The Beardless Warriors: A Novel of World War II - Softcover

Matheson, Richard

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312878311 ISBN 13: 9780312878313

Publisher: Forge Books, 2001

Synopsis

In 1944, long before he wrote such classic novels as I Am Legend and What Dreams May Come, author Richard Matheson served as an eighteen-year-old replacement in the 87th Division during the latter part of the war in Europe. His tour of duty there inspired this acclaimed novel, The Beardless Warriors, about a group of equally young and inexperienced soldiers thrown into the fury of combat.

The Beardless Warriors are a squad of teenage U.S. infantrymen fighting their way across Germany during the final weeks of the war. Under fire and in over their heads, the fresh-faced young men must grow up fast if they ever hope to see home again.

Everett Hackermeyer is the latest soldier to join the squad, "Hack," a troubled youth from a hellish family background, faces a new kind of inferno on the front lines, only to discover hidden reserves he never knew he possessed. Ironically, he doesn't come to value his own life until he runs the very real chance of losing it.

About this title

About the Author:

Richard Matheson (1926-2013) was The New York Times bestselling author of I Am Legend, Hell House, Somewhere in Time, The Incredible Shrinking Man, Now You See It..., and What Dreams May Come, among others. He was named a Grand Master of Horror by the World Horror Convention, and received the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement. He has also won the Edgar, the Spur, and the Writer's Guild awards. In 2010, he was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame. In addition to his novels Matheson wrote several screenplays for movies and TV, including several Twilight Zone episodes.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

DECEMBER 8, 1944
 
When Hackermeyer joined the second squad of the third
platoon of C Company, the first thing he heard was Sergeant Cooley blowing his top.
Hackermeyer had been sitting in a crowded truck all night and most of the morning and he ached. His legs and arms were stiff. His feet were almost numb. He hobbled to the tent of the company commander who passed him on to Assistant Platoon Sergeant Wadley. Wadley escorted him across the bivouac area, telling him what a rugged outfit he was joining.
“We’re fighting men,” said Wadley. “We ain’t got no room for yellowbellies, understand?”
Hackermeyer grunted.
“Give ’em hell’s our motto,” Sergeant Wadley said.
“Yeah,” said Hackermeyer. Wadley reminded him of his Uncle George; the pretentious authority, the unconvincing bluster.
“Another thing,” said Wadley, “I don’t want to see you dumping gear, understand? I see you dumping gear, I’ll put a bullet through your brain. Understand?”
Hackermeyer sniffed and limped along beside the barrel-chested, long-armed Wadley. Wadley’s newly shaven cheeks were red and puffy while Hackermeyer’s were colorless and flat. Wadley’s helmet liner sat too high on his skull so that his head and helmet formed a giant egg shape. Hackermeyer’s helmet rode too low. His inanimate black eyes were shadowed by the rim. Wadley moved in short, swaggering paces, one hand gripping the machine pistol hanging at his side. His expression was alertly grim. Hackermeyer plodded, his right thumb hooked beneath the sling of his rifle, his lean face emptied of expression.
As they neared the hollow where the second squad was, they began to hear the raving voice of Sergeant Cooley, who was talking to another soldier. Cooley saw them approaching and came striding over.
“What’s this about leaving our overshoes behind?” he demanded.
Wadley bristled instantly.
“Orders, Cooley,” he said in a quietly dangerous voice.
“What idiot would give orders like that?” said Cooley. “Christ’s sake, ain’t we had enough trench foot? Take away our overshoes and every man in the outfit’ll be crawling back to the aid station!”
“I don’t give the orders, Cooley!” Wadley shouted. “I just see they get followed out and, by Christ, they’ll get followed out, understand?”
Cooley turned his head and spat tobacco juice.
“Watch it, Cooley,” said Wadley in a threatening voice.
“Watch it yourself!” raged Cooley. “They know damn well it rains two days out of three up here!”
“Cooley!”
“They know damn well we got to walk through water! They know damn well we got to sleep in foxholes filled with rain! They know damn well it’s going to snow soon!”
“Goddamn it, Cooley!” bellowed Wadley.
Hackermeyer stood by sleepily while Cooley and Wadley called each other names. He had slept an hour and twenty minutes on the truck and had been taken from the replacement depot two hours after arriving there from a three-day trip across France in a crowded boxcar. He was not interested in what the sergeants were arguing about. Sniffing, he watched them with heavy-lidded eyes.
Cooley appeared to be in his middle-forties. He was a man of medium height, chunky but not oversize. Wadley loomed gorilla-like next to him. Cooley’s features were undistinguished except for his eyes which were a livid blue in the grimy, sun- and wind-burned, beard-stubbled leather of his face. He was wearing a mud-spattered overcoat without stripes. The netting stretched across his helmet was torn and there was a single, dried-up leaf under it. Across Cooley’s right shoulder hung a carbine.
Suddenly, he turned from Wadley’s apoplectic bluster and looked at Hackermeyer.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“What do you think?” sneered Wadley. “A replacement.”
Cooley chewed his tobacco reflectively. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Eighteen,” said Hackermeyer.
Cooley spat. “Swell,” he said.
He turned to Wadley.
“I ain’t running a rifle squad,” he said. “I’m running a kindergarten.”
“T-S,” said Wadley through his protuberant teeth. He turned away, looking ominous.
“We’re not through talking,” said Cooley.
Wadley glared across his shoulder. “Maybe you think we’re not through, but we’re through, understand?”
“You tell Captain Miller for me—”
“I ain’t telling nobody nothing!” Wadley raged. “And, by Christ, them overshoes better be stacked high before we leave this area! Understand?”
“Up yours,” said Cooley.
Wadley spun around, red cheeks mottling. He looked at Cooley with assassin’s eyes.
“Something on your mind?” asked Cooley.
Breath hissed out between Wadley’s clenching teeth.
“Watch your step, Cooley,” he warned. “Just watch your step, understand?”
Cooley spat tobacco juice. Wadley glared at him, fingers whitening on the handle of his machine pistol. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away. After two strides, he looked across his shoulder.
“Remember what I said!” he ordered. He glowered at Hackermeyer. “You too, soldier!”
Cooley turned to Hackermeyer. “What’d he tell you?”
“Don’t dump gear,” said Hackermeyer.
“That’s up to you,” said Cooley. “Just make sure you don’t dump that entrenching tool and maybe you’ll see Christmas. Where you from?”
“Brooklyn,” said Hackermeyer.
“When were you drafted?”
“June.”
Cooley exhaled dispiritedly. “And here you are,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Cooley rubbed his face tiredly. “They must think this is a Boy Scout jamboree,” he mumbled, looking around. “Dave!” he called.
The soldier to whom he’d been talking looked up from a book. Cooley beckoned to him and the soldier stood and came walking over. He was tall and well built with a pleasantly handsome face.
“Replacement,” said Cooley. “What’s your name, son?”
“Hackermeyer.”
“This is Corporal Lippincott,” said the sergeant. “My name’s Cooley.”
Hackermeyer nodded twice, his face impassive. Cooley sighed.
“Take him over to Wendt,” he said.
“All right.” Lippincott looked at Hackermeyer. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Take over in case anything comes up while I’m gone,” said Cooley.
“Where you going?” asked Lippincott.
“To see Miller. This overshoes crap has got to cease.”
“Why knock yourself out?” asked Lippincott.
“That dumbass of a colonel has got to see some light,” said Cooley, starting off. Lippincott shook his head and smiled without amusement.
“Let’s go,” he said again.
They started walking.
“Something wrong with your feet?” asked Lippincott, noticing Hackermeyer’s limp.
“Cold,” said Hackermeyer.
“Better warm them up,” said Lippincott.
“Yeah.”
“Try to keep your feet dry,” Lippincott told him. “Otherwise, you’ll wind up getting trench foot. I don’t suppose you’ve had any combat experience.”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Lippincott nodded gravely.
“How many eighteen-year-olds in the squad?” asked Hackermeyer, remembering Cooley’s remark that he was running a kindergarten.
Lippincott thought a moment. “Four including you,” he said.
“Out of twelve?”
“Ten,” said Lippincott. “We’re short.”
They walked up to a short soldier who was lying on a spread-out raincoat, head pillowed by his helmet. A cigarette jutted up from his chapped lips and his brown, woolen cap was pulled down over his eyes. His features were stubby, his beard a reddish-blond fuzz. He had a brown towel wrapped around his neck for a scarf.
“Wendt,” said Lippincott.
Wendt lifted the edge of his cap from one eye and looked up groggily. “Uh?” he muttered.
“This is Hackmeyer,” said Lippincott.
“Hackermeyer.”
Lippincott nodded once. “Wendt can tell you most anything you want to know,” he said. “We expect to move out tomorrow morning.” He patted Hackermeyer’s shoulder. “Glad you’re with us,” he said.
Wendt watched sleepily while Hackermeyer unslung his rifle and pack and sank down with a tired sigh. Hackermeyer blew his nose, then started to take off his overshoes.
“Seen much combat?” asked Wendt.
“No.”
“Oh.” Wendt blew out smoke which faded into the cold air.
While Hackermeyer rubbed his feet, he saw a bazooka and rocket shells beside Wendt. “You a bazooka man?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Wendt. “I got the only one left in the squad. You can lug the shells. I got a buddy did it but they’re using him for company messenger.” He yawned. “Old Foley,” he said.
“He’s old?” asked Hackermeyer.
Wendt snickered. “Eighteen,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Wendt snickered cracklingly. “Cooley must have dropped his teeth,” he said. “That makes four of us now.”
“Why aren’t there twelve in the squad?” asked Hackermeyer.
“There was,” said Wendt.
“Killed?”
“One was. One was wounded.” Wendt coughed. “Hell, we’re in good shape,” he said. “There’s a squad in the second platoon had only one man left.”
“What did they do with him?”
Wendt shrugged. “Probably shot him so it came out even,” he said.
Hackermeyer nodded.
“You a Jew?” asked Wendt.
“No.”
“We got Goldmeyer in the squad and he’s a Jew. I thought maybe you were.”
“He eighteen?”
“Uh-uh,” said Wendt, yawning. “Me, Foley, and Guthrie.”
“Guthrie?”
“He’s from Los Angeles. He’s nuts. His old man writes movies.”
“Yeah?”
“You see that movie where the Marine kills off the whole Jap army practically?”
“No.”
“Well, he wrote it, Guthrie’s old man.”
Wendt blew out smoke.
“What a life,” he said. “Screwing movie stars and raking in the loot. Boy.”
“Why doesn’t the sergeant like eighteen-year-olds?” Hackermeyer asked.
“He don’t like nineteen-year-olds either,” said Wendt.
“Why?”
“He thinks we don’t know what we’re doing.” Wendt yawned prodigiously.
“Who else is in the squad?” asked Hackermeyer.
“There’s Guthrie, me, Foley. Goldmeyer. Lazzo. Old Bill Riley—he’s really old—thirty-nine. Corporal Lippincott, Schumacher, and the Sarge.” “How old is he?”
“The Sarge?”
“Yeah.”
“A hundred and twenty probably. I don’t know. Fifty, maybe. I suppose about thirty-eight.”
Wendt turned his head slowly and looked at Hackermeyer’s gear. “Might as well lighten up,” he said. “Huh?”
“Dump some of that crap. Cut your overcoat to officer length. Get rid of your gas mask—you could use the bag for carrying stuff. Toss out your blankets, shelter half, pegs, rope.”
“Sergeant Wadley said—”
“Screw him,” said Wendt.
Hackermeyer knew he wouldn’t be able to throw away any equipment. It had always been pounded into him by his uncle to take zealous care of everything given to him. Even though he’d hated his uncle, the habit was ingrained. Without thinking about it, he took spiritless care of all possessions and never wasted food.
He glanced at Wendt, who had pulled the woolen cap over his eyes again. Then he looked at the tree a few yards away, its dark twigs reaching upward like charred skeleton fingers. It reminded him of the tree in front of his uncle’s house. He thought about the letter he’d gotten from his Cousin Clara, two weeks before, demanding again that he have a monthly pay allotment sent to her and her mother. Clara was just the way Uncle George had been. No matter how poorly they’d treated Hackermeyer, they had always expected gratitude for taking him into their house.
Hackermeyer sniffed tiredly. Well—perhaps it was just as well he’d always been treated lousy. By now, he was used to things being rotten. Maybe combat wouldn’t bother him at all.
“What are you doing?” asked Wendt. He had just awakened.
“Changing my socks,” said Hackermeyer.
“What for?”
“Keep my feet dry,” said Hackermeyer.
Wendt made the snickering noise. It sounded as if he had a congestion in his sinuses.
“Another Schumacher,” he said, taking out a cigarette. “He’s always changing his socks too. He even changes his underwear.”
He shook his head and blew out smoke, tossing the match away.
“Cleans his Ml every day,” he said. “Cleans his bayonet. Polishes his mess kit. Even shaves! And you should see his foxholes—they’re like two-room apartments! Screwiest nut I ever saw.”
“How old is he?”
“Who knows? Thirty, forty.”
Hackermeyer put his shoes back on, tied the laces firmly and buckled the legging straps. He started tugging on his overshoes.
“Might as well leave ’em off,” said Wendt. “They ain’t going to let us keep them.”
“I know,” said Hackermeyer. He put the overshoes on anyway. He’d take them off when he was ordered.
“You know where we’re going?” he asked, after a while.
“Some city, I suppose,” said Wendt.
Hackermeyer blew his nose.
“We go alone?” he asked.
“We get tanks sometimes,” said Wendt.
“That’s good,” said Hackermeyer.
“Good, nothing,” said Wendt. “You can hear the bastards a mile away. You’re near a tank, you get shelled even if the Krauts can’t see you.”
Wendt stretched his legs, then winced and pressed at his side. “Lousy bellyache,” he said. He relaxed and rubbed gingerly at his side. Then he reached under his pants and scratched his groin.
“Lousy crabs,” he said.
“You have crabs?” asked Hackermeyer.
“I got everything,” said Wendt. He turned his head and looked at Hackermeyer. “You ever seen a crab?” he asked.
Hackermeyer shook his head.
“If I can find one,” said Wendt. His face took on an absorbed expression as he searched. “Wish I was a crab sometimes,” he said. “Nice and warm down here. Lots of places for houses too.”
Finally he sighed. “Aw, you can’t catch them,” he said. He grimaced and drew in a quick breath. “Look like real crabs though,” he said. “Nearly dropped my teeth the first time I picked one off. I thought it was a scab. Put it on my thumb and the little bastard crawled!”
Hackermeyer wondered if there were any other questions he should ask about combat. He felt he should make some effort to prepare himself.
“Yeah, I got everything,” said Wendt. “Had the runs halfway across France. I remember we was in a forty-and-eight, like sardines. It didn’t stop very much so Lazzo and Goldmeyer had to hold me out the door.” Wendt crossed his arms and shivered.
“Yeah, I got everything,” he said. “Probably got the clap too.”
He yawned and closed his eyes. Shortly after, bubbly snores began pulsing in his throat.
Hackermeyer took out his crossword puzzle book and started working on the puzzle he’d been doing since early November. He often thought how odd it was that he derived pleasure from crossword puzzles. He’d never cared much for taxing his brain. His report cards had been grotesque. If he hadn’t left high school when he did, he’d still be a sophomore. Damn stupid, inattentive bungler; that was what Uncle George had always called him. Well, he’d only gotten bad grades to make Uncle George angry. He wasn’t that stupid.
Hackermeyer’s eyes drifted out of focus. Not that stupid at all. Actually, sort of shrewd, possessing a cold, calculating sharpness. He imagined himself in combat, moving smoothly, cunningly. He saw himself fling downward on the ground, roll over fast, bullets spitting into the earth nearby, missing him completely. He came up, fast, eyes slitted, rifle barking. One German down, two, then three. They jolted under the impact of his deadly aimed bullets. They plunged over dead. He leaped up, sprinted, weaving, across the field, eluding bullets like an all-star quarterback eluding tacklers; fast and sure and clever. He flung down, jerked out a grenade pin with his teeth, reared up, fired it off like Bobby Feller—right down the gullet of a tank cannon. Boom! One Nazi tank kaput. Shouts of flabbergasted surprise from the other members of the squad. The Congressional Medal of Honor is awarded to Everett Harold Hackermeyer for distinguished...
The sneeze brought him back. Hackermeyer looked around the field, startled, his heart thudding. I’ll show them, he thought. But he knew it wasn’t so. How could he be any good in combat? He’d never been good at anything else.
Hackermeyer sucked...

About this edition

• Publisher: Forge Books
• Publication date: 2001
• ISBN 10: 0312878311
• ISBN 13: 9780312878313
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 320