The Soldier's Mirror

by Jay Zendrowski

  Chapter 12

  We were leaning against the wall of the church having a smoke. Murphy had told us that Capt. Crocker was on the way and to just sit tight until he got there. Harry had used a pair of tweezers and pulled the splinters out of my cheek. It hurt like hell while he was doing it, but it had to be done. Once it was cleaned up, Harry got me to hold a cool damp cloth to my face. I took a look at my reflection in a window of the church and was surprised that it looked a hell of a lot better than I thought. The bleeding had stopped and I wouldn’t even need to put any bandages on it.

  “You saw that clipboard, right?” Johnny asked. “What’s on it that’s got Murphy’s bra strap all in a knot?”

  “There was some kind of list or manifest on there. I only saw it for a second or two, but there were two names on it that I recognized.”

  “What were they?”

  “Matisse and Chagall.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I’m pretty sure they’re painters. Like artist painters. The only painting I’ve ever done was our fence back home, but I’m pretty sure those guys are supposed to be pretty famous.”

  “Well, that would make sense, right?” Johnny said as he nodded towards the church basement. “Those skinny crates we saw those guys carrying would have been just about the right size for paintings.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking too.” I paused for a second, mulling things over in my head. “It looked like there were probably around fifty items on that list I saw. That must be why those SS guys were here. If they were hiding or storing them here, they must have realized they had to move them fast before any of our guys showed up; looks like we got here just in time.”

  “Not really. You said there were around fifty things on that list?”

  “I couldn’t tell for sure, but somewhere around there.”

  “Well, when Murphy sent me downstairs, there were only eight left. That means those two officers got away with most of them.” He paused for a second. “Uh, did you notice if they’d been checking them off on that list, as if they’d been counting them?”

  “No, I don’t think so. There was just the list. I don’t recall seeing any checkmarks. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it would tell us for sure which ones they took and which ones were left.”

  “I didn’t see anything like that. Maybe there’s some markings on the crates.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  A short time later, the captain showed up in a jeep. Besides Lt. Shapton, there was some other guy driving I didn’t recognize, plus a major. This must have been pretty important for a major to turn up. They talked with Murphy who handed over the clipboard. We saw Murphy pointing to the doors leading to the church basement and the location where the truck had been. The clipboard was passed from Crocker to the major who handed it to the private who’d been driving. He looked it over carefully, then flipped over the first sheet to another beneath before speaking. We couldn’t hear what he was saying but he pointed to the list a number of times while showing it to the officers. They nodded and at the major’s direction, the group of them went into the church basement, Sgt. Murphy included.

  “What do you think’s going on?” Johnny asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think that private that was looking at the list for so long must be able to read German,” I said. “I can’t think of any other reason why he’d be here.”

  A few minutes later the group of them came out of the basement. They went back to the jeep they’d arrived in and talked, pointing a few times at the clipboard while the private with them would refer to the list before answering. Finally, with what seemed to be a nod of consensus from the little group, Capt. Crocker turned in my direction.

  “Private Nuzurka,” he called out, beckoning for me to come forward.

  I flicked my smoke to the ground and jogged over.

  “Son, can you leave that radio with us for a few minutes?”

  “Yes Sir,” I replied as I slipped the little pack off my back.

  “Thanks, Private, I’ll get this back to you shortly,” Lt. Shapton said as he took the pack and set it on the hood of the jeep.

  Knowing I was dismissed, I walked back over and took my place with the others, watching the officers operate. Lt. Shapton had the unit to his ear and put the call through before passing it to the major. The big cheese paced back and forth in short little steps, which was all the little cord on the radio would allow. He spoke in undertones so we couldn’t make out what he was saying. A couple of minutes later, he hung up the handset and passed it back to the lieutenant who nodded towards me. I jogged over to retrieve the radio and noticed that they stopped talking when I was within earshot. They resumed their conversation as soon as I walked away.

  “Whatever’s going on, it’s all hush hush,” I said to Johnny under my breath. “They shut up like clams as soon as I got close.”

  The major led the conversation, the other officers nodding and asking questions periodically. The private they’d brought to translate was only called on a time or two, each time referring to the clipboard before responding. The major pointed a number of times to the church basement, then each way down the road. The others nodded, the captain looking to Murphy a number of times to make sure everything was clear. Finally, with a snappy little salute from Murphy, the other four climbed back into the jeep and drove away.

  “Alright men, listen up,” the sergeant said as he walked up to our little group. “It appears as if we’ve stumbled across quite a little find here. Some of you may have heard that the Nazis have been pilfering pieces of artwork as they’ve made their way across Europe. Apparently Hitler’s been gathering it up for his own little collection. It looks like we came across one of their little stashes.”

  Johnny and I exchanged a quick look; things were just as we’d thought.

  “According to this list,” Murphy continued as he raised the clipboard, “they had fifty-four paintings here. The major says they wouldn’t have kept an important stash in a place like this. He figures they were probably moving them when the invasion hit. They probably decided to store them in the church until things quieted down. Knowing we’d taken the beaches at Normandy and were moving further inland, it seems as if they decided they’d better get this stuff out of here while they still had a chance. That’s what we saw those guys loading into the back of that truck. There are only eight left down there. So unfortunately, those two SS guys got away with forty-six of them. I figured it must have been something pretty important for them to send SS this close to the front.” He paused and looked at each of us before flipping up the clipboard once more. “Well, I guess getting eight back is better than nothing.”

  He paused for a second before continuing. “Major Higgins there put a call in and apparently there are some guys coming from Military Intelligence tomorrow morning to retrieve those eight paintings. Our job is to stay here tonight and guard this location. We’re pretty sure that since they made off with most of the loot, they won’t try and come back. But if they do, it’s our job to make sure they don’t get it. Capt. Crocker is going to have the rest of the platoon assigned to help us; they’ll be stationed about a mile down each side the road guarding those access points while we’re gonna stay right here at the church.”

  He looked at Rusty, who was still visibly shaken by what had happened earlier. Surprisingly, he hadn’t said a word since Murphy had used his gun to blow a hole in the German’s skull.

  “So we’re going to work in two-hour shifts, so everybody stays alert. On each shift, I want two guys down in the basement and two guys up here watching the perimeter of the church. While those four are on duty, the other four can get some shuteye. MacNeil.”

  Even speaking relatively quietly, the sergeant’s powerful voice startled Rusty.

  “Y…..yes Sir?” Rusty replied.

  “Do you think you can handle this duty or do I need to personally babysit you?”

  “N……n…..no Sir,” Rusty st
ammered.

  “No Sir, you can’t handle it or ‘No Sir’, I don’t need to babysit you?” I felt my blood start to boil as Murphy toyed unnecessarily with the young man.

  “I….I can handle it, Sir.”

  “Good. Wilkinson, MacNeil’s with you. You two will be teamed with Nuzurka and Russo. The other four will spell you after two hours. You can get some shuteye in the church.” He gave Rusty a look of resigned disgust before turning to the rest of us. “I don’t want any fuck-ups, gentlemen. If one of you falls asleep at your post, you’ll have to deal with me. You got it?”

  “Yes Sir.” A chorus of responses echoed across the church yard.

  “Alright. It’s going to be a long night. Let’s see if we can rustle up some chow.”

  A short time later we settled in for some beans and coffee. Pretty meager, but it’s all we had with us.

  “Jesus, Chester, what did you do to this coffee,” Sam said as he took a swig of the bitter black brew. “What did you do, use the whole frickin’ can when you made it? I know we gotta stay up all night, but this stuff is making my eyes bleed. Alex, pass me some of that armored cow.”

  I handed over the can of milk that was making the rounds. Sam dumped a goodly portion into his swill in a misguided attempt to make it more palatable. Even loaded up with milk and sugar, the coffee still tasted strong enough to kill the whole German army.

  “With these beans you gave me,” Chester replied, “maybe I can blow a fart into your cup so it’s more to your liking.” Chester punctuated his sentence by letting go with a wet screamer, which just about put everybody off their meal.

  “Oh shit, man,” Sam said as he started to laugh. “You better check your underwear after that one.”

  Eventually the light started to fade and our four-man unit went to get some sleep while the other guys took the first shift. We stretched out in the church, trying to get as comfortable as we could. It was tough, but I drifted into a restless sleep only to be woken up far too early by Bill. We relieved the other four who were grateful for a chance to get some rest.

  “Well, this is kind of a shithole,” I said as Johnny and I stepped into the church basement while Rusty and Tom stayed topside. There was one bare bulb dangling from the ceiling in the main room at the bottom of the stairs. In the distant gloom, I could see partitions forming what almost looked like stalls you would see in a stable. The place had a dank staleness to it that seemed to settle like a cloying mist on your skin.

  “There aren’t any labels on these, just numbers,” Johnny said as he looked at the slim wooden crates leaning against one wall. I walked over and took a look. The narrow crates surrounding the paintings were similar in size, each one with a stencilled number along one side. They must have been taking them out haphazardly since the numbers on these eight were all random. As Johnny had noticed, there were no labels other than the numbers. We had no idea which paintings were in which crate. I guess if we had the clipboard with that list, we would know; but Murphy had that safely with him and was going to be turning that over to the MI guys who were coming tomorrow.

  After an hour, I was getting restless. In the distance you could hear rats skittering about. A number of times I could even see the reflections from their oil-drop eyes looking back at me out of the darkness. The place gave me the creeps.

  “I’m goin’ up to take a leak and have a smoke,” I said as I got to my feet. “You gonna come?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “You sure? We’ll only be a few minutes. Some fresh air would be nice.”

  “Naw, you go ahead. Just in case Murphy shows up, it’s probably better if we make sure there’s at least one of us down here.”

  “Alright, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  When I got outside, I took a few steps over to a tree in the church courtyard and unzipped.

  “Halt, who goes there?” Rusty’s voice came to me out of the darkness. I’m sure he must have heard the expression he used in a movie.

  “Rusty, it’s me, Alex.”

  “Oh, hi,” he said as he walked up to me. “What are you doing out here?” As usual, Rusty said the first thing that came into his head.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” I replied as my piss continued to splatter noisily on the ground.

  “Oh yeah, sorry.” Rusty kind of half-turned away, giving me some semblance of privacy.

  I finished up and lit a smoke, enjoying the calming effect it had on my body as I slowly let the smoke out of my lungs. “You doing okay after what happened today?” I asked. In the darkness I could see him nod hesitantly. “Are you sure? That was pretty harsh, that thing that Sgt. Murphy did.”

  In the moonlight I could see Rusty’s eyes well up with tears as he thought back to Murphy’s finger squeezing his own over the trigger, blowing a hole in the dying man’s head with the very gun he now held in his hands.

  “Alex, I…..I want to go home.”

  I saw him fight back the tears as he coughed and wiped his face. I felt so sorry for him, for all of us actually. I almost envied the fact that for Rusty it was easy to put the thoughts that the rest of us had into words. I knew everybody else was thinking the same thing, but nobody would ever admit to it.

  “I do too, Rusty. I do too.”

  I took another deep drag as he nodded, both of us thinking about our places in this war.

  “I….I thought it was going to be fun, you know; like camping when I was in Boy Scouts.”

  Oh Jesus, I thought to myself. Tom was right. Rusty probably never should have been here in the first place. I felt like finding the recruiter who had stamped his ticket and beating the crap out of him. This poor simple boy should have been at home with his family; not over here where one misstep could have you killed in an instant. This first bit of action had left him simply terrified. Unfortunately, I knew they wouldn’t send him back unless he had a total breakdown. No, they’d keep him here until he likely got himself shot.

  “Rusty, listen. I know being here isn’t like you thought it was going to be. Believe me, it’s worse than any of us thought. I know Sgt. Murphy can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but I think he’ll do his best not to get us killed. So if you just do what he says and stick close to the rest of us, you’ll be okay.”

  He slowly nodded his head. “Thanks, Alex. Thanks for being my friend.”

  His simple words stunned me. They were straightforward words that had never been spoken to me before. With Johnny, my friends back home, even with my brothers, no one had ever said that to me before. You always had an understanding with your friends that the feeling was implied, but it left me temporarily speechless and bewildered to hear Rusty actually say it. He said it naturally, as if it was the simplest most uncomplicated thing in the world: ‘Thanks for being my friend’. I almost wanted to cry. This young man my own age was such a kind, gentle soul. It seemed like a horrible injustice that he should be here.

  “Thanks for being my friend too, Rusty,” was all I could respond with as I tapped him gently on the shoulder. “I guess we better get back to our posts before Murphy comes along.”

  “Okay, see ya later,” he said as he trooped off to the far corner of the church. I watched him walk away, praying that however this war ended, he would make it out alive.

  I stubbed out my smoke and took the stairs back to the basement. As I walked into the dimly-lit room, Johnny came walking from the direction of the stalls in the back, tucking in his shirt as he came towards me.

  “We’re gonna be down here for a while yet,” I said. “Please tell me you didn’t take a shit or something over there.”

  “No,” he responded with a laugh. “I was just stretching my legs. Everything okay out there?”

  The evening passed uneventfully; the other group sparing us off every two hours. I felt a little punch-drunk from lack of sleep the next morning, but that was becoming the status quo these days. What I wouldn’t give for as little as four hours of uninterrupted sleep. And to follow th
at up with a nice hot shower or bath. Oh man, that would be heaven.

  Capt. Crocker and the rest of the platoon arrived at our spot early in the morning, shortly followed by the guys from Military Intelligence. There were two officers, a major and a captain. They came in a jeep and were accompanied by four guys in a truck. Murphy and Capt. Crocker filled them in on what had happened, and followed up their explanation by handing over the clipboard. The major looked at it intently before handing it to the captain, who did the same. They disappeared into the church basement and were only gone a few minutes before coming up again. Under their direction, the guys with them brought up the remaining eight crates and loaded them into the back of the truck. I noticed that once they had them all on board, they lashed them down securely. The captain and the major both checked to make sure they weren’t about to shift around or bounce out of the truck if they hit a bump.

  Once they were loaded up, the two officers spoke once more with Crocker and Murphy. At one point Murphy pointed in our direction, the two officers looking our way while Murphy talked. When they finished talking, the captain climbed behind the driver’s seat of the jeep while the major walked in our direction, closely followed by Capt. Crocker and Murphy. As the major got closer, we automatically snapped to attention.

  “At ease, men, at ease,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked to be in his mid-forties and carried himself confidently. “I’m Major Lawson. Men, I want to tell you how grateful we are for what you’ve done here. The Nazis have been looting and plundering artwork all across Europe. From this manifest that you found, we know exactly which paintings they got away with, and which ones you’ve saved. It’s unfortunate that we couldn’t have gotten the whole lot, but we’re pleased with anything we can get our hands on. Some of these works are incredibly valuable, and once the war is over, we will see to it that they are returned to the rightful owners.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking,” said Johnny, “how much are some of those pictures actually worth?”

  “Well, son,” the major said with a wry little smile on his face, “if you put all of our yearly pay-cheques together, then multiplied by about a hundred, you still wouldn’t be close to what some of these paintings are worth.”

  “PHEWWWWW……..” Harry let out a long drawn-out whistle of surprise.

  “Between you and me,” the major continued, “I wouldn’t want most of these things hanging in my house, but hey, I’m just a guy who looks at my kid’s fingerpainting and calls that art.” This brought a chuckle. “There are people far smarter than me who’ve decided these things are important, so like you, I just do what I’m told. Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks and that you should give yourselves a pat on the back. Good job, men.”

  With a nod of approval, he turned on his heel and strode back to the waiting jeep. As soon as he climbed aboard they took off, the truck with the remaining eight pieces of artwork following in their dusty trail.

  “Well, well,” said Sam, “who would have thought some crummy paintings would cause so much commotion.”

  “Yeah, the way those guys acted,” George said, “you would have thought it was gold or diamonds or something.”

  “Well, it sounds like those stupid paintings are worth more than we’ll ever make,” Sam replied.

  “Alright men,” Lt. Shapton called out, “let’s head on back to base.”

  With the rest of the platoon, we marched back to our base. Rusty stuck pretty close to us, but he said not a word. I wondered how long it would take for him to be back to his old chatty self, if ever.

  “Hey guys,” Sam said as he stuck his head into our tent that evening, “we’re starting up a poker game in our tent. Are you coming?”

  “Sure,” said both Chester and Harry as they got to their feet.

  “What about you, Russo? You never say ‘No’ to a poker game.”

  ‘Ah, I’m gonna pass this time,” Johnny replied. “I’m kinda tired. I’ll let one of you clowns try and win this time.”

  “You’re a real prince, Russo, you know that?” Sam turned to me. “What about you, Alex? Are you coming?”

  Johnny had seemed a little strange since we’d left the church earlier that day. And Sam was right; it wasn’t like him at all to turn down a poker game. “I’ll be over in a few minutes,” I said, “you guys go ahead.”

  I waited until they were out of earshot. “So, what’s up?” I asked Johnny.

  “Nothing’s up? What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been acting strange all day, so something’s going on.”

  He looked at me nervously, then got up and went to the door of our tent. He opened the flap and peered outside before ducking back in. “I’ve got something to show you.” He grabbed his knapsack and started to open it. He reached into the very bottom and drew out a folded piece of what looked like some kind of stiff fabric. He laid it down gently on his bedroll and carefully opened it.

  “Jesus Christ, Johnny, what did you do?” I exclaimed as I looked down at a painting.

  “SSSHHH,” he hissed. “Be quiet.”

  “Is that one of those eight paintings from the church?” I asked as I pointed at the piece of coloured canvas lying before us.

  “Uh, not really.”

  “What do you mean, not really? It either is or it isn’t.”

  “It’s not one of those eight.” He paused and I looked at him, knowing from his tone that there was more coming. “Because there were actually nine.”

  “Nine?”

  “Yeah. When Murphy sent me down into the church basement the first time, I took one and hid it in one of those back stalls.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I just figured if those Germans were going to so much trouble over something, it must be pretty important, whatever it was.”

  “So you thought you’d just hide one?”

  “Hey, we didn’t even know what it was at that time. I figured if it was something really important, I’d bring it out and say I’d found it stashed away back there.”

  “But this is important. You heard the major.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Alex. What’s one painting more or less? Nobody’s gonna know.”

  “What do you mean, nobody’s gonna know?” My mind was racing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. I knew Johnny would be in big shit if anybody found out he’d stolen the painting.

  “You saw for yourself, those eight paintings that were left weren’t in any order. You even said that when you saw the list on the clipboard that they hadn’t been checking them off. As far as the brass knows, this one here is with all the others those SS guys got away with.”

  “But you…..you’ve got to give it back.”

  “Relax, Alex. Like I said, nobody’s gonna know. I can keep this thing folded up in the bottom of my knapsack and nobody’ll be the wiser.”

  “When…..when did you take it out of the box?” I was totally perplexed. Other than that first minute or two when Murphy’d sent him down, I thought I’d been with him the whole time.

  “I did it when you went upstairs to have a smoke. You came back a little faster than I thought. I had to stuff it into the back of my shirt when you came in.”

  I remembered now, I’d said something to him about taking a crap in the basement. “So you’re just gonna keep it?”

  “It’ll be a nice little souvenir if we make it out of this shit-storm alive.”

  I shook my head as I looked at the painting. Under the dim light cast by our little petrol lantern, it didn’t look like anything special to me. It almost looked like something a kid would do. It was pretty colorful, but other than that, I didn’t get it. I’d never taken any course at school about painting or painters, but according to the major, these things were supposed to be works of art. Like he’d said himself, when I looked at it, I couldn’t see what was so important about it either.

  “You’re not gonna say anything, are you?” Johnny continued.

  I slowly
shook my head in resignation before replying, “No, I’m won’t say anything.”

  “Thanks, brother.”

  “Just put that thing away before somebody shows up.”

  He folded the canvas back up and slipped it into the bottom of his knapsack, being sure it was hidden beneath all his other gear.

  “C’mon,” he said as he stuffed his pack into the corner of the tent and grabbed his cigarettes. “Let’s go see how many smokes I can take off these guys tonight.”

  Lightened by his admission of what he’d done, the allure of the poker game was now calling out to him. In a daze, I trailed after him, wondering if Johnny’s little ‘souvenir’ would end up causing both us to take up a lengthy residence in the stockade.