So Walters and others able to climb stairs became prisoners and were herded through our lines to Itterswiller, thence over the Rhine, where Walters concluded his war by helping clean up bomb damage in Munich. It was standard practice to deal with questionable bas.e.m.e.nts in such situations by tossing down a grenade first, and then asking questions. One stays alive by not taking chances. We did it, and I"m sure it was equally routine in the German infantry. Those in that bas.e.m.e.nt owe their lives to the phony "Lieutenant Remington," who preferred to take a risk rather than kill a bunch of wounded men.

One finds humanitarians in every Army and brutes as well, but the brutes tend to shy away from danger and acc.u.mulate, like slime at the bottom of the bucket, in rear echelon units. I was sprawled beside a mountain road one afternoon awaiting word to move out when two men from the regimental headquarters came along with two prisoners they were taking to the rear. They stopped for a smoke and decided that guarding their charges was onerous. They pointed their rifles at the two--boys about my own age--and ordered them to run up the hill. The two ran and were shot in the back--the only prisoners I saw murdered. We reported the incident and were told the men from regimental headquarters were arrested and stood court-martial. I hope they were shot.

I have only vague memories of long walks and truck rides for several days after Itterswiller--moving south as part of a regimental combat team sent to help the French First Armored, which didn"t seem to be doing much. My only recollection of this visit was seeing a truck loaded with ammunition blown up by a mine--producing a spectacular explosion and a gaping crater. The first week of December our First Battalion drew Regimental Reserve near some Maginot Line forts. The purpose of reserve is to give exhausted combat troops some rest. Instead we were put through a regime of close order drill--an exercise useful when troops were armed with flintlock muskets but obsolete (everywhere except West Point) since the Civil War. We also were strafed by a couple of our fighter bombers, which came in too high to hit anything. (To complete this account of our air war, the only casualty C Company suffered from air attacks was a rifleman hit in the back by an empty 20 mm sh.e.l.l casing, which came from a British Spitfire shooting at something far ahead of us.) On another occasion a single sneaky German Focke-Wulf flying just over the ground terrified a bunch of us into diving into an icy stream and after we had crossed the Zinzl River, two P-47s showed up and bombed the pontoon bridge our engineers had just installed, dumping a Sherman tank into the river. They made a second pa.s.s and the tankers shot down one of them.

Our holiday in reserve also produced the high point of the winter. Two huge tents and an oil-burning water heater were installed and Charley Company took a bath. We marched into tent one by platoon, stripped off our outerwear (field jackets, helmets, wool caps, waterproofs, snowpacks, etc.). Clad in underwear and socks now, we marched down a boardwalk through a mixture of snow and sleet into the shower tent. There we doffed underwear and socks, tossed same into bins, were handed bars of soap, and marched under a row of nozzles spewing hot water. A minute or so to soap up, a minute or so to rinse off, and we were at the other end of this process. There we were handed fresh underwear and socks, reclaimed our boots and clothing, donned same and were back out in the muddy field in well under ten minutes. It was a combination of car wash and sheep dip, and the first--and the last--bath I had between getting off the troopship at Ma.r.s.eilles and getting out of a body cast months later in the Third General Hospital. How had we smelled? Terrible, I"m sure, even worse than one would imagine since this was also our first change of underwear since leaving the U.S.A.

Here, too, came our only formal and official encounter with U.S. Army organized religion in the combat zone. A Catholic chaplain arrived, set up a makeshift altar on a tank repair rack, and all concerned--Catholic or not--were invited. On another occasion, neither formal nor official, Bob Lewis and I saw the same chaplain"s Jeep, found the priest (a captain) was saying Ma.s.s in the village church, and--with his driver--formed a congregation of three for the ceremony. Our only other chance to attend Ma.s.s came the Sunday morning before a Sunday afternoon fight to recapture Shillersdorf. We noticed villagers going into the little local church, walked in to join them, and were stopped at the door by the usher who told us in a mixture of German and gestures that we could not bring our weapons into the building--leaving us with a choice of whose rules to respect. The U.S. Army lost that one. My pistol and Bob"s tommy gun waited for us at the door.

About the Author.

TONY HILLERMAN is the former president of the Mystery Writers of America and has received its Edgar is the former president of the Mystery Writers of America and has received its Edgar and Grand Master awards. His other honors include the Center for the American Indian"s Amba.s.sador Award, the Silver Spur Award for the best novel set in the West, and the Navajo Tribe"s Special Friend Award. He lives with his wife in Albuquerque, New Mexico. and Grand Master awards. His other honors include the Center for the American Indian"s Amba.s.sador Award, the Silver Spur Award for the best novel set in the West, and the Navajo Tribe"s Special Friend Award. He lives with his wife in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

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BOOKS BY TONY HILLERMAN.

FICTION.

The Shape Shifter * Skeleton Man The Sinister Pig * Hunting Badger The First Eagle * The Fallen Man Finding Moon * Sacred Clowns Coyote Waits * Talking G.o.d A Thief of Time * Skinwalkers The Ghostway * The Dark Wind People of Darkness * Listening Woman Dance Hall of the Dead * The Fly on the Wall The Blessing Way * The Mysterious West The Boy Who Made Dragonfly (for children) The Wailing Wind NONFICTION.

Hillerman Country The Great Taos Bank Robbery Rio Grande New Mexico The Spell of New Mexico Indian Country Seldom Disappointed