Hell's Highway

1: The Canal Out of every 100 men, ten shouldn't even be there. / Eighty are just targets. / Nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. / Ah, but the one, / One is a warrior, / And he will bring the others back. / Heraclitus, circa 500 BC Monday, 0140 hours, September 25, 1944. Cold, wet, tired, and scared. Why, Baker thought, is war always this way? The air was heavy with moisture, and a thick fog blanketed the flat, marshy land. "Let's get on with it," Staff Sergeant Matt Baker announced with a grim smile that was more a measure of determination than anything else. Baker stood five feet, eleven inches with the build of a Notre Dame linebacker. His closely cropped brown hair and blue eyes made him look older than his twenty-one years. His youth and confidence belied the fact that he was a veteran of many skirmishes and battles. Now, he was the leader of a small, forlorn group of soldiers facing an impossible task. "A helluva way to fight a war," Corporal Tom Zanovitch answered. "But you'll do okay. Both of you. I know you will." Baker took off his helmet and handed it to Zanovitch. The helmet was emblazoned with a white "R" painted on both sides, designating that Baker was a member of the elite Reconnaissance Platoon of the 101st Airborne Division, the Screaming Eagles. The rumble of distant artillery interrupted the moment, reminding everyone that there was a bigger war going on than just their personal battle in this small section of Holland. "We'll only need our pistols for this mission," Baker added, and gave his submachine gun to Zanovitch. Zanovitch took Baker's helmet and weapon and placed them in the jeep. At the same time, Private First Class Johnny Swanson, a tough New Yorker from the 326th Airborne Engineer Battalion, took off his helmet and weapon and laid them in the jeep. War changes you, Baker thought as he reflected on his short twenty-one years of existence. It compresses time and experience. Two years ago, he was a civilian. A year ago he was a recruit. A little more than three months ago he was a rookie soldier, jumping into the dark night on D-day. As a squad leader he fought his way across the Normandy hedgerows to Carentan, leading his paratroopers with distinction but unable to save them all. He had earned a Bronze Star for valor for his leadership in the Normandy operation and lost some good friends. He had aged a lifetime in the process. Baker drew a .45 caliber pistol from the brown leather holster at his side. He carefully looked at the pistol for a moment, read the inscription on its side, and then pulled back the slide and let it jump forward. A .45 caliber round was now loaded in the chamber. "That pistol has come a long way. The colonel would be proud. Honor and courage," Zanovitch offered. Baker looked at Corporal Zanovitch for one protracted moment, searching the eyes of his fellow soldier, looking for a meaning behind the comment. Like a flare in the night, Baker's glance seemed to say: "Not nowdon't burden me with this now." "Well, in any case, good luck," Zanovitch offered, looking straight at his sergeant's face. "If it can be done, you and Swanson can do it." Baker didn't answer. He pushed the thumb safety up on the pistol, holstered the weapon, then turned to Private Swanson. "Let's move out." "I'm ready," Swanson answered. Swanson, also armed only with a pistol, slung two satchel charges over his left shoulder as he handed two demolition packs to Baker. [read more]