Souvenir

by James R Benn

  “Just not in the way it makes you laugh,” said Jake, his eyes still closed.

  “Yeah. Not that kind of funny,” Clay said, nodding his head.

  “Makes you appreciate how good we got it, sitting right here, freezing our asses off and watching out for that sniper,” Jake said.

  “Hey guys,” Tuck said, “it’s like the bad news you’re always talking about. I got bad news, bad news and good news.”

  “Okay, spill,” Bid Ned said, keeping his eyes peeled through the branches.

  “Bad news is if you haul ass outta here, it’s a firing squad. The other bad news is, if we hit that village, the Krauts try to kill us. The good news is, we’re sitting here freezing our balls off! Right?”

  “You nailed it, Tuck,” said Clay. “Right on the head.”

  “They wouldn’t really shoot you, would they, for running away?” Oakland said. “I thought they just put you back in the line.”

  “They did, for a while. But so many guys happened to get separated from their units and got lost trying to find them, they started shooting guys for desertion,” Jake said.

  “Yeah, since so many of them were looking for their units in Paris,” Clay said.

  “Some poor slob they shot stumbled into a rear area Canadian outfit and started cooking their chow for them, so I heard,” said Big Ned. “I think he’s the only one they shot. So far.”

  “So, how do you guys know, I mean, when to hold on and when to haul ass? If no one gives an order?” Oakland asked. “Back when we got hit in that village, when the Krauts came streaming out of the woods, we didn’t have a chance, it was obvious—”

  “Did you run right away?” Jake said.

  “No, none of us did.”

  “Did you fire your weapon?”

  “Yeah. Well, not at first. I kept my head down. But the other guys did, and I didn’t want to seem like a coward, so I did too. Five or six clips, I think.”

  “You all take off together?”

  “Pretty much. Someone yelled we had to get out of there. Someone else yelled for us to go. I fired off one more clip, and then ran as fast as I could, with everyone else.”

  “Then you already know the answer,” Jake said. “Don’t let your buddies down, and don’t throw away your life for nothing.”

  “Everything else is pretty much chickenshit,” Big Ned said. “Like Sykes. He’s pure chickenshit. Probably sitting warm by a fire, drinking some joe, waiting to be told what to do, while we freeze out here. My old man used to say assholes like him couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the directions were written on the heel.”

  “He’s no Red, that’s for sure,” Clay said, looking at Jake. “Sykes could fuck things up good if this thing happens today,” gesturing toward the village, not taking his eyes off Jake.

  “Don’t worry about Sykes,” Jake said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” Jake didn’t want to think about what that meant. He liked his pockets empty. No more stamped-tin reminders of blood type and next of kin, little lives all totted up on a one by two inch piece of metal. “Hey, Oakland,” he said, wanting to think of anything else. “What’s your name anyway?”

  Oakland didn’t answer right away. Tuck nudged him, “G’wan, kid, tell ’em.”

  “Williamson.”

  “Naw, kid, your first name, tell ’em,” Tuck said, squinting his eyes as he tried to keep from laughing.

  “Okay. It’s Marion,” he said, head down, hardly a whisper. Tuck elbowed him again, laughing, until Oakland laughed too. “It’s why I didn’t mind you calling me Oakland. Don’t stop, okay guys? Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Big Ned, still facing away from them. “Don’t worry about it. Marion.” That broke everyone up, everyone except Jake, but he laughed anyway, smiling at Oakland, letting him know it was only a joke. Looking at him, he remembered that night in the woods, leaning against the pine tree, thinking about Oakland as he walked by weeping and afraid. Clay had comforted him, asked him where he was from, and the name stuck. But Jake had other thoughts that night, thoughts of another man’s identity, coveting his name, wishing him dead so he could take his dogtags. Marion. Jesus.

  As it neared mid-day they ate cold K-Rations. Canned cheese, biscuits, candy bars. They waited, rotating deeper into the woods by twos so they could stand up, move their limbs, have a smoke, try to warm up. No fires allowed this close to Krauts. Meanwhile, they watched smoke drifting up from the chimneys in the village. Catching the wind and drifting south, towards them, taunting them with the aroma of a wood fire before it mingled with the low dark clouds.

  Jake tried to sleep, maybe he did. Sounds drifted around him, men coughing, teeth chattering, footsteps crunching the snow to the rear. Snatches of dreams flitted between the sounds, visions of his schoolyard mingling with Normandy hedgerows. A sound penetrated the dream, tap, tap, tap, tap, Clay rhythmically drumming the front sight of his M1 against his helmet. Big Ned behind the screen of branches, rustling, snuffling and running his gloved hands across his face. Jake rolled over and moved closer, crawling next to him. Big Ned’s shoulders were heaving, his hand pinching at his eyes. Jake put his hand on his shoulder, and felt the vibration as Big Ned silently wept. Jake saw a gasp escape his compressed lips, so only a small, constant breath could escape, sounding like laughter, a hee hee hee to accompany the tap tap tap behind them. Big Ned’s eyes were squeezed shut tight, tears leaking from the corners. He shook his head, telling Jake without words that he couldn’t stop himself. Jake edged closer, putting his hand on Big Ned’s helmet, wishing he could tell him it was okay, they’d be all right. But he knew it was bullshit. They were at the end of it, the long march from summer in France, through autumn and now this hard winter. Too many of them had been lost. They were outnumbered now by the replacements, the Germans, their officers, everyone. It wasn’t their war anymore, these frozen battles with strangers. They’d seen every horror the battlefield could churn up, been supplied with nightmares enough for a lifetime, become inured to sudden death and the terrible screams of the wounded. The war had nothing left for them, nothing to teach them, nothing to show them that they hadn’t seen in a hundred gaping wounds. Their time was over, their season passed, and Big Ned knew it.

  Jake felt Clay hit him on the boot heel, and heard footsteps coming their way. He pressed his helmet against Big Ned’s, reaching his hand across those broad shoulders. Big Ned snorted, spit, and nodded. Okay. I’m okay. He rubbed his face with snow and dried it on his sleeve. Okay.

  Jake crawled backwards and saw Sykes crouched down by their position. About a dozen replacements drew closer, within earshot. Sykes was panting, his mouth wide open, unable to catch his breath. It hadn’t been that long of a run.

  “Listen up, listen up,” he hissed his words like a steam engine. Exhaling, he took a deep breath, a nervous teacher in front of his first class. “We have to take that village. Now. The captain’s sending Third Platoon along that ridge on the left flank. Second Platoon is going on the right flank. We go straight up the middle.”

  Silence. Three under strength platoons against a village full of Krauts, plus a tank. Down the middle, like a football game back home, the play called in from the bench.

  “Artillery?” asked Clay.

  “G-2 doesn’t think they have any,” said Sykes.

  “No, I mean ours. We getting a barrage?”

  “Oh, oh. Uh, we have mortars. Battalion’s sending a Heavy Weapons Platoon. They should be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Mortars, against that tank? Who’re they kidding?” Big Ned spoke without looking at Sykes.

  “Smoke, they’re going to fire lots of smoke, it will cover our approach. Smoke, that’s the key. All we need to do is advance and keep up suppressing fire. Fire and movement, that’s the key.”

  “We can’t do both. There’s not enough of us,” Clay said. He spoke slowly, his calmness a dam against the chatter coming out of Sykes.

  “The machine guns will hit the farmhouse and spra
y the village. We’ll advance in two squads, one laying down fire and the other moving, then firing and covering the other squad. Basic tactics. Understood?”

  “That’s a helluva plan, Lieutenant, for gettin’ us all killed,” said Tuck. “You sure the captain came up with that?”

  “That’s his best judgment, soldier. He talked Battalion into waiting until the Heavy Weapons Platoon got here. But he’s got his orders.” Sykes let his gaze wander out past the trees, to the gray sky ahead and the tops of the distant roofs. His face was pale. He looked thin and small wrapped in his parka. Without the words spilling out of his mouth, he was nothing, a brittle twig to be snapped in the Ardennes cold. Springing up, he began to walk back and forth, counting the men.

  “Everyone accounted for? Where are the sergeants? Don’t I have any sergeants? We’ve got orders, and I’ve got to carry them out, but I need sergeants. There aren’t enough men, not enough, not enough.” His forehead wrinkled as if he were trying to work out a difficult algebra problem. “Not enough. Orders. Orders. Sergeants, no sergeants.”

  Jake watched the faces of the replacements as they listened to Sykes repeating himself, walking among them, counting them over and over. Clay looked at him, and shook his head. Bad news all around. Jake got up and took Sykes by the arm.

  “Lieutenant, let’s talk.”

  “Take your hands off me! What do you think you’re doing? What’s your name?”

  Jake ignored the question, tightened his grip and moved Sykes back, away from the replacements. “Listen, Lieutenant Sykes. Are you listening?” Speaking in a low whisper, almost a growl, turning Sykes toward him, he stared into the darting eyes until they calmed down.

  “Are you listening to me, Lieutenant?” Jake repeated.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Sykes said, his upper lip trembling.

  “Plenty. But right now, I’m going to tell you how to handle this. Pull yourself together and show some confidence. You look like you’re about to piss in your pants, and that’s not the best way to lead these men.”

  “You can’t talk to me like this! I’ll put you on report, Private.”

  “Shut up and listen,” Jake said, a harsh whisper between gritted teeth. “It’s just you and me talking. I’m trying to save your life, and the lives of your men. Put me on report. You think I give a rat’s ass about your fucking report?”

  Sykes shook his arm loose. “All right. Tell me.”

  “Forget all that fire and movement crap. The platoon going along that ridge is fucked. They’ll never make it. Both the tank and the MG can hit them at the same time.”

  “We’ll have smoke.”

  “Have you noticed the wind? It’s blowing toward us. The smoke won’t last, and the Kraut’s field of fire will clear up real quick. That’s why we can’t stop.”

  “Private, laying down suppressive fire is basic tactics—”

  “Yeah, I remember reading that in the infantry manual too. But we don’t have time. If we stop in that field, we’re sitting ducks. The smoke clears, that Kraut MG and that tank open up on us, and we’re fucked. We can’t take the time to leapfrog forward like they taught you. The only chance we have is to haul ass down into that village, grenade the houses and kill those bastards before they know what hit them. Before the smoke clears.”

  “But—”

  “Lieutenant, I know they taught you by the book. But the book is only going to get us all killed. I’m telling you, once our mortars and the machine guns open up, we head straight down the hill. No firing, just run. We gotta run like hell.”

  “But what about the farmhouse and the tank?”

  “The tank will be busy with the platoon on the ridge. I’ll make sure our guys on the .30 calibers keep hitting that farmhouse window. If they can keep that MG from spraying the field, we got a chance to get in between the buildings and toss grenades.”

  “The tank, though, what about the tank?”

  “Kraut tankers don’t like being on narrow town roads with infantry swarming around them any more than our guys. If they see their infantry support pull out, they’ll gun their engine and take off. That’s how we can do this thing, get in the village, kill Krauts, let the rest run off. Then we sleep in warm houses tonight. What about it, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t know,” Sykes said. “I don’t know. There’s no sergeants, no one told me what to do—”

  “Well, I been here since before snow fell, and I’m still alive. So I’m telling you what to do. All you got to do is issue the order, like I told you. Get into the village, before the smoke clears. Fast.”

  Sykes looked at Jake, his eyes alight with fear and his mouth set like a pouting child. Jake knew this wasn’t how this fresh second lieutenant imagined his first command. No bugles, no glory, nobody patting him on the back and telling him what a swell guy he was. Instead, some grimy G.I. was telling him he didn’t know shit. Jake knew he had to sweeten the pot to make it more appealing.

  “The captain likes his officers to show initiative, Lieutenant. You take this village and he’ll eat it up. But we gotta be in one piece at the bottom of that hill.”

  “Okay, okay. But you better be right.”

  The minutes passed slowly, anxious looks toward the rear for the Heavy Weapons Platoon alternating with glances at wristwatches buried under layers of clothing and gloves. Sykes had given the orders and settled into a restless pacing, tree to tree, counting the men by twos. He whispered to himself, gesturing with his hands as if arguing a point of logic. The wind came up in spurts, rustling the pine branches, swishing them clean of the white snow that clung in clumps.

  They gathered around Big Ned. Tuck, Oakland, Jake and Clay. Huddled together for warmth, leaving unspoken that when they took off downhill, they’d spread out, dispersing the targets for the German gunners. That this could be the last human contact they’d feel, the last warmth, however feeble, against the cold. The last bond holding their young lives together. The last wholeness. The last love. They tightened belts, checked pockets, leaned into each other. They passed around smokes, listened to the click of Clay’s Zippo shutting, inhaled the tobacco, checked watches, waited.

  Spread out, Jake told them, but keep each other in sight. Know where each man is. Try to keep the same distance. Don’t lag behind. Don’t listen to Sykes, get to a building and toss grenades. Spread out, move, watch your buddy. Big Ned, stay between us, you’re the middle man. Make sure the replacements keep moving. No one stops.

  The sound of Jeeps echoed through the woods. Shouts, commands, frantic words, orders, directions. G.I.s with mortar tubes, plates, ammo crates, setting up around them. Cigarettes out. Hands gripping rifles, tensing and relaxing, breath coming in shallow gulps, as if the air had thinned out.

  Shit. Motherfucker. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Curses and prayers spit out along the short line, the remnants of two platoons summoning up courage, banishing fear, going numb with terror, thinking of home, of nothing, of the hill and the downward slope.

  Fumph, fumph, fumph. The strangled sound of mortars firing was drowned out by the two .30 caliber machine guns, rapid bursts sending tracer rounds to hunt out the top floor window of the farmhouse. Jake rose up, watched the smoke rounds burst in front of the village, saw the puffs of gray dust as machine gun rounds pecked at the stone farmhouse. He turned to see Sykes, standing still, face drained white.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, just like you said. Let’s go,” Jake yelled to be heard. In the hustle of men filtering between the trees no one noticed that Jake had grabbed Sykes by the sleeve and was pulling him along.

  Smoke blossomed like white roses in bloom. Phosphorous tracers raced over their heads and met the smoke as it roiled uphill, the noise of machine gun fire behind and ahead of them leaving an oddly silent gap where they ran, into the smoke. The incline made it easy to run in the snow, and they picked up speed, spreading out to the sides, trying to keep sight of the men around them in the grayness.

  The rapid chainsaw sound of the Ge
rman machine gun began to assert itself. As the smoke grew, it hid their target from the American gunners. Still, the sound of their own guns firing was reassuring, as they glance quickly at each other, nods of luck and hope. Jake could make out both machine guns, and held his breath as one stopped to reload a belt or clear a jam. Jesus, keep firing, keep firing, keep those fuckers down! He looked to his left, saw Clay, a blur in the air, smoke swirling around him as it blew uphill. Big Ned stood out to his right, his broad shoulders hunched forward, parting the smoke like Moses. Turning, Jake saw Sykes, slowing down, holding out his carbine as if to keep his balance, taking little mincing steps in the trampled snow.

  The tank fired, the explosion loud on the left flank, and as the tank’s machine gun chattered away as it fired another round of high explosive, then another. The sound of trees cracking followed each explosion, and Jake could feel the men shy away from the sounds, drifting right, beginning to bunch up. Rifle fire rippled out from their front, and he felt hot metal ripping the air above his helmet. He heard a scream, a shout, and a body falling, rolling, still moving fast.

  “Take cover!” It was Sykes, shrill terror ripping the sound from his throat. “Take cover!”

  “No! Keep moving!” Jake yelled, waving his arm at the forms around him. “Get up, don’t stop!” Tuck and Oakland passed him, snow kicking off their heels, and he stepped back up the hill, kicking G.I.s who’d dropped in the snow, searching for Sykes who was still yelling to take cover. There was no cover for them, only snowdrifts and death.

  The German machine gun sprayed the field, searching for the attackers in the smoke. Jake heard a short scream, a moan, a soft thud. He found Sykes, digging in the snow with his helmet, half a dozen replacements gathered around him, motionless, deer in the headlights.

  “Take cover,” Sykes screamed, panic shrilling his voice, “we’ll all be killed.”

  Gunfire crackled in front of them and from all sides. A G.I. tumbled down the hill, blood spraying from his neck like a pinwheel as he went head over heels. Sykes watched the rolling body and his eyes grew wide at what he saw. Not the dead man, or the sprays of blood, but the clear vision of the field and the village ahead. The smoke was vanishing, blowing uphill, over them, leaving them naked.