He starts up the hill, leaning forward, dragging his feet. Father slides his rifle off his shoulder and jams the butt plate in the snow. There’s about half an inch over everything already. My eyes are wanting to close and the slow-falling snow doesn’t help. I’m also having a reaction from being scared.
The snow is like somebody waving a wand in front of my eyes. If I concentrate on the near flakes, I feel my eyes turning up into my head. If I look out through them, the whiteness fuzzes and I start fixating.
“OK if I light up, Sarge?”
“That’s between you, God and Gordon, Father; or maybe that’s ‘amongst.’ Only duck down when you light, and keep it covered. I don’t think anybody can see much through all this white stuff, but be careful.”
Mundy bends over like a bear and smothers most of the flare. He comes up puffing his cigarette between the fingers of his glove. I fumble out one more from my four-pack and light on him. It’ll help keep me awake.
I left my shelter half up in the other hole and Father didn’t bring his down either. It’s going to be a cold two hours and there’s a long way to go. I try using my personal con game of telling myself it’s time passing and the more time goes by, the closer we get to the end of the war and going home, so enjoy it; stop waiting. But I’m too tired.
Father and I stand there smoking, staring out through the snow, hoping not to see anything. It’s even more complicated than that. We’re desperately wanting to see anything there is to see, but praying there’s nothing there. It can twist the brain. Mundy’s leaning his elbows on the wall looking over it and I have my back against the wall looking up toward the chateau. I can feel it coming on. Father Mundy, professional Catholic, has some time alone with a lost soul and he’s going to try reconverting me again.
“Look, Wont; could you explain one more time why you left the church?”
“Come off it, Mundy, I haven’t left any church. I haven’t written to the Pope and asked for excommunication; you’re just making this whole thing up.”
“But you don’t go to mass.”
Father’s from Boston and his accent is exaggerated by a thick-tongued, slow enunciation. It’s fun talking with him; like playing tennis against a wall, you always know where the ball’s going to bounce. It’s not that he’s dumb; except for Wilkins, he could be the smartest one in our squad. He’s just simple. Morrie always insisted Mundy might be the world’s best slow thinker.
“For me, Mundy, going to mass is hypocrisy. When I watch all the hoopla, I automatically turn sacrilegious inside, like cream turning sour, or jelly jelling. Any halfway sensitive priest would exorcise me right out of church before he’d say a proper mass.”
“Aw, you’re not so bad, Wont. Pray for faith and it’ll come; you know that.”
He looks straight into my eyes, he’s so Goddamned sincere. I should shut up.
“Praying itself takes faith, Father; and I’m not sure I ever had it; I don’t think I even want it. It’s like singing, flying, dancing or writing poetry; some do and some don’t, some can and some can’t.”
I take another quick peek around. We can’t actually see more than ten feet. With the dark, the snow falling and now the snow muffling every sound, anybody could creep up and we’d have no idea. If you get to thinking about all the things that might happen, you could go psycho in no time.
“When I was twelve, Father, the Jesuits offered me the whole bag: free school, university, study in Rome. I didn’t sign up.”
“You never told me that. The Jesuits, boy, they’re the tops. What happened?”
“I just said no. Now, if you really believe, Mundy, have faith, it’s dumb not to be a priest. What’s a lousy fifty or sixty years compared to eternity? Well, I didn’t do it, I’m not stupid, therefore, ipso facto, I didn’t truly believe, no faith. I thought my mom and dad would never speak to me again.”
The snow seems to be falling even harder. I promised myself I wouldn’t get into any more of these conversations. Mundy’s never going to convince me with the same old arguments and what do I want to do, ruin his life? Deep inside me, maybe I do want to be convinced. I could use something, that’s for sure. Father’s quiet. We reverse positions in the hole. He stares up at the château; I turn and try to peer through the trees into the forest. My feet are going numb. I knock off some snow from my shoulders. I don’t feel cold in the chest or stomach and I’m not particularly scared. My stomach isn’t rumbling and I don’t feel desperately tired. It’s only my eyes keep wanting to close.
“You mean, that’s how you lost your faith, because they wanted you to be a priest?”
“What’s a twelve-year-old kid know about faith? I’d just finished having faith in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I wasn’t even sure there wasn’t a real Jack Armstrong and Daddy Warbucks. I was at a place where I could believe anything or nothing.”
“Then how does somebody know if he has faith? What is it?”
“That’s your bag, Father. You’re the specialist; you tell me.”
He’s quiet about three minutes. It’s as if I’ve lobbed one against the wall.
“Then how come you’re fighting this war? Hitler’s Nazis are saying the same kind of atheist things you’re saying. Maybe you’re on the wrong side.”
“Cut it out, Mundy. You’ve seen it, German GIs with rosary beads, missals, holy cards; they’re the ones with Gott mit uns on their belts. German priests’re telling them they’re fighting a holy war against us. We’re busy making martyrs of each other, fighting Godlessness. Same religions sending us all to the same heaven. We won’t be able to turn around up there. All young guys, no girls, no women, no old people, no priests.”
I’m awake now. Amazing how arguing can even make your feet warm. I only have one more cigarette for the day. I’ll light up when I feel cold again. Snow’s made everything softly quiet; there’s no wind right now. I look at Mundy’s watch; almost one. I’ll make it.
“Besides, Father, I don’t have to worry. I’ve made the nine First Fridays three times. I’m guaranteed ‘The Grace of a Happy Death.’ I’ll spill my guts at that last minute and sneak right through them pearly gates.”
“You’ve got to make them in good faith or they don’t count.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, did I ever make them in good faith. I’d be there in church at six o’clock mass, freezing my butt, praying my ears off. Sometimes it’d just be the nuns and me. We’re in there gilding our halos, burnishing the silver stars in our crowns. Man, you’re looking at an old burned-out true believer here, that’s all.”
I pull up Father’s sleeve and look at his watch. Time is creeping by. If one were on night guard in the snow all the time, a life would seem about five hundred years. Mundy’s watch is a Benrus, his family gave it to him when he went to seminary school. His father’s a bus driver and his family’s even poorer than mine, so they put out to buy that watch. About once a day, Mundy mentions his genuine Benrus watch. Sometimes he sounds like an ad.
“You know, Wont, I never made it. Twice I got to seven. Once I broke my fast taking a drink from the fountain right in front of church. Honest to God, sometimes it’s as if the devil himself is after me.”
“Probably is.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“If I were the devil, I’d go after a big prize like you; I’d never waste two seconds on some flawed bit of flesh like me. I’m already in the bag, anyway.”
I forgot to make the one o’clock call-in. It’s almost ten after. I crank up and it takes two rings. I get Shutzer.
“Everything OK down here, Stan. How’re things on top?”
“Fine, they’ve already called in. We began to worry about you two; thought you might’ve taken the chance to run across the woods and do a little parlaying with our distinguished enemy, like WE GIVE UP!”
“Sorry, no guts. Father’s converting me again. If we work something out, we’ll fly up there on angel wings. Don’t get confused and shoot us down.”
Mundy’s got his head against mine so he can listen in. Shutzer whispers into the phone.
“How about taking on one li‘l’ ol’ slightly circumcised angel; nobody’ll notice; I’ll wear a fig leaf.”
“We’ll consider it. Wait a minute; we have a pronouncement ex cathedra from Father Mundy himself. Here it is. He says if goldbricks like us get to heaven, he’s taking his chances with the devil. Unquote. You know, Stan, I think the devil’s got a thing for Mundy.”
“You bet your life, Won’t; big, soft, white Irish ass like that should be just the thing for Old Nick.”
“You sound hot for him yourself, there, Shutzer. What’re you doing, working it up as squad fairy?”
“If it moves and squeaks, I’ll take it. By the way, we’re almost out of wood again.”
“I’ll knock down a few more slats from the stable on my way in.”
“I was about to rip off some of these wooden walls here, but Mother went into a screaming panic, claims they’re genuine seventeenth-century ‘boiserie’ and part of our cultural heritage.”
“OK, Stan, don’t take any wooden walls, and Schlaf gut.”
I hang up. Now it’s snowing like mad; if you hold your face up, you can scarcely breathe. I stay down with the phone and sit against the wall. Mundy slides down and joins me. There just can’t be anybody out there at this time of night in the snow and I’m not caring enough.
“You know what, Father; I’ll make a deal with you.”
“What kind of deal you gonna make? You want to show me one of those hands we’ll be playing so I can fake the pants off Shutzer one time?”
“No, listen to this. We’re dealing in futures, eternities. You see, I’ve got more First Fridays than I can use. Two sets ought to be plenty even for a big sinner like me. I’ll trade you one.”
“You and your big deals.”
“No kidding, Father; seriously; you never know, right? You absolutely sure you’re in a state of grace?”
Mundy turns his head and stares at me, then shakes it slowly in disgust. I just can’t resist.
“Look at it this way. If I can pray for your soul and have novenas said, or masses, after you’re dead, why can’t I do you a little favor while you’re still alive?”
“That’s sacrilegious. Cut it out.”
There’s still no wind but the temperature’s dropping fast. It’s not crisp cold, just the thick, fat, air-filling kind.
“Besides, Wont, if you say a novena for somebody, you’re not trading; it’s a free offering. It’s not the same. You can’t trade or buy or sell things like First Fridays.”
“Come off it, Mundy. Wars were fought over this; millions of people killed and tortured, torn in half, boiled in oil; kings made and broken. What do you think old Luther was pounding nails into church doors about anyway?”
“Aw, them was the olden days. So the church made a few mistakes. That doesn’t mean the church is wrong; it only made some mistakes.”
“OK, whatever you say. But, if your mother sends some more of those tollhouse cookies, you give me nine of them and I’ll sign over a full set of First Fridays.”
“Yeah, and I’ll buy Park Place.”
I look around; nothing. We sit and don’t talk for a while. I decide not to light up my last cigarette. Time’s going fast and soon I’ll be inside for two hours. I hate to think of going into that dark stable for wood. I look over at Mundy.
He has his helmet on his lap so it’s getting filled with snow; his woolknit cap is pulled over his ears. Snow’s sticking to the cap and he’s sitting there, elbows on his knees and thumbs hooked over the swivel of his Mi. There’s snow piling up on his knees. The bottom of one pants leg has come out of the boot. Snow’s sticking on his shoulders and even on the grenades hooked to his pockets. He’s like a statue inside himself, but awake. I don’t know it but I’m absorbing the main picture I’ll have for all my life, of Mundy. As an artist now, sometimes I try to register an image in my memory bank and can’t; then other times, when I’m unaware, unprepared, something will sneak in intact. I don’t have enough control of my mind.
“You know, Wont; if we didn’t trade, it might be all right. If you give me those First Fridays as a free offering, as a Christian gift to my soul, it’d probably be all right.”
“OK, Father, put them in the golden book; they’re yours. Et cum spiritu tuo.”
Mundy fumbles in his pockets and lights another cigarette; then he lights a second one on his. He gives it to me.
“Don’t tell Gordon.”
He’s quiet again. I’m thinking at first he means don’t tell Gordon about the First Fridays; but he means the cigarette. He takes a deep drag and exhales slowly.
“In fact, the whole box is yours, but we’re not trading.”
I pull one in myself; the smoke goes all the way down to my lungs and I hold it, some warmth to keep out the cold. It’s almost one-thirty and I crank up the phone again. The line’s busy, so I hang up. I’m feeling better, no cramps since I took the crap. I crank up again, get Wilkins this time.
“Things OK here, Mother. How’re things on top?”
“Fine. Gordon says he and Miller are playing ‘paper, rock, scissors’; his arm’s so sore he can’t lift his Mr. Says after the war he’s taking Miller with him to Las Vegas and they’ll both get rich.”
“I’m with that. Miller’s psychic. Maybe that’s part of what being a poet is; you know things you have no right to know.”
“Could be. You guys cold down there? I can bring shelter halfs if you want. The guys on top are luxuriating with two each.”
“No, we’re OK. Would you put on some coffee before we come in? How’s the wood?”
“Almost finished. You know, Shutzer was going to start burning down the château. He’s some kind of Philistine-Neanderthal. I had to threaten him with a grenade to stop the beast from ripping off these hand-carved, oak, two-century-old walls.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring in some wood.”
“Wont, try not to rip out anything that looks valuable, will you? Remember who the enemy really is.”
“OK, Mother. I got it.”
I hang up in the quiet. There’s some wind now and the snow’s blowing. Only twenty-five minutes more. I can almost smell and taste the coffee but it doesn’t start my stomach rolling. Maybe I’m getting past it.
“Mundy, one last question. Why does an in-line character like you, practically sitting at the right hand of God already, want to worry about a mere set of First Fridays? What big sin do you have on your soul, anyway?”
Almost soon as it’s out, I feel my foot in my throat. I’m doing it again, mucking around in somebody else’s private world. There’s a long quiet and I hope he’s half asleep and didn’t hear.
“Why do you think I dropped out of the seminary?”
I stay quiet. Even I know when you’re not supposed to answer a question.
“In the second from the last year before ordination, we took our first vow. It was the vow of chastity. The vows of obedience and poverty are taken at ordination. I took the vow but didn’t keep it.”
“What do you mean, Mundy? Are you trying to tell me that there were two non-virgins in the squad back there at Shelby? I don’t believe it.”
“It wasn’t that, Wont. It was . . . well, you know, self-abuse. I took the vow and then did it. I couldn’t face up to telling my confessor either. Honest, I think I’m oversexed.”
“You mean, that’s all it was; you jerked off? That’s what chastity is, Mundy. How else do you think priests manage it, anyhow?”
“That’s not true, Wont. Self-abuse is a sin against purity. I could never say mass, touch the sacred host with the same hands that did such a thing.”
Mundy actually holds out his hands and looks at them. Snowflakes settle on the brown leather fronts. They’re huge hands, breaking out the sides of his gloves.
“You wipe your ass; what’s the difference?”
“OK, OK, Wont. You’d never un
derstand. But the worst of it was I couldn’t tell it in confession. I could never serve as subdeacon at mass with that sin on my soul. And don’t try to tell me it isn’t a sin. I spent seven years learning all about sin; this is my specialty.”
“So you’re a great sinner, Father. I’m not going to fight you on that one. To be honest, I’ve never been able to figure out if I’m the biggest sinner since Cleopatra or I’ve never committed a sin in my life. It depends on which side of things you look. All I’ve got to say, Mundy, is if that’s why you dropped out of the seminary and got drafted, it makes the ASTPR saga seem like poetic justice.”
It looks as if it might snow all night. I get to thinking about our uninvited visitors. What made them come sneaking around, taking chances like that. They must be bored out of their minds; it’s one of the worst things about a war: you’re either scared shitless, bored to death, hurt or dead.
At two, Shutzer comes down; I’m pooped so I start right up the hill. I wonder what Shutzer and Mundy will talk about, maybe comparative religions. No, Shutzer will try to improve Mundy’s bridge game. At least, it’ll maybe get Father’s mind off how big a lech he is.
I go and kick slats from the stalls in the stable. Miller comes in and scares me so bad I hit dirt in the dark. When I recover, we kick away until we each have an armful. At least we’ll be warm. There aren’t that many slats left; it’s amazing how fast things burn up.
Inside, there’s hot water ready for coffee. I open a can of sardines. We agree we’ll each take an hour at the phone. I pull the second hour, crawl into my sack feeling not sleepy but go out like a light. When I’m awake for the phone, I’ll make the call into regiment. That’s my last thought.
The phone ringing wakes me. Miller’s climbing into his sack; he points to his watch and turns over. His poem’s on the floor beside his mattress. It’s all crossed out and reworked. He wouldn’t mind if I read it, but I’m too tired. On the phone, Mundy says it’s all fine down there; then Gordon calls, same thing; all quiet.
I warm up the radio. It’s set for the regimental frequency. I get Leary. He’s half asleep; there’re no instructions he knows of. I tell him to tell Ware we’ve made contact with a German patrol but no exchange of fire. We go through the whole Wilco-Roger-out crap and I close down. Leary’s reasonable but his partner Flynn’s a bastard. One time Flynn reported me to Ware for sloppy procedure when I was on an OP. I’m crouched in a wet hole on the edge of a churned-up field, trying to see through steamy field glasses while he’s sitting in a warm tent with hot coffee, worrying about my procedures.
A Midnight Clear: A Novel Page 9
