A Midnight Clear: A Novel (20 page)

 

Miller finally succumbs. And do we ever do him up right. We put together the best, cleanest uniform from everything that will fit him, mostly Gordon’s stuff. We take Gordon’s sets of two stripes; then we tear off all our PFC stripes. We use Wilkins’s sewing kit to sew together a conglomerate of stripes, three up and three down, both arms; only all stripes, no rockers. There never was a rank such as we give Miller; he’s our “bastard sergeant minor.” Shutzer screws out a lens from the scope for Miller to wear as a monocle, but he can’t keep it in.

We empty all the crap from the field jacket pockets and tuck folds in back so he looks somewhat tailored. It’d be great having a pair of Love’s form-fitted shirts and pants. Even so, Miller looks more like an officer than Love ever could; when we’re finished, he’s damned impressive.

We have him strut around the room practicing jaw thrusting and general arrogance. Stan assures Miller he doesn’t need to say anything, just nod his head or shake it and act like an S.O.B.

Before Mother comes off post, we shuffle our clothes back and hide the field jacket with all the stripes. We’re excited about Wilkins being a hero. Mel keeps harping on the idea we should tell him, but by now we’re all so wound up with secret planning and wanting to surprise Mother, Mel can’t get anywhere.

That night passes fast. It’s a feeling of Christmas, hiding presents. When I’m not on guard, I sleep like a dead man and when I wake up, even manage a regular solid-type crap.

I’m beginning to feel better about things. Around ten, I make the call to regiment. This time, Ware’s waiting for me.

“How’re things out there, Knott? Over.”

“Quiet, sir. We took a two-man patrol down to that shack and did a brief recon tour but didn’t see anything. All quiet here, sir. Over.”

Gordon, Shutzer and Miller’re hanging over my shoulder. Only Father’s on guard and Mother’s upstairs. Gordon’s even put down his violin for the call. It probably wouldn’t sound so great to Ware, hearing violin music in the background.

“Well, things’re tough here. We’re packing to pull out. We’re not sure we aren’t completely cut off. There’s no intelligence coming in we can count on. We’re going to drive west with the third battalion as point. Nobody knows anything. We can’t locate the first battalion, and our first squad still isn’t back; must’ve run into something. Over.”

“The whole first squad not back, sir? Over.”

“That’s right. I’m telling you, Knott, things are rough. Fucking Krauts are pumped up. People here talk about divisions of tanks and infantry pouring through a twelve-mile break, moving up units from the south to close the gap. But we don’t know anything for sure; communications are all snafu. Germans dressed up in American uniforms with American jeeps are cutting phone lines, changing road signs, confusing troop movements. The best we have here is reports from isolated units. Over.”

“Did the first squad take the other 506? Over.”

“It’s out of commission. We’ve got the communications section working on it, but so far, no luck. Over.”

“Maybe they made contact with another outfit and just can’t get back, sir. Over.”

“It doesn’t matter. Love wants your squad to stay out there so we’ll have some idea if anything breaks. Keep your jeeps ready to run. But most of all, Love wants a prisoner. You go out to that hunting lodge and pick one off. If there’s an officer or a noncom, try to grab him. Since the first squad didn’t get back, we need some kind of intelligence and fast. Over.”

Right here, I don’t know whether to mention this big, new Christmas attack the Germans talked about. How would I explain knowing a thing like that? Also, the Germans could be lying.

“All right, sir. With so few of us, we’ll make it a night patrol; have to jump a guard or something. Over.”

“In any case, call in soon as you have one. We’ll either come out to get the fucker or you can bring him in with one of the jeeps. Over.”

“Wilco, sir. Over.”

“Over and out.”

“Over and out.”

For more than ten seconds nobody says anything. Then Miller puts his hands over his eyes.

“Holy mud! The whole first squad!”

Shutzer starts pacing, pounding his fist in his hand or against the side of his head.

“This lousy war’s never going to end!”

Gordon sits, then lies out on one of the mattresses. He stares up at the high ceiling.

“Think of it. Bergman and Kelly, Moser, Evans, Edwards; the whole squad. Maybe they’re only
dogging
it. With Love running amuck and Ware charging around in circles, maybe they figured it’d be best to find some calm corner of the world and hide. I’ll bet they’re tucked into holes tight up in a wood somewhere.”

Shutzer’s still stomping back and forth. Once he walks the entire length of the room away from the fireplace.

“What the hell’s going on? I thought this festering war was about finished; now it’s boiling up again!”

Gordon’s voice is calm.

“What’ll we do about the prisoner deal and Wilkins? Maybe we ought to call it off. You know, that idiot Love’s almost wiped out the entire I and R platoon.”

I flop on a mattress. I’m scared. I didn’t like the sound in Ware’s voice; there was something desperate, the edge of panic. I try getting myself calmed down, stop the butterflies. I remind myself how Love was convinced we were surrounded and wanted to abandon Metz when all we had to do was gather in thousands of prisoners. You almost
have
to be a fuckup to get in S2 or G2; it’s where the tough-ass soldiers tuck the sissies. This could all be nothing.

But we might just be walking into some kind of convoluted trap. Maybe we should do the whole thing simple as possible: forget the Wilkins part and only take our prisoners. Love’d be happy as hell having seven prisoners to play with and we’d look like conquering heroes. He might even get off our backs for a while. Wilkins and Gordon could march the prisoners back while the rest of us stay out here to see what’s happening.

At two I’ll be on post again. I feel gritty, dirty. The flambeau smoke and smoke escaping from the chimney make my eyes sore, my throat rasping dry. The shits are holding off, but I have a pain on my left side like a stitch and all my innards feel twisted tight. I need some more of that deep, calm sleep. I wonder if it’s still snowing.

I slip and slide down the hill. There’s a new wind, a wind from the east. Thin bits of snow are flying in the cold air but it could be only from the trees or blown up off the ground.

Mel’s on, waiting for me. It’s just getting dark. Next one will be two-man. I try to think up a new password. God, the whole business seems so ridiculous, like merit badge tests in the Boy Scouts. Sometimes I can’t force any sense into things; this gets to be a lifelong problem.

Gordon’s waiting; his rifle slung on his shoulder. Even he looks pooped.

“God, Wont, the outside of my foot where I had trench foot is killing me. It’s like somebody’s twisting a pipe reamer in there; then when I go in to the warmth, it hurts like hell.”

He’s walking in a circle stamping. I hadn’t thought how this cold weather must be for his bad feet. He starts uphill.

“Wait a minute, Mel.”

He comes back.

“Tell the rest of them the pass for tonight is ‘jingle—bells.’”

“OK, ‘jingle—bells.’ Did you call me back just for that?”

“No. Mel, what do you think’s happening? I’m so confused I’m not thinking; I don’t want to think.”

“Wont, this war’s such a mess it doesn’t pay thinking too much. Try relaxing. There’s nothing you can do except get killed, wounded, or drop out of it somehow. That’s all there is, worrying doesn’t help.”

“But about Shutzer’s ‘solve the war’ plan. How’s that fit in with Ware wanting a prisoner and everybody going ape at headquarters?”

“That can wait. But, no matter what, Wont, I still think we should tell Mother. He’s got to know.

“Look, I’m freezing and my foot’s killing me; I’m going up. Don’t worry; relax.”

 

I lean against the wall. It’s good to be alone for a while. So much is happening and I want to do the right things. I roll over all the possibilities. Somehow, my brain isn’t working. The cold has done something to me; the cold, the fear and the worrying. When I close down against the cold, my mind shrinks from thinking. It only wants to remember what it was to worry about geometry tests or track meets. It seems like ten thousand years ago; a huge rip has been made in my time band.

On the half hour I phone in and mostly get Miller. We talk about what might’ve happened to the first squad. It’s impossible to think around; none of us can let ourselves believe anything bad’s happened. We’re
all
turning our minds off.

I watch and listen to the dark come on. Melting things start freezing; you can hear it, a clicking, clinking sound. I try to figure out the date; maybe we’re on the up side now; every day will be a little longer. And how many days before we stop counting? We haven’t even been in combat half a year; think of those poor sad-assed Germans.

Miller and Shutzer have the next guard; at least I think they do; the squad’s running itself as usual. They know more about what’s happening than I do and I don’t care much. The time passes; it’s totally dark. I’m cold.

 

When Miller and Shutzer come down, I challenge with “jingle,” trying for some military semblance. Shutzer counters with “hell’s bells.” They come to the wall with me. Shutzer gets right into it.

“What do you think, Won’t? Miller and I’ve been talking. We think the three of us should carry through, go out at ten tomorrow and set things up. At the very least we can get prisoners for Love. We could even just ask for one volunteer prisoner now, gather up the rest later; like jacks or pick-upsticks.”

“How about Wilkins?”

“There’s no sense worrying him more than we have to. He’s happy up there in his attic, pushing furniture around, fighting Miller or me when we go for wood. God, he makes
me,
Stanford Shutzer, feel like the ravaging Hun just because I want to burn an old bed or some broken-down chairs to keep warm. Why don’t we leave him alone? We don’t need anybody flipping out on us right now, anyway.”

I look over at Miller. He’s already lit a cigarette. He’s staring down at his boots in the snow. He glances up; I have the feeling he’s with Shutzer. It’s OK by me; we aren’t breaking any particular laws I know of.

“OK, Stan, we’re on. If you and Miller are for it, I am, too.”

It’s raunchy going inside; our smells are filling the place. It’s hard to remember how I felt when we first walked into this room. The whole place is a mess. With Wilkins upstairs most of the time, nobody’s keeping things straight.

There are open number ten cans and German sardine cans thrown around. Pieces of equipment and clothes are piled up on the mattresses or on the floor. I try not to look. I pick up some of my own stuff; stack my rifle and equipment by the door.

 

I take two flambeau bottles out to the jeep and fill them. The outside might be cold but at least it’s clean and smells good. I’ll ask Miller to turn over our jeeps and check if they start; maybe we can stuff pillows around the batteries to keep them warm. No, that’s dumb. I inspect the jerry cans; we’ve actually only used less than half of one can, so we have plenty of gas. I can’t stop worrying. I breathe in the clean air but mostly only smell gasoline.

Back in the room, I settle onto one of the mattresses. I close my eyes and try to make myself be somewhere else. I’m not cut out to be a noncom; that’s for sure. I don’t care about things enough to make other people do them. I have hardly enough energy to do things for myself. Both Max and Louis were always running around following up, seeing things were done and letting you know if they weren’t; Edwards the same way. Those guys were natural noncoms. God, I hope the first squad’s OK.

Now it comes back again; sometimes I can’t shut it out, turn it off.

 

Gordon and I were the first ones to reach Max. It was after we’d worked Morrie away and back to the medics. At first, we didn’t know anything was wrong; not serious, anyway. He was doubled up on his knees. We couldn’t see, except he had his hands locked in at the bottom of his gut with his rifle beside him. His helmet was on the ground in front of his face. He wasn’t screaming or even groaning. His eyes were squeezed tight.

Mortar was still coming in, plus eighty-eight. Gordon and I are glued close against the ground, afraid to move.

Max looks more like a football player who’s had the wind knocked out, or been kneed, than anything else. Gordon inches close to him. Lewis only shakes his head and doesn’t move. Suddenly, he jerks up, almost standing, then falls over on his side. The blood gives two or three stiff spurts all over Mel; then each pumping is slower till it runs in a thick stream.