Souvenir (32 page)

Clay walked over, holding two steaming canteen cups in one hand. When they’d come in last night, Clay had snagged this single small stall in the barn for them. It smelled of leather and manure, leavened with the dry odor of last summer’s hay. Everyone else had bunked down along the opposite wall, where a thick cushion of hay and wool blankets had been piled up for them.

Last night. Last night, he had seen the Barn Owl again! That wasn’t part of the dream, he knew it had been real. It was the tail end of dusk, almost dark, only a bit of reflected sunlight left in the western sky, directly ahead of them. Movement out of the corner of his eye, white against the darkening green firs, off to his left, about nine o’clock.

This way, he’d signaled, taking point and trying to stay on the course he’d seen the owl fly. The Barn Owl, maybe the same he’d seen earlier, heading back home, to a safe, warm place. He hadn’t explained or told anyone what he’d seen, just trudged through the snow, trusting the white bird. As the trees thinned, they saw the field, the barn and house beyond. There was no road, so it was across the field now, while there was still some twilight, or else another night in the woods.

Miller volunteered to take point. Jake knew it was important to him, a step he had to take to feel he fit in among them. Big Ned tried to take his place, but Jake needed a base of fire in case things went bad and there were Krauts over there. So it was Miller on point, as Big Ned set up on a knoll to his left, while Jake and Clay followed. Oakland and Tuck rode herd on the replacements, telling them to put their safeties on, shut up and stay low.

They took more care than they needed. The house and barn were home to a field artillery battery, and they were already a quarter mile behind their own lines. They’d cut through at an angle, melting through the woods off the main road, where the thin defenses were dug in to defend. Miller signaled them to wait, and walked over a crest, disappearing in the direction of the house. He came back minutes later, waving and yelling, a dozen G.I.s clapping him on the back, whooping and hollering. They’d become famous, along this part of the line, anyway. They were the Lost Company, and everyone was on the lookout for them. A few survivors of the attack on the village had filtered back the first day, telling tales of the guys who had held out until driven from the house by grenades, and then kept up covering fire for ten, twenty, maybe thirty other guys to get away. They were famous. And famous rated soft hay, extra blankets, and a sturdy stone barn, roof still intact.

Jake looked up to the rafters, up past the loft, into the darkness where the main beam ran the length of the barn. Was he up there somewhere, huddled in a nest with his mate?

“Jake?” He realized Clay was squatting next to him, holding out a steaming canteen cup for him. “Jake, you okay?”

Taking the cup in both hands, he saw he was shaking, a slight tremor jostling the dark, thick coffee around inside the aluminum cup. It was hot, and he gripped it tight by the thin handle. Clay sat down with a grunt, his back against the wall. The big guns had stopped firing. Except for the rustling and murmuring of the other men as they got up, it was quiet. Jake sipped the hot coffee, giving a sigh of intense pleasure. When was the last time he’d had anything hot to eat or drink? Three, four days? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t separate the days and the nights from each other. His head felt thick with fatigue, his body tired beyond aching, beyond any pain he’d ever felt.

“I had a dream,” he said, in answer to Clay’s question. “I was home, sitting at the kitchen table.” He didn’t mention Little Ned and Shorty. It had to be bad luck to dream about the dead, a sign of things to come. Now he was glad they hadn’t invited him along.

Jake felt Clay studying him, feeling the wetness still glistening through the grime on his face. He drank some more coffee.

“Doesn’t sound like a bad dream,” Clay said, “but I guess that depends on the family. I’ve known some I wouldn’t want to be stuck in the kitchen with.”

“Not yours, though,” Jake said. “You have good memories, don’t you? I mean, even with everything—with them gone.”

“Yeah, I do. Sometimes I dream about them, but it hasn’t happened in a while. I kinda miss it.”

They both drank. It was cold in the barn, not cold like foxhole cold, just plain cold, the coffee losing its steam as Jake felt his body warming inside with the last gulp of the brew.

“I’m not going back there,” Jake said. “I don’t care if I ever see them again, real or dreaming.” He voice was low, almost a whisper, as he stared into the cup, watching the grounds that had settled to the bottom move as he tilted it.

“What happened back there? I don’t wanta pry, Jake, but it’s plain something’s eating you up inside. Bad enough we got all this on our shoulders, never mind trouble back home.”

All this. War, death, killing, freezing, sorrow and loss, all this. It was bad, real bad, but Jake knew he’d go through another war just like it if it would erase the shame, the humiliation that marked him.

“It’s hard to explain,” Jake said. “It’s not just trouble, it’s worse.” Jake felt a lump rise in his throat, as if his body were trying to stop the words from coming out. Or was that the truth, welling up inside him? He gripped the canteen cup in both hands, letting the residual warmth seep into his palms.

“I got a Pa that—well, he’s not like most fathers. None that I know of, really, not that I’d want to.”

“He beat you? Beat your ma?”

“He gave me a whipping a few times, but that isn’t it.”

Jake felt dizzy, as if he were walking on a high narrow ridgeline, about to fall off. He couldn’t figure what good it would do to tell Clay, but the temptation was strong now that he’d started talking. He sensed a lightness building in his chest, as if saying the truth out loud was some kind of magical incantation, abracadabra, presto, and he’d be okay.

Or maybe not. Maybe Clay would be disgusted, think of it every time he looked at him. Maybe he’d pity him, feel sorry for him, avoid him.

“We’ve been through a lot, Jake.”

Was he reading his mind? He looked at Clay, eye to eye. Pulling up his legs and hugging his knees, he felt the cup, now cold metal in his hands.

“My Pa did something, something real bad. Worst part is, he didn’t seem to care. I think he even enjoyed me knowing it. It gave him power.”

“Over you and your sister?”

“She’s not my sister, that’s the thing,” Jake said, his forehead resting on his knees. “She bore me. She’s Pa own daughter, and she bore me, you understand?”

There was silence for a full minute. Jake waited for a harsh laugh or a snort of disgust, or maybe for Clay to get up and walk away. Instead, he heard an intake of breath, then a whisper.

“Jesus, that’s an evil thing for a man to do, Jake.”

“Evil, yeah. And a wife who lets him, she’s the same. That’s why I can’t go back there. I don’t want anything to do with them, and if I ever have a family, I don’t want them within a hundred miles.”

“What about your sister—what about Alice?”

“My G.I. life insurance is signed over to her. If I don’t make it, maybe she can get away on her own.”

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

“If I was, I would’ve done it by now, and avoided all this bullshit.”

“Yeah. Jesus.”

They sat in silence, staring at the wall opposite them. The others had filtered out to wash up in water heated in the artillery battery’s mess tent. The sounds of Jeeps, men and heavy equipment swirled around outside, leaving the inside of the barn quiet, like an old stone church.

“You know I got no kin left, right?” Clay said.

“Nobody?”

“None I know of. So here’s what I’m thinking. Let’s say we manage to live through this, maybe we both head somewhere else. Someplace where nobody knows us, get some work, live the good life, and forget about everything that went before. Maybe California, what the hell, huh?”

That night in the woods came back to Jake, when he was ready to rip the dogtags off Oakland and go home to California in his place. Had Clay read his mind then too?

“Geez, Clay, it sounds good, but let’s not get too excited about this. It’s gotta be bad luck. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“Okay, just so you know.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Jake. Listen to me,” Clay said, leaning in and whispering, his hand gripping Jake’s arm and his voice a low, firm growl. “If I make it outta here, I’m going far from anyplace I’ve ever seen before. I’m gonna find someone and start a family, put a roof over our heads, bring up our kids right. Not like it happened to me. You can do the same, make things right.”

“Someplace no one know us,” Jake said, almost a whisper.

“Yeah. Now c’mon,” said Clay, getting up and pulling Jake by the hand. “Let’s get some chow.” A silent agreement passed between them.

Walking out of the barn, Jake saw Big Ned and the others gathered around a Jeep pulled off the side of the snow-packed track that ran between the house and the barn. Big Ned turned and called out to them.

“Hey, guys, it’s Red!”

Clay and Jake ran over, pushing through the crowd of replacements who were craning their necks to see what all the fuss was about. They found Red standing next to the Jeep, his arm in a sling, wincing as Big Ned gripped him around the shoulders. Tuck stood next to him, grinning. Miller and Oakland stood behind their buddies, part of the celebration more by association than anything else.

“Jesus, Red, it’s good to see you,” said Clay. “How you doing?”

“Never mind me, I never thought I’d see you guys again! I been going up and down the line for days looking for you. You know how much trouble you bastards caused me?”

Red grinned when he said it. They’d heard how he’d skipped out of the field hospital, took a Major’s Jeep, and went from position to position, telling G.I.s to be on the lookout for the Lost Company. He was the source of that name, and his visits spread the word and rumors like wildfire. They were on a commando mission, they were pinned down by a whole panzer division, all sorts of crazy stuff.

Red’s grin lessened as he looked at the men, especially Tuck.

“Where’s Shorty?”

“He got it yesterday, Red,” Jake said.

“Sorry, Tuck,” said Red, putting his good arm out and resting his hand on Tuck’s shoulder, keeping his eyes on Jake. “How many others?”

Jake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the handful of dogtags. Shorty, Cooper, and a bunch of names he never even knew. A handful of lives, a fistful of sorrow and loss. He handed them to Red.

“You guys did good, making it back like you did,” Red said, closing his fingers around the metal tags. “I’m proud of you all, proud to have served with you.”

The last words came out in a hoarse whisper. Red, looking down at the ground, stuffed his hand into his pocket, leaving it there, clutching the dogtags.

“You goin’ home, Red?” Tuck asked, squinting his eyes as he studied Red’s face.

“England. They’re sending me to a hospital in England to get some work done on my arm. I don’t know—aw, Jesus Christ! Listen, I’ll probably never see you guys again. I gotta leave right now. We’re close fellas, close to the end. Hang in there. Watch out for each other, and the new guys too. I’m sorry, but they won’t let me stay, the bone in my arm is all busted up.”

“Don’t worry, Red. Don’t worry about us,” Jake said. “You deserve to get the hell out of here. We’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Clay said. “Have a nurse give you a sponge bath for us.”

They all laughed. It wasn’t that funny, but they laughed like it was, buddies laughing together one last time.

“Jesus, Miller, is that you?” Red said, in mock surprise. “You look as bad as these guys now.”

Miller stood a little taller, smiling, pride at his inclusion with the veterans showing. “It’s me, all right.”

“He’s not half bad as an ammo carrier either,” Big Ned said, his casual comment worth a chest full of medals to Miller.

“I knew you’d do all right, Miller,” Red said, reaching out his good arm to shake hands all around. When he was done, he reached back into his pocket and withdrew the dogtags Jake had given him. He nodded his head in the direction of the Jeep’s back seat.

“This here’s your new platoon leader, Lieutenant Sykes,” he said, handing Sykes the dogtags. The new Lieutenant was dressed in an immaculately clean cold-weather parka, the latest issue, too new to have made it beyond the supply dumps and headquarters to the front line. As Red handed them over, the dogtags seemed to take Sykes by surprise. Fumbling, he dropped several on the floor of the Jeep, his thick rabbit-fur leather gloves too bulky to grip them all.

“Pick those up, Private,” Sykes said to the driver, handing him the dogtags from his cupped hands. His skin was pink and flushing red as he got out of the Jeep. His face was long and narrow, his mouth a thin-lipped slit underneath an attempted mustache. Taking his carbine and field pack out of the back of the Jeep he turned to Red.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Anything else you want to say to the men?”

Jake watched Sykes, noting the formality, as if this were a change of command on a peacetime post. And, that he’d said
the
men, not
your
men. They’d always be Red’s men.