The Chameleon Soldier: NOW AS AN ALIEN BLUE HE CANNOT DIE. (6 page)

“Sergeant, it’s very dangerous to be out here,” one of the alarmed soldiers exclaimed.

Killian chuckled, trying to put the soldiers at ease. He spoke to them in German. “Seems pretty quiet, I think the French and Americans are hiding in fear of our superior forces.”

The two soldiers laughed.

“But still, Sergeant, its terrible weather to be out for a walk,” said one of them.

“Back home I used to like to walk in the rain. It’s peaceful, not like what’s coming, yeah?”

“That’s for sure. At midnight we’ll start to give them Frenchies and Doughboys a whipping.”

“That we will, boys,” Killian agreed as he walked off beyond their trench.

As he moved inland he saw that the area was a beehive of activity. All the German soldiers around him were busy working. Some were constructing twenty to thirty-man canvas boats and rafts. Others were piling ammunition next to huge Krupp 42cm siege guns or cleaning and loading machine guns. Killian was awed by the number of weapons. He continued to explore for about a quarter of a mile, then circled back. The rain had begun to let up so he stopped, and chatted with three soldiers who were constructing a large wood raft. They had their field helmets with them, indicating their readiness for combat.

“Just like a woodsman going hunting on a raft,” Killian quipped.

One of the soldiers stood up. “Yeah, Sergeant, I’m a big game hunter.”

They all laughed.

Another of the soldiers held up a pair of earplugs. “You have your earplugs for the bombardment at midnight, Sergeant?”

“Yes, of course,” said Killian, patting his coat pocket.

“We’re going to put on a great show, Sergeant, I’ve got my machine gun oiled, loaded and ready for hunting,” grinned a big-nosed German.

They all laughed again.

“Very good, very good, give ’em hell,” he told them, waving and moving on.

While he had been walking around, Killian had noted that the majority of the soldiers were not regulars, but a large contingent of specialized stormtroopers. He also noticed large piles of grenades heaped next to the boats and rafts.

When he returned to his own hidden boat, Killian managed to avoid the two guards he had encountered earlier. He pulled the canvas boat from the bushes, and paddled away. He transformed on his way to rendezvous with his two men. They loaded the three canvas boats into the waiting truck, and headed to headquarters. On the way the three soldiers compared notes about what they had seen and heard.

When Killian arrived at headquarters, a corporal escorted him to the colonel’s office. The colonel was not alone.

“Major Liddle,” said the colonel to the officer standing next to him, “this is Sergeant Killian Kilkenny, whom I’ve been telling you about.”

Killian gazed at the major, startled.

“Glad to see you safely back, Sergeant,” the colonel continued. “What did you and your men find out?”

“It’s more urgent than you had heard, Colonel. There’s going to be an assault. The Germans are planning an all-out bombardment starting at midnight.”

“My God, at midnight?”

“Yes sir. They have a tremendous build-up of Krupp 42cm siege guns and machine guns, and have built a score of twenty to thirty-man boats, and rafts loaded with machine guns and grenades. In addition, the regulars have been reinforced by hundreds of specially trained stormtroopers”

“Jesus! Krupp guns, rafts and stormtroopers, how’d you ever get close enough to see that, Sergeant?” asked the major.

“Because of the rainy conditions, I was able to land my small boat at a few different locations, and crawl up the embankment to see what the Germans were doing, sir.”

“Quite amazing!” the colonel exclaimed. “Were you able to ascertain where their main attack is going to be?”

“From the information from my two men, and my own knowledge, they’re coming across the Marne River from Dormans to Château-Thierry. Their main force is aimed at the area from south of Mézy to here at Château-Thierry.”

The colonel pointed to a map on the wall. “So the 28th Division in Dormans, the 38th in Mézy, the rest of our Third Army Division, and a wing of the French Third, and Fifth Army here in the Château-Thierry area are in for the brunt of the attack?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct,” agreed Killian.

The colonel looked at Major Liddle. “We don’t have much time. It’s already 21:30. The bombardment is only two and a half hours away. Major, you need to call an officers’ meeting, and inform the French commander of our confirmation of his intelligence of a pending onslaught.”

“Yes sir.”

“Sergeant Kilkenny, excellent work; you and your men are to be commended.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Killian as he and the major saluted, and turned to leave the office.

When Major Liddle and Killian were in the outer office, the major stopped and looked at Killian.

“That was a superb piece of intelligence-gathering, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your first name is Killian?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“It’s an unusual first name. I heard that name a hundred times while I was growing up. My father, the late major, used to talk about a Sergeant Killian Muldoon. He’d talk about the extraordinary prowess the sergeant had in reconnaissance. He said it was almost unnatural. It was something which bothered him greatly. He couldn’t get that sergeant out of his mind.”

“So your father retired as a Major?” asked Killian, with a wry smile on his lips.

The major paused and gazed at Killian. “Yes, he blamed his not getting promoted on his open belief that Sergeant Muldoon was most likely a spy, as the information he’d secure would have been impossible to obtain under normal circumstances. Kind of like what you did tonight.” Again the major paused. “By any chance, are you related to Killian Muldoon, Sergeant?”

“No one in my family was named Muldoon, sir. We’re all Danahers and Kilkennys, and there are a lot of us in America.”

“Yes, I’ll bet there are. You Irish really do like to breed.” The major stared at Killian for another moment, then turned and stalked off.

Killian glared after the major. “Major,” he murmured, “you’re just as big an asshole as was your narcissistic father.”

Over the next two hours the Americans, and their allies quietly and quickly prepared. They made every effort to conceal their awareness of the Germans’ plans, as they shifted and strengthened their positions to counter the oncoming bombardment and land attack.

Killian rejoined his men in the third platoon of the 38th Division that was entrenched in Mézy. At midnight the German Krupp guns began to fire. The field artillery of the French and Americans unleashed their own cannon fire in response. The bombardment lasted for four long hours. At four a.m., under the cover of gunfire and a smoke-screen, thousands of stormtroopers began to cross the river in the self-made rafts and canvas boats. They were met by various kinds of shelling, including point-blank fire from batteries of the terrible French “75’s”, which had been especially set up for the attack. The hundreds of Germans who survived this counter-bombardment were met on the south bank with small-arms fire, and the bayonets of the French and Americans. The 38th Division of the American Third Army that was spread out over a six-hundred yard frontage on the south bank of the Marne came under merciless attack by the stormtroopers. The American first platoon fought valiantly, but was overwhelmed. The stormtroopers, who had also sustained large casualties, moved inland, only to be met by the second platoon. The Americans fought equally fiercely, but this platoon too was eventually whipped by the vast number of Germans, who greatly outnumbered them.

Killian, with the third platoon, had dug in by the railway. When the enemy appeared they engaged in ferocious hand-to-hand combat. This time, Killian and his men managed to hold the Germans back.

At Dormans, several companies of the Pennsylvania Guard of the 28th Division made a heroic effort, but were too few in number to halt the German attack. Meanwhile, at Château-Thierry, the Germans took a terrible beating when they crossed the river. The French and American cannons had found their mark, and hundreds of broken boats and rafts, as well as thousands of dead German infantry, floated down the river. The gray hordes of the Kaiser’s stormtroopers, who did make it across, were met by the bullets of the Third Army Division’s 7th Machine Gun Battalion, and the Third Infantry Division, which included the 30th and 38th Infantry. They remained rock solid, and earned the nickname, in the Second Battle of the Marne, of “Rock of the Marne.”

By ten o’clock in the morning, the Germans at Mézy realized they were defeated. Both the remaining stormtroopers and the Americans were exhausted as the Germans yelled, “Kamerad, Kamerad!” Their surrender was accepted. Some of the Germans began carrying their dead and wounded back to the river. The still living Americans, fifty-one men, and two second lieutenants didn’t object to their leaving. Killian wandered away from his men, looking down at the hundreds of dead bodies, both American and German. He did not want the men of the third platoon to take note of his own body, which burned and ached, as his many bullet and bayonet wounds began to heal. As he walked on alone, a weary German soldier stopped, and stared at him, his attention riveted by a bloody bayonet gash on Killian’s left arm. The man was stunned as the wound began to heal.

“Mien Gott! Supermen!” he gasped, before hurrying away.

The war continued until November 1918, when Germany surrendered. The Third Army remained on duty in Germany until it was disbanded in July, 1919. A month later, Killian returned home, to his ranch.

W
hen Killian returned
home he was still a strong, youthful-looking man of twenty-eight, though he was, in reality, now eighty-seven years old. As he entered the house he saw Martha in the kitchen. He lifted her off her feet and gave her a big hug. She returned the hug as tears of happiness ran down her cheeks. “Oh Killian, it’s so good to see you.”

“Where’s Chester, out in the stable?”

“No, Killian, he’s out back. I’ll take you to him.”

Martha went out the back door. Killian followed her, and realized she was heading toward the cemetery, where his parents were buried. As she turned the corner, he saw that a small church had been built next to the graveyard. He felt nauseated. His emotions were mixed; he liked the church, but was sad at not seeing Chester. Then the church door opened, and Chester came out. The two friends rushed toward each other and embraced, patting each other on the back and shaking hands. It was evident that Chester was as happy to see Killian as the latter was to be reunited with his old friend. But there was no escaping the fact that Chester, who had always been a robust man, was beginning to show his age.

Soon after Killian returned, Chester’s now large family of two grown sons, and nine grandchildren celebrated Chester’s sixty-fifth birthday. Martha, his loving wife, along with Peter’s wife Tillie and Jacob’s wife Rosita, made sure there was plenty of food, and cake for the happy occasion. Rosita’s father and brothers had a mariachi band, and many of the grandchildren had learned to play guitars, violins and banjos. So, after dinner, the birthday party became very festive, with music, singing, dancing, and present-opening. Killian waited until Chester had opened all his gifts before handing him a long brown envelope. Chester looked up at him. He tapped the envelope against his knee, clearly wondering what was inside.

“Must be a nice card or a little money,” he said, grinning.

Killian smiled.

The children were all laughing and shouting, “Open it, Grandpa! Open it!”

Chester nodded, opened the envelope, and removed a sheet of paper. As he read it, he began to cry. He dropped the paper onto his lap. Then he handed the paper to Martha.

She read it aloud, “I hereby deed forty-nine per cent of the Kilkenny Ranch to Chester Freeman, and upon my death I bequeath the balance of the ranch to the heirs of Chester Freeman.”

She dropped the paper into her lap and began to sob. The children were confused, as they did not understand what was going on. Then Chester and Martha stood up, and hugged Killian.

“What’s happening?” asked Todd, Peter’s oldest son.

Chester stepped over to the boy, and rubbed his head. “It means we now own a piece of the ranch, Todd.”

“Really, what piece, Grandpa?”

Everyone laughed at Todd’s remark and then stood up. They were all hugging, and thanking Killian, who had tears running down his cheeks.

Killian put his arm around Chester. “There’s one more thing, my friend.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a folded piece of white paper. “It’s about time we had a brand on our horses. I’m suggesting this.”

He handed Chester the paper. Chester smiled, as he looked at the paper, and then held it out for all to see. It read, “KF”. Everyone applauded.

The next few
years were good. The ranch continued to prosper and grow. Hundreds of horses were bred, broken and sold to the cavalry at Fort Bliss. As Chester and Martha became older, Peter, Jacob and their wives and children were beginning to take over managing the KF Ranch, alongside Killian.