The first thing the army did was give him a new name. The army was no-nonsense about names. Everybody had a first name, a middle initial, and a last name. The sergeant who handled the matter took his first name as Jonas, his middle initial as E. (for Enrique), and his last name as Batista. What "Cord y" meant, he didn't know and didn't care. So far as the United States Army was concerned, Jonas Enrique Raul Cord y Batista was Private Jonas E. Batista.
Within a few days his name was changed even further. The guys in his outfit didn't like the name Jonas. It sounded too much like the guy that was swallowed by the whale, one man said. Or like Judas, which was a jinx. Anyway, he didn't look like a Jonas. They tried calling him Joe, but there were too many Joes. Batista? So, okay, he was Bat. The nickname stuck. Bat. Men called him Bat who had no idea his last name was Batista.
Two weeks after he arrived at Fort Dix he was summoned to the office of a Captain Barker.
"Where you from, Batista?"
"Cambridge, Mass, sir."
"Graduate of Culver."
"Yes, sir."
"Fluent in German. And French."
"Yes, sir."
"Shit, Private. The army's got better things for you to do than basic infantryman. I'm transferring you. The army's got ninety-day wonders, not just the navy."
2
"Captain's looking for you, Lieutenant. He's in the beer hall up the street."
First Lieutenant Jonas E. Batista nodded at Sergeant David Amory and walked off toward the beer hall, a hundred yards up the street. He had just finished interrogating three German civilians, without learning anything he needed to report to Captain Grimes. A cold drizzle had been falling all morning, and he walked on slippery cobblestones.
"Hey, Bat." Another lieutenant, named Duffy, came across the street. "Grimes is calling in the platoon leaders."
"Yeah, I just got the word."
"What's up, ya know?"
"Change of orders," said Bat.
"How ya know?"
"Hell, there's always a change of orders."
Duffy was an older man, almost thirty. He was in fact older than Captain Grimes. Bat was the youngest platoon leader in the company. He was the youngest first lieutenant in the battalion. He had six months of combat experience and had suffered a flesh wound in the left armpit in Belgium — wound enough to merit a Purple Heart. He had killed a German soldier — that is, killed him one-on-one, not just by directing platoon fire. Still almost a year short of his twentieth birthday, Bat had acquired the reputation of a tough, effective, aggressive infantry officer.
Inside the beer hall, Captain Grimes sat at one of the heavy oaken tables. Four big steins of beer stood on the table, one for himself and one for each of his three platoon leaders. A map was spread on the table.
"Okay, guys," said the captain. "Everything's changed." He put a finger on the symbol for a village on the Rhine. "That's where we're going. Remagen. The Krauts haven't blown up the Ludendorff Bridge yet. There just might be a chance, just a chance, to capture that bridge before it goes boom. Our orders are to bust ass into Remagen as fast as we can. We're gonna outrun the tank companies, 'cause the roads are shitty. If we run into light resistance, we bypass it if we can. Other infantry companies are moving. Whoever gets to the bridge first gets the honor of going across."
"And of getting our asses blown into the river when the demolition charges go off," said Sergeant Cline, leader of the third platoon. Cline had the most experience of them all, more than the rest of them combined, and he was a battle-weary cynic.
"Blown into history," said Captain Grimes sarcastically. "That's the way it is. Ride as far as you can, but you'll have to go into the village on foot. Now move!"
Bat took one great gulp of beer, then trotted down the street to where his platoon sat around their vehicles: a truck and a halftrack. He ordered his men into the truck and halftrack, and they set off. Half an hour later they dismounted and advanced through a vineyard on foot. They reached a small grove of trees, hurried through it, and emerged to a spectacular view.
The Rhine lay below. A smooth paved highway ran along the west side of the river. The village was directly below them, dominated by a beautiful centuries-old church. And there was the bridge. It stood. Men and vehicles were streaming across.
Bat used a pair of binoculars from the halftrack and stared at the bridge. "Those are Krauts," he said. "Retreating. Okay. Let's move down. C'mon."
He led his platoon down the hill. He did not take time to look for a road or path. They just walked down, through terraced vineyards. Other units were moving. Something like twenty halftracks were advancing on the highway. The Germans on the bridge began to run. Only a few of them stopped to fire at the Americans.
"They're running away!" one man yelled. "They're not going to defend it!"
"Don't kid yourself," grunted Sergeant Dave Amory.
As Bat's platoon reached the bottom of the hill and the first houses of the village, sniper fire from the windows caught one man in the leg. He was Corporal Prizio, the son of a farmer from upstate New York. He screamed and fell. Bat ordered heavy fire on the houses and then knelt beside Prizio. He would survive. How well he would walk in future was another question.
The platoon moved forward. Their burst of automatic fire, especially that from the BARs, had shattered the windows of the nearest houses and knocked big jagged holes in the stucco on their rear walls. No more sniper fire. First squad, led by Sergeant Amory, kicked down the back door of the nearest house and charged in. Second squad entered another house.
Bat ordered two men to carry Prizio forward and into the first house. First squad spread out through the house and found a German family cowering in the cellar. "Heraus!" Bat screamed. "Heraus! Schnell!"
The Germans came up from their cellar: an elderly woman and two teenaged girls. Bat spoke German to them. "One of you fired on my soldiers and wounded that one. Lawfully, I can shoot all of you. If I decide to shoot you, I will allow my men to take such pleasure of you as they may wish before we shoot you. I offer you one chance to survive. You care for my wounded man. I will return for him — or one of us will. If he has not survived, or if he has been mistreated, you will die, and this house will be burned to the ground."
The women swore they had not fired a shot. It had been done by a Volksturmer — an overage militiaman — who had run when the Americans fired on the house. Bat left Prizio with sulfa and morphine, also with a carbine and a grenade.
The platoon assembled and advanced toward the river and the bridge. Other Americans were in the streets. They could hear the roar of tank engines.
The Ludendorff Bridge was a railway bridge. The Germans had planked over its tracks so tanks and trucks could cross. And it stood there, crossing the sullen gray and swift Rhine. At the far end it debouched at the foot of a stone escarpment. Whoever crossed it would have a hard fight to get beyond it.
As Bat and his platoon stood staring at the bridge, Captain Grimes came to them. "We go across," he said.
A moment later an explosion lifted the bridge and filled the air with smoke and dust. Bat shook his head, then shrugged. Well ... they were relieved of the crossing. The honor would not be theirs. They had arrived a few minutes too late.
But as the air cleared they could see the bridge again, still intact. The explosion had blown open a trench that would temporarily block tanks from crossing, but nothing but German small-arms fire blocked the infantry. Other units ventured onto the bridge. Enemy machine guns in stone guard towers opened fire. American infantrymen moved against it, peppering the towers with steel and lead. Engineers went over the railings and began to cut wires, disarming charges.