by James R Benn
Clay turned away, faced the stove. He had to put that thought away. He took a deep breath. Calm down, speak naturally, remember who you are.
“Nope. Too damn busy on the farm for that.” Clay poured himself more coffee. He didn’t offer any to Chris. He leaned against the counter and raised the cup to his lips. It was the dregs of the pot, gritty and acidic on his tongue.
“You’ve never wanted to go back?”
“No reason to. Everyone’s dead by now, the place is probably a development, worse than this place. We used to be able to see clear down to the Polish Cemetery.”
“What was it like?”
“Looking at the Polish Cemetery?”
“Jesus Christ! Talking to you is a waste of time.”
“Chris, be reasonable, will you?”
“I know more about Bob and what he did in the war from working with him than I do about you. I saw how you reacted at the funeral yesterday, it had to have an effect on you. What was that like, how did you feel?”
Clay felt his stomach drop out. The funeral was a blur except for the volleys and the airplane. That march across the open field and the Me-109s were more vivid, more real in his mind. He wanted to scream at Chris, tell him about the bodies cut in half, arms flying through the air, dead men, screaming men, still in his head, clearer every day. Six decades of self-discipline took over, and he said nothing. Nothing was best, since one thing would lead to another and then everything he ever did would be open to inspection, judgment, penalty. Nothing is best.
Seconds passed. Chris watched his father, waiting. Clay stared out the window.
“Forget it. It’s almost seven, I gotta get up to Hartford.” Chris took his cup to the sink and dumped the coffee. He clipped on his holster and badge, put on his jacket, and stood in front of his father. They were eye to eye now, no more looking up to see his face at a great height. Clay could see the muscles along Chris’ jaw clench and unclench, and the raw power of an angry armed man flowed over him.
“We have our own secrets, Dad, but at least they’re between us, something we have in common. Didn’t Mom ever ask you about your childhood, the farm, the war? All those forbidden things you won’t talk about, doesn’t it drive her crazy? How can you cut that part of yourself off from everyone else?”
It wasn’t the first time he had heard this from Chris, but his son had never asked him about Addy that way before. What was he supposed to say, that she was a good woman, accepted him as who he was, didn’t ask useless questions, so why do you? Addy’s acceptance of him was a cocoon. Chris’ questions came like wasp stings.
“It wasn’t pretty. But what’s done is done. Far as I’m concerned, my life started when I moved here, met your mother. You’re part of that, why isn’t that enough for you?” Clay spoke in a whisper, his voice nearly quivering, every effort expended to keep a lid on it, not let anything else out.
“Ever since I was old enough to put things together, I’ve felt there was a missing piece you kept from me. Don’t I deserve to know everything about my father? Is it something terrible? Do you think I’ll be ashamed of you?”
“You’ve known me all your life, Chris, what more do you want? Do you think I’m a terrible person?”
Clay felt his voice break, tried to keep the challenge in his tone, but afraid the question had come out wrong, as if he really wanted an answer. But Chris wasn’t picking up on nuances now. Even a trained police interrogator misses things arguing with his father.
“People don’t start their lives at twenty-two, a lot goes on before that. And you’re capable of terrible things. Believe me, I know.”
“Yep, that you do.”
Chris started to say something. Clay saw the anger flash in his face, the same anger that he wore as a younger man but now kept in check, fastened away, clipped down like his gun and badge. Then the flash was gone, and Chris turned away, resting his hands on the sink.
“Good-bye,” Clay said as he left the room.
Chris took a deep breath, and exhaled, shaking his head. So many missing pieces to his father’s life. He grew up hard, nearly alone, and went off to fight a war, but hardly spoke of either. The war, he could understand. But what happened before that? What else happened after that he didn’t know about? What he did know hinted at dark possibilities.
He stared at the countertop. The glass his father had left stood alone. It had come out of the cupboard clean. There would be no other prints on it, only his father’s.
Why not?
No, he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right. A violation of state regulations, for one thing. But, that could be finessed. What wasn’t right was a son investigating his father. Then again, it wasn’t right for a father to withhold himself as much as his did.
He took a small plastic bag from a drawer, stuck two fingers inside the glass, lifting it up and dropping it into the bag. He walked out the back door.
Clay heard Chris pull the unmarked Crown Vic cruiser out of the driveway, and down Dexter Avenue toward the highway. He thought he heard the chirp of tires peeling out, anger and frustration pressing down on the accelerator, the last word in the argument. My son the state police detective, and he’s just aching to solve the mystery of his old man. Good luck with that one, kid.
Clay stood in the kitchen, alone. Alone. It was best this way. What else could he do? Terror and shame knocked at the door every day of his life, and he had held off this long. A little while longer, and he could rest.
He waited in the kitchen, listening for the bedroom door to open. The ticking of the clock filled the empty room, and the rest of the house was in silence. He felt his skin prickle, and he strained to hear the muffled sounds of Addy preparing for the day.
Tick tock, tick tock.
Clay knew, before the next second passed, that he was utterly alone. Knew it as a man knows when he steps on a mine, the hard feel of steel under his foot, and everything around him takes on an otherworldly cast, mocking him with what he once took for granted. You will never again have this, this normalcy, the reliability of love and companionship.
He stood and stepped away from the table, advancing to the bedroom, his hand on the wall, steadying him. He opened the door. The curtains were still drawn, and Addy’s head rested on the pillow, eyes closed, one hand out of the covers, as if she were about to throw them off and get up.
Clay took her hand, felt the coldness.
“Oh, Addy, oh Addy.”
He fell to the side of the bed, clutching her hand, willing warmth back into it.
Chapter Seven
1945
“Momma! Momma!”
Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up was all Jake could think as he ducked below the window to put a fresh clip in his M1, holding the bolt back and slipping it in, bright brass and steel gleaming as wisps of smoke drifted up from the over-heated receiver.
“Momma—ahhh!” Cooper cried as he writhed on the floor. Everyone was firing as fast as they could, but Jake could still hear him. Shut the fuck up, goddamn you sonuvabitch!
Jake gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut for a second as bullets struck the wall behind him, scattering plaster and dust across his back. Noise surrounded him, the heavy, steady stammer of the BAR’s automatic fire from upstairs, where Big Ned and Miller had a good field of fire. Jake was downstairs with Shorty, Tuck and Clay, each of them firing through the three windows and smashed door of the farmhouse. Cooper, through it all, screaming for his mother, legs thrashing on the floor, holding his belly as dark red blood seeped between his fingers, his head arched back as if he were trying to get as far away from the pain as he could.
Jake swung his arms, hoisting the M1 up onto the shattered window frame and saw blurs of white moving out of the woods, darting between small folds of ground between the fir trees and the village. If you could even call it that. He focused on one, squeezed the trigger twice, hoping as much for the sound to drown out Cooper as for a hit. The German went down, Cooper kept on, momma, momma, momma.
He ducked down and popped up on the other side of the window, two more shots, then down again. Don’t give them a target. His breath came faster and faster. Up again, this time four Krauts running right at the house, rifles in one hand and grenades in the other. They were yelling as they came, strange words shrill in the clear air. Everyone fired at them in the same second, screaming their heads off too, as fear tore roars from their throats, as loud and hot as their gun barrels. Jake thought he heard Cooper join in, lending his awful shrieks to the struggle.
The four Germans were cut down, tumbling forward on their own momentum, arms and legs flailing wildly, bodies spinning, their screamed oaths reduced to silence, replaced by the grunted, exhaled acknowledgement of pain and death. Grenades slipped from limp hands, two exploding among the downed men, shrapnel ripping into lifeless flesh, decorating their white camouflage winter smocks with holes of charred black and red. Two other grenades bounced forward, exploding in front of the house, yards short of their target.
Jake heard Clay drop his rifle, saw him reach his hand up to his cheek. As fast as he dropped it, Clay had the weapon in his hand again and turned his face toward Jake. He held his eyes wide open, making sure he could still see, presenting his face like a child hurt on the playground. Am I okay? He felt blood but not pain. Clay knew that in the frenzy of firing and killing, fear could numb a wound, and maybe his face was shot through, ripped open, teeth and jaw visible and naked.
Jake rubbed a dirty thumb over Clay’s bloody cheek, felt a tiny sliver of metal, pulled it out and flicked it away. Nothing, just a piece of spent shrapnel. They both went back to their work. Clay could feel the sticky blood from his cheek as he rested it against the stock of the M1, sought a target in the tree line, and fired, once, twice, take a chance, three times, then down.
Fucking Krauts were everywhere. No warning, no bombardment, not even mortars. A dawn charge from the tree line, a horde of white-clad demons whooping and yelling, firing from the hip, going for the sudden shock, hoping to overrun the platoon that held the village. Jake had seen one of those first wild shots hit Cooper, as he walked by the window, in one side and out the other. Before Cooper hit the floor everyone else was at a window, trying to stem the tide of Germans with a wall of rifle fire. Not a moment to spare for mercy or morphine, so it was momma, momma, momma, over and over and over. Each man knew how much time it would take to crawl to Cooper, get out a morphine syrette, hold him down, jam it in. He’d probably grab at you, ask you if he was going to be okay. Two, three, maybe four minutes, and there wasn’t a second to spare, not with beaucoup Krauts swarming down the hill.
Jake couldn’t believe it. They kept coming, out over the two hundred yards of clear ground, no good cover between the houses and the forest. He swore they were drunk, the way they yelled and ran straight at them. He could smell the schnapps on the breeze, the odor released as they screamed unknowable things into the cold morning air. Curses, slogans, prayers, Jake had no idea. It wouldn’t be the first time the Germans got their men good and plastered for an attack. Jake didn’t like fighting drunks. They didn’t have enough sense to take cover or turn and run, they just kept coming at you, as likely to smash your head in with a rifle butt as shoot you.
Duck down, new clip in, watch out for Cooper thrashing around, get up, shoot, shoot, move, shoot, duck. Momma momma momma, Cooper begged. Jake had heard that cry before. He’d heard mother, mommy, mama, mom, and momma, he’d even once heard a guy cry out for his auntie, but it was all the same, and it was the one thing Jake hoped he didn’t scream for if he was hit, down on the ground, crying like a new born babe and just as bloody.
Another clip in. Jake lost count of how much ammo he used. Bullets from a heavy machine gun raced across the front of the house, blowing away the stucco finish and sending chips of granite flying, the sharp flinty odor of the split rocks mingling with the coppery smell in the air, the odor of a welling pool of blood. Chalky plasterboard exploding in the room as rapid fire went through the windows and doorway. Everyone was down now, curled up, face to the floor, hugging their rifle and waiting for the fire to lessen. It didn’t. This wasn’t random fire from drunken riflemen. This was a MG-42, set up in the woods, pouring over 1200 rounds per minute into the house, sounding like a chainsaw revved up high it fired so damn fast.
Jake looked over to Clay. They both knew they had to get out. They were pinned down, and that meant there were probably Germans working their way around either side. The MG would keep up firing until they were close enough to throw grenades in the windows. As soon as the MG went silent, they’d move in for a close throw and then there’d be less than a minute to live. Clay glanced over to the windows, then to the back door. Quick nod of agreement, and Jake crawled backwards to Cooper. Maybe there was time.
Clay crawled, flat as he could, to the narrow stairs. Shorty and Tuck had taken all this in and Tuck gave a hand signal to Clay, pointing towards the kitchen and the back door. They’d head for the rear of the house to check for Krauts on their flanks. Clay got to the base of the stairs and was about to yell for Big Ned and Miller, but he didn’t have to. Big Ned looked down from the top of the stairs. Bullets coming in the window chewed up two or three steps, just the height of the window opening. Wood splinters showered Clay as Big Ned shook his head, and cupped his hand around his mouth.
“We’ll go out the back window,” he said, gesturing behind him with his thumb, and then pointing down. A nod and Clay was gone, slithering backwards to the door at the rear of the house. He crawled over shattered furniture, crockery, horsehair stuffing from an old couch, broken glass, crumbled plaster, shell casings, and blood, but nothing mattered, nothing but getting out, getting out now. He got back to Jake, flat on the floor next to Cooper, who was covered in white dust from all the debris sent flying by the bullets that split the air just two feet over their bodies. Before each thud as a bullet hit the wall, a sharp crack, like a bullwhip, sounded above their heads. Clay touched his helmet to Jake’s so he could talk into his ear and be heard.
“Big Ned and Miller are going out the back window. Shorty and Tuck are at the back door, we gotta go now.”
Clay tried to ignore Cooper. He was an unsolvable problem. He was dying, and there was nothing to do about it, nothing that wouldn’t get at least one other man killed too, and there was no sense in that. Cooper coughed and tried to spit, to clear his mouth of the dust. It hurt, and he spasmed, shrieked, no words this time, only pure terror and agony that came out high pitched and seemed to have no end.
“Go,” said Jake, “right behind you. Take my rifle.” He pulled out a morphine syrette and jammed it down on Cooper’s thigh.
“You can’t carry him.”
“I have to.”
The machine gun stopped. The noise that had been at the center of everything dropped away. It was quiet inside the house, but Jake could still hear the sounds of firing from the other buildings. A section of wall fell away, chewed loose by all the slugs hitting it. As it hit the floor a cloud of dust kicked up, the noise strange in the sudden silence. Even Cooper noticed, or maybe it was the morphine calming him. His leg was still quivering but his eyes focused on them for a second, as if he wanted to tell Clay, yes, he has to, he really has to.
No time to argue. Go. Clay took Jake’s rifle and dragged it alongside him. He went out through the kitchen and crawled to the back door. He could see smoke from the burning barn and figures running across a distant field. Big Ned and Miller were hugging the wall out back, putting on gear they had tossed out ahead of them.
“Where’s Jake?” said Shorty.
“Coming. What’s the plan?”
“Angle left,” said Tuck. “Smoke might cover us. Into the woods over there.” He pointed to small stand of leafless trees. Not much cover, but something.
“Go,” said Clay. “Now.”
No one asked a question. Shorty and Tuck sprinted out of the door, Big Ned and Miller following. Clay craned his neck out the doorway, left and right, looking for Germans. Jake! Hurry the fuck up! No time, no time, com’n!
Jake stared at Cooper’s stomach, pulling back a hand that covered the wound. Cooper’s coat was open and Jake could see the two holes, right below each ribcage. Blood welled up and Jake could feel Cooper’s hand tremble as he held it. He sprinkled sulfa powder over the wounds, not even bothering to cut open the clothes. No time, and he didn’t want to know how bad it was.
“What—ahh.” Cooper grimaced as Jake put a compress bandage on his stomach and wound gauze tape around him, lifting him by the back, twice, to get the tape tight over the bandage. He couldn’t tell if it covered both holes, but it had to do. It had to. No time, no time to explain, he had to go, now. Jake felt his heart beating, thumping and pounding against his chest as if it wanted to get out of here all by itself. His breath came in shallow gasps. Sweat flushed out on his skin and he felt empty inside, everything drained out. Go.
He got up in half crouch and grabbed Cooper by the collar, dragging him out into the kitchen, over the shattered remnants of a cozy living room. Ain’t that funny, a living room, Coop? Sorry I can’t apologize for this, it must hurt even with the morphine, I didn’t dare give you more, shut the fuck up now.
Cooper shrieked and wailed, momma momma momma over and over again as the movement pulled at his torn insides. His arms flailed against Jake as he tried to stop whatever was causing his ungodly pain. In the kitchen, Jake went upright, taking a chance since the Krauts weren’t firing. They must be close to the windows now. He turned to lift Cooper under his arm and Cooper screamed louder, his face a twisted frenzy of fear. Jake struggled to move him through the tight space in the kitchen, pulling him like a reluctant child. Cooper grabbed at the edge of the stove, a big cast iron cook stove, putting all his remaining strength into that one grip. Jake pulled at him, trying to free the grip that held them both there. He froze as he heard a clunk clunk from the living room, then a third clunk, as three grenades were tossed in. He slammed his free hand down on Cooper’s wrist, breaking it maybe, not caring, holding onto Cooper under his armpit as he leapt out the back door, hitting the snow packed ground hard as explosions blasted out from the house. Shards of glass and wood sprinkled over them, white lace curtains fluttering in the dark smoke billowing out of the doorway and window.
