Souvenir

by James R Benn

  “Okay, men. I’m Lieutenant Sykes, and I’m taking over the platoon. I know you’ve been through an ordeal, and we’ve arranged for you to have hot showers and a full change of uniform back at Clervaux.”

  A murmur of satisfaction went through the men, smiles and nods directed towards this new Lieutenant. Clervaux was miles behind the lines. It had been re-taken from the Germans ten days or so before. This guy was taking them in the right direction. Clay and Jake exchanged glances. This was good news, and they both new there was no such thing.

  “How long we going to stay there?” Clay asked. Sykes fixed Clay with the hardest stare he had.

  “Military courtesy dictates that any statement to an officer should be either preceded or terminated with the word ‘sir’. Is that understood?”

  “Yeah, that’s easy to understand,” Clay said. “Trouble is, it’s easy for the Krauts to understand too. We start with Sir and Lieutenant up here, you’re liable to draw fire like shit draws flies. Sir.”

  A ripple of laughter started up and died quickly as everyone noticed Sykes wasn’t laughing. He held up his hand.

  “Military discipline will be maintained, as appropriate to battlefield conditions. When we close with the enemy, then I expect you will avoid drawing attention to superior officers. Until then, standard forms of address and conduct apply. Understood?”

  “We understand, sir,” Jake said, stepping in before things got out of hand. “How long we will be in Clervaux, Lieutenant?”

  “For the day. Trucks will be here soon. There is a shower unit set up in Clervaux, and fresh changes of field uniform are available. Hot chow, then back here for the night. Tomorrow morning we push off.”

  “Push off? Jesus, we’ve been behind Kraut lines for three days,” Big Ned said, disbelief and anger in his raised voice. “One hot shower and then back in the line? Sir?”

  “We need every man. Now I suggest you get some coffee and food if you haven’t already. We leave as soon as the trucks arrive. Dismissed.”

  Sykes turned on his heel, smart as if he were on a parade ground. Most of the replacements drifted off towards the mess tent. Jake and Clay stood still, Big Ned and Tuck looking to them, Miller and Oakland at their sides.

  “Dismissed? Close with the enemy? Who the fuck is this clown?” Big Ned asked.

  “He’s a card-carrying member of the WPPA,” Clay said.

  “What’s that?” asked Oakland.

  “West Point Protective Association,” said Jake, kicking a mound of snow at his feet. “Ten to one, he’s had a staff job at Division since he came over here. He needs some combat time for his next promotion, so they give him a platoon. If he doesn’t get himself killed in this attack, they give him a medal, rotate him back to HQ. He goes home a hero, maybe a captain.”

  “What about us?” Miller said.

  “We didn’t go to West Point,” Jake said. “All we get is a hot shower.”

  An hour later, two trucks were lumbering over the frozen, mud-caked ruts that passed for roads in the thickly wooded terrain. In the lead truck, Lieutenant Sykes rode in the passenger seat, a map folded on his knees. In the back of the truck, Jake, Clay, Big Ned, Tuck, Oakland and Miller shared the space with bags of laundry. Wind blew the side flaps against the truck, blowing in a light dusting of snow, covering everything like fine dust.

  “This asshole’s gonna get us killed, Jake,” said Tuck. “I can feel it. We got no sergeants to keep him from doin’ anything stupid, so you know he’s gonna send us up the middle after the first machine gun he hears.”

  “They gotta teach ‘em about that stuff at West Point, don’t they?” asked Oakland.

  “Officers look out for other officers, and West Pointers look out for West Pointers,” Big Ned said.

  “Red’s an officer, and he’s okay,” said Miller, carefully, not wanting to disagree with his partner.

  “Battlefield commission, that was,” said Big Ned. “He got his bars with a rifle, not in school. Big fucking difference.”

  “Listen,” said Jake, as the truck banged into a deep rut. “Let’s just wait and see what happens. Somebody’s got to be watching this kid. Maybe the Company commander will run things.”

  “Yeah, we see captains up front all the time,” said Tuck. “Right, Miller?”

  “Sure, Tuck, except when all the majors get in the way.”

  Big Ned looked at Miller blankly, then a wide grin lit up his face.

  “All the majors get in the way. That’s funny, kid, that’s funny!”

  They all laughed, again, not because it was that funny, but to disguise the fear and uncertainty. Laughing the loudest, Jake shoved an elbow into Clay’s side, nodding for him to laugh too. He had to laugh. It really was funny. After finally deciding the tell Clay about his father, everything was falling into place. He was a dead man. This kid with his warm leather gloves and fur-lined winter parka would be the end of everything. A guy who didn’t know shit about being at the front was going to lead them in an attack. A big push. Close with the enemy. He was surprised he hadn’t said over the top. It was just about impossible for them to get out of this alive. For an experienced combat leader it took every fiber of being, every brain cell focused on remembering everything he’d ever learned, to bring back most of his men from an attack. The way Jake read him, Sykes was nothing but a pampered rich kid with connections strong enough to get a letter from his congressman to get him into West Point. The kind of guy who felt an HQ job was his due, as was the best cold weather gear for him to wear around the chateau, not for the G.I.s shivering in foxholes.

  Maybe that was unfair. Maybe Sykes had asked for a combat assignment. Maybe the attack would be called off. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  As they traveled towards Clervaux, the terrain changed. The low rolling hills became steep, high peaks divided by narrow valleys, the road cutting in alongside a stream at the bottom of the hill. It began to remind Jake of home, the morning sun hidden behind the rocky, tree-lined slopes. Losing any sense of whether they were descending or the hills were rising around them, Jake had a strange feeling of dislocation, of separation from everything and everyone around him, as if he were watching from a distance, outside of his body. The wind had lessened, cut by the high cliffs, but it was colder, the frigid air settling into the shaded valley bottom. Shivering, he watched Tuck smoking, Big Ned sleeping, and Clay sitting with his legs up on a canvas bag of laundry. These men were his entire world. What would happen to them? He realized, with a shock, that he was more worried about them than about what might happen to him.

  The truck climbed a narrow road, one switchback after another, until Jake glanced at rooftops when he pulled aside the canvas covering of the truck. Clervaux was tucked between two heavily wooded ridgelines at the bottom of the Clerf River valley. The road descended the ridgeline, houses and churches crowded on either side, the stone buildings lower and lower as they came nearer the valley floor. Some buildings were intact, others crumbled and charred, blackened heaps of rubble. The truck braked to a halt, and Jake could see Sykes turn his map, then point to a side road, up and to the left. The truck lurched forward, grinding gears as it threaded through the tight streets. Between the buildings on this street and those below, Jake saw a narrow stone walkway, large enough for two people to pass each other. More like home all the time, a town shadowed by mountains and even its own buildings, all conspiring to create dark, cold places hidden from the light.

  The trucks groaned up the steep grade, as the road narrowed even further, then evened out, ending in a wide courtyard already jammed with two trailer trucks joined together. Tires crunched gravel as they pulled up behind the trailers, parking up against a gray stone building. A walled walkway connected it to a large church, even higher above the street, its sharply sloped slate steeple towering over them like a bayonet advancing on heaven.

  Truck doors slammed and boots hit the stones as Jake and the others jumped off the trucks and stretched, groaning from the bumpy ride. The building they
were standing in front of had the look of a school, several doors and rows of high windows facing the courtyard. A priest came out of one door, nodded without looking at any of them, and scurried off up the open walkway to the church.

  “Friendly guy,” Miller said to Big Ned as the men walked over to the walkway. Resting their arms on the wall, they looked out over the town, most of it set below them in what had been a peaceful valley. Streets curved like a witch’s mouth set in a permanent grin, rotted, blackened teeth next to healthy, whole incisors, the trajectory of a mortar or tank shell changing the life of a family in a heartbeat.

  “Yeah,” said Big Ned, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke into the empty air. “He oughta be overjoyed to see us.”

  Tuck laughed, the cynical grunt of an infantryman confronted with his handiwork. Jake looked out over the ruined town, wondering at the price of war, and if it was tougher to be a civilian, at the mercy of opposing armies. Or if the worst was being defeated and having someone else liberate you, rather than to go on living, suffering the occupation but being free to hate the occupier with a clean, if quiet, conscience.

  The next set of rooftops was below their feet, a narrow alleyway separating them from the buildings facing the next street. Jake watched an old woman walk up the alley, taking the steps one at time. She was wrapped in so many layers of cloth and rags it was impossible to see her face, to make out anything but her bent frame, carrying a basket with what looked like turnips. He wondered how far she’d walked for that food, and how far she had to go.

  “Hey, fellas!”

  Jake and the others turned. A sergeant in a wool overcoat and cap pulled down over his ears stood on the steps leading up to the rear of the trailer. With Sykes nowhere to be seen, eyes turn to Jake. He motioned the men over to the trailer, the sergeant chewing on the stub of an unlit cigar.

  “Okay, I’ll explain the drill,” he said, looking and sounding bored. “First thing, you go inside the building to the first room on your right. Leave all weapons, everything from grenades to bazookas, in that room, along with your helmets. The room will be guarded. You gotta leave all weapons in there since we got locals movin’ your other gear around, and we don’t want any of them gettin’ kilt. Unnerstand?”

  “Any of those locals girls, Sarge?” asked Miller, with a grin.

  “Yeah, all about yer grandma’s age. Now shaddup and lissen. Then you go in this here trailer, six at a time. Remove all yer clothes and stuff ’em into a barracks bag. Take one dogtag off and wire it to yer bag so’s you can pick it up when yer done. There’s canvas bags in there fer your long johns, socks, underwear. All that shit will be replaced at the end. Then you start with the showers, and the next six guys go in. The locals bring yer bags to the end, you take ‘em inside, collect yer new underwear, get dressed, get your weapons, get the hell outta here. Any questions?”

  “You got hot water in that thing?” Big Ned said, crooking his finger at the trailers.

  “There are eight shower stations in this unit,” the sergeant said, repeating what he’d explained a thousand times before, closing his eyes as he read from the manual burned into his brain. “You will be handed a washcloth and a bar of soap. You will go through showers startin’ at a tepid setting, going up to number four, which is the hottest setting. Then four more gradually cooling down to acclimate you to the outdoor temperature. At the final station you will be given a large towel and a heating unit will blast hot air as you dry off. You will then step out of the trailer, into the building, and proceed as directed.” He took a deep breath, glaring at them, daring anyone to ask another question.

  “How come we only get new underwear?” Oakland asked.

  “On account ’ta the Germans blowing up our fuckin’ supply trucks, that’s why. Now shaddup and the first six o’ youse guys get in there.”

  “You gonna shower with us, Sarge?” Miller asked, trying to keep a straight face. He couldn’t, and uncertain laughter rippled through the group as they watched the sergeant for a reaction. Descending the steps the sergeant walked over to stand right in front of Miller, rolling his cigar to one side of his mouth.

  “How long you been on the line, dogface?”

  “Week or so,” Miller said, definitely as he could.

  “Well, I been up here since first snow, and all I seen these past weeks is nuns and old ladies. Maybe I will shower up with you, sonny!”

  Miller looked uncertain for a second, then laughed, then looked uncertain again.

  “C’mon,” said Big Ned, grabbing him by the collar. “We’ll go first.”

  Jake and Clay followed, the sergeant giving them a wink as he headed back into the building. Tuck and Oakland came behind them, the rest of the men forming into a line. Rifles, web suspenders hung with grenades, ammo pouches, all weapons were stacked along the whitewashed wall of an empty room. Each man left his helmet on top of his pile, then eyeing the bored G.I. guarding the room, they shuffled back out, along the line of men behind them, to the showers.

  Inside the trailer, the first compartment held canvas bags hanging on pegs. Coats, sweaters, boots, all their outerwear went into a barracks bag, each of which had a piece of wire strung through the grommets for a dogtag. Jake removed one dogtag, and shuddered at the odd feeling. You were only supposed to be separated from a dogtag when you were dead. He ran the wire through his twice, twisting the ends so it wouldn’t fall off. Losing a dogtag had to be bad luck.

  The men stripped to their long johns and underwear, the smell from their bodies no longer contained by layers of thick clothing, the odor as foul as rotting road kill. Jake peeled the pea-green long underwear off, the stain where his urine had flowed down his leg dark and matted to his red, irritated skin. They passed around a canvas bag, dropping the gray, formless items of clothing that had been their second skins into it like an offering to the gods of filth. Noses crinkled, eyes squinted, no one could even crack a joke.

  A G.I. walked down the narrow hallway on one side of the trailer, wooden gratings on the floor keeping feet above water. Handing each man a bar of soap wrapped in a washcloth, he showed them to the first station.

  Jake stood under the water, letting it flow over his head and down his body. It was a strangely familiar, yet alien feeling. Yesterday at this time, he’d been behind the German lines, wondering if he’d be killed or captured. Now, here he was, taking a shower. It didn’t make any sense. He stood there, thinking, trying to understand, and he couldn’t figure out how to wash himself. He gripped the bar of soap in his hand and willed it to scrub his body, but it stayed put.

  “Okay, buddy, move on, more guys are waiting, move on.”

  They walked on the grating to the next set of showers, where the water was warmer. Jake began to shake, and even though he knew the water was warm, he couldn’t stop himself. Closing his eyes, he turned his face up to the water, letting it wash over his eyes, nose and mouth. He heard laughter, whooping and yelling. The guys were enjoying this, a small faraway voice said. Go ahead, enjoy it too. Go ahead. It’s okay.

  “Keep it moving, fellas, keep it moving, next stop.”

  They shuffled along the grating, suds and dirty water running off beneath them. The next showers were hot and steamy, and Jake finally felt his muscles relax, his back unknot, as he took a deep breath of warm, moist air. He brought up the bar of soap to his chest and began to move it in a slow, methodical circle. Around and around, a ring of suds appearing and then washed away, appearing again, disappearing. It seemed useless, redundant. But he pressed on, scrubbing his armpits, face, stomach, groin, legs, working at the grim and caked sweat between the folds of his skin.

  “Hot stuff coming up boys, step right in.”

  Hot, hot water. So hot it hurt at first, but hot enough to make the scrubbing easier. More yells from the other guys, but it was like they were a universe away, as if he were walking through a dream and was invisible to everyone. He scrubbed his feet, between his toes, working out clumps of wet lint and dirt and wondering
if he’d get this dirty again.

  “Cool down boys, move on and cool down.”

  He’d lost the cloth and soap. He held up his hands in the flowing water, warm now but not as hot. His fingernails were black, but his hands were clean. He looked at them as if they were brand new hands he’d never seen before. The dirt is still under my nails, but my hands are clean, my hands are clean. He massaged his head, getting the water into his scalp and cleansing his thick hair. My hands are clean.

  “C’mon buddy, keep up with your pals.”

  Jake followed Clay, who looked relaxed, happy. Smiling at Jake, he said something, and moved into the next shower. Cooler now, refreshing. Jake felt like a new man. A new man. My hands are clean and I’m a new man. He smiled. Two more stations, and at the last his body was used to the cool water and it felt good, perfect.

  “Get your towels, boys, and step into the next room.”

  With a loud mechanical whirr, a large fan started up and filled the room with heated air. It felt like the hot breath of God. Jake rubbed his head and wrapped the towel around his body. I’m clean, everything washed away, under the grate, down the drain, running under the streets of Clervaux. The voices of the other guys came closer to him, and he didn’t feel so far away. He wanted to speak, to join in with them, but he couldn’t think of what to say. It had to be the right thing for a new man with clean hands to say, but he couldn’t think of a thing.

  “Yow! How’d you like that, Jake?” Big Ned’s face was red and shiny, his face lit up like a little boy. Jake struggled to speak, his throat hurting from the effort of getting the words out.

  “It’s like heaven,” he said, evenly.

  “God-damn right it is,” Big Ned said, turning and opening the door of the trailer, heading into the building, wrapped in white. Jake followed, his feet cool on the damp granite stones of the walkway. Inside, they walked along tables stacked with wool long underwear, socks, tee shirts, more underwear, and a variety of U.S. Army shirts, in colors ranging from khaki to dark brown. G.I.s eyeballed them, guessed their sizes, and stacked piles of folded clothing in their arms. Jake looked at the shirts. They were mended in places, and stained with a dull rust color.