The Dissertation, page 19
part #2 of Tinieblas Series
He was a soldier and, as such, a follower of the best way of life. He was precisely located within an ordered segment of an otherwise chaotic world: corporal, 3rd Squad, 4th Section, 11th Company, 3rd Battalion, 4th Tunisian Tirailleurs. He was placed on a clearly marked pathway to the highest virtues: loyalty, courage, and self-sacrifice. He was lodged in an endless, vital moment with his bungled yesterdays all cut away and his tomorrows taken care of. He would probably be killed before the war in Europe ended, perhaps in a few hours, and if not, there was a war in the Far East and would be other wars in other places: soldiering would go on. The men about him were his brothers, his officers father surrogates. He was bound to them all in love, and bound as well to the great company of men now dead who’d served under the colors of his regiment, and to that other company, still children or as yet unborn, who’d serve in years to come. And he was kin to men in all the other armies, all those who had embraced his calling round the globe and since the time of Troy and on till doomsday. He was about to go armed in company to meet another company likewise in arms, and they were going to kill each other over a piece of ground: a fundamental human activity which had engaged much of the energies of Homo sapiens since its emergence as a species. His ties to the members of his company were strong and satisfying, while the mere existence of a force74 in opposition filled him with equally strong and satisfying sentiments of enmity, so he would go freely with enthusiasm. He possessed weapons that he cherished and respected; he had good knowledge of their use. He was encumbered by no obligations to absent people who depended on him or for whom he cared. He was conscious of having used his life fully if not particularly well. It would end someday, and since he was among comrades in a custom-hallowed calling, tomorrow was as good a day as any. His mind was calm yet wonderfully alert and most obedient to his will. His body was strong and fit. His senses were sharp, somewhat in fear, more in anticipation. He was ready for battle.
15. Warrior
IN THE CHILL black of early morning, 25th January, 1944, 2nd and 3rd Battalions, 4th Tunisian Tirailleurs went down from their bivouac along paths marked in their minefields, soundlessly down across the rocks and shingle to the Rapido River. A lead group forded without loads or rifles, stretching lines over and then stealing up to kill the German sentinels and cut the wires of the field telephones. Then the two battalions entered the river, which flowed colder than death about their thighs and waists, which rushed about their chests and pulled their feet from under them as they clung to the lines. They forded all in silence and went up out of the river into the colder air and set themselves along the farther bank to wait, shivering, for dawn and their assault. My father, León Fuertes, was with them.
All night his great-great-grandfather General Isidro Bodega had been beside him, watching him ready his equipment, reading his thoughts and feelings, and when he left with his battalion, General Bodega followed. He was so moved by the battalion’s discipline and resolution that he thought to go into battle with them. He even crossed the river, flitting above the water just at León’s left, but when he came upon the still and bloodless body of a murdered sentry, his nerve broke, and he grew terrified, and he flew back across the river and up to the division bivouac and hid in León’s sangar, quaking. As he fled, he passed the ghost of General Epifanio Mojón 75 who stood on the rocky bank, slimmed and youthful as he had been when he fought in Simón Bolívar’s army at the Battle of Ayacucho. General Mojón sneered at him in contempt. Then he flew across the river and went in among the French companies and took his stance by León.
At the first light the massif of Colle Belvedere took shape before them, then half disappeared behind a veil of smoke and splintered rock. They heard the shellbursts on the mountain, and then the roar of all the guns on the French side echoing from emplacements far behind them, and then more shellbursts and the pop of Masers and the clattering of Spandaus and the louder, shorter rap-rap-rap of Brownings, and the rip (as of silk being torn) and crack of .88s, and the bark of Springfields and the frenzied whine of Schmeisers and the whiz and crunch of heavy shells, and the smack of bullets passing in the air, until all individual sound was swallowed in the pandemonic din of battle.76 Then León’s face grew taut, and then he grinned and put his palm on Private Boulala’s shoulder, pressing him gently down, and lifted his own head there on the fringes of the bridgehead, and he saw men bunched over beneath their loads running in little groups up the incline, and one of them jumped weirdly in the air as his left leg flew sidewise, and he came down on his one leg and hopped and then fell on his face, and another man behind him jumped as well, raised on another mine blast, but the rest kept running. León saw tracers bend out toward these men from all the bunkers, and some fell down and others sat abruptly, but the rest kept running on across the open, bearing their charges in among the forts. He watched in fascination and excitement and impatience, as, years before, he’d watched the first plays of an inning while waiting his turn to hit.
Then he saw his colonel rise a good way forward, get to his feet and draw out his revolver and hold it aloft, so that the lanyard stretched back from the butt down to his epaulet, and then the men around the colonel rose and then the men behind and León too. He heard the shrilling of the colonel’s whistle and heard Lieutenant Jordy cry, “L’Onzième, en avant!” and heard Bouakkaz howling in Arabic and himself yelling, “Muchachos, adelante!” and then he was sucked forward, running, by the men in front as both battalions charged up through the breach blown in the line of bunkers, broke up and out through the first ramparts of the Gustav Line, leaving the Germans there to be killed or captured by the men of 1st Battalion and the companies of armor which now were sweeping down toward the Rapido.
The wave of men poured through the breach and rushed ahead, then slapped on Colle Belvedere and broke, 2nd Battalion sliding on, 3rd carrying right, going to ground on the near bank of Riosecco. Germans were on the other bank, dug in and wide awake now, and there were Germans on the cliffs behind and Germans on the spur of Monte Cifalco, pouring an enfilading fire down the whole ravine. And so 9th Company moved right again, moved right by squads and slowly, to climb the flanking spur and clear it, and 10th Company found cover and engaged the enemy across the Secco, and 11th Company huddled back from the bank to breathe, for they were going to ford the river and go up the cliff.
León lay panting, hearing but not listening to the noise of battle from van and rear. He heard but didn’t listen to Jabara tell Reveil that their attack had caught the Germans by surprise, that Monsabert was a fine general. León had been amazed that he’d called out in Spanish after so many years of thinking mainly in French, and as he lay with rough Abruzzi rock grating his side and the damp chill of European winter biting down through his clothes into his sweated body, his mind took leave back to Tinieblas and concerned itself with steamy heat and sugar-sweet ripe mangoes and the sun suspended like a ripening fruit over a placid sea. But then these images were smashed by an explosion, a loud crunch to his left and a hoarse cry and then three more loud crunches in succession, for a German mortar team up on the cliff was walking shells down in among them. So León roached himself into the rock and recalled his mind and beamed it back five miles into the gun pits of the French artillery. He imagined the gunners, helmet straps undone, field jackets open, stoking fat one-five-five shells into hot breeches, hunching, mouths gaped, hands pressed over their cars, as lanyards snapped and guns boomed and recoiled. He rammed his mind into the guns and flung it out along the barrels with the shells and arced it up over the French line, over the valley, down onto the crests of Belvedere, down onto the far bank of the Secco, down against the cliffs, and, finally, down onto the cliff top and the kneeling mortar team. León sent his mind out from his bug-cringed body, made it soar and plummet with the shells, and meanwhile the winter sun pushed down half-heartedly against the clouds and raised a wet fog up from Riosecco to blend with the smoke of shellbursts and the dust of blasted rock.
Then they were hustled forward, spidered up to the river, and someone called, “Fusée!” and León looked and saw a rocket arching wide above the out-spur of Cifalco, and Jordy rose and yelled, “L’Onzième, en avant!” and the whole company burst forward, and as 1st Section leaped down from the bank, a great salvo fell before them across the river and split the sky from Atina to Cassino.
León was in water to his hips. He held his rifle forward in both hands and leaned right against the current, dragging his legs forward. The water was icy and splashed crazily, as though dozens of hungry trout were all about him, leaping for flies. Something swung into him, bumping his right knee and calf as he thrashed his left leg ahead, and as he lost his footing, as he slid left into the river, as he went under and the current seized him, he had time to think: Someone in 2nd Squad has gotten shot his body’s knocked me down, I’m liable to be drowned now under this pack and all my soaking clothes. Then something lifted on his knapsack, hauled him up, and when he’d got his feet beneath him, when he stood and turned, Sergeant Jabara was grinning at him, saying, “Come, Corporal Léon, this is no day for swimming,” and as León shook the cold water from his face, Jabara turned him, saying, “Come, friend, the enemy is there.”
Jabara went on ahead of him through the still wildly splashing water, and León cursed to himself in Spanish and shook his head again and marveled that he still had his rifle gripped in both his hands. Then he thrashed ahead through the now shallowing river, shouting, “Gracias!” to Sergeant Jabara, and Jabara turned back toward him as he reached the bank, grinning like a child under the wide frame of his helmet, and his grin flew back toward León, coming apart in air, bits of it splatting onto León’s hands. Sergeant Jabara fell back into the river, his brown gazelle’s eyes wide over red mush, and as León reached for him, the current bore him off, and his knapsack dragged him under.
León said, “Gracias!” again, but this time to himself, and this time he meant: Thanks that it wasn’t me! He felt a warm rush of strength and a great superiority to Sergeant Jabara and some contempt for him. He felt superiority mixed with contempt for the soldier whose corpse had bumped him and for the men ahead of him whom he saw falling. Then he felt guilt at these feelings and sorrow for Jabara and self-hatred for being still alive now that his friend who’d saved his life was dead, and also retching nausea at the globs of splattered face between his fingers, and terror, and rage—rage at Jordy, rage at himself for following him, rage at the unknown men who sought to kill him. And then he caught his mind and pinched from it every thought and feeling save his rage against his enemies, and by that time he was out of the river and up the bank and skipping over rocks and fallen bodies, running in toward the cliff base, where the lead sections were still killing Germans in their holes and taking others captive and firing on still others who were fleeing left down the ravine.
There was a chimney in the bulking cliff, a cleft carved in the stone chin of the mountain by eons of melting snows. It mounted, sheer and narrow, to the cliff top. Here in the spring wild flowers might grow, and mosses, and tough shrubs knuckle roots into the rock, but it was dead now, only stone, cold dirt, and dry cascades of rock torn by the shellbursts. Still, on each side the cliff wall bulged protectively, shielding the cutoff from the view and deathreach of the enemy, and when they’d cleaned the bank of living Germans and brought their gravely wounded in under the cliff and sent their prisoners with their walking wounded back across the river and received two sections of 10th Company to hold the ground they’d taken, 11th Company entered this chimney and rose in it.
They went by sections, grimping their way up, ploying beneath their pack loads, hindered by slung rifles and soggy bedrolls, pattered by dirt kicked down by those above. They leaned in toward the cliff, scraped knees and elbows to the rock, snaked fingers out for handholds, groped with their slick-shod toes, tested their gripping points against their weight, pushed themselves up. Sometimes a foot would slip or a rock break out from the mountain, and a man would slide, tearing his hands and clothing, till he found a bold or was supported by a comrade. Arms ached and shoulders burned from pack straps, but here at least they weren’t under fire, and León had time to grieve for Sergeant Jabara, to wish he might lift his head and see Jabara climbing above him, to miss his guidance and his cheerfulness and childish joy in battle, and to decide that were this world run correctly, Jabara would have lived and he be dead. He grew warm from exertion, felt the cleft snuggle him in safety, wished it might rise a thousand miles and they climb on until the war was over, But then came explosions in the cleft above and shouts and a shrill cry, and León held to the rock and craned his bead back, and he saw a man tumbling headlong downward, saw him sail down and strike the rock and bound out down and by him. And then another man came hurtling down and bounced and bowled butt-first into the chest of someone from 3rd Section who was hanging to the cliff and bashed him loose, and both came rolling, bouncing down, down through the flinching climbers, down past León, down on down the shaft, for as the lead section neared the funnel’s mouth, the Germans on the cliff had begun pitching bombs down on them.
Then Bouakkaz shouted for the section to keep climbing, and León shouted to his squad to climb, and he looked down and saw Dax just below him, gaping white-faced, frozen in terror, moaning, “Oh, les salauds, les salauds, oh, les salauds!” León remembered Sergeant Jabara and tried to grin at Dax and called, “Come on, friend, climb,” but Dax hung to the mountain, moaning. So León swung his foot out and knocked it hard on Dax’s helmet and yelled, “Monte, fils de pute! Monte, ou te jete moi-même!” Then Dax glared up at him in hatred and began to climb, and León turned and kneed himself on up the rock, clinging as another man came howling, wheeling by, and then climbed on, ducking his head, not looking up because he knew quite well what he would see, knew it so well in fact that all his life he would be liable, dozing in first sleep, to see men tumbling toward him, flailing their arms in air, until they slammed into his eyes and he woke shouting. León climbed and caught his mind and beamed it up to where 1st Section struggled, rained in grenades, and he imagined soldiers clawing out of the cleft and up onto the cliff top to shoot the grenadiers and others clambering up, unslinging weapons, firing, and men behind them swarming up and placing automatic weapons, flinging fire up across the slopes, and men in field grey fleeing toward the crest, falling sprawled forward, and the whole section surging up, spreading across the cliff top right and left, shooting and scuttling forward. And by the time he had imagined all that clearly, he was up there himself.
He led his squad right at a crouched half-waddle, around the flank of 2nd Section, where Bouakkaz had waved him, and as they moved toward the first crest, the German guns off on Belmonte and the other higher hills ranged on the cliff top, scouring it with shells. Thunder fell in on León, and he dropped and let his rifle drop ahead of him and reached his arms out and embraced the heaving mountain. His body tried to turn itself to water and flow down into the crevices between the rocks, and his mind jumped insanely back and forth, out of his grasp. He pressed his face against the rock and whimpered. But then, almost at once, he heard a voice roar in his ear: “Be a man, for the love of God! Sea hombre!”
He twisted his head, cringing, and saw his great-grandfather General Epifanio Mojón standing above him with his booted legs spread wide, his tunic splashed in blood, scowling down at him from beneath his high cocked hat, waving a bloody saber.
“Be a man, bastard!” yelled General Mojón. “Get up and be a man!”
León got up then on one knee, and General Mojón nodded grimly and told him to get his weapon, and León picked his rifle up and cradled it, and just then a shell burst off to his left front, and he flinched and ducked and heard shrapnel tear by him and felt rock fragments scatter on his back.
“Steady!” said his great-grandfather. “Steady! You’ve men under you now; set an example!”
León raised up again and looked out over the mountain. It was all plumed in shellbursts, spangled in tracers. On his left he saw men gone to ground, some firing at the German crest, some with their heads ducked. Noncoms scuttled among them, crouched, hollered orders which were swallowed in the noise, got them to crawl ahead. Behind him his squad lay prone. Djemal was fumbling at his weapon, trying to clear it; El Haoui and Boulala looked at him; the others lay head down.
General Mojón stabbed forward with his saber. “There’s cover on the crest,” he said. “The German pits and sangars. Lead your men up there! No more cringing now! But there …” He pointed with his saber to a knoll some eighty meters off. “They have a gun there—can’t you hear it? Take it and show your men some courage.”
