Souvenir (41 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

1945

An hour passed, then another. The faint glow of the sun behind the clouds moved low across the sky. Daylight was short these days, and what there was of it was half gone. Sykes hadn’t returned. A mortar crew set up in a small depression a few yards to their right. The machine gun crews were on either side of them, camouflage netting across their guns, gunners pulled back, lying low. The sniper had fired twice again, killing one G.I. who’d left his head up a second too long. Knowing a shot to the head at that distance meant a telescopic sight, everyone stayed low and deep in the trees.

Big Ned had dragged some branches up to the edge of the treeline and set them between two firs. He had his BAR stuck out between them, his face hidden from the sniper behind dead wood. Jake and Clay were behind one of the trees, Tuck and Oakland huddled behind the other. Big Ned wore a double brace of ammo pouches. No more ammo carriers for him, no new buddies to watch out for, to curse and mourn.

“It’s kinda funny,” said Clay.

“What is?” said Oakland. Tuck and Jake both had their eyes closed, asleep or maybe dreaming they were somewhere else, far away.

“Well, we can’t go forward without orders, not ten miles or ten paces. And we sure as hell can’t go back to officer country. They order us to go forward, and we get shot at. If we hightail it out of here, we get court-martialed, then shot.”

“So what’s funny?” Oakland said.

“I’ve been fighting for months, through France, Belgium, and wherever the hell this is. It seems like I’m always in the same damn place. This fifty-yard stretch here. If I stay low, dig in real good, then I’m as safe as I can be. Head to the rear, and it’s the brass after me. Head the other way, it’s the Krauts. This is getting to feel like home to me now. Kinda funny.”

“Just not in the way it makes you laugh,” said Jake, his eyes still closed.

“Yeah. Not that kind of funny,” Clay said, nodding his head.

“Makes you appreciate how good we got it, sitting right here, freezing our asses off and watching out for that sniper,” Jake said.

“Hey guys,” Tuck said, “it’s like the bad news you’re always talking about. I got bad news, bad news and good news.”

“Okay, spill,” Bid Ned said, keeping his eyes peeled through the branches.

“Bad news is if you haul ass outta here, it’s a firing squad. The other bad news is, if we hit that village, the Krauts try to kill us. The good news is, we’re sitting here freezing our balls off! Right?”

“You nailed it, Tuck,” said Clay. “Right on the head.”

“They wouldn’t really shoot you, would they, for running away?” Oakland said. “I thought they just put you back in the line.”

“They did, for a while. But so many guys happened to get separated from their units and got lost trying to find them, they started shooting guys for desertion,” Jake said.

“Yeah, since so many of them were looking for their units in Paris,” Clay said.

“Some poor slob they shot stumbled into a rear area Canadian outfit and started cooking their chow for them, so I heard,” said Big Ned. “I think he’s the only one they shot. So far.”

“So, how do you guys know, I mean, when to hold on and when to haul ass? If no one gives an order?” Oakland asked. “Back when we got hit in that village, when the Krauts came streaming out of the woods, we didn’t have a chance, it was obvious—”

“Did you run right away?” Jake said.

“No, none of us did.”

“Did you fire your weapon?”

“Yeah. Well, not at first. I kept my head down. But the other guys did, and I didn’t want to seem like a coward, so I did too. Five or six clips, I think.”

“You all take off together?”

“Pretty much. Someone yelled we had to get out of there. Someone else yelled for us to go. I fired off one more clip, and then ran as fast as I could, with everyone else.”

“Then you already know the answer,” Jake said. “Don’t let your buddies down, and don’t throw away your life for nothing.”

“Everything else is pretty much chickenshit,” Big Ned said. “Like Sykes. He’s pure chickenshit. Probably sitting warm by a fire, drinking some joe, waiting to be told what to do, while we freeze out here. My old man used to say assholes like him couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the directions were written on the heel.”

“He’s no Red, that’s for sure,” Clay said, looking at Jake. “Sykes could fuck things up good if this thing happens today,” gesturing toward the village, not taking his eyes off Jake.

“Don’t worry about Sykes,” Jake said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” Jake didn’t want to think about what that meant. He liked his pockets empty. No more stamped-tin reminders of blood type and next of kin, little lives all totted up on a one by two inch piece of metal. “Hey, Oakland,” he said, wanting to think of anything else. “What’s your name anyway?”

Oakland didn’t answer right away. Tuck nudged him, “G’wan, kid, tell ’em.”

“Williamson.”

“Naw, kid, your first name, tell ’em,” Tuck said, squinting his eyes as he tried to keep from laughing.

“Okay. It’s Marion,” he said, head down, hardly a whisper. Tuck elbowed him again, laughing, until Oakland laughed too. “It’s why I didn’t mind you calling me Oakland. Don’t stop, okay guys? Okay?”

“Okay,” said Big Ned, still facing away from them. “Don’t worry about it. Marion.” That broke everyone up, everyone except Jake, but he laughed anyway, smiling at Oakland, letting him know it was only a joke. Looking at him, he remembered that night in the woods, leaning against the pine tree, thinking about Oakland as he walked by weeping and afraid. Clay had comforted him, asked him where he was from, and the name stuck. But Jake had other thoughts that night, thoughts of another man’s identity, coveting his name, wishing him dead so he could take his dogtags. Marion. Jesus.

As it neared mid-day they ate cold K-Rations. Canned cheese, biscuits, candy bars. They waited, rotating deeper into the woods by twos so they could stand up, move their limbs, have a smoke, try to warm up. No fires allowed this close to Krauts. Meanwhile, they watched smoke drifting up from the chimneys in the village. Catching the wind and drifting south, towards them, taunting them with the aroma of a wood fire before it mingled with the low dark clouds.

Jake tried to sleep, maybe he did. Sounds drifted around him, men coughing, teeth chattering, footsteps crunching the snow to the rear. Snatches of dreams flitted between the sounds, visions of his schoolyard mingling with Normandy hedgerows. A sound penetrated the dream,
tap, tap, tap, tap,
Clay rhythmically drumming the front sight of his M1 against his helmet. Big Ned behind the screen of branches, rustling, snuffling and running his gloved hands across his face. Jake rolled over and moved closer, crawling next to him. Big Ned’s shoulders were heaving, his hand pinching at his eyes. Jake put his hand on his shoulder, and felt the vibration as Big Ned silently wept. Jake saw a gasp escape his compressed lips, so only a small, constant breath could escape, sounding like laughter, a
hee hee hee
to accompany the
tap tap tap
behind them. Big Ned’s eyes were squeezed shut tight, tears leaking from the corners. He shook his head, telling Jake without words that he couldn’t stop himself. Jake edged closer, putting his hand on Big Ned’s helmet, wishing he could tell him it was okay, they’d be all right. But he knew it was bullshit. They were at the end of it, the long march from summer in France, through autumn and now this hard winter. Too many of them had been lost. They were outnumbered now by the replacements, the Germans, their officers, everyone. It wasn’t their war anymore, these frozen battles with strangers. They’d seen every horror the battlefield could churn up, been supplied with nightmares enough for a lifetime, become inured to sudden death and the terrible screams of the wounded. The war had nothing left for them, nothing to teach them, nothing to show them that they hadn’t seen in a hundred gaping wounds. Their time was over, their season passed, and Big Ned knew it.

Jake felt Clay hit him on the boot heel, and heard footsteps coming their way. He pressed his helmet against Big Ned’s, reaching his hand across those broad shoulders. Big Ned snorted, spit, and nodded. Okay. I’m okay. He rubbed his face with snow and dried it on his sleeve. Okay.

Jake crawled backwards and saw Sykes crouched down by their position. About a dozen replacements drew closer, within earshot. Sykes was panting, his mouth wide open, unable to catch his breath. It hadn’t been that long of a run.

“Listen up, listen up,” he hissed his words like a steam engine. Exhaling, he took a deep breath, a nervous teacher in front of his first class. “We have to take that village. Now. The captain’s sending Third Platoon along that ridge on the left flank. Second Platoon is going on the right flank. We go straight up the middle.”

Silence. Three under strength platoons against a village full of Krauts, plus a tank. Down the middle, like a football game back home, the play called in from the bench.

“Artillery?” asked Clay.

“G-2 doesn’t think they have any,” said Sykes.

“No, I mean
ours
. We getting a barrage?”

“Oh, oh. Uh, we have mortars. Battalion’s sending a Heavy Weapons Platoon. They should be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Mortars, against that tank? Who’re they kidding?” Big Ned spoke without looking at Sykes.

“Smoke, they’re going to fire lots of smoke, it will cover our approach. Smoke, that’s the key. All we need to do is advance and keep up suppressing fire. Fire and movement, that’s the key.”

“We can’t do both. There’s not enough of us,” Clay said. He spoke slowly, his calmness a dam against the chatter coming out of Sykes.

“The machine guns will hit the farmhouse and spray the village. We’ll advance in two squads, one laying down fire and the other moving, then firing and covering the other squad. Basic tactics. Understood?”

“That’s a helluva plan, Lieutenant, for gettin’ us all killed,” said Tuck. “You sure the captain came up with that?”

“That’s his best judgment, soldier. He talked Battalion into waiting until the Heavy Weapons Platoon got here. But he’s got his orders.” Sykes let his gaze wander out past the trees, to the gray sky ahead and the tops of the distant roofs. His face was pale. He looked thin and small wrapped in his parka. Without the words spilling out of his mouth, he was nothing, a brittle twig to be snapped in the Ardennes cold. Springing up, he began to walk back and forth, counting the men.

“Everyone accounted for? Where are the sergeants? Don’t I have any sergeants? We’ve got orders, and I’ve got to carry them out, but I need sergeants. There aren’t enough men, not enough, not enough.” His forehead wrinkled as if he were trying to work out a difficult algebra problem. “Not enough. Orders. Orders. Sergeants, no sergeants.”

Jake watched the faces of the replacements as they listened to Sykes repeating himself, walking among them, counting them over and over. Clay looked at him, and shook his head. Bad news all around. Jake got up and took Sykes by the arm.

“Lieutenant, let’s talk.”

“Take your hands off me! What do you think you’re doing? What’s your name?”

Jake ignored the question, tightened his grip and moved Sykes back, away from the replacements. “Listen, Lieutenant Sykes. Are you listening?” Speaking in a low whisper, almost a growl, turning Sykes toward him, he stared into the darting eyes until they calmed down.

“Are you listening to me, Lieutenant?” Jake repeated.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Sykes said, his upper lip trembling.

“Plenty. But right now, I’m going to tell you how to handle this. Pull yourself together and show some confidence. You look like you’re about to piss in your pants, and that’s not the best way to lead these men.”

“You can’t talk to me like this! I’ll put you on report, Private.”

“Shut up and listen,” Jake said, a harsh whisper between gritted teeth. “It’s just you and me talking. I’m trying to save your life, and the lives of your men. Put me on report. You think I give a rat’s ass about your fucking report?”

Sykes shook his arm loose. “All right. Tell me.”

“Forget all that fire and movement crap. The platoon going along that ridge is fucked. They’ll never make it. Both the tank and the MG can hit them at the same time.” 
“We’ll have smoke.”

“Have you noticed the wind? It’s blowing toward us. The smoke won’t last, and the Kraut’s field of fire will clear up real quick. That’s why we can’t stop.”

“Private, laying down suppressive fire is basic tactics—”

“Yeah, I remember reading that in the infantry manual too. But we don’t have time. If we stop in that field, we’re sitting ducks. The smoke clears, that Kraut MG and that tank open up on us, and we’re fucked. We can’t take the time to leapfrog forward like they taught you. The only chance we have is to haul ass down into that village, grenade the houses and kill those bastards before they know what hit them. Before the smoke clears.”

“But—”

“Lieutenant, I know they taught you by the book. But the book is only going to get us all killed. I’m telling you, once our mortars and the machine guns open up, we head straight down the hill. No firing, just run. We gotta run like hell.”