dreamy nightmare possibility as Damon, still without shifting position, fired at the belt feeder and missed, then at the officer, whose pistol flew back out of his hand and hit the far wall with a sharp crack as he fell, then at the bareheaded gunner, who had realized his error and let go the gun, was grappling for his pistol: he gave a brief, choked cry and slumped over the barrel of the Maxim. Damon snapped the Colt into his hand. The belt feeder rose up suddenly, his arm shot up over his shoulder and a black truncheon floated over Damon's head, struck the wall and clattered on down the stairs. Damon fired the Colt and the belt feeder slammed back into the wall, his helmet bouncing away; he snatched at another grenade and Damon hit him again and he went down. The first grenade burst beyond the bend in the stairs, a roar that shook the building. Then there was silence in the little room, broken only by the sound of the belt feeder's helmet rolling around on the timbered floor.

Never taking his eyes off the five figures Damon clawed a fresh clip out of his belt, tapped the steel noses once against the stock of his rifle, and thumbed it into the Springfield's magazine by feel. Not one of them had moved. He came up the last three steps cautiously, conscious of the other Maxim still firing. He glanced behind him down the stairway, where dust rose in a blinding white cloud. Crouching he checked the bodies; he had hit every man squarely between the eyes except the belt feeder, who was shot over the heart and in the belly, and who was plainly dying. He rolled the man over again, picked up his Springfield and moved to the louvers on the west side. One of them had been removed, and through the enlarged aperture he could look down on the other gun crew on the roof of the adjoining building, about fifty yards away. The roof had been hit by shellfire, and they were lying flat under the rough timber frame, protected by a few dozen sandbags. A grenadier was firing his rifle below Damon's right, behind the building. They had spotted Raebyrne or Henderson, then. For a second or two he studied the prone group, then, keeping his rifle barrel inside the louvers, fired from right to left: first the sergeant, then the grenadier, then the helper; moving toward the gun. The belt feeder, who saw the helper fall and must have realized what had happened, struck the gunner on the arm—then fell against him as Damon fired. The gunner leaped to his feet with astonishing speed, did a funny little dance in the center of the roof, catlike, bewildered—all at once threw up his hands and shouted something.

“All right,” Damon called back. “You—stay—there!
Stay!
” He reloaded his rifle and looked around. The silence was suddenly almost overpowering. He was breathing heavily and his mouth was dry; aside from that he felt perfectly calm. He went over and picked up the German officer's field glasses and found to his surprise they weren't even scratched. He flipped the strap over his neck and swept the fields to the east and north, along the edge of the trees. He could see no movement anywhere. He might have been in a tower on the Gobi desert.

He heard the clump of boots on the stairs then, swung his rifle around. Raebyrne's face popped into sight and out again.

“Come on, Reb,” he said.

They came up in a rush: Raebyrne, followed closely by Henderson and Devlin; then Brewster and Schilz. Once inside the room they stopped and stared at him and then at the dead Germans, the pools of blood seeping into the rough planks at their feet. Someone whistled softly.

“—You shot 'em all up, Sarge,” Raebyrne exclaimed, “—like a hawk in an old hen coop!”

Devlin said, “You all right, Sam?”

“Sure I'm all right. How'd you make out?”

“Not bad. We made it about twenty yards or so down that draw before they spotted us.”

“You got you a bleeding high orficer,” Raebyrne crowed, bending over. “Look at his shiny go-to-meeting boots!”