Free Eureka by William Diehl Page A

water in it from a rainstorm the night before. There wasn’t a spot of dry ground for miles in any direction. It made him think of Eureka. All around him was mud. Mud as demanding as quicksand, sucking a man’s legs down to the knees with every step. As he stared into the darkness, another star shell burst overhead, illuminating the grim no-man’s-land that lay between his machine-gun line and the Germans.
    From Switzerland to the English Channel, the French had lined their border with trenches and barbed wire, four rows of each separating them from Germany. Now, almost four years later, the grim sight before him defined what had become known as the Western Front.
    He was dying for a cigarette. And in the deadly silence, a song suddenly echoed in his head.
    K-K-K-Katy, K-K-K-Katy,
    You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore . . .
    It was their first day on the line. They were marching down a road past a park on the outskirts of a French town called Château Thierry, heading north toward a game preserve called Belleau Wood. One of the squads started singing, as if it were a parade. One platoon singing one song, a second company answering with another.
    K-K-K-Katy, K-K-K-Katy,
    You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore,
    When the m-m-m-moon shine’s, over the c-c-c-cowshed,
    I’ll be w-w-w-waiting at the g-g-g-garden door.
    Answered by:
    You may forget the gas and shells, parlay-voo,
    You may forget the gas and shells, parlay-voo,
    You may forget the gas and shells,
    But you’ll never forget the mademoiselles,
    Hinky-dinky parlay-voo.
    They were still singing when the Germans fired the first volley. Machine guns. His men went down like string-cut puppets.
    Barely six months ago.
    Baptism day.

    Behind him, the radiophone buzzed, its ring muzzled to prevent the enemy, a few hundred yards away, from hearing it.
    The radioman, a clean-cheeked youngster, answered it, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand. He gave the receiver to Culhane, who could feel the youngster’s hand shaking as he took it. The nineteen-year-old had developed the shakes after only two weeks on the front.
    â€œCulhane,” he whispered.
    â€œBrodie, this is Jack Grover. The major wants to have a chat. I’m on the radiophone by the five-mile post.”
    â€œStay where you are,” Brodie answered, “I’ll come to you. You’ll never get that tricycle of yours through this damn muck.”
    â€œAppreciate that,” Grover answered with a chuckle, and the radio went dead.
    â€œRelax, kid,” Culhane’s voice was calm and deep as an animal’s growl as he handed the phone back to the radioman. “Nothing’s gonna happen for three or four hours. Think about something else. Think about your girl back home or Christmas or something. Fear’s worse than the real thing.”
    He checked his watch in the masked glow of his flashlight. It was three-fifteen.
    â€œI gotta run back to HQ,” he told the kid. “Cover the stutter gun.” He grabbed his rifle, crawled out of the nest, and headed east in a crouch toward the dirt road four hundred feet away, mud snatching at his boots with every step.
    Grover was waiting on the motorcycle when Culhane emerged from the dark. His clothing and face were caked with mud, he was unshaven, and his eyes were dulled by lack of sleep.
    â€œJesus, you look like hell,” Grover said as Culhane clambered into the sidecar.
    â€œHaven’t you heard, this
is
hell,” Culhane answered. Grover wheeled around and headed back down the muddy road.

    Temporary HQ was a two-room bunker a mile from no-man’s-land. It had wood-plank floors, sandbags for walls, and the ceiling was made of fence posts and logs. The first room was occupied by the top sergeant, a beefy old-timer named Paul March. Wooden planks stretched between upended ammo boxes substituted for a desk. A radioman named Caldone was huddled over his equipment and a runner was