Chapter Nine
Dugout for the Field Telephone Exchange
of the 1st Battalion of the 165th Infantry
U.S. 42nd “Rainbow” Division Headquarters, France
The German newspaper’s headline read in massive font, TSAR AND TSARINA MURDERED—GRAND DUCHESSES ALIVE AND FREE! Standing in the corner of the division headquarters, Second Lieutenant Sigmund Abramovich puzzled out the text of the paper. Unlike English, the language of his homeland, and Russian, the language his parents brought with them from the Old Country, German he’d learned the hard way in high school and at West Point, so reading it took more of his concentration.
It was well past midnight, but the divisional command post was a buzz of activity under the lantern light. Officers and NCOs answered field phones, dispatched runners, and updated the cellulose acetate overlaid on their French maps with grease pencils. Sigi wasn’t idling amidst the bustle by reading a newspaper. The intelligence section had more open-source enemy intelligence—newspapers, propaganda pamphlets, novels, journals, and the like—than they could ever hope to process. The fact that Sigi was semi-literate in German meant that, when not on other taskings, he was expected to help filter the written materials for military relevance.
“What’s it say, Sigi?” A familiar Texas drawl drew Sigi’s eyes from the paper. A tall, muscular lieutenant with sandy blond hair, a jawline straight and firm enough to plough an acre, and cheerful brown eyes stood before him.
“It looks like the Bolsheviks murdered the Tsar and the Tsarina, Hank. Shot their little boy and one of their daughters,” Sigi said, still scanning the text. “But three of the girls were rescued by the Imperial Guard, now I guess they’re trying to rally the anti-communist forces.”
Hank Thornton was a sharp contrast to Sigi, who was short, bespectacled, and slight of build—though wiry and much stronger than he looked, as Hank had learned during Plebe boxing four years earlier at West Point.
Ultimately, the tall Texan linebacker had still beaten the little Jew from Queens to near unconsciousness, but the task had taken every round of the match and been challenging enough to earn Hank’s respect. A good thing for both parties, as Hank’s popularity fast-tracked Sigi past his classmates’ antisemitism into social acceptance. Without tutoring, Sigi was fairly certain there were three, maybe four classes Hank would’ve flunked.
“Do you think they’ll be able to win, Sigmund?” Another voice cut into their conversation; this one was also familiar in its clenched-jaw formality. “And will they win in time to rejoin the struggle against the Hun?”
Sigi and Hank both snapped to attention and saluted as the 42nd Division chief of staff, Colonel MacArthur, approached. MacArthur returned their salute with a casual familiarity that belied the fact that he would’ve torn Sigi and Hank new anal orifices had they shown anything less than the most punctilious military courtesy.
“I don’t know, sir,” Sigi said. “The Berliner Tageblatt is collating second- and thirdhand reports here. They seem pretty certain as to which Romanov children escaped, but I don’t think they have a handle on the military situation in Russia at all. We should probably have Sergeant Bauer read this one as well, though.”
“Of course, but I trust he’ll come to much the same conclusion,” MacArthur said. “In the meantime, we’ll just have to rout the Boche ourselves.”
“Yes, sir,” Sigi and Hank chorused.
“Henry, Sigmund, I have an important task for you,” MacArthur said, waving them over to a situation map. He picked up a grease pencil and indicated the 42nd Division’s forward line of troops. The division’s infantry strength was distributed in two brigades, the 83rd and the 84th. Each brigade was comprised of two infantry regiments and an independent machine gun battalion to supplement direct firepower. The division was manned largely by National Guard troops mobilized from all across the country, thus the symbolism of the division’s rainbow patch. U.S. Army divisions were larger than any equivalent enemy or allied formation in human history, largely because of an appalling shortage of trained officers.
MacArthur’s pencil tracked to the 83rd Brigade’s sector, then rested on the symbol depicting the center of mass of one of its subordinate regiments, the 165th Infantry, whose troops were drawn from Sigi’s native New York. He’d hoped to wrangle a platoon in that regiment, but God and Douglas MacArthur had seen fit to execute other plans.
“At last report, the 165th had crossed the River Ourcq but is just shy of their first objective, Meurcy Farm.” MacArthur’s pencil rested on a small green patch on the map; within the patch a few black blocks indicated buildings. “We need them to push through and take the farm to solidify our lines. I want you two to find Colonel McCoy, relay the urgency to him. While you’re there, look around, get a feel for the situation, then meet me back here at the command post. If I’m not here, report to the commander or deputy commander.”
“Yes, sir,” Hank said. “Why wouldn’t you be here?”
“The 84th Brigade’s advance has floundered far worse than the 83rd’s,” MacArthur said, a grim expression darkening his face. “I’m going to their sector to help straighten things out.”
Sigi kept his features impassive, but he groaned inwardly for the poor hapless bastards about to be graced with MacArthur’s presence. As a couple of rare West Point graduate lieutenants in the exponentially expanded U.S. Army, Colonel MacArthur had snatched up Hank and Sigi for the divisional staff literally moments after they’d reported in to the 42nd Division.
Working for MacArthur had been quite the experience thus far. His vanity and ambition alike were prodigious, and anything in his way was likely to be shoved ruthlessly aside, including the career of any peer or subordinate who could not keep up with MacArthur’s ambitions.
“We understand, sir,” Hank said. Sigi nodded in agreement.
“All right, gentlemen, here’s a written order with General Menoher’s signature,” MacArthur handed over a large envelope. “Along with copies of the reports of the 12th Aero Squadron. Take a couple of horses to ride down to 83rd Brigade headquarters, but I’d dismount after that if I were you. Knowing Colonel McCoy, he’s probably got the 165th’s command post too close to the front to go galloping around against the skyline, especially once the sun is up.”
Per MacArthur’s order, they drew two chestnut brown mares from the Headquarters Company stable. Sigi was no judge of horseflesh, but from the size of the beasts they seemed more draft animal than riding steeds.
Standing a mere 5’4” in his boots, Sigi considered his mount, its saddle and stirrups, and his own kit, all with a baleful glare. Hank must have noticed his expression, for the tall Texan checked his own movement, removed his foot from the stirrup and walked over to Sigi with a mischievous grin on his face.
“Can I give you a hand there, Sigi?” Hank said.
“Yeah, thanks,” Sigi muttered, the indignity of the admission outweighed by their need to complete their journey to the 83rd before sunrise.
“Leave your pack on the ground, I’ll hand it up to you after you’re settled,” Hank said.
Sigi leaned way back to get his left foot into a stirrup that was level with his shoulder. With a grunt and a shove from Hank on his butt and lower back, he pulled himself up and swung his right leg over the saddle to end up in more or less the right position. With the stirrups shortened to the greatest degree possible, he was just able to get both feet secure.
Hank handed Sigi’s pack up to him, grin back in place.
“You know, Sig, we could’ve asked them if they had any ponies,” he said.
Sigi accepted his pack with a scowl, looped his arms through the straps and tightened them while his friends held the reins.
“Sometimes I wish I’d let you fail calculus, you shitkicking dingbat,” Sigi muttered, snatching the reins away from his friend.
Hank addressed his horse with confidence, one hand on the saddle, left foot in the stirrup, and vaulted up onto the beast’s back with a grace Teddy Roosevelt in his prime might have envied. Sigi glared in disgust.
Hank’s grin widened and he laughed good-naturedly.
“Temper, temper, Sigi,” he said. “If you’d let me flunk out of the academy, you’d be walking to the front.”
The front.
They’d survived some shelling since arriving in-country, but neither of the lieutenants had actually seen real battle yet. Neither had fired their pistols, nor had they been forced to take cover from enemy rifle or machine gun fire.
Hank wheeled about on his horse and stepped off at a canter. Sigi guided his horse around and gave it a prod with the heels of his boots. His horse followed Hank’s easily, but whether because of Sigi’s guidance or simply following her stablemate, Sigi couldn’t say.
As the miles to their destination dwindled, Sigi settled into the saddle and allowed himself to enjoy the ride. The city boy actually liked the novelty of horseback riding much more than he was willing to admit to his Texan friend.
Even in the gray predawn, the French countryside was beautiful, with verdant hills and copses of trees dominating the landscape. This stretch of it even had remarkably few craters. They were still some miles from the front. The distant chatter of machine gun fire and occasional thunder of artillery inspired some trepidation, but mostly excitement. Little Sigmund Abramovich was finally going to be with the real soldiers.
Finally, he faced the moment of truth. He’d proven himself clever enough, and strong enough to become an officer; would he be brave enough to deserve his commission? Would he crack up under fire, end up a shell-shocked wreck like some of the men he’d seen coming off the line? Sigi was young, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew his ambitions were no shield against an exploding shell or a sniper’s bullet.
Shaking his head as if warding off a fly, Sigi shoved his doubts aside and spurred his horse to catch up with Hank. Side by side, they crested a rise in the undulating terrain, and picked up a little speed on the downslope.
Brigadier General Lenihan, the 83rd’s commander, wasn’t at his headquarters when Hank and Sigi galloped up to their position, so his chief of staff reviewed the orders given them by MacArthur, made facsimiles of all the intelligence they’d brought, and gave them permission to leave their horses at the 83rd’s Command Post.
On foot, Hank and Sigi reached the 165th’s command post just before dawn. The post was nestled in a low, wooded area. Much smaller than the divisional CP, only a handful of NCOs and officers operated field phones or stenciled upon the single, acetate-covered map.
The 165th’s commander met them. Colonel McCoy was a tall, thin man with a genial face, prominent ears, and a carefully trimmed mustache with the ends just slightly upturned past the corners of his mouth. Accepting the envelope from Hank, he read the order therein rapidly and let out a short bark of laughter.
“We’re already on it,” he said, handing the order to one of his staff NCOs to file while he examined the reports from the aerial reconnaissance. “1st and 2nd Battalion attack in two hours.”
“Sir, General MacArthur charged us with observing the front,” Sigi said. “With your permission, we’d like to accompany the attack.”
“Boys, I don’t think any of my battalion commanders need extraneous shavetail lieutenants touring around their sector in the middle of an operation,” McCoy said, his tone kind. Sigi’s heart sank in his chest.
“Sir, we’ll stay out of the way, or do whatever we’re told,” Hank said. “But we can’t report back to General MacArthur without completing our mission.”
McCoy looked at them, visibly measuring them for a long moment. His eyes flicked to Hank’s right hand, then Sigi’s. He quirked an eyebrow.
“Class of ’17?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” both lieutenants chorused.
McCoy raised his own right hand, palm inward. The make was a bit different than their rings, but there was no mistaking the Class of ’97 West Point ring glinting on his third finger. A hopeful smile crept across Hank’s face, and Sigi caught his own breath, leaning forward just slightly. McCoy stared at each of them in turn for another ten seconds.
“Oh, all right,” McCoy said. “You’ll need the experience. You can join 1st Battalion. But listen closely—”
McCoy leveled a finger at Sigi’s nose, then Hank’s, forestalling their happy grins.
“You keep your heads down, and you damned well do what Major Donovan tells you,” McCoy continued. “If he sends you back to the rear, you come back to the rear. Otherwise, feel free to make yourself useful. Sergeant Kilmer—”
McCoy called over his shoulder, a man of moderate height and thicker build with a long, bristly mustache stepped up behind him.
“Yes, sir?”
“Since I know you were over there concocting an excuse to get down to 1st Battalion before the attack anyway,” McCoy said, “copy down the flyboys’ information for Major Donovan and his staff, and then you and these young men can head down together.”
“Yes, sir,” Kilmer said, grinning.
Equipped with the copied reconnaissance reports and a new guide in the form of Sergeant Kilmer, plus two boxes of grenades for 1st Battalion, they set off at a jog. Artillery, machine gun, and small arms fire boomed, chattered, and cracked louder with every step forward.
Something odd occurred to Sigi as they left the road and wound their way through a patch of conifer forest.
“Sergeant, are you Joyce Kilmer?” Sigi asked.
Kilmer didn’t even glance backward.
“Yes, sir,” Kilmer said. “Guilty as charged.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sigi said. “I enjoy your book reviews in the Times, though I think you were a little hard on Ford Madox Ford.”
“Lieutenant, if you find Ford’s drivel more penetrable than I, I’d love to discuss it,” Kilmer said, looking over his shoulder and smiling as if to take the edge off his words. “But we should probably table the debate until after the attack, hmm?”
“Of course, Sergeant,” Sigi said.
Presently they stood before a broad-shouldered, square-jawed major with a handsome, rugged Irish face who regarded them with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
Sigi and Hank both saluted and introduced themselves.
“I’m Major Donovan, gentlemen,” Donovan said. “I command the 1st Battalion. Sergeant Kilmer, do you mind telling me why you’re bringing replacement officers to my Command Post minutes before an attack?”
“Well, sir, there were these two fine specimens, from the United States Military Academy, no less, sitting forlorn and abandoned at Regiment. So, I said to the Colonel, send these gentlemen with me, lo, and I shall find them gainful employment,” Kilmer said. “And to their credit, they brought gifts with them.”
Kilmer handed over the copied aerial reconnaissance reports to Major Donovan, and nodded for each of the lieutenants to deposit their box of grenades on the floor.
“Kingly gifts, indeed,” Donovan agreed. “Sergeant Major, get me some runners and get these grenades down to C Company, they’ll need them for the assault on the farmhouses.”
Donovan began to scan the aerial reconnaissance report, nodding along with the pilots’ observations.
“Sir, we’re not actually replacements,” Hank spoke up. “Colonel MacArthur sent us down to observe the attack and we’ll have to return to Division after the operation is concluded, but we’re at your disposal until then.”
Donovan gave them a look very similar to the skeptical examination McCoy had given them at the regimental command post, only Donovan was no West Pointer. Sigi could see their dismissal forming behind Donovan’s eyes.
“Sir, Lieutenant Thornton and I both speak French,” Sigi volunteered. “And I’m conversant in German as well. Perhaps we can be of some use to you as linguists, at least?”
That gave Donovan a moment’s pause. He removed his helmet and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair before replacing his headgear and nodding once.
“All right, Thornton, you can go with C Company, they have a French battalion on their flank,” Donovan said. “Should coordination become necessary you can assist Captain Bootz.”
“Yes, sir,” Thornton said.
“Abramovich, you will shadow my adjutant, Lieutenant Ames,” Donovan said. “Do what he tells you to do, keep your head down. If we take any prisoners, you can help sort them.”
“Yes, sir.”