by James R Benn
“You can’t stay here. Tell these men to get moving!” The mortar sounds changed. Explosions now. No more smoke. Jesus fucking Christ. “Move!”
“You’re right, you’re right,” Sykes screamed. “I’ll get help. I’ll go get help.”
“Lead these men down the hill, goddamn it,” Jake yelled into his face, grabbing his collar. “Now, or we’re all dead men!”
“You hold here, I’ll go get help. I’ll be back. I’ll be right back.” Sykes shook off Jake’s grip, turned and ran, following the blowing smoke, reaching out for it as if it could pull him along. He disappeared into it, his helmet and carbine left behind in the snow.
“Get down the hill,” Jake screamed, grabbing two of the replacements who started to get up and follow Sykes. He couldn’t let them run away, leaving the others alone at the bottom of the hill. He had to get back to Clay. “Follow me, goddamn it.”
He ran in long steps, thundering down the hill, helmet bouncing on his head, gear flapping and pounding him as he forced his body to go as fast as it could. As swiftly as he went, his thoughts still played out slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. Go back, stay put, or move forward. Fucked every which way. I don’t want to die a coward, or with strangers. Where’s Clay. Where’s Clay? I don’t want to die alone, where’s Clay?
Tears tore at his eyes as he ran through the cold air. He could see the platoon to their left, on the ridge, pulling back. The fire from the tank had chewed them up, leaving blackened craters in the snow speckled with red. He heard explosions, saw the windows blow out of the nearest house, flames following them. Grenades. Somebody made it. The bam bam bam of Big Ned’s BAR stood out above it all, steady as a rock.
Jake felt the bullets hitting the ground behind him, heard a gurgling scream, and the screeching of a tank grinding gears. He saw Clay rise up from the corner of the house, aim his M1 up toward the stone farmhouse, and fire off three slow, steady shots. The machine gun stopped. Clay pumped his arm for Jake to hurry, but he was already running as fast as he could. Twenty yards to go, Clay raised his rifle again, fired once, keeping their heads down.
Jake saw the Kraut peer around the side of the house and toss the potato masher.
“Grenade!” he yelled, but he was drowned out by the clanking of the tank coming down the main road. Clay looked at him for a second, a moment, an eternity, eyes locking on Jake’s, not understanding. The explosion threw him forward into the snow, at the same time as the tank fired down the street, towards the sound of Big Ned’s BAR.
“Clay, Clay!” Jake slid in the snow, coming down next to Clay. “Omigod, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Clay.” He felt as if he’d dropped a delicate crystal and watched it shatter on a cold stone floor. He didn’t know what he could have done differently, but he knew Clay had left himself exposed giving him covering fire. Saving his life, losing his own. Grabbing his collar, he dragged Clay away from the alleyway and to the back of the burning building, out of the line of fire from the farmhouse. Clay left a streak of black and red on the snow, smoke curling from the back of his coat. His hands were limp, but his eyes sought out Jake’s.
Slumping to the ground, Jake cradled Clay’s head in his lap, blood soaking into his thighs. He thought he heard the BAR one more time. Then the tank again. The fire in the building crackled.
“Clay, I’m sorry, hang on, a medic’ll get here.”
“What’s wrong with me? Jake—” His face contorted in a spasm of pain.
“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry,” Jake said.
“Nothin’ else you could do. I’m ripped open,” Clay said, before a scream rose from his throat. Jake saw how his coat was shredded, his side sliced through, ribs showing through blood and burned fabric.
A German heard the scream too, and edged around the building, his camouflage smock and SS runes crystal clear through the smoke and haze. Clay shrieked in agony as Jake looked for his rifle, on the ground at Clay’s feet, out of reach. The Kraut worked the bolt of his rifle as Jake’s hand reached for the automatic, fumbling with layers of clothes, leaning over Clay to protect him and leveling the pistol at the German, two quick shots to the midsection, watched him stagger and drop to his knees, the rifle still in his hands. Two more and he was down.
Clay’s eyes found Jake’s. The tank’s engine roared, only yards away.
“Go,” Clay said through gritted teeth, “go.”
Jake looked around. There were only dead men behind him, in a clump where Sykes had left them, and a few who’d followed him. Rifle fire flared up a few buildings down, and the tank’s machine gun responded.
“That might be Tuck,” Clay said, his eyelids fluttering. “Go.”
“Clay, hang on, hang on.”
“Leave me, Jake. You’re a good friend, the best. Go, find Tuck.”
“I can’t, I won’t leave you,” Jake said, his mouth pressed to Clay’s ear to be heard over the advancing tank.
Clay groaned, blood seeping from his mouth. His hand grabbed at Jake’s, taking the pistol. Jake didn’t understand, he thought Clay wanted it to protect himself. He let go, helping Clay to get a grip on it, folding his bloody fingers around the grip.
“It’ll be okay,” Jake said. “I’ll get a medic.”
“I don’t want to die alone,” Clay cried, echoing Jake’s own fear. “Help me.”
Machine guns, tank fire, yells and screams faded into silence as their eyes locked, Clay’s filled with pain, Jake’s with sudden understanding. Clay coughed and a spasm of pain wracked his broken body, a red mist spewing from his nostrils and mouth. He lost his grip on the pistol and Jake did help him, holding his trembling hand, guiding it, bringing it back to his temple, watching Clay’s face wrench as the pain of breathing became too much, looking once again at the blood in the snow and the terrible wounds, knowing he owed Clay this, pressing his finger on Clay’s own wrapped around the trigger.
The sound was louder than anything he’d ever heard.
The burning roof above him collapsed, showering Jake with sparks. He felt the heat at the back of his neck as his hand felt the last bit of warmth in Clay’s cheek. He slid him off his lap, cradling his head as he set it on the ground. A crescendo of sounds came from behind him, the burning building crashing in on itself, the tank, rifle fire, yells and curses in German and English rising up in a babble of fury, even louder and more insistent than before.
Still, Jake moved as if in a dream. He knew what to do, how to grant one last wish of Clay’s and keep his memory alive. Opening Clay’s coat he felt for the metal chain, found it, sticky with blood, and pulled it off. He removed his dogtags and placed them around Clay’s head, tucking them into his shirt, pressing them against his skin. He put Clay’s around his neck, the thick drying blood sticking to his hands. I’m sorry, Clay, sorry to leave you with my name. It isn’t much. But now I’ll pass yours on.
He couldn’t believe Clay was dead, couldn’t believe he was doing this, couldn’t believe everything he had known had just come to an end. He felt numb, stunned, alone. Blindly, he groped for his M1, found it. He rose up, stood over Clay for a second, thinking of the dogtags with Jake Burnett stamped into them against Clay’s cold chest. A dead man, he turned, heading for the last sounds of battle, an empty vessel, moving forward, never again looking back. Everything was this one moment. Living or dying were both beyond his comprehension, there was only this, his rifle, Clay’s dogtags, the fight ahead. He had moved between lives, Jake Burnett left behind, strung around the neck of a dead man, a gift to the woman who bore him, the insurance maybe a way out for her. He was Clay Brock now. He felt detached, cast adrift, free, he couldn’t tell.
He crouched behind a low stone wall as the house burned behind him. He swung his rifle up and saw three Germans running down the street, trailing the tank. He aimed at the farthest one, slowly easing back on the trigger, just as Clay would’ve done. Deliberate, no wasted moves. The rifle kicked against his shoulder and the German dropped. Second shot, easy does it, squeeze, another ki
ck, and the German was down, rolling in the street, writhing in agony.
It all happened in slow motion, and he wondered if he’d discovered some magical power. Was this real? Everything was in crystal clear focus, details in the smoke as sharp as if they were under a microscope. Noise was everywhere but nowhere too. He wasn’t sure if he heard nothing or everything all at once.
He’d shot at the furthest Germans so the one closest to him might not notice him right away, might not realize the other two were down. He turned his rifle, and fired off the rest of the clip at him. No more time for subtlety, he wanted the bastard dead and gone. The German fell back, a mist of red bursting out from his chest.
Dropping prone, he scurried away from the tank advancing towards him, toward the sound of rifle fire from the house down the road. Seconds later the stone wall exploded as the tank fired at his last position. Chunks of stone showered him, bouncing off his helmet and back. He wasn’t hurt, and he crawled even faster, wondering who he was and where he was headed.
Looking up, he saw rifles firing from the windows of the house across the narrow road. M1s, two of them. Running low across the street, he made for the door, willing his legs to run as fast as they could, to get to the cover of the house. As his feet pounded the road, noises dropped away around him and one sound emerged above the cacophony. A grinding, hydraulic whine told him there was no magic here. He was a soldier in someone else’s sights. His name didn’t matter, he had run out of luck. The only thing that mattered was the tank swiveling its turret, turning its cannon on the house in front of him. He heard the hydraulics whirr to a halt, and saw the round opening of the barrel, dark and black, a perfect circle, a bull’s eye aimed at him. It roared flame, cracked thunder, flashed white, and he was in the air, flying.
* * *
He felt the medic working on him. It was night. As his clothes were cut away it felt like tongues of flame licking at his skin, but he was too far away to scream. He thought of Clay, but it was a vague and distant thought, a shadow crossing over his eyes. Sulfa like snow falling. Or was it snow? He saw the frost on the half-moon window, felt the ambulance bounce in the ruts. The medic cut and cut, his scissors tied around his wrist with a shoelace. Compresses soaked red on his chest. Where was he? What had happened?
“What’s your name, soldier? Tell us your name.”
He hesitated. He didn’t know if he could, but something told him he had to speak. If he wanted to live. If he wanted to live this new life, to move forward, never look back. He couldn’t remember what to say, he was supposed to tell them—what?
Then he remembered. Clay, in the snow, dying. Remembrance. Redemption.
“Brock—Clay Brock.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
1964
“Addy, you’re right. There are secrets, secrets from long ago. I thought they didn’t matter. I never wanted to burden you—” He stopped himself. No more lies.
“No, no. I’m ashamed, I’m ashamed to tell you.” He lifted his head, looking for a sign that she could take it. All he saw was a stillness in her eyes, a patient waiting. She lifted an eyebrow, as if to say, go on, get it over with, let’s see.
“I was afraid I’d lose you if I told you the truth, that you couldn’t love anybody like me. You said sometimes you don’t who I am. Well, I haven’t been straight with you about everything, about my life before we met.”
“About the war, Clay?”
“Part of it,” he sighed. “Not all of it. It’s about my family.” He told her about Pennsylvania. About Minersville, and growing up there. About Ma and Pa and his sister Alice.
“I wanted to join the Army at seventeen. I needed proof of my age. Pa kept papers in his study, and he told me never to look through his things. But I needed that birth certificate, so I waited until they were out.” Clay sat, wringing his hands like they were soaking wet.
“Were you adopted?” Addy guessed, trying to read Clay’s expression.
“No,” he laughed. “No, not adopted. I wish I had been.” He stared at the wall, studying the curtains that hung around the window. They were gold, newly sewn by Addy to match the colors in the carpet design.
“Well?” she said.
“The name on my birth certificate was Alice’s. My sister. She was my mother.”
“Oh, Clay, I’m sorry. That’s too bad, but it’s not the end of the world. If a young girl gets in trouble, it’s not unknown for her parents to bring up the child as theirs.”
“That’s the problem, Addy. It—I was one of theirs. It was Pa. His own daughter.”
“Oh my God, Clay! That poor girl! And you—” She lifted her hands, opening them toward him, the gesture saying what she could not as the enormity of it all set in. “And Alice, whatever happened to her?”
“I don’t know. I never went back.” He shot up from the couch, pacing back and forth, his feet stepping between papers and cushions on the floor.
Addy leaned back and shook her head. “That’s why you didn’t want to have children,” she said, the truth of the matter dawning on her. “You were afraid. That’s why you never let up on Chris, always expecting the worst from him!”
“And why I couldn’t tell you the truth, I was afraid you wouldn’t want to have children with me, wouldn’t want to be with me. Addy, Chris is a better son than I deserve. You’re a better woman. After Chris came along, it got harder and harder. I’m sorry Addy. I could never tell you. And you have to promise me you’ll never tell another soul, ever.” She hesitated, drawing in her breath, looking into his eyes.
“I’ll leave that up to you, Clay, it’s your decision. But didn’t you want to know what happened to Alice? Didn’t you ever want to go back? Didn’t you care?” He could see Addy was still taking his measure, trying to figure out his behavior and what this revelation said about him.
“Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.” He walked to their bedroom, which was more of a mess than the rest of the house. From an open dresser drawer he pulled out the dogtag on its chain, mixed in with the photo, the battered Zippo lighter, cufflinks and tie clips.
“Okay,” he said, back on the couch. “Here’s the other part, the part about the war.” He took a deep breath, and felt the thin metal he grasped in his hand. He’d never spoken more than a few words about the war to Addy. He realized he didn’t know how to do it, how to actually put it into words for someone who didn’t know, couldn’t know. He looked at the thin metal in his hand, wondering how he could ever do it justice.
“There was a guy, my best friend. My buddy,” he said, his voice cracking as tears tried to force their way out. There was no way to tell Addy what that word meant. Now it was something you might say to anyone on the street. Hey buddy, got a light? A foxhole buddy was your partner. Your life. Your warmth. His skin went cold and the memory of Miller bringing him the SS officer’s coat swam through his mind, wet socks and cold feet on his torso, the wool coat like a quilt covering them in their hole.
“We were in basic together, shipped over to England together. Went over to France with him and the rest of the guys in our unit. That was in July. It was warm. I remember apples on the trees. By the first week in August, we were in action. It went on until late January, right after the Bulge.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yeah.” He stared at the wall for a while, seeing ghosts instead of curtains. “A long time, especially in winter. He didn’t have any family back home, and we got to talking. We talked about everything. There was nothing else to do. Sometimes it was so cold you couldn’t sleep.” He realized he was making an excuse, worried that Addy would be mad he’d told somebody else before her.
“It must have been horrible,” she said. He nodded.
“The only thing that made it bearable was your buddy, and your squad. We depended on each other. To stay alive, and to keep each other sane. We saw so many terrible things, Addy.” Did so many things, too.
“It wasn’t like the movies at all, was it?”
�
��No,” he said, shaking his head. “No bloodless heroic deaths, no waving the flag. I can’t tell you, Addy, how many ways there are to die on the battlefield. It is simply unimaginable.”
“But you and your buddies, you knew, you shared all that. You must have been as close as men could be.”
He met her eyes, knowing she’d given him an opening. “Yeah. Real close. One night, I told him about my family, about my problem. He was good about it. He’s the only other person I ever told.”
“And?”
“He and I were going to head out west, maybe to California after the war. He wanted to go somewhere new, and I didn’t ever want to go back home. He wanted to start a family and do things right. His folks had died, his brother got it in the Pacific. It was important to him.”
“What happened?”
“He was killed. They all were killed, everyone but me,” he said, and his face broke, slowly, his chin quivering and lips tensing before sobs gushed from his throat, tears coursed over his face. Anguish burned in his chest. The snow, the tracers, the tank, the explosions, every memory exploded at once in his mind as he gripped the dogtag so hard in his hand that it drew blood. Addy took his hand into both of hers and held it, kissed it, her tears falling into the blood welling in the palm of his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing himself if he was apologizing for the truth of what he’d told her, the shame he felt, the blood on his hand, or the tears. Maybe all of that, maybe more, maybe for the truth he knew he’d never tell.
“No, no, no,” Addy said, opening his hand. “This is your dogtag, Clay, I’ve seen it before.” She looked confused, as if she’d expected a different story. She didn’t understand.
“No, no, it isn’t mine. It belongs to Clay Brock.” She looked at him as if he were the one confused, shocked by events. He must be wrong, she was thinking, the stress finally caught up with him.
