PART THREE
War, “the feast of vultures.”
18
At midmorning the next day we crested the hill to see black smoke churning from a shattered farmhouse. Our driver accelerated the jeep through the gate and along a stand of oak trees toward the remnants of the house. He slowed near what was once the front door. This was the 1st Armored’s headquarters, and we arrived five minutes after the Luftwaffe had departed. Cordite was still in the breeze.
We climbed out of the jeep. I hurried after General Clay as he ran toward the house, stepping around masonry fragments, patches of roof thatch, splintered furniture, glass shards, a bed frame, and the twisted wreckage of a command scout car.
Half of the house was gone, blown out over the grounds. The stone shell of the other portion remained upright. Smoke rolled in and out of the remaining windows. A corner of thatch was on fire, but two soldiers on the roof were dousing it with an extinguisher. The section of house still standing was ragged with broken window frames and exposed beams. HQ company soldiers were removing casualties from the house, placing the dead alongside a rose trellis. We walked to the bodies.
General Clay said, “Goddamn it, the first body here is the 1st’s commander, Roger Franks. Not a mark on him.”
Franks’ wig had been carelessly tucked into his shirt pocket by one of the soldiers. Part of it hung out like a handkerchief. I was stupidly embarrassed for him.
Clay moved along the line, his cap in his hand. “And next is J. P. Thurow, his deputy. Jesus.”
Major General Thurow’s head had been vertically halved, ear to ear. His face looked up at us, but there was no head behind it. Blood stained the ground under the body.
Clay breathed rapidly. His face was the color of paper, which made his freckles stand out like tattoos. He said in a low voice, “Next is Bernie Holt.”
Colonel Holt was the 1st Armored’s G3, in charge of plans, training, and operations. His uniform was smeared with blood from cuffs to collar.
We walked quickly down the line of nineteen bodies, almost all of the 1st Armored’s command staff. General Clay had begun to limp. Two tents were being righted, where litter bearers were bringing the wounded for treatment by HQ medics.
Clay said quietly, “They hadn’t been here long enough for the Germans to pinpoint them. War is the province of chance.”
He did not say this to me particularly, although I was the only one within earshot. One of General Clay’s command peculiarities was that when the action heated up, he incessantly talked to himself. He caught me staring at him during one of his one-person talks, and he snapped, “Henry VI sang tunelessly throughout all his battles, so there’s historical precedent for you.”
We quickly crossed the grounds. The door was blocked by a fallen beam, so we entered through a piano-sized hole in a stone wall. Dust and smoke were still swirling in the air. Charred maps lay on the floor, and communications equipment was strewn about. In the turmoil of the ruined headquarters, several soldiers were trying to put the place back in order. They moved as if in a daze. One was sweeping with a broom, carefully avoiding the wounded. The other was methodically dusting a card table with a cloth.
Another soldier was leaning against a wall, blood running from a forearm. Coughing against the smoke, a corpsman knelt over him, applying a tourniquet to his biceps. A wounded officer was sitting in an overstuffed chair near the hearth. A bandage was wrapped under his jaw and secured above his head with an oversized knot that looked as if he tied it himself. He gazed out a window with unblinking eyes.
Clay high-stepped over fireplace tongs to him. “What’s your name, Lieutenant?”
The officer gathered himself. He rose unsteadily, and said through clenched teeth. “Lieutenant Gregory Sessions, signal officer, 1st Armored HQ, sir.”
“What’s your problem?”
“My jaw’s broken, sir.” He winced as he said it. Three lower front teeth had been broken off at the stumps. His flat nose was off-center and may also have been broken. “Got hit by some debris, a kitchen cabinet, I think.”
“Christ,” Clay said, “I’ve been hurt worse playing bridge with my wife.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general glanced at his wristwatch. “The 1st is supposed to launch our operation in fourteen minutes. Who’s in charge here?”
Sessions staggered, and Clay caught him by the arm. The lieutenant may have had a slight concussion. He replied weakly, “Major General Franks, sir, but he’s dead. So’s everybody else. They nailed us.”
Again Clay looked at his watch. He looked up, surveying the damage. He shoved his fist into his pants pocket. A moment passed. Then he said, “We’ve got thirteen minutes to put this headquarters together and launch the operation. I’m going to act as your divisional commander. Will you help me, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many signalmen do you have left?”
“Sir, we just got hit and I haven’t—”
Clay held up his hand. “I want you to find whoever is left and get a radio set up on the divisional and AEFHQ bands, and I’ll also need a ground wire with a green line. And a pack radio for the regiments. This room’ll stand for a while, so run the lines and antenna leads right into here.”
“Yes, sir.” Sessions staggered away. His resolve must have firmed as Clay’s charge settled on him, because he was walking more firmly as he disappeared down a hallway.
General Clay moved to the soldier wearing the tourniquet. Clay said, “Looks like you’re bleeding.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looks like its mostly stopped.”
The soldier risked a glance at his arm. “Yes, sir.”
“Name, soldier,” Clay demanded.
“Corporal Samuel Johnson, sir, 1st Armored HQ intelligence clerk.”
“Corporals normally stand at attention when they are being addressed by a general.” Clay rocked back on his heels.
Johnson struggled to his feet, pushing himself against the wall and backpedaling until he was upright. His arm swayed loosely. Drops of blood fell to the oak floor. His face was pinched with pain.
Clay said, “That proves you can walk, then. My G2 is trailing me in a jeep. You will see that the maps and charts scattered around this room are in order for him when he gets here. I want you prepared to display positions, and I want you to find General Franks’ attack order. We’ll work from that.”
Johnson may have been bewildered, but he nodded his head with energy.
I followed the general over a pile of stones and masonry into a large dining room. The exterior wall had collapsed outward, and the rose garden was visible through the aperture. A chandelier had fallen onto the table. Crystal facets and broken light bulbs were scattered over the table and floor. A litter team was carrying away another of the wounded, loudly crushing the crystal under their feet. The injured man was a major, and his head and left eye were covered in a blood-soaked bandage.
“Hold there,” Clay ordered.
The stretcher bearers stopped immediately. Clay looked down at the wounded officer. “You don’t look too bad.”
After a moment, the major said, “I guess not, sir.”
“It’s just your eye, looks like.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hell, we’ve all got a spare eye, don’t we?” the general asked.
“Yes, sir.”