by James R Benn
“No, no, I need someone to make sure those guys at the road are quiet,” Jake said, cutting him off.
“Sure, Jake, whatever you say.” Tuck looked at the German, studying him, and then moved away, slowly.
Big Ned and Miller stood back as Jake and Clay approached Oakland and his prisoner. Oakland had expected to be congratulated for bringing in a POW. Instead, he felt three hard stares drilling into his eyes. Miller looked away, pretending to search the woods, his eyes finally settling on the ground in front of him.
“So what the fuck are we supposed to do with this sack of shit?” Big Ned asked to no one in particular.
“Bring him back,” said Oakland. “Maybe he’s got information or something.”
“You speak English?” Jake asked the prisoner, ignoring Oakland. He got no response.
“We can’t bring him back,” Clay said. “Too far to go to risk bringing a Kraut along. He could yell for help, grab a weapon, anything.”
“We’ll shoot him if he does,” Oakland said.
“By then it will be too late. We have to take care of this now,” Jake said.
“He’s right,” Clay said, explaining to Oakland, and perhaps himself. “In a fight like this you can’t take prisoners. You should’ve shot him then and there. It would have been quick and clean.”
“I ain’t shooting him now,” Oakland said. “I don’t shoot prisoners.”
“You don’t know shit from shinola,” Big Ned said. “You saw what they did. They could’ve kept that guy prisoner. It’s us behind their lines, remember, asshole?”
Tension crackled the air around the prisoner, who stood calmly in the middle of it, either not understanding, or understanding fully and unwilling to show his fear. Big Ned looked ready to explode, as mad at Oakland as at the prisoner, maybe more.
“Miller,” Jake said, “take Oakland up to the road, okay?” It would be better for the veterans to take care of this alone.
Miller looked up from the ground he’d been staring at.
“Go on up,” he said to Oakland. “I’m staying.”
There was a heavy silence among them, including the German. Looking at him, Jake felt nothing but irritation at Oakland. The kid didn’t understand how things had to be done. Killing during a fight was killing fair and square. After a fight too, if a guy was beyond all help and suffering, then it was a fair killing too. But sometimes a minute can make a huge difference, all the difference. Same bullet, same gun, same death. But then it felt like murder. Well, so be it. This SS Kraut couldn’t be trusted, he could get them all killed, and Jake was not going to get more of his guys dead before he got them back home. He wanted no more weight in that front pocket. He’d sent Tuck up to the road because losing your buddy was bad enough, no need to let Tuck do this killing and always wonder if had been the right thing. It would’ve been easy to let Tuck plug the guy, but Jake couldn’t play it that way. He looked at Miller and nodded.
“Okay. Oakland, up to the road. The prisoner is my responsibility.”
Oakland shrugged, and walked away. The German stood, hands resting on his head, waiting.
“Bring him over here,” Jake motioned. Walking over to the body of the dead G.I., he looked back, and saw the first expression of fear break out over the German’s face. His eyes widened and Jake could see the sweat on his forehead. Jake watched him looking around, searching the eyes of his captors for something that wasn’t there, wasn’t theirs to give. Still, he didn’t speak as Big Ned and Miller pushed him towards the body of the dead American. Stumbling, the German stood up, still with his hands on top of his head, looking around once again at the G.I.s pointing their weapons at him. His gaze finally lit on the dead G.I., whose blank open eyes answered his unspoken question. Jake thought he saw a rueful, broken grin flash across the German’s face. Maybe he thought he’d show these Americans how well he could die. Maybe he didn’t believe they’d shoot him. Maybe he didn’t give a damn. Slowly he dropped his hands, trying to come to some semblance of attention, looking around one more time. Not at the men, but at the trees and the gray clouds above. Both hands shaking at his side as he closed his eyes, twin clouds of frosted breath flowed from his nostrils.
Clay walked up to Jake and handed him the automatic they’d taken from the German.
“Best do it with this,” Clay said. “There’s some kinda justice in it.”
Jake took the weapon and held Clay’s stare. Keeping his hand on the barrel, Clay raised his eyebrow, checking to see if Jake was ready, or wanted him to take over.
Jake shook his head as he gave his M1 to Clay, taking the automatic from him. Pulling off his glove, he checked the safety, feeling the cross-hatched grip cold against his skin. At that second, the German opened his eyes, looking straight at him. Hazel green eyes burned into Jake’s. The German’s brow knotted, as if he were trying to peer deep inside Jake, trying to understand the man about to kill him, or perhaps wondering if he had the nerve. Jake got caught up in those eyes, the green drawing him in, that same brownish green of his father’s. He raised the pistol, his hand trembling. The German was breathing harder now, and his exhales blew up a fog of frost in front of his face. Jake squinted, uncertain of what he was seeing. He was five feet away from the prisoner, but he was sighting down the .45 like it was five hundred. Sweat dripping into his eyes, he blinked as he saw the stern high cheekbones rising above a grim mouth set shut, the collarless white shirt buttoned tight at the neck, green eyes judging him, damning him…
“Jake,” Clay said softly.
Jake pulled the trigger. One, twice. The German’s legs collapsed under him and he fell backwards, one leg folding awkwardly beneath the other. Jake watched him for a moment, to be sure he was dead. A small swirl of frost drifted out from his open mouth, disappearing as if it were a departing spirit. Jake walked over to him and couldn’t help but kick the one leg out from under the other. It looked so uncomfortable.
“Let’s go,” said Clay, taking the .45 and handing Jake his rifle. Turning, Jake walked away, up to the road, the image of his father’s face swimming in his mind. His father taunting him with the sins he’d committed and the promise of sins handed down, father to son, like an ugly family heirloom on a darkened basement shelf.
They stood in the road, Jake, Clay, Big Ned, Miller and Tuck, in a small circle that excluded the replacements. Oakland stood apart from both groups, not a raw replacement or a veteran, but somewhere in between and alone.
“Which way?” asked Clay, as he swiveled his head, trying to find the sun behind the clouds. His eyes narrowed at a faint disc of light and then pointed to their left. “That seems to be northwest.”
“Good enough,” said Jake. “I’ll take point.”
“I can take point,” said Oakland, loudly, projecting himself into the group.
“You’ll get your turn,” said Jake. “Make sure no more of your buddies there slip away.”
Oakland turned away, muttering, and started pushing the others apart, telling them not to bunch up and to keep their eyes open. Big Ned cranked his head towards the rear, and Jake nodded as Big Ned and Miller dropped back for rear guard. He knew Clay would be right behind him, ready to relay any signal from the point back to the group.
Tuck stood still. While the others moved silently away, gruesome dancers to a practiced tune, Tuck was alone. Jake and Clay exchanged quick glances, and stopped, staying with Tuck.
“You know,” Clay said slowly, as if a thought was just dawning on him, “that Oakland kid might be okay if he can manage not to do anything else stupid.”
“Least he got up off his ass and did something,” Jake agreed. “What do you think, Tuck?”
“I dunno,” Tuck said, shrugging.
“Think you could take him on,” Jake asked, “until we get back?”
Tuck bit his lip, and twisted his hands around the barrel of his rifle as he leaned on it. “You think it’d be okay?”
“Yeah, Tuck. He needs a hand, and Shorty wouldn’t want y
ou all alone out here,” Jake said. Tuck thought about it for a minute.
“Okay. Let’s see how it goes.”
Tuck trudged towards the replacements and fell in next to Oakland. Jake trotted up the road to put some space between them, and settled down into the business of being point man. As he hugged the edge of the road, darting from cover to cover, watching the terrain and listening for man-made sounds, part of his mind drifted as the rest of it focused on the road.
He thought about Shorty, about how he’d gotten that nickname about thirty seconds after showing up with their squad. About how he and Tuck had hit it off right away, like guys he’d known at school, or those older guys you always saw together having their morning coffee at the diner. Jake wasn’t the kind to make pals that easily, and remembered how he and Clay had paired up more as a mathematical consequence than anything else. But they had become pals, more than pals, brothers maybe. Suddenly it occurred to Jake that he didn’t know how he’d stand it if Clay got killed. Wounded would be bad enough, but if Clay died…. What? What would happen to him? He’d grieve and go on, maybe get himself killed, maybe not. Maybe live through it and go home when it was all over. The possibility of life seemed empty, hopeless as death, the mockery of a promise.
Scuttling across the road to take cover behind a thick pine stump, Jake got a better look around a pile of boulders ahead. If they were headed in the right direction, they’d be coming up on the German rear, facing the Americans in front of them. That was good. As soon as they saw any signs of the German lines, they’d have to get off the road and try and slip through. That would be the hard part. Jake almost laughed out loud. After all this, we still have the hard part to worry about.
He thought again of his father’s face floating in front of him. He wanted to tell Clay why he’d hesitated, why his hand shook. But he never could. Could he? No.
Why not? Who was he protecting? After the war was over he’d never see Clay again. How long could that be? Well, they still had the Japs to go, and scuttlebutt was that once Germany caved in, they’d all be shipped to the Pacific for the invasion of Japan. It wasn’t fair. No one could survive all that fighting, no one.
He took off, running from tree stump to tree stump along the side of the road. Brushing the snow off the top of one he saw it was fresh cut, sometime this winter. Fuel was probably short, and villagers were cutting the trees along the road for firewood. The clearing allowed him to look back a good length down the road, and he saw Clay’s helmet peeking around the side of a tree. Waving, he darted off again, gloved hands gripping his M1 tight, crouching, making himself as small a target as possible, hoping a German wouldn’t recognize him and an American would. Of course he knew what he’d do on the front lines if he caught a glance of a crouched figure advancing on his position. Maybe it’d be a replacement and he’d be a lousy shot.
Oakland. Maybe he would be okay. Tuck would definitely help, long as he held it together. He seemed on the edge, but that could be shock, hunger, or exhaustion. As if it made any difference. On the edge was on the edge, no matter how you got there.
Oakland. He’d had a fleeting thought the other night, just before they’d found the empty German position. If Oakland or some other replacement got it, maybe he could switch dog tags somehow. Jake Burnett would be dead. He’d be somebody else. But how could he keep the dog tags a secret? And what would happen when Oakland’s mother waited and waited for him to come home and he never showed up? The more he thought about it, the less it made sense, but he liked the idea of his parents getting that telegram. That’d show them.
The road curved to the left up ahead. Good spot for a sentry or an ambush. Stopping, Jake listened, waiting for a shuffle or a cough, any sound or smell that didn’t belong. He took small, careful steps, moving quietly, scanning the curve in the road ahead…
He felt hard metal under his boot.
Omigod, omigod, omigod, I’m on a mine! Jesus! Jesus Christ Almighty!
Jake felt the fear melt his skin white, then turn it clammy cold. Urine flowed down his leg as he peed uncontrollably. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he felt his stomach hollow out. Standing as still as he could, he tried to focus, to not move a muscle. His left leg was behind him, his right foot forward where he’d put it down on top of the metal object in the snow. His boot heel wobbled unevenly on the rim of the mine.
Grimacing, he made himself look down at his feet. He could feel his entire body shaking, and wondered if that could set off a mine. The road was rutted, deep frozen cuts from tires and treads filled with snow, some mounds of mud showing above the whiteness, decorated with ice crystals. He found a spot to set his rifle butt into, and held onto it like a cane, steadying himself. With the other hand he signaled, go back, go back, hoping Clay saw him.
He began to see them, round discs set in the snow. Some were nearly uncovered, obvious now that he knew what to look for. With all the mud and unevenness, they hadn’t stood out before. He craned his neck left and saw more just behind him. Fuck. Right in the middle. Fuck! It had been bad luck to be thinking about that telegram, real bad luck.
Okay, settle down. It hasn’t gone off yet. So it’s not a Schu mine. They explode right away and blow off your foot. Made of wood anyway. Not a Bouncing Betty either. Soon as you step on one of those they spring up waist-high and explode a spread of ball bearings, and you’re pretty much guaranteed not to be bearing yours after that. Okay, okay, maybe it’s an anti-tank mine. I can’t set one of those off, can I? Or is it the kind of mine that goes off when you lift up your foot. Oh, Jesus, please help me, please.
“Whaddya got, Jake?” It was Clay, behind him.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. They’re behind me too, don’t come any closer.”
“Hang on.”
“Clay?”
“What?”
“Don’t come any closer, okay?”
“Don’t worry, Jake, I’m being careful.”
“No, I—it’s not that. I pissed myself.”
There was a hesitation, and Jake was afraid Clay would laugh at him. “That’s okay, you got a right,” Clay said, in a calm, understanding voice. “It’s happened to me too.”
“Really? Don’t tell the other guys, okay?”
Even with panic swirling through his mind, Jake felt ashamed at losing control of his body. Keeping this secret was more important than getting off the mine, crazy as that seemed, even to him.
“Okay.”
Silence. Jake listened and heard a scraping sound.
“What are you doing?”
“Clearing the snow off one of these,” Clay said. “Using my bayonet.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re gonna blow us both up!”
“We got to find out what they are,” Clay said. “What did they tell us about German mines when we had that briefing? I can’t remember.”
Jake wanted to say then maybe he shouldn’t be fooling with that mine, but he knew Clay was getting him to talk so he’d calm down. He tried to remember, tried to get his mind to think about something else besides the scraping of Clay’s bayonet against metal.
“Okay, what are they called, they look like plates?”
“Tellermine,” Clay said. “Means plate in German.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Tellermines. TNT with a pressure fuse. Yeah, didn’t they say they took about 500 pounds pressure before going off?”
“That’s right. Except for the older models. They took about 150, 175 pounds pressure.”
“I forgot about those. Can you see anything yet?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“You remember what the numbers were?”
“What numbers?” Jake could hear his voice turning shrill.
“There’s numbers painted on the top of this one. It says—Ti-M 43—is that the new one or the old one?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. If it’s a pressure mine, wouldn’t it have gone o
ff already if it was the old model?”
“Guess so, yeah. You want to step back?”
“Clay?”
“Yeah?”
“Uh, never mind. Yeah, I’ll step back. Back up, okay?”
“All right. When you’re ready, step back one step, real slow. And don’t trip, no telling what one of those would do if you fell on it.”
Jake wanted to speak, to say something, anything that had any meaning, if it might be the last thing he ever said. There was so much, yet nothing came out. He stepped back.
He heard a small crunch as he lifted his boot, the mine settling back in place. Nothing. The pounding in his chest lessened as he steadied himself, lifting his rifle and taking another step backwards, setting his foot down exactly in the footprint he’d left. He wobbled a bit, found his balance, and righted himself, holding his M1 across his chest for balance.
A flicker from within the trees caught his eye and the felt a rush of fear running through him again. What was that? Again, up in the branches, something swift and eerily quiet.
A silent form flew out of the trees and across the road, gliding down, over Jake’s head before flapping its giant wings, sending a gust of air to brush his face. A Barn Owl, snowy white underneath, soft light brown feathers covering the wings and body, blending into the forest as it flew between the branches of a barren oak tree, disappearing as swiftly and quietly as it had appeared. Jake was left open-mouthed, gawking at the vanished grace that had passed over him.
“Did you see that?” he managed to whisper.
“What?”
“That owl. He flew right over me.”
“Just now?”
Jake looked back and saw Clay about ten feet away. Clear of the minefield, the last one about a yard in front of him, he turned and walked as calmly as he could back to where Clay stood.
“Yeah, just now. I felt the wind from his wings. A Barn Owl, I’m pretty sure.”
“Didn’t know they had Barn Owls over here,” Clay said, looking into the trees.
“It was huge, all white underneath, real quiet.”
“That’s a Barn Owl all right. I musta been looking down at the road. You okay?”
