by Jon Stafford
She was a heavy woman used to usin’ lard in most everything she cooked. After Grandpa died, sometimes his pension wasn’t enough and she made lard sandwiches for us. I ate what I was given and thought nothin’ about it. Now, I’m ashamed. I never saw it then, the large folds a fat under her arms, and the heels of her shoes, worn down from age and her weight all worn out. She had trouble gettin’ around because of her leg. She would smile at me, stroke my hair. “We’ll get by,” she’d say, “The Lord takes care a the meek.”
So, I’m one of the meek? I’ll show ’em. I’ll show ’em all.
And he had the same image in his head he always had of what he would do to his father, if he ever met the man again. He’ll try ta hit me and I’ll block that blow. He’ll be so surprised! I’ll look him straight in the eye. Then I’ll smash him in the face!
His body tense, Wiley thought again of his grandmother.
Eight months after A.C. died, one winter’s day, she lay down for a nap in the bedroom, and then she died. I was fourteen. I’d gone out ta the shed ta chop some firewood. I sat a long time after comin’ back inta the house, watchin’ her from the other room, wishin’ that she would wake up. But she didn’t get up as she always had. She didn’t move at all. I got more afraid as it got dark. I lit the lamp and went over ta her bed. I looked at her face. It scared hell outta me ta see her lips were blue. I knew she was dead. My world had ended. Pop’d beat me. Whenever he returned, he’d get drunk and know that neither A.C. nor Essie would be there lookin’ over his shoulder. There was nothing ta restrain him.
I’d thought about what would happen if Grandma died for a long time. I picked up my coat, a coupla little things along with a dime I had hidden away, and went out the door and ran. I knew Pop and the sheriff were pals. I knew if I stayed around town, the sheriff would find me and bring me back, and I’d be beaten all the harder. I’m so sorry I didn’t go ta her funeral. I was just acting out of my instinct for self-preservation, like an animal.
That was the first time I ran ta save my life. That first time I ran from Fenwick all the way ta Summersville, twelve miles. In North Africa, once on a mission behind the lines, I ran twenty miles ta get away from some A-rabs. Now, here I am, at it again.
Wiley touched the flesh near his right shin. The old knife wound an Arab had given him still felt tender.
That was the first time the little .25 Colt had saved his life. The Arab hadn’t seen the weapon. Wiley could remember the surprised look on the guy’s face when he’d shot him.
He felt for the little weapon in his pocket, and it was there. Feeling it was always a relief. He pulled it out and whispered to it: “I’ll never part with you as long as I live. You’re the only thing I got left from Grandpa.”
In the vast number of long hours he had spent by himself overseas, the scout had convinced himself that the gun was the only thing left of his family. He’d told Captain Redding and others that he had to send money home to his family. But the truth was that he had no real family, just the Gregorys in Columbia, South Carolina, whom he’d met during Basic Training.
He carefully looked down the road in both directions. Nothing.
Summersville had taught him a lot. He’d learned to get by on his own. In his two years there, he’d never seen anybody he’d known before. After a few nights sleeping in doorways, he’d gotten a job in Linus Campbell’s hardware store as the stock boy.
Campbell had taken a dollar a week out of the young Wiley’s pay so he could live in a room in the back of the store. It didn’t even have a window, but Wiley hadn’t cared, because it was his! Nobody came there to beat him up. He’d had a bed of old grain sacks, an old chair someone had thrown out, and an oil lamp. At night, he would sit reading an old newspaper or magazine and feel like a king. Sometimes, he’d dream of seeing some of the places the magazines pictured. He’d stolen to have enough to eat, but mostly he’d gotten by. His schooling ended with eighth grade, but that wasn’t bad in West Virginia.
What had affected him the most was the prejudice. In 1938, the last year of the Great Depression in the coalfields, West Virginia was as yet untouched by the influx of contracts World War II would bring.
Everyone kept ta their own kin, Wiley thought. Outsiders weren’t welcome. I learned ta be tough in just protectin’ myself. Boys came by ta tell me I wasn’t wanted in Summersville, and many a fight followed. I wasn’t very big then, but I held my own. I still do.
Having heard and seen nothing, the scout rose, put the carbine over his shoulder, and headed off in a westerly direction. His watch read 1558. He forced himself to think of his mission.
“I’ve got just four hours before dark ta find that shitty, goddam plane,” he whispered, beginning to hate the thing. “Whether I find it or not, I’ll have ta travel all night over new ground ta get back.”
He stopped walking. “First the damn rain and then I was stupid an’ had ta use those damn mines. I don’t think this will work.”
He had a strong feeling that the mission was blown. “That’s cost me about six, seven hours. I can’t make that up. I could just . . . stay here in these woods. In a few days, the Army’ll would come up. I got those chocolate bars. I could . . . aw shit!”
He started walking again, boots squelching in the mud.
Slowly, he worked his way back about three miles to an area just north of where he had seen the farms. The terrain was a mixture of dense forest and farms. He studied each farm through his glasses, seeing the people come and go with their chores but no signs of the downed plane or enemy troops. He was lucky in not happening upon any natives. He only saw one dog, which did not even offer to bark at him.
Wiley went on farther west. A little after 1800, he came to another country road. The roadsides had good cover, and in less than a minute he was ready to cross. There was a cleared area on the other side, with what looked like a good path from it leading into the woods beyond. He hurried across the road toward it. He took one step on the other side of the road into the cleared area and froze.
Something was wrong! He stepped back, stooped in plain sight at the edge of the road, and listened. He heard a bird, then another, but it made him feel no less tense. He looked around. The cleared area was about the size and shape of a football field end zone. It had brush in it and a few small trees but was mostly open.
Again he hesitated, stooped, listened, and looked. The scout puzzled as several seconds passed. Finally, it came to him. There was a smell . . . a very faint smell . . . of lubricating oil!
Wiley looked at the ground. Though he could see nothing obvious, he knew instinctively what it was.
A minefield! Mines are made in factories by machines that use oil ta cool the metal! Look at that ground, it’s not right. It’s . . . messed up just a little. They almost fooled me.
He smiled, thinking: I wasn’t taken in by those creeps, but I know full well that no soldier survives a hundred such chances. Maybe they’ll get me the next time and blow off my leg or put a bullet into me. You just never can tell.
He walked around the cleared area and picked up the path he’d seen on the other side. He was very close to the area Major White had pointed to on the map.
He spent the next hour and a half looking for the plane.
At a few minutes to 2000, he sat down against a large tree, wondering what he would do next. I crisscrossed this damn area in every direction from where White pointed on this map, he thought. This is hopeless. It’s less than an hour from dark! I’m maybe ten miles from my people and I got ten hours. No damn plane.
Again Wiley thought of not even attempting to go back to his lines. He had some rations and the chocolate bars. He could last for a while.
He looked up through the trees, a sour look on his face. He could see a long way to the west. “What’s that?” he said in astonishment. “Maybe, just maybe.”
He stood up but then could see nothing. The opening through the trees was very small. Only by sitting in the one place was he able to see anything at all. All he could see was the top of a tree that was somewhat bare.
“Maybe half a mile, hard ta judge.” He looked at it a long time through his glasses, trying to find a landmark near it. There was nothing, just the battered top of a tree. He started walking in that direction.
As soon as he began to walk, he began to doubt that he’d seen anything. “Could be wind damage,” he muttered to himself.
He took out his map and noted where he thought the tree was. It was well out of the area he was supposed to search and somewhat lower in elevation. Soon, the ground began a slow decline that continued for many hundreds of yards. With forty-five minutes of light left, he hurried.
It was a careless way to go about this, but there was no other way. This was his last chance to pull off the mission and get the information back in time.
Perhaps he hurried a little too quickly in the next fifteen minutes. Suddenly, he found himself within fifty feet of two German soldiers pacing back and forth on guard duty. He dove to the ground. Slowly, he lifted up his head and found the two soldiers still slowly pacing, unaware of his presence. In full view behind them, about thirty yards off, he saw something.
It was the plane!
He could see that it had burn damage, but the light was too poor for him to tell very much. The light was going.
Wiley thought: I have ta act! I have ta act right now!
He took his .45 from the holster and quickly screwed in the silencer. Then, he slowly crawled forward, his eyes glued to the two Germans in between glances at the ground.
The enemy soldiers came together and, beginning to talk, turned away from him. At first he could hear little more than their voices. Strangely, he half expected them to speak English. As he got closer, the words became more distinct. Obviously, they weren’t speaking English. He had no idea what they were saying.
The first man, a taller and bulkier man with a Schmeisser submachine gun, laughed loudly. “Das Leben ist Kurz!” He continued to talk rather quickly. The scout paid no attention to what he said.
The smaller man, obviously inferior in rank, stuttered when he spoke. “Jaden s–s–s–ommer fahren wir aufs s–s–schreiben.”
“Ja, ja, das ist gut, Heinz,” the larger man responded.
Wiley could wait no longer. He stood only twenty-five feet from the two Germans. The bigger man saw him and began to react. The little man never saw him.
THUNK. THUNK. The Browning reported, and both Germans were thrown backward and down. Neither moved again. Wiley stooped down and spent almost thirty seconds motionless, listening and looking.
How stupid could they be? he thought, as the seconds ticked by. They’re on guard duty and let some shit sneak right up and shoot ’em! Are these two the only guards?
Neither man had moved. They had to either be dead or so badly hurt that they were no threat to him any longer. Wiley got up and walked quickly toward the plane.
It was a big silver plane, much larger than he’d ever imagined in all the times he’d seen P-38s fly overhead in Africa and Europe. The light was poor by now, but one look told him that the photo cartridge was no longer there.
Where’s the pilot? he wondered.
A glance at the rest of the plane told him a lot. From just behind the nose, most of the rest of the plane was badly burned. The metal was twisted and charred. He edged back toward the cockpit. The bubble canopy was gone. He came aside what remained of the cockpit. There was no sign of the pilot.
“No cartridge, no pilot,” he muttered, all of his hopes sinking again. “This whole damn thing is just shit!”
With the light almost gone, he wasted no time in heading south toward his lines. More guards could appear at any second. He held the .45 ready. He felt uneasy for several reasons.
“I wonder if Kuehl made it back,” he said to himself. “At least he didn’t have far ta go. Well, I can’t think about him now. Gettin’ back won’t be easy for me! It’s almost directly south ta our lines, all through unknown country, and all of which I’ll have ta go through at night.”
Wiley was some distance from the plane now. He stopped, put his poncho over his head, and got out his map and flashlight. As soon as he turned the flashlight on, he could see that the batteries were about gone.
Maybe it’s better that they’re weak, he thought. At least nobody can see me. The light lasted just long enough for him to see that he was right: his lines were directly south. No time for his usual oval.
He turned out the light and proceeded south. The moon peeked through the clouds occasionally, and he could see some things in the thin silver light. He’d seen a road on the map, but at night he avoided roads just as he preferred them during the day. At night, troops were just going to sit on a road, which they wouldn’t usually do during the day. Following a road would get him shot for certain.
He went overland and looked for paths that weren’t very visible in the light. Three times in the next hour, he startled things in the woods that ran away from him, animals no doubt.
This is like livin’ in a shootin’ gallery, he thought.
About 2200, the terrain headed downhill. Wiley began to have an uneasy feeling. For a time, he stooped and waited. His scalp became itchy. He continued, but soon stopped again and again waited.
There was something here. He could feel it.
He heard a bird’s tweet and felt a soft breeze that caused a rustling in the trees. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he could just sit down for a few minutes and not face this problem.
Aw, he thought, I got information. And everything seems normal. Still, he couldn’t shake a strong feeling of apprehension. I can’t stay here.
Then, in a few more steps, he saw it ahead. It’s a train! I smelled it.
It lay in a gulley about ten feet below him, directly across his path. He crept up on it ever so slowly, every nerve alive. It was like a gigantic black beast, some kind of worm that had died in a trench. The Germans must have parked it here so the Allied planes wouldn’t see it. He had the .45 ready, the silencer still on.
Despite inching carefully forward, Wiley tripped over something about twenty feet from the train. He fell headlong toward the train with much crashing through the underbrush, actually sliding several feet. Fearing he might accidentally shoot himself, he let the .45 go, and it fell away from him. He scrambled for the little Colt in his pocket. Then he lay motionless, expecting the worst.
But no sound of rushing enemy
came to his ears. He listened with such intensity, and yet there was only an eerie silence. He felt around in the muddy leaves for several seconds, looking for the .45. He found it and put the .25 back in his pocket. It occurred to him that he hadn’t reloaded it, and it had only seven shots left.
Unbelievably, no one appeared. He got up to a crouching position, waited a long time, then crept the rest of the way down to the train and the tracks. The silence was so eerie that for a second he wondered if he could still hear.
I wonder if the fall turned off my hearing, he thought. He listened for what seemed like a long time and was relieved to hear a low hoo, hoo.
That’s an owl! I can hear. Is this train unguarded?
In the darkness, he squinted to see the train. There were tracks going away from him, fairly straight, in both directions. Then he saw a light, a conductor’s light, far down the track to the right. It moved away from the train and back several times. Wiley turned and saw the same from the left.
This thing is about to get under way! Again he forgot about his mission. I gotta find out what’s in these boxcars.
He walked several cars to the right and ahead saw one with open doors. He frowned. There was no other way to do this, other than to come abreast of the door and just look in. There was no time!
Wiley edged up to the opening, his scalp tingling. He quickly poked his head in front of the opening and then drew back. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside.
Then he stood in front of the opening and peered into the car. Nobody, no sleeping guys! A wave of relief came over him.
The train began to lurch forward off in the distance. In a few seconds, the car he was looking into jolted several inches.
It won’t be long now, he thought, and this thing’ll be gone. He peered in again. He could see the car was packed with hundreds of boxes bearing the sign of the skull and crossbones.
