|
|
|
|
By Jess Nevins
[rated R for language]
Stan Lee Presents : The greatest heroes of the post World War II era...Captain America, Sentinel of Liberty...The Whizzer, Fastest Man Alive...Miss America, Strong and Beautiful Heroine...Sub-Mariner, Prince of Atlantis...and the Human Torch, the fiery android...they are The All-Winners Squad!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
You've seen them, I'm sure, the ones who march in the Veteran's Day parade. The old men who walk in the parade alongside the Vietnam veterans. And you've probably wondered what they're doing there - if you've noticed them at all.
Take a good look. At them. No, don't just glance at them. Look at them.
They're survivors, from a war that's passing out of the public consciousness - the first World War, the "war to end all wars." Oh, it's not as bad as the Korean War, which nobody seems to think about to begin with, but it's not good, either. These men put their lives on the line, in some truly hellish circumstances, and people, when reminded today of their sacrifices, say, "Oh, yeah, we fought in a war back then, too, didn't we?"
Look at them. Look at their missing arms, and legs, and think about how primitive medical facilities were in 1917 and 1918. Look at their scars, and think about how many veterans of that war never made it out of V.A. hospitals. Look at their numbers in the parade, and think about how there are fewer of them marching every year.
1917 was another age - literally. The common, shared assumptions of the average man and women were all different, then. Concepts such as "sacrifice" and "patriotism" and "duty" weren't seen as laughable in 1917; they mattered to people - enough so that men were willing to go off, in large numbers, to other countries, to die and be maimed, just so that their country, and the world itself, would not have to suffer through another war ever again.
That war was hell. Literal hell. Battlefields were meatgrinders that chewed up whole divisions and spat them out. And Belleau Wood was one of the worst...
Morning came with the usual sound of artillery, from not too far away, and the thick, clinging fog, and with the moist heat of early summer, the stench of gunpowder and unwashed bodies and blood and feces and decomposing corpses, all mingled together in a gut-wrenching stench. B Squad of the Marine Brigade of 2nd Division was somewhat used to it, though; they'd been here for two weeks, and constantly been exposed to it, and in that time the human body can grow accustomed to almost anything. The Americans of B Squad had been green when they came into the woods, but now they weren't. Now they were ready for anything, and used to everything.
Sergeant Daly snarled at his men, "Get up, you happy sacks of shit! We've got a job to do!" The Marines grumbled and moaned as they creaked and pried themselves from the mud and filth in the pit they'd crashed out in, and began to stagger around, to the temporary latrines they'd dug and to where they were keeping what was left of their supplies of food.
Private Wojhewoycz said, "Oh, man, Sarge, I was just dreaming about the South Side - why'd you have to wake me up?"
Private O'Houlihan said, "Ohhh, my back...I ain't never leavin' Southie once I get back to Bahston."
Sergeant Daly snarled, "Maybe you'd like breakfast in fuckin' bed, too? You two seem so eager to work yer jaws, you can go relieve Johnson and Wilson up front! Now, any of the rest a'you grunts wanna complain? Yer Marines - that's good enough for any man! Now eat yer breakfasts and prepare to move out!"
Sergeant Daly was privately pleased, however. The Germans had fallen back the day before, after three days straight of close fighting in the woods, and had shown no signs of renewing their attacks, and that had given Daly's men the chance to actually get some sleep. They'd been exhausted, some almost babbling with fatigue and maintaining death grips on their Enfields and Springfields, and it had been only a few seconds after Daly had sent the two most alert men forward and told his men to get some sleep that they'd actually fallen asleep. Daly would never admit it, but even he was feeling the strain, and he'd been a Marine in the Philippines. As Daly never tired of reminding his men, these German faggots were nothing compared to the Filipinos; any teenaged Moro would eat two squads of Krauts with his bare hands and ask for more, with ketchup, and a full-grown Moro warrior would have killed a German division just for practice.
His men had slept for almost fifteen hours, and they were looking much, much better. Daly was happy about that. They were making the big push today, and he wanted them ready for it.
Wilson and Johnson made their way back to the line and threw sloppy salutes at Sergeant Daly. Daly nodded at Johnson, "Go grab some chow." Wilson started to move with him, but Daly said, "Not you, jigaboo." Wilson shot him a big, fake grin and said, "Oh, yassuh, Marse Daly, I'se jus' so happy to be heah - why, next thing I'se know, they be lettin' me date yo' sistuh!"
Daly briefly smiled and said, "Alright, enough of that, Private. What's your take on the heinies - are they going to be trying anything today?"
(Daly had originally been deeply opposed to allowing one of the coloureds on his squad, and he'd admit that he'd given Wilson a hard time at first, but he'd finally seen, and reluctantly admitted to himself, that Wilson was a good soldier. Those who knew Daly would have been startled to hear that assessment, as it was the highest praise he could give a man in uniform, and the idea of him saying that about one of the coloureds would have greatly startled them. The other men in the squad had taken a while longer to realize, and then admit, that fact, but Wilson was the best under fire of any of them, and had saved everyone's life, including Daly, at least once, and now Wilson was treated about as well as any coloured could expect. Daly had spat the first time he'd heard the Negroes talking about integrating his beloved Marines - coloureds, fighting alongside white men? Not fuckin' likely! - but if they were all like Wilson, well, Daly would be willing to have a whole squad of nothing but them. Whoever had had this idea up in command deserved a commendation.) (Daly wasn't sure where this idea had come from; his Colonel had took him aside personally to give Daly the order. Rumor had it that old Black Jack Pershing was behind it - him and his new advisor, Mr. Kang. Daly didn't know why they wanted Wilson on his squad, and it wasn't his job to ask - he was supposed to shut up and soldier, and that's what he was going to do)
Wilson's smile disappeared and he said, in a quiet voice, "Sarge, them kraut motherfuckers gon' be comin' at us strong today."
Daly casually glanced around him; the others were digging in to their canned rations and complaining, in loud voices, about having to eat chipped beef again. Daly looked at Wilson and said, in a low voice, "What makes you say that?"
Wilson turned around and looked behind him, through the beech and firs, to where he'd spent the night on watch. He looked back at Daly and shrugged and said, "I could hear them movin' around a bit, and I could hear them talkin', but mostly I just knows it."
Daly looked at him for several seconds, then nodded briefly and clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Right. Go grab some food - we're making a big push at 11:15, so get ready for that."
Wilson nodded and said, "Got it...uh, Sarge." And he threw another sloppy salute and went back to the foxhole, where he started digging into his rations; Daly noted that he was ignoring Stankowicz's "Got any watermelon in there?" and Shannon's "Maybe we could get you some ribs to go with your chitlins?" comments today, and frowned - usually he'd have something to say about Stankowicz's mother. Not today, though. Daly frowned; if Wilson wasn't up to dealing with the polack and the mick, he must be worried.
Daly stood on the edge of the pit the squad had slept in - they'd found an enormous, deep crater, no doubt caused by a mother-huge mine or series of shells - one leg on the lip of the pit, on the fallen log at the top of the pit, leaned his arm on his leg and had a long, contemplative smoke, peering ahead, into the dense, stationary fog. The fog and mist were going to make attacking the German positions bad, but at least it was keeping their snipers from doing more than firing off the occasional shot.
Up ahead - a couple of hundred yards, maybe - the Germans were sitting on top of their hill, getting ready for an attack. The American Marine Brigade had pushed them back in three successive attacks, and today was going to be the fourth, and Command was confident that this would be the one that would push the krauts all the way out of the wood - at least, that's what was in the note that the runner had brought last night. They'd done well so far; they'd managed to blunt the German drive, and the American Marine Brigade had done themselves proud, showing these weak-kneed frogs what an American fighting man was capable of. Daly was pleased that his squad hadn't wavered when they marched on the German position the day before last, and that they'd thrown back the Germans so strongly when they'd attacked yesterday; what little he'd seen of the German faces had been impressed.
Trouble was, this time Daly's squad was going to have to attack again. Which meant still another run through a couple of hundred yards of close-packed trees, with the Germans concentrating their fire on them, and then up the hill to where the Germans were now dug in. They'd been lucky, before, and made the hill without taking too many casualties, but Daly knew that that luck wouldn't last. And suddenly Daly's old wounds began hurting - the long scar on his side where a Moro's kris had bounced off his ribs, the one on his thigh where a Filipino woman had sunk a spear into him (he'd sworn she wasn't paying attention to him as his squad had marched through the village), and the one along his temple (one of Villa's men had gotten off a lucky, or good, shot a couple of years back - not lucky or good enough, obviously, for only an inch to the left and Daly would have bought the farm) - and Daly's mood sank. He didn't much believe in omens, but every time his old war wounds throbbed like this, something bad was going to happen.
Daly took one last drag on his cigarette and flipped it into the underbrush ahead of him. Oh, well, he thought to himself. If he had to die, Belleau Wood would be a good place to do it.
15 minutes later a runner appeared at the rear of the squad, handed Sergeant Daly a quick salute and a hand-written note, and then left, running at a high speed. Daly's stomach tensed, seeing the messenger take to his heels - runners, as a rule, weren't cowards. Daly had talked with some officers, both British and American, who felt that runners were all cowards, thinking that they were just men who were too scared to pick up a gun, but that command had somehow found a use for anyhow. Daly knew that wasn't true; he'd been in the Marines for thirty years, man and boy, and he'd learned - the hard way - that there were many kinds of courage and bravery. There was the courage needed to pick up a gun or knife and kill your fellow man; and there was the courage it took to defy an order from your superior officer and say, "No, sir, I will not `pacify that village.'" (Daly had failed that test of his courage, years ago, and still had nightmares about what he'd done to those poor Filipinos, all in the name of following his orders) There was the courage required to charge an armed position, with only your gun, your helmet, and the men beside you - and then there was the courage required to run towards a position under heavy fire, all by yourself, just to deliver a message.
That was a runner's courage, and even if some other sergeants and lieutenants and colonels didn't recognize it, Daly did. Same with medics - except that they didn't have any weapons, and they were going into places where the fire was the heaviest. Daly thought that took balls so big that the Statue of Liberty couldn't lift them.
And if whatever was in the note was bad enough to make a runner bolt...then Daly knew things were pretty bad. He unfolded the note and quickly scanned it, then threw it to the ground, checked his watch, and dashed towards his men, who leapt to their feet when they saw him running at them.
He shouted, "Alright, grab yer guns and get ready to move - we've got four minutes til the shelling starts."
The men dropped their half-empty tins of food and scrambled for their guns. Private Steinberg said, "Damn it, Sarge, you said we weren't moving until after 11 o'clock!"
Daly snarled, "Shaddup. New orders."
The others groaned but followed Daly as he ran to the forward position, near Wojhewoycz and O'Houlihan. They threw themselves into the pit and waited for the whistles. Daly felt his stomach churn and his heart pound - the familiar feelings he got every time he was about to go into action.
Suddenly from above and in front of him he and the other Marines heard the familiar buzz of a plane engine. He looked up, but could see nothing through the thick fog. The chatter of the engine suddenly grew very loud and close, and all the men ducked as plane flew by, very close, and a harsh wind blew across their faces. Then the noise of the engine faded away.
Wilson looked quizzically at Daly, who shrugged and said, "Don't ask me." Steinberg said, "Flying at treetop level, right before the artillery starts up? Some farkakte pilot, out looking for Udet or von Reitberger."
Then Daly and the other men heard the airplane again, this time from behind them, no more than 50 yards away, and near ground level. The engine roared up the register, and then died away, and Wilson glanced at Daly and said, "They's landing." Daly nodded and said, "Take Gottfriedson and Smith to check it out," and the three, crouched low to avoid being hit by either German snipers or shrapnel (where was the artillery?), ran to the rear. There was a field back about 40 yards, Daly thought; that's where they must have landed. But why?
Daly counted the seconds. At 07:30 he paused, whistle in mouth, waiting to hear a whistle from his left, right, or behind him - that would be the signal to move forward, and would precede the artillery barrage by a few seconds.
Nothing happened. Daly looked at his men, who crouched expectantly and looked at him, waiting for the sound of his whistle. Seconds ticked by, and Daly began looking around, half-expecting to see a runner appear out of the fog, to tell him that they were really going forward at 11:15, as originally planned, and that the change in orders had been a mistake.
He heard bodies approaching - several of them - from the direction in which he'd sent Wilson. He swivelled around and drew his Colt and pointed it at the sound of the bodies, and the rest of the squad quickly followed suit. Then he heard Wilson's voice, "Uh...sergeant? Got some...uh...visitors for you."
Wilson, Gottfriedson, and Smith emerged from the heavy mist - followed by the others. When the men in his squad saw who Wilson had brought with him, they couldn't help but raise a cheer.
It was the Freedom's Five. Daly was silent with surprise for several moments, and simply stared, slack-jawed, as his men leapt from the pit and crowded around the Five, peppering them with questions and asking them for autographs. Daly was surprised - even shocked - on several levels. First, that the Freedom goddamned Five was standing in front of him - that they'd seemingly come all the way to Belleau Wood just for his squad. Daly wasn't sure whether to be flattered and honored, or suspicious. Surprised, second, because the Five weren't usually seen up at the front. In fact, Daly had only heard of them fighting the Boche alongside regular soldiers on three- four - maybe six occasions, all told. Usually the Five stayed in London or Paris, fighting saboteurs and spies behind the lines. Sometimes they made their way to the front - but not often. That was part of Daly's third level of surprise, mixed with resentment. The bright colors of the costumes of the five - how often had they come down into the mud and the muck and the blood and gotten their boots and capes dirty? Daly knew that his thinking and feeling this way was somewhat hypocritical of him, since he'd only been here, with the rest of the American troops, for a few weeks, and he didn't have near the experience in this war that the Brits and frogs did - but it had been a hellish couple of weeks, with some of the fiercest fighting that Daly could remember. And what were these mystery men doing during all of this? Lounging around in Paris, eating hot meals three times a day, sleeping on feather beds, and enjoying the favors of whatever French doxy they chose, no doubt.
Daly knew that the five were only human, after all, and that the efforts of four men and one boy weren't going to make a large difference in the outcome of the war, and that if those five were shot, they'd bleed, and maybe die, and that wouldn't do anyone any good - especially not these days, where so much else seemed to be going against the British and French and in favor of the Germans and the Austrians, and both the soldiers and the civilians needed someone to cheer for. But it still pissed Daly off that these five were walking around like they were something special while ordinary men were dying by the hundreds and thousands.
Then Daly saw the other two figures appear from out of the mist, from behind the Five, and he knew that something really strange was going on. The woman was dressed in a man's business suit, complete with slacks. Daly supposed he should have been shocked - a woman, wearing pants? Everyone knew he what kind of woman dressed like that - but he was beyond caring about things like that. What Daly did care about was that she had curves in all the right places and that she had a beautiful face and shoulder-length straight black hair. Strangely, she had one long strand of bright red - almost orange - hair, right in front. Daly was somewhat surprised that she wasn't wrinkling her nose up at the stench - Daly and his men had been out in the field for a long time, and none of them had come anywhere near a bath or shower - or at the dead bodies near the pit.
The man was dressed in a rumpled suit and tie - very rumpled. He looked like he'd been ridden hard and put away wet, as Daly's father would have said. He raised one shaking hand to his lips and lit a cigarette and said, almost to himself, "I bloody hate flying." He then looked around, saw Daly, and said, "Sergeant, may we speak with you, please?"
Daly nodded and said, in a voice loud enough to carry across the pit and override what his men were saying to the Five, "Sure, but you'd best get your head down before some kraut sniper gets lucky and takes your face off."
That did the trick, getting the attention of everyone (especially the Phantom Eagle, who seemed almost to glare at Daly), and they all jumped into the pit and resumed their positions. (Daly noted in passing that the Five didn't have any compunctions about wallowing in the mud like common doughboys, and that even Sir goddamned Steel was getting dirty, the shine on his armor be damned. Well. Good for them.)
The man and the woman dropped into the pit next to him. The man stuck out his hand and said, in a working-class London accent, "I'm Detective Sergeant Wilson, and this is--" The woman smiled winningly and said, in voice equal parts upper-class English nobility and low purr, (Daly felt himself becoming aroused, just hearing her voice - God, it had been so long since he'd been with a woman...) "You can call me Hildegard Bingen, Sergeant Daly."
Daly shook the man's hand and frowned at the woman. "Hildegard...that's a German name, ain't it?"
She smiled and shook her head, "Old English, in my case."
Wisdom said, "Oy - leave off, Hildegard. You can shag him later, if you want - we've got business!"
She turned a distinctly unamused look on him and said, "Wisdom, you are a vile man, and not nearly so amusing as you suppose."
Wisdom took a drag off his cigarette and said, "Yeah, well, I'd guess you'd know from vile men, wouldn't you?"
Daly jumped into the gap before Bingen could respond. "I'm real happy for you both, but can I ask just what the hell you two are doing here? We're supposed to be going over - we were supposed to be charging the kraut defenses five minutes ago. This ain't no place for civilians."
Wisdom nodded and flicked his cigarette over the side of the pit. "Yeah, well, that's what we're here about, mate." He turned around, looking at the other side of the pit, where the Five were talking with the rather animated Marines, and said, to the Five, "If you lot are done soaking up the hero-worship, why not come over here so we can tell the good Sergeant our reason for coming down to this God-forsaken abattoir?"
The Five shook hands with the Marines and crossed the pit and crouched down beside Daly. Wisdom began to speak when Daly stopped him and said, "Hold on a sec." Daly checked and saw that O'Houlihan and Wojhewoycz were still in position, then gestured Wilson over. Daly said, "This is Private Wilson. He's my second, and whatever you tell me, you can tell him."
The Five looked at each other in surprise, but Bingen nodded and Wisdom stuck out his hand, which Wilson took. "Welcome aboard, mate." Wisdom then looked at the Phantom Eagle and said, "You'd best go first, then, coz I don't think he's going to want to listen to me for very long if I start off."
The Phantom Eagle nodded once, in a clipped way, and said, "Sergeant, I'm the Phantom Eagle. These are the--"
Daly growled, "I know who you are, Eagle. What I want to know is what you're doing in my trench when I'm supposed to be attacking the goddamned Germans?!"
Wisdom snorted. The Eagle glared at Daly and said, "I'm getting to that, Sergeant; I'll excuse your language, since you're obviously under some strain." (Behind him Daly heard Wilson mutter, "Goddamn cracker," which the Eagle ignored). The Eagle said, "I'm afraid we were behind the last-minute change in plans, Sergeant. The push against the Germans isn't supposed to start until 11:15, as originally planned. We wanted your men ready for when we arrived."
Daly sighed, holstered his Colt, said to his men, "Stand down," and then shook his head, muttering, "Goddamned rear echelon mother--" The Eagle overrode him and went on. "We have a special mission for you and your squad, Sergeant. I have orders from General Pershing himself that supersede your previous orders. I can show them to you, if you'd like."
Daly said, "No need - guys like you never need to make anything up, cause you always get the orders your way."
Union Jack said, in a cultured English accent, "Sergeant, please just hear us out. We know this is a strain on you and your men, and we appreciate you bearing with us." Sir Steel, his voice echoing weirdly from within his helmet, said, "Verily, Sergeant, we do appreciate your sacrifice, but you must needs listen to our words, for tis a matter of great moment that we do face now."
Daly shook his head and said, "Whatever. You were saying, Vulture?"
Phantom Eagle frowned and said, "Eagle. Phantom Eagle. Sergeant."
Daly heard Wilson mutter, "Phantom asshole, more like." This time both Wisdom and Bingen chuckled quietly. The Eagle sniffed and ignored them, saying, "We've - that is, the Five have been fighting the agents of the Kaiser for the past four years. I'm sure you know all about that, Sergeant. Our main opponent for the last year has been Baron Blood. You've heard of him?"
Sergeant Daly snorted. "No, sorry, I've been busy here - had some German troops to take care of. I'm sure you know all about that. Eagle."
The Phantom Eagle glared, openly hostile, at Daly, who returned the stare. Finally Bingen said, in a soft voice, "Eagle." The Phantom Eagle broke off the stare and said, "Sergeant, I think, once this is done, you and I should perhaps have a meeting, just the two of us."
Daly said, "Looking forward to it. Eagle."
The Phantom Eagle said, "Good. Baron Blood is a spy and a killer, Sergeant, who has caused immeasurable death and misery, and we have reason to believe that he's here, in Belleau Wood. So we've come to catch him and kill him."
Sergeant Daly said, "Yeah, well, fine. You wanna walk into this place and commit suicide, that's down to you. But why bring my squad into it? And why are Wisdom and Bingen here?"
Crimson Cavalier said, "You see, mon ami, Baron Blood, he is not like ze ozzer agents of les Boches. He is le vampair."
Sergeant Daly, heart sinking, said, "What? He's--what?"
Union Jack slowly nodded and said, "You heard right, Sergeant. He's a vampire."
Private Wilson said, "Aw, man...this is fucked up."
Author's Notes:
"We're not making a sacrifice. Jesus, you've seen this war. We are the sacrifice."
See the notes for next issue.
Next issue: "I have a rendezvous with Death"
