Crouching with the gunnysack over his head, his heart lurched as a terrifying rumble filled the air. His ears popped, bringing pain. A blast of cold air seemed to split his soul in half as the wind tried to suck his body from the shelter ...
... Fog and mist lay over the open meadow and the sky was just beginning to darken. The air hung still and damp. Not even a blade of grass moved. Poppies stood like bright orange sentries near the tents and ditches, oblivious to the war ravaging their homeland.
This night was quiet along the front.
Too quiet.
Fritzie was up to something.
Shine crouched in a trench surrounded by sandbags, and waited. His skin prickled as he shifted his eyes back and forth like small searchlights. There were no signs of enemy soldiers—they'd expected to see them, but much farther ahead. But he knew they were there and he sensed stealthy movement behind the stand of trees that edged the meadow. Soon his battery would be under cover of darkness. But safe? Not bloody likely. He glanced toward a nearby trench, feeling alone, yet comforted by the nearness of his friends. Most of them were just kids who had no business fighting a war, young men who grew up fast when faced with unseen enemies.
"Man, I wish I had a smoke."
Shine jumped at the sound of Milt's voice and glanced over his shoulder as the young soldier rested his arms on his rifle stock.
"Don't sneak up on me, Milt!"
"Okay, okay."
"Good thing this gun was pointed the other way—I might've shot and asked questions after."
"Okay, Shine, take it easy."
Shine nodded, reached out and lay a hand on Milt's arm. Everyone was jumpy. This was no time for arguments; they were all in it together.
Milt opened his mouth to speak, but Shine shook his head. "Shhh—listen." His heart drummed in his chest. His nerves were as tight as a banjo string as he tightened his grip on the rifle, fingers opening, squeezing. "You hear something?"
A shadowy form appeared at the edge of the field near the front trench. A moment later, three shells whizzed through the air, the first hitting a sandbag, the others almost blowing the ground out from under them.
"Jesus." Shine grabbed his worthless helmet and ducked. "They've seen us!"
"Cover me," Milt said. "I'm going after the son-of-a-bitch!"
He climbed out of the hole, bayonet fixed, and waved toward the trenches where the other guys waited. Someone joined him. In the dim light it was hard to tell who. Leonard. In a matter of seconds Leonard was out of the trench and running at a crouch through the shadows to join Milt.
A burst of machine gun fire kicked up the dirt around them as they ran, ducking shells. More soldiers appeared in the clearing. It was almost too dark to see now. Milt and Leonard opened fire as they ran. Streaks of light burst from their guns. Loud shouts came from the direction of the targets. Then a chilling scream. From the front trenches came a barrage of rifle fire.
Shine broke out in a cold sweat as he took careful aim in the near darkness and squeezed the trigger. A man screamed; a soldier went down. Kill or be killed, soldier.
Someone jumped in the trench with him. Frank. He smelled like cigarettes as he took a position next to Shine.
Sporadic gunfire continued for a few more minutes, then stopped abruptly.
"They got Woody," Frank said, gasping for breath.
"Dead?"
"Yeah." Frank's voice broke. "It was too fast, Shine, too fast! He—he went down without a sound."
"Maybe he's not dead, maybe—"
"We both know better. He ain't moving, Shine. Goddamit, he's dead!"
"The bastards!"
Shine listened to the stillness. Dense fog moved in and hovered above the field. It crept close to the ground, leaving a foot of space at the bottom through which the men watched.
"Someone should be with Woody," he said.
"Aw no, the poor bastard's beyond help."
Gunfire started up again. Through the opening under the mist they saw a cloud of dirt fly through the air where they'd last seen Milt and Leonard. Piercing screams rent the night, and Shine knew without a doubt they didn't come from Fritzie.
With Frank beside him peering over the edge of the trench, he tried to take aim. The growing darkness made it hard to see. All was quiet from their side, the bursts of gunfire having died down. They used the time to reload.
But the lull was deceptive as another round came at them. The two men returned rapid fire and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Shine jerked as something banged his head and almost tore his helmet off. Forgetting himself for the moment, he jumped up. Frank grabbed his legs to pull him back down.
"Get your ass down!"
But Shine could not hear nor see. He was intent on getting out of the hole alive. Something snapped inside his head and he swore at Frank.
"Fuck that, they're killing us!"
"Stay down!"
His feet flew out from under him. His shoulder screamed in pain as he rose in the air, then slammed onto the ground and screamed. The blast loosened dirt from the edges of the trench and buried him.
He blacked out a minute from intense pain in his right shoulder, then came alert and frantically clawed the soil. Reaching air again, he expanded his lungs and dug out his rifle.
His hands touched something hard. Not a rifle. Something round. He ran a hand over it, onto the face of his friend.
"Frankie!"
The concussion from a shell bursting overhead knocked him down on top of Frank. He waited, his heart pounding. As he listened, the gunfire stopped abruptly.
He got to his knees and touched Frank's arm. His hand came away wet. Frank gasped for air, and a gurgling sound came from his mouth when he tried to speak.
He pulled Frank from under the debris and cradled his head in his arms.
"Mama ... Shine ... tell Mama I—"
Frank's chest no longer rose; his mouth stopped bubbling. When daylight came up through the poppies and burned the mist away, Shine found Frank staring up at him, eyelids partly closed and mouth open. But even in the midst of this hellish war, the dead soldier's face looked strangely at peace.
Shine wept unashamedly. And when he'd cried himself out, he laid the still body on the soil and brushed his hand across Frank's eyes, pushed up gently on his chin to close his mouth. When he pulled his hand away, he looked down upon the bloody stump of his ring finger …
Susannah's voice carried over the wind:
He was a well-known bard; he was straight and honest.
Daniel forgot the storms of weather and war swirling around and inside of him and listened to his grandmother's words.
Over the ocean he came. Despite the dangers, he traveled with a strong heart to a new country without fear in his breast.
He raised his head and listened—the sound of the storm was distant now and gentle rain fell upon the parched earth.
The earth is restless.
He wiped his glasses on his wet shirttail, then checked his sack to be sure his supplies and the banjo were intact. He arose slowly, knees creaking. His body ached from the cramped position and he stood a moment finding his balance. His cap lay on the wet ground nearby, and his lower back complained when he reached down to get it. The old cap was soaked; he shook off the water and put it on anyway. His shoes squished when he walked, and his latest Hoover insoles disintegrated.
He didn't know if the long finger of a cyclone had touched the earth. All around him lay broken twigs, leaves, and branches. He hadn't even heard them crash, so intent he'd been on listening to his grandma's strange lessons about a relative he never knew.
She had calmed his nerves and saved his sanity. Few people knew how afraid he was of storms. Susannah had known. So did LaDaisy. But he'd had to bear the fear silently when the kids were around.
Wherever she was now, did Grandma know loud claps of thunder and bursts of lightning brought back his horrible war nightmares?
As he walked, Daniel searched for food in the thick
ets by the side of the road. His sharp vision for edible plants rewarded him with a thorny bramble of wild blackberries, which, despite the dry year, had grown plump and sweet. He picked his pockets full, turning his hands dark with juice.
There was no sign rain had fallen the farther west he traveled. Signs of wind damage, for sure. But the ground beneath his feet lay hard, cracked, and dusty. Heavy as the torrent had been, the soil had soaked it up in a few minutes.
Sunlight slanted through the trees along the road and dried his clothes. His shadow lengthened as he walked a southerly course to keep the sun out of his eyes. The farther he walked, the taller it grew. At times he thought the shadow on his left was someone walking beside him. If only it were true; his loneliness was almost unbearable.
By late evening, he came to a farm and bedded down in a tractor shed with rusty plows and assorted other implements. He himself was not yet rusty, though his body creaked and groaned with each movement. Exhausted, he fell asleep immediately, and woke the next morning when the shed door swung open and blinded him with sunlight. A large man stood in the doorway, a faceless shadow with the sun behind him.
"Howdy," said the man. "I didn't expect to see anybody here."
Daniel sat up, shook his head and blinked. He pulled off his cap and nodded, embarrassed to be caught.
"Howdy yourself. Sometimes any building's a good place to lay your head when you can't keep your eyes open no more."
"Been walking long?"
"Long enough." Daniel thought for a minute. "By the way, where am I?"
"You're down the road a piece from a little one-horse town called Ozark. Springfield's a few miles north."
"Guess I walked further than I meant to," Daniel said. "Didn't plan to go so far south."
The man indicated the gunnysack. "What's in there?"
Dead chickens.
Daniel patted the sack. "This? Oh, just my stuff. My banjo, some tools and clothes, shaving mug. Cooking pots and soap and Cloverine salve."
The man eyed the bag. "Don't look big enough for all that."
"It's a magic bag," Daniel replied with a grin. "The more I put in, the bigger it gets."
He rose and put the cap back on as the man came all the way in the shed. He saw features now on the sunburned country face of the farmer—a stout man with a double chin, big rubbery lips, and eyes the same shade of blue as the faded overalls he wore. He was shirtless, his thick neck and arms sunburned and muscular.
"You look like you could use a good meal, stranger." The man stuck out his hand. "Homer Petrie."
"Daniel Tomelin. Pleased to meet you." He gripped Homer's hand and cranked it up and down.
"We get a tramp or two down here once in a while," Homer said. "I don't begrudge them a place to sleep, long as they don't steal nothing."
"That's decent of you, Mr. Petrie. You can search my sack if you want. But you won't find nothing I didn't already mention. Besides, I'm a carpenter, not a tramp. I'm a family man who found trouble, lost his job and money before lighting out to find honest work. But there ain't much."
Homer looked him over. "You need food before you can work. Can't work in such a pitiful condition. I could stand you in my cornfield to scare the crows away."
Daniel grinned. "Guess I lost me some weight. But, it can't be helped. I eat when I can, and when I can't, I don't."
"My old truck probably runs on more fuel than you do," Homer said. "Come on up to the house and the wife will feed you hot biscuits, ham, and gravy."
Daniel's eyes lit up like twin headlights in a dark tunnel. His bowels gurgled at the memory of good home cooking.
"It's the best offer I've had all day, Mr. Petrie. I'll repay you with work if you got any."
He picked up the burlap sack and followed Homer out of the shed and up a dirt path to a farmhouse. A silo rose behind the house, with a chicken coop and other out-buildings nearby. But except for a lone white drake pecking in the grass, there were no other signs of fowl. He spied a pump and set the bag on the ground beside it.
"I can use a cool drink."
Homer pumped water into Daniel's cupped hands, the pump handle protesting with a rusty squawk.
"We got some rain yesterday," Homer said. "Just a lick and a promise. If we don't get more, everything's going to dry up."
"Yup." Daniel sucked the water out of his hands.
"My crops depend on the rain."
"So do people. Just let me wash the sleep out of my eyes before I go inside. I must look like something the cat drug in."
Homer stood aside as Daniel took his carefully hoarded sliver of Lava soap from the bag, removed his cap and glasses, lathered up and rinsed with more water from the pump.
"Now I won't be ashamed to sit at your table."
He retrieved his sack and followed Homer up a flight of steps onto a closed-in porch and into a kitchen.
His mouth watered from the smell of coffee and ham. My luck is changing. His eyes misted from the goodness of this family to take in a total stranger and feed him. People were weary of tramps coming around so often, and likely as not the intruders might get a tail full of buckshot for trespassing on private property.
This was a religious family, judging from a picture on the kitchen wall of the Good Shepherd carrying a lamb. A small plaque near the back door recited the Twenty-third Psalm. Hanging on a hook by the icebox, was a dog-eared copy of "The Old Farmer's Almanac," which some farmers consulted religiously for planting and harvesting schedules and moon phases.
A small fan sat on a kitchen counter, circulating the hot air as it oscillated. Back and forth. Swish. Back and forth. Swish. Without letup, it rearranged the cooking odors and greasy dust motes, but did little to cool the room.
"Meet the wife," Homer said. "This is Elta."
She was a plump woman in her late forties, with wavy auburn hair and gentle brown eyes, like a coon hound begging for a hush puppy. Her cheeks were flushed. Rivulets of perspiration rolled over a double chin and disappeared into the neckline of a sleeveless sundress.
"Please to meet you," Daniel said.
"You're welcome here," Elta replied with a shy smile.
She wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed a pot holder and pulled a large pan of biscuits from the oven. Dropping the hot pan on top of the stove, she fanned her face with the pot holder and took a chipped plate and unmatched coffee mug from the cupboard.
Elta set a place for Daniel on a red-checkered oilcloth as he pulled up a chair and hung his cap on the back of it. She poured steaming coffee and set a platter of meat and scrambled eggs and the hot biscuits on the table in front of him. Without a word, the woman served him as though it was her godly duty to feed all the tramps in the country.
She sat across from him and smiled, then bowed her head. Daniel returned the courtesy, closing his eyes for a silent word of thanks. When he opened them again, Elta's head was still lowered, her lips moving. He tried not to hear her mumbled words, but caught the last one before she raised up again.
"Amen."
"Amen," Homer echoed. "Dig in, Daniel. Try some of Elta's jelly." He indicated a small glass jar next to the butter dish. "It's elderberry."
Daniel ate with relish, savoring each morsel of food with a heart full of gratitude. He shined his plate with a biscuit and thanked the hostess as she refilled his cup. What had he, just a common man, done to deserve such royal treatment?
"It's not every day I come across such hospitality," he said. "God bless you both."
Homer grabbed a biscuit and slathered it with butter and jelly. He bit off half of it before the juice could run down his hand, eyeing Daniel the while.
"Well, the meal ain't free."
"'Course not," Daniel said. "I done said I'd earn it."
"Yes, you will."
Homer winked at his wife, but she pretended not to notice. He stuffed a pipe with tobacco from a pouch, got it going and blew a smoke ring in the air.
Just like Clay Huff, Daniel thought. Damn his greedy hide.
"I need help in the fields," Homer said. "Our boys left home a few years ago. When they're around, they don't mind helping their old man. I hired two farmhands a month ago, big strong boys—lazy louts, I should've said. They worked one day and quit the next. Last I heard, they headed up to Springfield. I don't expect they'll be back this way, so I'm short-handed with harvest coming up."
"What—spuds?"
"Yes. Early potatoes did good this year. Wish I'd planted more, come to think of it. You ever dig potatoes?"
Daniel nodded and chewed. Nodded and swallowed. Shoveled food in his mouth as fast as he could without looking like a pig. His stomach was a bottomless pit. But it was probably shriveled up and would cramp tomorrow, or at the very least produce enough gas to fuel Homer's tractor.
"Yes, sir, I've dug potatoes many a time. If my back don't give out, I can dig some more."
His muscles were weak and stringy, his back already stiff and hunched from carrying the pack, the tools, the banjo. But by golly he'd dig if it killed him.
Homer chuckled. "There's too many for hand digging. I've got machinery. Can you operate a potato harvester?" He didn't wait for Daniel to reply, but went right on talking.
"There's only a few acres, but I want to get some new potatoes out to market over in Springfield. I also need to turn under another field. I can't do both at once." The pipe had gone out; he laid it on the table. "I'm not getting any younger. No sir. I'd need to grow another head and more arms and legs to get everything done myself." He looked at his wife as she removed the dishes from the table and stacked them on the counter by the sink. "My good woman can't tolerate the heat, so she ain't no use."
Elta looked downright stricken as she scraped food scraps into a slop bucket and put on a teakettle of water to heat for dishes. Daniel suspected she might be having a hot flash, and what a torment it must be in summer heat and humidity.
He thought of LaDaisy and the way she heated the dishwater, not to mention water for washing clothes and the kids' baths once a week. He was overcome with homesickness.
"I'll give you room and board." Homer stood and looked down at his guest. "You'll bunk in the extra bedroom upstairs. I'll see you get fed good and some time off. When you're done, I'll pay you a few dollars to help you on your way."
Face the Winter Naked Page 13
