For God and Country. Mark Bowlin

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      The major leaned forward as well and studiously examined his friend’s hair. He nodded with an amused grin, “I’ll be goddamned, Perk! You got a dozen or so of ’em and you ain’t even thirty yet.”

      Perkin removed his helmet and ran his hands through his hair. As he looked at his hands to see if any of the gray had rubbed off, he said, “It’s a sign I’m overworked. You ought to give me some time off. But look close—if they’re movin’ some, maybe they ain’t gray hairs. I think I got cooties. I’ve been scratchin’ up a storm.” He grinned as the other two officers wiped their hands subconsciously on their coat fronts.

      Spaulding snorted slightly and said, “Your personal hygiene’s the least of my worries. Half the battalion’s lousy and the other half’s got trench foot. And using Aggie math, the third half’s got the clap. Had the clap—but I suppose we’ll have to deal with it again after we get some R&R.”

      “Any idea when that might be?” Sam asked.

      “Nope. May be awhile. I was hopin’ that we’ll get the chance to come off the line for a spell but I don’t know who relieves us. We’re in sore need of replacements and they’ll need to be trained before we move forward again. I gotta think that someone else gets the point this time, but I don’t know who,” Spaulding repeated.

      The three officers nodded. They were all of the same mind: it was someone else’s turn.

      2100 Hours

      1st Battalion Headquarters, NW of San Pietro, Italy

      As soon as the determination was made that the Germans had completely withdrawn to the Gustav Line, truckloads of food were brought forward to the provisional battalion headquarters. From there, a small mule train carried tin buckets of once-hot turkey and mashed potatoes to the troops still on Mount Sammucro. In contravention of orders, pockets of soldiers tentatively started small fires in the lee of boulders. When the Germans didn’t respond with artillery fire, but with campfires of their own, the Texans enjoyed their Christmas dinners with light and warmth. Presents were exchanged between buddies, dry socks and cigarette lighters being the most frequently shared gifts.

Chaplains held Christmas services where they could. Most of the division had been inactive that morning—only the 1st Battalion of the 141st Infantry Regiment had been in combat^*—and many of the chaplains had held services for their units in the morning and then moved up the trails to tend to those pickets still on the mountain. Hymns could be heard through the darkness, and a mix of celebratory red and green flares in the distance reinforced that the German Army was taking the night off as well.

      Perkin and Major Spaulding had spent the remainder of their afternoon working off the nearly imperceptible effects of Sam’s bourbon by walking from outpost to outpost on the mountainside before beginning a perilous descent of Mount Sammucro in the twilight. The two officers had done it many times before in the preceding week, but it was still a challenge to manage the sharp rocks and mountain scree in the dim light. Between the exercise and the cold damp mountain air, by the time Perkin and Spaulding arrived at the headquarters, they were both absolutely famished and ready for a small Christmas celebration.

      It was a hurried affair, as there had only been time to set up a mess tent with folding tables and chairs in the shadow of the mountain. Kerosene lanterns gave the tent light and an artificial sense of warmth. A pine sapling had been cut by Spaulding’s soldiers and decorated with tinfoil strips. It was placed ceremoniously on the head table with its base wrapped in camouflage netting. No presents graced the tiny tree, but on that night it seemed that no other trappings of civilization were needed.

      In addition to the battalion staff, Major Spaulding had invited his four company commanders, one platoon leader, a noncommissioned officer, and a junior enlisted soldier from each company to share his Christmas dinner. Most of the invited officers had already eaten with their own troops before making their way to the battalion HQ, but as hunger had been ever-present over the past month, they were confident of making it through a second dinner with their commanding officer without much distress.

      The Able Company commander, Captain Ronald Ebbins, and First Lieutenant Sam Taft were the last of the company grade officers to arrive. Ebbins looked furtively around, as if he felt uncomfortable in the presence of soldiers. He nodded briefly to Major Spaulding, who was engaged in a tactical discussion with a buck sergeant from B Company, and found a seat with the commander of C Company—a roundheaded, quiet officer named Wilson.

      Sam was carrying his gas mask bag, which Perkin suspected held one or more bottles of bourbon but no gas mask. Perkin watched as Sam moved through his friends wishing them a merry Christmas and then headed off to find the senior NCO among the cooks. Perkin grinned to himself, as he knew what was on Sam’s mind.

      Five minutes later, Sam rejoined the dinner guests. Perkin watched as Sam’s eyes sought out Ebbins and then Perkin. Sam moved along the edge of the tent, avoiding interaction with his company commander, until he reached Perkin.

      “Hey, Bear!”

      “Hey, yourself. When’s chow? I’m starving.” Sam eased himself into a seat across the table from his cousin. “Damn, my legs are sore. How was your stroll across the mountain this afternoon with Bill?”

      “Not bad. I think the companies are all set and we can defend Mount Sammy if we have to, but I don’t think we will.”

      “Good.”

      Sam seemed unsettled to his cousin, and his eyes drifted toward Ebbins, who had now joined several officers by a makeshift bar. Perkin nodded toward them. “You wanna join ’em?”

      “Given my druthers, no. Let’s just have a drink here.” Sam motioned to an orphaned Italian boy from San Pietro—a newly hired, unofficial employee of Uncle Sam—and the boy brought over a bottle of wine and two glasses.

      “Having problems with Captain Courageous?”

      Sam stared at his cousin for a moment, and then laughed. “I swear. You can read me like a book. You know, it’s funny you should say that.” He shook his head, and said in a low voice, “Don’t repeat this . . . I ain’t sure but I’m afraid he’s a little gun-shy. You know . . . on the line.” Sam had lowered his voice. He despised gossip and didn’t want to spread rumors of cowardice, but talking to Perkin was different.

      “What happened?”

      “Well, about 0830 we were cleaning up the last of the grenadiers—the wounded ones who were covering the German withdrawal. My platoon was on the northwest slope, and Beams’s platoon was on my right. Frank McCarter in reserve. At first, we were moving slowly ’cause we were drawin’ some rifle fire and some artillery, so we moved up close to their fellas and they quit the heavy stuff. We took out an MG-42 nest that was mostly just makin’ noise, because the gunner had bandages over his eye and couldn’t see too well and his loader was in worse shape. We start chuckin’ grenades at ’em and they surrendered faster than a Frenchman in springtime. So we punch through ’em, and then about a hundred yards up, we see a squad hop up and start running down the trails. Kenton and his boys set off after ’em and we find ourselves almost running down the mountain in pursuit of them and some others who were decamping. They weren’t shootin’ anymore. Just runnin.’ There’s some mortar rounds comin’ down near us, but it’s just smoke to cover the withdrawal. Anyways, Ebbins gets on the radio and screams at me to stop and return to his position.”

      “Really? Why?”

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