by James R Benn
Coaldale, the sign said. Welcome to Schuylkill County. That was close enough for Clay, more than enough after a long drive. They had pulled into the next motel as darkness enveloped the valley, snapping a chill into the air, bright lights flicking on in the parking lot. Tomorrow, Clay half whispered like a prayer, tomorrow.
* * *
Trouble with putting something off until tomorrow, Clay thought, is that sooner or later it turns into today, and then there you are again. Setting down his coffee cup he gave out a small ahhh of satisfaction. Hot, and as strong as a guy could reasonably expect. The Green Pines Inn had a coffee shop, a small counter and six booths. Thick knotty pine boards on the walls and floor gave the place a warm, relaxed feel, like being on vacation. Clay’s eyes flitted around the room, taking in the locals at the counter, solitary guests at two other booths, and finally, his son, walking in from the motel. He carried the manila envelope he had picked up at his office.
“Well?” said Chris.
“How deep?” answered Clay, the long forgotten retort springing out of his mouth before he knew it. That had been one of his father’s standard answers when anybody said well? to him in that exasperated tone. Half joke, half obfuscation.
“C’mon, Dad, I’ve been patient, but it’s time to spill the beans. Why are we here?”
“I appreciate it, Chris. You know, it’s not easy for me.”
“It never seems to be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clay asked.
“Nothing’s really easy. Not with you, or me. Some people have it easy, but easy was never in the cards for us. I mean, you had Mom, which is great. But you lost your family early on, had to go off to war, then had that mess with the Tavern, not to mention all the trouble I caused you. Not easy.”
“And you?” Clay asked.
“That’s obvious. Failed marriage, no family of my own. Again, not easy.”
“You know,” Clay said, “sometimes I feel that’s my fault. Like I made some big mistakes bringing you up.”
“Like what?” Chris’ tone had an edge to it, and he sat back, eyes narrowing.
“I don’t know. Maybe kept too tight a rein on you. Worried too much about you, didn’t trust you enough.”
“Dad, I am who I am. It’s not like tuning an engine, for Christ’s sake. Do you really think if you’d eased up a bit I would’ve been a better man? Maybe then you would’ve had grandkids by now?”
“No, Chris. I didn’t mean that. I’m not explaining myself well.”
“You’re not explaining yourself at all. As usual.”
Chris’ eyes drilled into Clay’s. Clay wanted to look away, change the subject, sip the good coffee, and be left in peace. But there was no peace, only the threads of his past, still pulling at him, drawing him back to the war, to his buddies, and finally to his family. It was overwhelming, too much to explain, how could he? His eyes drifted back to his hands, holding the coffee cup, drawing in its warmth. His entire being seemed to settle into his hands, old hands soaking up what heat they could.
“More coffee?” The waitress stood by the booth, her silent arrival startling Clay.
“Yes, yes please. It’s good,” Clay said, laying his hands flat on the table. She smiled as she poured for both of them. Clay avoided Chris’ stare until she left.
“You’re right,” he said.
“Damn straight I’m right,” Chris answered. “It took a guy trying to kill you and the Tavern burning down for me to find out what kind of business you were really running. I doubt if you ever would’ve said a word otherwise.”
“I felt awful I got you mixed up in all that.”
“That’s not the point, Dad. I got in that mess all by myself. I made some dumb choices; I don’t blame you for that. But why you did it, that’s what you never explained. Just like you never talk about the war. Or your folks. After half a century, Dad, I really have no idea who you are.”
Clay was on the brink of getting up and walking out. The more Chris wanted to know, the more the walls pressed in on him, the ghosts of the past gathered and closed in. It was how he’d always reacted, but this trip was not supposed to be that way. He struggled to stay put, to not tell his son to mind his own damn business.
“That’s because I tried to protect you,” he said.
“I know, you did protect me—”
“No, I’m not talking about Al and Tony. I mean something else.” His words caught in his throat, and he saw everything clearly, and saw how wrong he had been. Everything he’d done to cut off his past, protect his son, had brought them here today. His son, a grown man, haunted by the question of who his father was. Just exactly as he was. The sins weren’t the same, but the curse of secrets was. What was hidden hadn’t protected anyone, it just allowed the secrets to fester and cripple another life. Trying to speak, he couldn’t make the words come.
“Okay,” Chris said, pulling out his wallet. “This is par for the course. I should’ve known better than to waste my time.”
“What do you mean? I thought you wanted—”
“Listen, Dad, I’m here because you asked me to come. You want this trip down memory lane, fine. I admit I’m curious, but based on how things have always gone, I doubt you’ll tell me anything new.”
“Maybe you don’t care. Maybe I don’t care to tell you.”
“Maybe you can’t,” Chris said. He clutched the envelope as if he might throw it at his father. Instead, he grabbed the check, and went to the counter. Clay sat, watching Chris pay, the truth hitting him like a brick. His son might be right. It might be beyond him now to simply tell the truth. He slid out of the booth, slowly straightening his bent body. Sitting in the car for so long yesterday had stiffened him up. He held onto the coat rack, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He took his coat off the hook and put it on slowly, feeling the pain in his shoulders as he pulled each arm back to slip into the flannel-lined coat.
Chris was already out the door and headed to the car. Clay smiled at the waitress, and shuffled toward the door, holding out his hand to steady himself on whatever was close. His joints hurt, his legs ached and a spasm of pain shot through his lower back. Feeling every minute of his age, he sensed something strange, a tingling in his chest. A rush of adrenaline, hypersensitivity, the vigilance of a combat patrol. Behind the lines. Enemy territory. It was only a faint echo of a feeling, the memory of what it was like, but still, it was exciting. Clay tried to pick up his legs, get the soles of his shoes off the floor as he walked, instead of scuffling them along. He stood outside the coffee shop for a moment, heaving in a lungful of the cool, damp air. It smelled of pine and cold running water. Closing his eyes for a second, the odor of the Ardennes crept into his nostrils.
“Let’s go,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat and buckling up in one smooth motion. No grunts or huffs. It was time, time to tell the truth and cut the ties that bound them both to secrets and fear.
“How far?” asked Chris as he eased the Jeep out into traffic.
“Ten, twelve miles maybe.”
“So you know this area real well?”
“Some,” Clay said slowly. He turned to look at Chris. “When we get to Minersville, I’ll tell you everything.”
Chris half turned his face and cocked an eyebrow. “Minersville? Really? You’re going to tell me everything?”
“Yep. God help me, I am.” Or enough, as least, he thought to himself.
Chapter Nineteen
1945
Stuffing his glove inside his jacket, Clay adjusted the focus on his binoculars, the cold stinging his hand as he slowly scanned the village, across the downward slope of the open fields to his front. Frosted breath obscured his view as he tried to slow his breathing, reduce the visible plume of warmth and direct it downward into the small depression he’d made in the snow. He’d had to crawl about ten yards out from the treeline to see over a hump in the ground, down into the small village nestled in the crook of a basin, overlooked by two ridgelines and a l
ow, rounded hill. Three roads intersected between the ridgeline, two snaking around the hill on the right and the third coming down the narrow valley from the left. Smoke drifted up from chimneys, disappearing into the gray morning haze. It looked peaceful, but somebody, far from here, had decided that was going to change.
Clay could see the tank clearly. Krauts walking casually around it and from one building to another, flapping their arms to keep warm. Turning the binoculars to the right, he focused on a stone farmhouse at the top of the hill. Wooden outbuildings stretched behind it, but the house itself was made of stone blocks, and Clay knew that’s where the machine gun would be. Top right window. He could make out the snout of the gun, imagining the gunner swiveling it, covering the wide field of fire in front of him, enjoying a clear view of the open ground that led down to the village. Fuck.
He watched as a German walked from the back of the farmhouse toward the barn, carrying two pails. Breakfast, maybe, which meant more Krauts in the barn. Behind the barn, barbed wire was strung between posts stuck into the recently trampled snow. Fuck.
The tank on the opposite side of the village was pulled back into a side street, covering the wooded ridge that curved around the village and ended abruptly where the road was cut through the narrow passage. Fuck.
Clay pulled his glove back on, his hand raw and numb from the few minutes of exposure. He crawled backwards until he felt Jake’s hands grab him, pulling him behind a fir tree. He rolled over and pushed himself up, resting against the thick base of the tree, letting his breath flow freely again, releasing gusts of white frost.
“Well?” said Tuck.
Clay looked at Tuck, not recognizing him for a moment without Shorty looking over his shoulder. Oakland was there instead, kneeling in the snow and leaning on the barrel of his M1. Big Ned squatted nearby, his BAR slung around his neck and resting in his lap. No Little Ned, no Miller, no Shorty, no Red, no Coop, no Marty, no Samuelson. None of the others. They’d come and gone, lived and died, leaving him here now, looking out at a few familiar faces and too many unfamiliar ones, expectant, hoping for good news. The ones who still believed in good news, anyway.
Jake was by his side, but still turned toward the open ground. Clay knew Jake would be patient, listening while keeping his eyes front. Clay saw Sykes coming toward them, from the direction of the Company HQ, on the reverse slope of the ridge. Safe from shellfire. Unlike this position. Two machine gun crews trailed Sykes, carrying their .30 calibers and ammo boxes. They split off, one to each side of the treeline.
“Get ready, men,” said Sykes, “any minute now.” His voice quavered on the last word, as his eyes darted back and forth, up and down, searching for something to settle on besides snow, trees, gray skies, or the eyes of the men. No one acknowledged him. He had nothing to offer them except wounds, pain and death. It was better to ignore him, unless there was some kind of direct order. Otherwise, he might talk to you, remember you, and pick you out for some asshole stunt that would get you killed. Maybe he’d disappear into his foxhole and stay there, or melt into the rear. It’d been known to happen.
“Maybe twenty Krauts in the village,” Clay said, answering Tuck. “Hard to say with them going in and out. Could be less, could be more of them inside.”
“What? How do you know that, soldier?” Sykes said. He tried to keep his voice steady and firm, but it came out shaky, his eyes wide, his eyebrows up, fear playing itself out over his face.
“I looked,” said Clay. “Have you?”
Either Sykes was taking the advice about not displaying rank at the front, or he was too nervous to remember, but he didn’t demand a sir from Clay. “Not yet, I—I was at the briefing. For the attack. The captain said there was less than a platoon in the village. It’s very lightly defended.”
Turning away from Sykes, Clay looked at the men gathered around him. “Stone farmhouse on the right, heavy MG in the upper floor window. Krauts in the barn behind the house, barbed wire strung behind that.” No one said anything. The meaning was clear. No flanking the village from the right. The farmhouse was a strongpoint, covered by the machine gun in front and the Krauts in the barn to the rear. The barbed wire would hold them up long enough to be sitting ducks.
“We can deal with that, men, don’t worry about it,” said Sykes. “Don’t worry about it.”
“There’s a tank at the other end of town,” Clay said.
“A Tiger?” one of the replacements asked. Every fucking tank a replacement saw was a Tiger. Big, heavy killers with a 88mm gun. The word was enough to send whole platoons running. Not every German tank was a Tiger, even though it hardly mattered if you were facing one without a couple of Shermans behind you.
“No. Mark IV. But it’s facing that draw where the road comes down on the left. Narrow gap. Too much of a chance of getting bunched up.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Sykes again. “You can’t see from here. Stop worrying the men, soldier.”
“Lieutenant?” said Jake softly, not turning from where he knelt. “You might want to listen.”
“I’m not talking to you, soldier, I’m talking to this man. Where’d you get all this about Tiger tanks?”
“It’s not a Tiger, and it’s one tank,” Clay said. “I crawled out about ten yards to see over that rise, down into the village.”
Sykes’ mouth hung open and he glanced at the men facing Clay, as if he could will them to look at him, to pay attention to what he had to say. His voice came out as a croak, seeming to take note, for the first time, of the binoculars hanging around Clay’s neck. “Who ordered you to make a reconnaissance, and where’d you get those binoculars? Only officers are authorized—”
“He shot the officer he got them from, Lieutenant Sykes,” Jake said, not so softly this time. “At two hundred yards.”
Somebody laughed, a quick snort that vanished on a plume of frost. No one spoke. Jake didn’t look at Sykes, keeping his eyes on the part of the village he could see over the rise in the cleared land in front of him. Rooftops, mostly. He saw wooden shutters on an attic window swing open, as if it were a dollhouse, out of reach. He felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, his skin go pale and clammy, as everything went into sharp focus as he eased back, putting the tree between himself and that attic window.
“What rise?” Sykes said, ignoring Jake. Taking a step closer to the tree he craned his head out around it, staring out toward the open window. Jake thought about it, wondered if it wouldn’t be for the best, but couldn’t do it. Reaching up and grabbing Sykes by his web belt, he pulled him down as the distant crack of a rifle was followed a split second later by the zinging sound of a bullet splitting the air and leaving behind a sprinkle of green needles where Sykes had been standing. Sykes scrambled back further behind the tree.
Clay leaned his head down toward Sykes so their helmets touched. “I said I crawled.” Sykes pushed himself away from Clay, and got up on one knee, brushing snow from his clothes, his eyes cast down to the ground.
“So whaddya gonna do, Lieutenant?” said Big Ned, spitting into the snow. “About the machine gun and the tank?”
Sykes looked at him with astonishment. His forehead wrinkled and his mouth parted as if a word had started to come out but got stuck. They all knew he wanted some reaction from them about his near miss, his brush with death. Back home, if you stepped off the curb and a buddy pulled you back from a speeding car, you’d talk about it for a week. Out here, it’s nothing special. Getting killed was the big deal. Staying alive was the daily grind.
“A sniper,” he said. “He almost got me. They target officers, you know,” Sykes said in a petulant voice, as if he’d lost his best aggie on the school playground. He looked at the men, beseeching them, but no one looked back at him.
“Think the captain will call off the attack, sir?” said Tuck. “After you tell him about the tank and all?”
“There’s supposed to be no more than a few demoralized Germans down there. That’s what Battalion G-2 sa
id. No heavy stuff. He didn’t say anything about tanks.”
“G-2?” Jake said. “Not some guy named Brooks? Thin moustache?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Brooks.”
“Brooks don’t know his ass from his elbow,” Big Ned said. “He couldn’t find a fucking German in a beer hall.”
“Show some respect for one of your officers, soldier!” Sykes’ voice had that hollow sound, all emptiness inside, with the volume turned way up on the outside.
“Brooks used to be a platoon leader, like you,” Clay said. “Sent his men off on a patrol once, but gave them the wrong map coordinates. He stayed behind in his foxhole. They never came back. He got kicked upstairs to Battalion.”
“This isn’t right, this isn’t right at all,” Sykes muttered, nervously drumming his fingers on the stock of his carbine. “Not at all. I gotta talk to the captain, he’ll know what to do. You men stay put.” With that, Sykes pushed off to the rear, crawling on all fours.
“Yeah, like we’re going anywhere,” Tuck said quietly. “Like down that fucking hill.”
“Think we’ll ever see him again?” Big Ned said. “Wouldn’t be the first officer to evac himself out with trenchfoot or a bad cold.”
“They call it pneumonia when an officer gets it, don’t you know anything?” Jake said.
“I know I woulda thought twice about pulling that jerk out of the way of a bullet,” Big Ned answered.
“I did. The second thought trumped the first.”
Silence ended the discussion. The wind picked up and the pines began to whisper as snow swirled around the waiting G.I.s, stinging their faces and driving each man down farther into himself, collars up, scarves wound around necks, chins flattened into chests. It was the same defense against the cold or bullets or shrapnel. Tighten up, be sure everything’s laced up good, make yourself as small as possible, blend into the contours of the ground. You believed it too. Believed in your own good fortune, intelligence, quick wittedness, and grace. Until the day came when you saw it was just plain dumb luck that you were still alive, and realized it’s got nothing to do with how you ran, or dove for cover, or rubbed your good luck piece. There’s simply so much lead flying through the air that it can’t be long before you slam into a piece of it.
