The Eighth Man

Bill Cushing (4,732 words)

THE EIGHTH MAN

We knew we were screwed when the 96 of us filed into an empty space of the Marine Ranger, a troop transport ship we were crossing the English Channel, and our company’s first sergeant ordered Bravo company to count off.

That meant “volunteers” were needed for some task; that’s the way it always is, was, and probably will be. I was number eight. I prayed First would pick by threes, fives, odd numbers, any combination but one that fell on me.

No such luck.

“All right, maggots,” he shouted. “One through 20, getch yer asses up to the storage hold. The rest of you limp dicks, as you were!”

“Oh, Christ,” said Halpern, who was from Chicago. “We in it up to our friggin' eyeballs. At least I came in at seven, a lucky number.”

He was partly right. Anytime those chosen weren’t told anything in front of the rest of the company, it meant that whatever was coming up was something nobody wanted to hear. This meant you had to seek comfort in whatever you could.

As to his “lucky number,” that was in question.

Now it was time to follow that fine military tradition of “hurry up and wait” before we’d learn what shit was about to rain down on us. Some of the guys chosen were already lighting up smokes once we gathered in the cavernous space. Most of them sat on the deck or squatted against the bulkhead. Others stood around in haphazard groups of two or three. On the deck, I noticed a pile of eighth-inch pipe about two and a half inches in diameter lashed along the railing. Each pipe was about ten feet in length and had a large outer extension at one end. This was something new, at least something I hadn’t seen lately, and I’d pulled walk-through security the night before. Outside of that pile, everything else in the area checked out.

The only other noticeable difference I felt were increased vibrations I felt in my feet from the transport’s steel deck as it churned along, picking up speed. It was now 0500; we were closing in on wherever it was we were headed.

“Listen up!” First barked, surprising us. “Just before 0700 hours, the Allies begin an attack on the Normandy beaches.” He flashed a wicked grin. “Ike is calling our invasion a ‘great crusade,’ and you guys get to be the tip of the spear. If you turds can do your job right, we can save the Limeys and Army from wetting their pants. Anyway, we will be among the first to land with a special task.”

He bent a knee and propped his foot on the end of one pipe that jutted out. “The RAF flyboys spotted a good-sized bunker sitting some 60 feet from beachhead called Utah. That’s where we’ll be landing. Once you’re past them dunes, there’s nothing between our troops and that machine gun nest. It’s half-buried in the ground, and all that’s visible is concrete and steel. Seems that Gerry did a fuckin' good job on this one.”

 “So, the geniuses in charge have come up with this dandy idea to take care of our problem for us.” He kicked the errant pipe into place; it rang like a church bell, echoing within the steel cavern. “The way they figure it, if we can just shoot a Bazooka shell into that bunker, shee-bang! All over but the crying. Only problem is, can we get close enough to fire a warhead into it?”

He leaned forward, rubbing his palm along the top tube. “That’s where these—and you—come in.” He stood and turned towards us. “The plan is this: when we land, you guys will each carry a length of pipe. We'll move in numerical order. The first man will move as close to the bunker as he can and lay down his length of pipe.”

Those of us standing momentarily lost our balance as the troop ship rolled in the rough waters. I was just relieved that yesterday’s storm had passed. Things could have been worse. Even the sergeant had to stop for that moment. Then he continued. “When he comes back, the next man will double-time it with the next length, stopping only to fit the butt end over the first man’s. Everyone else will provide cover for the man in motion. It goes that way until we’re as close as we can get to the opening in that bunker. Once all the ends are connected, they’ll form one long extension. Then we fire the mortar through that conduit into the nest, and all our problems are solved. Easy as that.”

He looked at us hard, as if we’d somehow offended him. “I told them we’d only need six, maybe eight of you for each length of pipe since about 50 feet will do the trick, but you guys are such fuck-ups that they ordered a 20-man detail. Let’s see if you pansies can do it right for a change.” He swiveled on his heels and marched toward the hatch where he paused for a moment. He looked back at us.

“Just remember your number. Now go get some chow,” he barked before stepping through the ship’s door and disappearing into the passageway.

Halpern looked like he was in pain; number seven didn’t seem so lucky after all. Behind him, Dalton tried to trade numbers with Baker. Baker had been number 20 while Dalton drew number one; I don’t think that Baker would have made that trade now for all the money in the world. As I passed by the two of them, Dalton was already up to 50 bucks.

“Don’t be stupid,” I whispered to Baker as I squeezed between them to go to the mess decks for some coffee. “Hell, I’ll trade places with you for free.”

Even with this detail hanging over our heads, both of them managed to smile at that. There was no way to take the edge off now, so I might as well sharpen it good. In about two hours, I’d probably be dead anyway.

I wished there was some liquor on board as I stood by the mess deck’s large coffee urns like they were a pair of stainless-steel teats filled with the syrupy caffeinated mix.

Watching the second hand of the clock make its rounds, I was too nervous to even smoke. I spilled much of my coffee on my way to a table, so I figured to stop trying to drink a full cup and just make extra trips to the spigot for a half-cup. I tried to light up a few times, but my hand shook so much I had trouble getting the lighter near the tip.

That was when I smelled the sulfur of a match being struck and saw the flame hover near my Lucky Strike. I looked up to see Rogers holding a light for me. I nodded my thanks as I sucked the smoke in. Rogers and I had met in boot camp at Fort Ord. Somehow, we ended up in the European theater of the war as part of the 4^th Infantry Division. Once we got there, I got to know his particular brand of optimism. After I’d complained about the orders that took us from California to across the Atlantic, Rogers told me, “From what I hear, the Japanese are even more brutal than the Nazis when it comes to POWs.”

At the moment, I worried more about being killed, not captured.

“Relax,” Rogers told me as he took a seat across the table from me. “You’re in better shape than me.”

“Why? What number you end up with?”

He held up three fingers.

As 0600 approached, we were obviously getting closer. The ship began rolling with greater pitch as it approached the breakers offshore.

“You know,” I said to him. “Normally, I might go up on deck to watch the guys without sea legs throw up over the side. Even that amusement has lost its appeal. If First had any kind of heart, he would have waited ‘til the last minute to tell us about this detail.”

“Have to give it to him, though,” Rogers replied. “He really knows how to sell an idea. My dad owned a hardware store, so I grew up watching him convince customers to spend more than they wanted. Sarge’s line about each man moving as close as he could and then running back to the group was almost funny. None of us is ‘running back’ anywhere.”

Truer words were never spoken. There was only one thing that determined how close any one of us got to that pillbox, and there was no returning once you stopped moving forward. I just hoped to hell that this assignment did whatever it was supposed to do.

The ship suddenly shuddered. I gripped the sides of the small tabletop, and Rogers looked up as though he could see outside.

“Must be shock waves,” he said. “I heard the Nevada would start shelling the beaches before any landing parties got sent in.” He downed the remains of his coffee and stubbed out his own cigarette. “Must be getting close to time.”

“Attention on deck,” squawked the loudspeakers throughout the ship. “All members of landing party report to your stations immediately. Repeat. All members of landing party report to stations.”

Some “landing party.” They made it sound like we were going on liberty.

I got up, loading my pack and hooking my thumb under the strap of my Carbine rifle to sling it over my shoulder. I left the mess deck to report to First. The pipes were gone. Once the 20 of us were there, he told us that they were waiting on board the landing craft for us.

I made my way along the deck with the others to the landing craft and thought it was one hell of a day for an assault. Too bad I’d likely never live to see it I thought while I scurried down the Jacob’s ladder hanging over the side of the transport ship into the Higgins landing craft that bobbed, then chucked in the water, the rope ladder bouncing off the side of the bigger ship. I must have looked as graceful as a rhino trying to waltz as I made my way down the side of the transport ship into the landing craft.

This close to the water’s surface, it got even rougher, soaking everyone there and leaving us standing ankle-deep in water. Not that the discomfort mattered. We’d all have to jump out into the water to make our way up the Normandy beaches.

It had been foggy so far, but now that we had passed the reefs, it became relatively calm. As the sun rose, it promised a nice summer day. Chugging towards the beach, I considered the odds of us succeeding in somehow taking back territory from a German army definitely dug in and still doing pretty damned good in spite of losses. These pipes didn’t really seem to mean much; you’d need a massive crowbar to pry these guys out of that bunker.

"SHUT UP!" shouted First.

Christ, had I said it that loud? I turned and saw him standing over Dalton who, huddled in a corner of the landing craft, whimpered. He wasn’t about to listen to him now, especially some sob story about a family back on some Wisconsin farm. He may have been from farm country, but it was his family that owned the place, so he had been raised pretty well off. That meant he was used to getting his way.

The landing craft moved in on the beach as the surf increased the closer we got to shore. I saw the crossed Xs of the hedgehog pickets made from welded steel girders partially buried in the sand but still standing almost as tall as a man.

The boat’s bow crashed down into the water as spray flew over the sides.

“Get in order; get in order,” First growled, moving through us, pulling anyone reluctant onto his feet and slamming him off the side of the metal gunwales. As we lined up, a corporal followed our sergeant giving each of us our own section of the pipe and instructing us to keep the large end behind us when we moved with them.

“It’s almost time, ladies,” First bellowed. “Don’t fuck up and make me look bad.”

We pitched forward as the landing craft’s bottom ploughed into the sandy bottom and jerked, then slowed to a stop. At the same time, metal chains holding the door were released and, with one continuous clanking, the blunt bow of the boat dropped down, becoming a ramp for the troops. Once that opening was made, we were out and into the madness.

I don’t know whether it was because I had been inside the belly of the landing craft or because I was too busy with my own thoughts before, but it occurred to me that the noises coming from the beach were louder now. It became difficult to focus on the sergeant’s commands with the distractions of men shouting—sometimes shrieking, the cannon fire and bullets coming toward us, and the big guns of the battleships out at sea roaring off rounds toward shore.

I hoisted the pipe up on my shoulder and, trying to crouch, ran as quickly as I could up the beach to the point I saw First going.

Glancing to my left, I saw Halpern trying to get along the same way I was. With the pipe over his shoulder like some long, stiff seabag and his rifle flying around and banging against his right side, he looked almost funny trying to run and stay low at the same time. His movements resembled a rapid, squatting duck walk. I wondered if I looked as ridiculous as he did. I hit a rock in the sand and went flying into the mud of the shoreline, almost getting hit by my own section of pipe as it followed me down.

“Jenkins, you asshole,” First screamed at me. “Get your butt up here on the double!”

“Yes, sir! Oops, sarge,” I answered as loud as I could and, returning the pipe—this time on the other shoulder, continued up the beach behind a slight dune where I saw our group had dropped prone on the sand. At least I wasn’t the last there, but that was no comfort knowing that the only number that mattered now was eight, or at least seven because, once Halpern went, I was next if he didn’t make it. Christ, what a crapshoot this idea was.

The rest of the group arrived, crouching to join the others for what little relief we could get. Some of us took deep drags from a common cigarette making the rounds.

“All right now, listen up.” The sergeant looked around at the group. For the first time in my experience, he softened—not in his look, which was still as hard as ever—but in his tone. It must have been his way of saying good-bye. “Everyone, get in numerical order, starting from the left end of this sand dune.’ Then, his voice hardened. “Dalton, you’re up first, and listen to me: if you come back without blowing that fuckin’ bunker up, I’ll tear off your head and mount it over my fireplace. That goes for the rest of you jack wagons. Got it?”

We all nodded. Not one of us doubted the man’s threat. First was the type who might enjoy that kind of trophy. “Oh, that,” I pictured him in the future sitting by the fire with a drink in his hand and saying to some visitor, “Just some little asshole who tried to get me passed over for promotion.”

Poor Dalton. He had always been able to buy his way out of almost everything that came down the pike. Not this time though. First turned and gave Dalton a shove. His fear of our first sergeant overrode any natural reluctance, so he stood, trying to get his bearings. He never got any farther. A rattle of bullets started from the concrete box, and Dalton collapsed to his knees, releasing the pipe from his grip before landing on his face right in front of us.

Blood flooded out of his chest over the top of his length of pipe. I heard a retching sound cut above all the other noise and became aware of the stink of vomit behind me.

“Just fuckin’ great,” First said. “Will someone pretty-please give Banks a canteen to wash up with.” He turned towards the rest of us. “And where the fuck was that man's cover? All right. Number two, on the line. GO.”

Mitchellson was off and running. The rest of us started firing up ahead of him, trying to keep the riflemen in the bunker hunkered down and tucked away. Once he got about ten yards up the beach, we watched the rapid muzzle flashes of the machine gun as a long burst sprayed in front of and then into Mitchellson. He faltered, one ankle seeming to give way, then fell in the sand on top of his length of pipe.

“Number three, Rogers! You’d better do better than that piece-of-shit show.”

Rogers made it up to Mitchellson but dived behind him.

“What the hell is he doing, picking his pocket?” First said as Rogers reached under Mitchellson to flip his body over so that it lay flat on its back.

“Rogers! What the fuck?” someone else yelled.

“Watch this shit, First,” Rogers shouted over his shoulder back to us.

Who’d have thought it? He was using the body for cover.

Picking up Mitchellson’s piece of pipe, he trotted on ahead about another eight feet before catching a burst in his side. He fell, lying still between the two lengths of pipe. Then, the damnedest thing happened: Rogers pushed one length ahead of the other, forming a sort of barrier with the two sections while also moving them along. He forced one up until the two ends were ready to be connected and, after doing that, he pulled the rear section up ahead of himself. We were completely stunned—as were the Germans who had fallen into a pattern of watching for the next guy to come from behind the dunes and weren’t paying attention to Rogers. They must have assumed they’d killed him.

Once he’d pushed the connected tubes as far as he could, he crawled ahead, pulling the butt end of it along with him. He made even more progress—slowly to be sure—but he’d moved the assembly closer to our target.

One of the German riflemen in the nest finally noticed what was happening and squeezed off a long burst, doing Rogers in. Still, he had gone down swinging and buoyed our own hopes of success with his feat.

“There!” First shouted, sounding happy with what had just happened before turning and yelling, “Nummer four! C’mon, Harris, get the hell up here.”

“Yes, suh,” the kid from the Ozarks shouted and was off and running. Harris was a big bruiser who’d been a promising fullback at Nebraska before the war broke out. He used that talent now, dodging and weaving through the machine gun fire of the Germans while we alternated cheering for him and cutting rounds loose in their direction. Those poor bastards probably didn’t know what to make of this big, lumbering redheaded beast who wielded the length of pipe like nothing more than a large toothpick.

He made it up to Rogers. Harris couldn’t let himself be upstaged. He changed hands with the length of pipe he had been carrying and hefted the two joined pieces Rogers had assembled under the other arm before starting off again.

This time the run was even tougher even though there weren’t as many obstacles as we noticed further east at Omaha beach. Our difficulties resulted because the Germans had flooded a series of shallow ditches that wormed along the ground where we’d landed, making an already swampy terrain even more difficult to slog through.

After Harris had gone about five clumsy feet, the Germans easily trained their sights on him. He had gained another five feet, but his own piece of pipe lay useless.

And we were still a good 25, maybe 20 feet away from our mission’s objective to blow up the bunker.

“FIVE!” screamed First, turning back to glare at us. “Where the hell is number five?”

Rivera stiffened and shouted back. “Here, Sarge!”

Unlike Dalton, who’d grown up in the lap of relative luxury in a rural area, Rivera was a hard-muscled Puerto Rican from the Bronx. He used to brag about outrunning New York City cops and, whether that was fact or fable, no one questioned his speed now. Like Harris, Rivera was strong but also agile and fast. As he sprinted forward, we were shouting more than shooting, figuring one as good as the other.

As he reached Harris’s body, the Germans opened fire. The force of the bullets lacing into Rivera spun him around, causing his pipe to go flying out of his hand before falling to his side. Still, he had closed the distance between our improvised pipeline and the bunker.

“Number six,” First shouted, looking over at Kimmel. “C’mon. The rest of you, close this rank up.”

“Hey, sarge,” Baker cried. “Look!”

Everyone’s eyes went from Kimmel and back up ahead. There was Rivera, using his left arm to pull himself along while he dragged his piece of pipe forward. He hadn’t been killed, and it looked like he might just make it.

“Kimmel, get going,” First whispered. “Quick!”

“But, First,” Kimmel said. “Rivera’s not done yet.”

“I don’t need no shit from you—GO!”

Kimmel responded automatically and began his run. At the same time, we began chanting for both of them.

Our sergeant’s call proved a good one. The Germans, likely confused by the movement of two men, were slow to react to either one. Kimmel was almost up to Rivera when some bullets caught him in the shoulder, but he never stopped until he passed Rivera, who was finishing his own connection of the pipe. If Kimmel could get his down and placed, we might be close enough to destroy the inside of the pillbox. And it looked like we’d find out any second now.

But the muffled thud of a land mine reverberated along the ground as Kimmel hit the trigger of one he’d crawled over. The pipe he was holding shot about three feet into the air before clanging down on top of the other one. We saw very little of Kinnel’s torso left.

First cursed, then shouted, “Number seven!”

Halpern crouched into a sprinter’s stance and, without a word or look back, took off.

“What the fuck,” I yelled at him. “You think you’re Rivera or something?”

He got about 15 yards from our position before bullets tore into his midsection and tore an arm away from his shoulder. We watched holes open up in his back as several rounds passed through him. He tumbled forward.

So much for lucky seven, and now my own luck had run out. I lay back and shut my eyes for a moment. I was tempted to ask First for some time to down a quick smoke before starting but knew how far that would get me. Instead, I pulled out a stick of Juicy Fruit and began chewing on the gum furiously. Then, grabbing my section of pipe, I made my way to the edge of the dune when I heard someone behind me yelling.

“Look! He’s still movin’.”

I looked ahead to see Halpern up and hobbling along again, screaming like a banshee. Whether his shouting was to scare the Germans or keep his own mind off his pain, it didn’t seem to matter because it worked either way.

Adrenaline had given him energy as he dragged the assembled pipes behind him with his remaining hand while using his stump of an arm to dig into the ground and drag himself along.

First motioned for me to stay put, an idea I wasn’t about to argue. Meanwhile, Halpern, still taking shots from the rifles, staggered but kept moving forward. He stepped over Kimmel and lunging forward, flopped flat on his chest almost even with the end of the pipe.

Reaching down, he grabbed the closest end of Kimmel’s pipe, dragging it up to meet his. Then, Halpern pushed the two assembled pieces forward until they stopped against the side of the cement bunker. I could almost feel the smile he must have had on his face as he lay there in sand, grass, and his own blood.

We watched as Halpern twisted the pipe around to fit the pieces together, then pushing it ahead to see if he could slide it into the opening. It moved forward as Halpern quickly brought it down over his end of the rest of the pipeline. It shut into place, then he turned and nodded at us before he collapsed and died.

It was done. Everything was ready for the explosive shell.

Halpern turned to crawl back to the group.

The German soldiers inside the structure screamed, likely cursing up a storm as it dawned on them what was going on. We watched the assembly that extruded from their battlement jerking back and forth. They were trying to pull the pipes apart, but all of the sections were locked together. No luck there.

Then, they tried pushing the whole assembly away, but its weight—plus the fact that it had dug into the sand—nixed that idea. Whoever was inside the station opened fire, shooting all over the place. It was a frenzy of machine gun fire caused by panic.

While all this was going on, First studied the bunker.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

“What’s up, sarge?” I asked.

He handed the binoculars over to me. “Check out the right side of that pillbox.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Geez-uz, You’ll be lucky to make corporal!”

I looked again. An iron hatch had been installed in the concrete structure, but although there were hinges and a handle on it, I could also see the metallic scar tissue that bubbled along the border of the door from welding.

“Holy shit.” I handed the field glasses back. “No wonder they’re fighting so hard. Poor bastards are trapped in there.”

Locked inside their battle station, now all they could do is spray bullets all over the place in desperation. The only thing they succeeded in doing was hitting the remains of our seven dead comrades, but their survival chances weren’t even an issue now. What was obvious was that the plan was going to work—with only one hitch: it still involved me.

“Jenkins,” First said, laying the compact Bazooka into my lap. “It’s all on you now. All you have to do is make it as far as Mitchellson, not even that far really, then shove this baby into the open end of the pipe and let her fly.”

I cradled the weapon like it was a baby and glanced over at First, waiting for his command to continue.

He paused for the moment, then said, “You fuck up, and every one of these guys covering this quarter mile stretch of beach is gonna’ remember you. And not like you’d want.”

I nodded, then asked, “What time is it?”

He glanced at his wristwatch. “About 0635.”

“When did we punch in?”

“Around 0625.”

It had only been ten minutes? I shook my head, then looked at the weapon resting in my hands. I turned to go, then stopped and reached into my jacket pocket. I pulled out the half-empty pack of Luckies and handed them over to First. “Hold these ‘til I get back, would you? Take one if you want.”

Our first sergeant nodded. “The rest of the division is only about five minutes behind us, so no lollygagging.”

I crouched down, holding the mortar gun at the ready. Then springing up and running towards the pipe, I put on a war face and screamed like a goddamned maniac as I scrambled up and over the ridge.