Souvenir (38 page)

“We can deal with that, men, don’t worry about it,” said Sykes. “Don’t worry about it.”

“There’s a tank at the other end of town,” Clay said.

“A Tiger?” one of the replacements asked. Every fucking tank a replacement saw was a Tiger. Big, heavy killers with a 88mm gun. The word was enough to send whole platoons running. Not every German tank was a Tiger, even though it hardly mattered if you were facing one without a couple of Shermans behind you.

“No. Mark IV. But it’s facing that draw where the road comes down on the left. Narrow gap. Too much of a chance of getting bunched up.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Sykes again. “You can’t see from here. Stop worrying the men, soldier.”

“Lieutenant?” said Jake softly, not turning from where he knelt. “You might want to listen.”

“I’m not talking to you, soldier, I’m talking to this man. Where’d you get all this about Tiger tanks?”

“It’s not a Tiger, and it’s one tank,” Clay said. “I crawled out about ten yards to see over that rise, down into the village.”

Sykes’ mouth hung open and he glanced at the men facing Clay, as if he could will them to look at him, to pay attention to what he had to say. His voice came out as a croak, seeming to take note, for the first time, of the binoculars hanging around Clay’s neck. “Who ordered you to make a reconnaissance, and where’d you get those binoculars? Only officers are authorized—”

“He shot the officer he got them from, Lieutenant Sykes,” Jake said, not so softly this time. “At two hundred yards.”

Somebody laughed, a quick snort that vanished on a plume of frost. No one spoke. Jake didn’t look at Sykes, keeping his eyes on the part of the village he could see over the rise in the cleared land in front of him. Rooftops, mostly. He saw wooden shutters on an attic window swing open, as if it were a dollhouse, out of reach. He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, his skin go pale and clammy, as everything went into sharp focus as he eased back, putting the tree between himself and that attic window.

“What rise?” Sykes said, ignoring Jake. Taking a step closer to the tree he craned his head out around it, staring out toward the open window. Jake thought about it, wondered if it wouldn’t be for the best, but couldn’t do it. Reaching up and grabbing Sykes by his web belt, he pulled him down as the distant crack of a rifle was followed a split second later by the zinging sound of a bullet splitting the air and leaving behind a sprinkle of green needles where Sykes had been standing. Sykes scrambled back further behind the tree.

Clay leaned his head down toward Sykes so their helmets touched. “I said I crawled.” Sykes pushed himself away from Clay, and got up on one knee, brushing snow from his clothes, his eyes cast down to the ground.

“So whaddya gonna do, Lieutenant?” said Big Ned, spitting into the snow. “About the machine gun and the tank?”

Sykes looked at him with astonishment. His forehead wrinkled and his mouth parted as if a word had started to come out but got stuck. They all knew he wanted some reaction from them about his near miss, his brush with death. Back home, if you stepped off the curb and a buddy pulled you back from a speeding car, you’d talk about it for a week. Out here, it’s nothing special. Getting killed was the big deal. Staying alive was the daily grind.

“A sniper,” he said. “He almost got me. They target officers, you know,” Sykes said in a petulant voice, as if he’d lost his best aggie on the school playground. He looked at the men, beseeching them, but no one looked back at him.

“Think the captain will call off the attack, sir?” said Tuck. “After you tell him about the tank and all?”

“There’s supposed to be no more than a few demoralized Germans down there. That’s what Battalion G-2 said. No heavy stuff. He didn’t say anything about tanks.”

“G-2?” Jake said. “Not some guy named Brooks? Thin moustache?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Brooks.”

“Brooks don’t know his ass from his elbow,” Big Ned said. “He couldn’t find a fucking German in a beer hall.”

“Show some respect for one of your officers, soldier!” Sykes’ voice had that hollow sound, all emptiness inside, with the volume turned way up on the outside.

“Brooks used to be a platoon leader, like you,” Clay said. “Sent his men off on a patrol once, but gave them the wrong map coordinates. He stayed behind in his foxhole. They never came back. He got kicked upstairs to Battalion.”

“This isn’t right, this isn’t right at all,” Sykes muttered, nervously drumming his fingers on the stock of his carbine. “Not at all. I gotta talk to the captain, he’ll know what to do. You men stay put.” With that, Sykes pushed off to the rear, crawling on all fours.

“Yeah, like we’re going anywhere,” Tuck said quietly. “Like down that fucking hill.”

“Think we’ll ever see him again?” Big Ned said. “Wouldn’t be the first officer to evac himself out with trenchfoot or a bad cold.”

“They call it pneumonia when an officer gets it, don’t you know anything?” Jake said.

“I know I woulda thought twice about pulling that jerk out of the way of a bullet,” Big Ned answered.

“I did. The second thought trumped the first.”

Silence ended the discussion. The wind picked up and the pines began to whisper as snow swirled around the waiting G.I.s, stinging their faces and driving each man down farther into himself, collars up, scarves wound around necks, chins flattened into chests. It was the same defense against the cold or bullets or shrapnel. Tighten up, be sure everything’s laced up good, make yourself as small as possible, blend into the contours of the ground. You believed it too. Believed in your own good fortune, intelligence, quick wittedness, and grace. Until the day came when you saw it was just plain dumb luck that you were still alive, and realized it’s got nothing to do with how you ran, or dove for cover, or rubbed your good luck piece. There’s simply so much lead flying through the air that it can’t be long before you slam into a piece of it.

That’s what today felt like to Jake. Too damn much metal in the air, and a lot of ground to cover to boot. Only one machine gun, only one tank, only one sniper. But between them and the couple of dozen other Krauts down there, the air would be thick with it. He felt sick, felt like puking and crying and crapping his pants. His hands shook, and he knew the only reason he wasn’t running at that very second was that his legs felt like jelly. This was a bad day, an unlucky day. He didn’t feel like a veteran, sorry for the wet-nosed replacements who don’t know shit. That had always made him feel invincible, or at the least, let him believe it. They’ll get it, but I won’t. I’m smart, tough, battle-hardened. Today, feeling the cold bite at his cheeks, watching the gray cloud cover through the pine branches, he felt only sick and scared, certain that the enemy fire wouldn’t notice which of the brown forms running through it was a veteran and which a rookie. It terrified him that these could be his last memories, the last thoughts to travel through his brain.

“Jake. Jake!” It was Clay, with Big Ned beside him. They both looked at him with concern. They must have crawled up next to him and said his name several times.

“Yeah, sorry. I was thinking.”

“Listen,” said Big Ned. “We’ve been talking. Mostly Clay and me, since we both sorta found it on that Kraut. We want you to have it.”

“What? Have what?” Jake said.

Clay held out his hand with the .45 automatic in its shoulder holster. “This. From me and Big Ned, and Tuck.”

“Why?”

“Jake, you’re our leader,” Clay said. “Simple as that. We all know we wouldn’t have made it back to our lines without you. You oughta have it.”

“Yeah, like you was our officer,” Tuck said, from behind Big Ned. “No offense intended.”

“None taken.” Jake took the automatic from Clay’s hand. He knew he could never say no, never turn his back on these guys, the last of the only men he’d ever call brother. He also knew he didn’t want to make any more decisions, be responsible for any more lives, not today of all days. But with this gift in his hands, and with Sykes as their lieutenant, he really had no choice. He looked at each of them, square in the eye, even Oakland, hovering on the edge of the group.

“Okay,” he said, swallowing the lump that surprised him in his throat. “Okay.”

He unbuttoned the top of his overcoat and struggled to get his arms out without taking it off. The guys crowded around him, fastening straps and helping him get his arms back in the sleeves. Jake reached in and pulled the automatic out, then placed it back in. “Good fit. Nice and smooth.”

“I cleaned it last night,” Big Ned said. “That Kraut didn’t take too good care of it.”

“I will, I’ll take good care of it. Thanks, guys. I’ll never forget this. Never.”

Chapter Twenty

1964

Take a statement, that’s how Bob said it. Come down to the station in the morning and we’ll take a statement. Routine, he’d said. Now, waiting alone in the windowless room, it didn’t feel routine to Clay. Resting his right hand on the table, he noticed it shaking, covered it with his left, and when that didn’t still the tremors, rested both on his lap.

One table, two chairs, filing cabinets, fluorescent lights, gray linoleum floor. Clay pushed back on the chair in frustration, the scraping sound loud and harsh as it echoed off the hard surfaces. He walked around the table, once, twice, sat back down and held his head in his hands. He caught a sniff of smoke, and smelled his hands. No, not on the hands. It was inside, still in his nostrils and lungs, maybe burned into his heart.

By the time the fire engines came, the fire had spread throughout the Tavern. With all the road crew equipment out front, they’d had trouble getting close enough, fast enough. Wood floorboards, booths, the bar, plus all the alcohol made the old wooden building a bonfire waiting to burn. The fire hoses had turned flame to steam and smoke, but couldn’t wash away the terrible, familiar smell of incinerated flesh. Afternoon had bled into evening, flashing lights illuminating the char and ash that had once been Jake’s Tavern. Clay had told Bob his story, and Bob had been considerate. Don’t worry about it, come down tomorrow morning and give us your statement. Clay looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes. The doorknob turned. Bob entered, dressed in plainclothes, a white shirt and tie, as if he’d just come from church, except for the shoulder holster and the .38 Police Special revolver.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Clay. Had to wait for the Fire Marshal’s report.”

“That’s okay,” Clay said, trying to sound calm, a little bored, and sympathetic. He felt silly sitting there with his hands on his lap, but he didn’t want Bob to see them shake.

“Pretty much corroborated what you said. Fire started in the back room, the guy did have a gun. They did find some slugs in the debris, probably from his .38. Lots of liquor on those shelves. They even found the paint thinner can.”

“Yeah, like I said. It all went up.”

“Helluva thing,” Bob said, sitting back in his chair, staring at Clay. The table between them was empty. No paper or pen.

“You going to take down my statement?” Clay asked.

“Let’s talk it through, get everything straight, first. Then the statement will go easier.”

“Okay,” Clay said, nodding his head, as if his agreement was necessary. He couldn’t keep his hands in his lap anymore, so he brought them up and cupped them on the table.

“Tell me about the Colt,” Bob said. Clay had already told him last night, but he launched into it again.

“It was a souvenir from the war. You know how it is,” Clay said amiably. Bob didn’t say he did. “I had it for years, and finally Addy put her foot down, made me get rid of it.”

“But you didn’t.” 
“No, I hid it away in the Tavern, and told her I’d thrown it out.”

“Chris knew about it?”

“I told you—” Clay caught himself, willed the frustration in his voice to wither away. “Yes, but I didn’t know he knew. He must’ve seen me put it away once. You know kids, he couldn’t resist looking. Lucky he didn’t shoot somebody.”

“So Chris left about what time?”

“It was around quarter to twelve. He was supposed to go get lunch and then do homework at the library. On his way up the street, he sees this guy hanging around the back of the Tavern slip into the back door. So he comes back, hears the guy holding me up, gets the automatic. Thank God he didn’t use it. Whacked the guy good with the floorboard though. Knocked his gun out of his hand.”

“What happened next?”

“You know, it’s all sort of a jumble. He crashed into the shelves, pulled out another gun, a small automatic, from an ankle holster, I think. I grabbed for the Colt, and I think at the same time Chris threw a bottle at him. He must’ve already been covered in paint thinner. He fired, and everything lit up, like throwing a match into gasoline. He fell, then started to get up—he was already on fire—and aimed the .38 right at Chris. So I shot him.”

“Twice.”

“Damn right. You know not to trust one shot, Bob, so don’t give me that routine. Two to the chest, like they taught us.”

“Okay, okay. Then?”

“Then I grabbed Chris and we got out of there.”