by Bill Mesce
A pause.
Then VanDerMeer, with that black comic tone that always seems to mark the men of the combat line: “You know, Kipper, you’re starting to worry me.”
*
“I don’t want to offend anybody’s proprieties, but for the sake of not freezing to death I suggest we huddle up,” Peter Ricks proposed.
And so we did, laying side by side – Peter, Harry, myself – like kippers in a tin in one of the dark stalls. We jostled one another as we each tried to find some comfortable position, the blankets and thin layer of straw offering little buffer against the very hard and very cold floor.
After a bit, we’d each seemed to find an adequate repose. We lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the stable: the mumbling of the wireless operators, their passing of an occasional message to the lieutenants at the end of the building, the increasingly violent coughing of the unfortunate Lieutenant Dobie, the rafters giving up a low, aching moan under a blast of wind.
The squad we’d first seen on entering shuffled off, replaced by another group. This was how it was done, explained Ricks, each squad rotating off the combat line for a brief respite from the cold, a chance for some at least moderately warm nourishment, before returning to the cold night and their frigid foxholes.
Peter Ricks sat up. There was just enough spill from the lanterns at either end of the stable that I could see him shaking his head.
“Peter?”
“Harry, you awake?”
A grunt from Harry.
“Not that you asked for my opinion, but I’m going to give it to you.” He kept his voice low so that the men at either end of the stable might not also benefit from his opinion. “And my opinion is that we should pick our arses up, get back in our jeep, drive to some place nice and warm, have a pile of drinks and forget all this.”
“What’s the matter, Pete?”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“And where, pray tell, do you see this going?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the captain said glumly, “but wherever it is, I don’t think we want to go there.” His good hand flitted about his windcheater. “Shit. I gave my cigs to that flyboy.”
I offered him one of mine. His Ronson flared for a moment in the dark. I caught a quick glimpse of Harry, his eyes lost in the shadowy rafters of the stable, staring out from under a brow so furrowed he could not have been close to sleep. The lighter flicked out.
Harry propped himself on his elbows. “I’m tempted.”
“Then let’s go,” Ricks said.
“No.”
“Why?”
Harry lowered himself back on the ground. “Pete, do you remember when we were with Dominick last year in Italy? The story he told?” Harry canted a bit toward me. “Something that happened when Dominick was a kid. In the walk–up where we all lived, Dominick’s bedroom window opened out on the roof of a grocery store. One night there’s a crash, all of a sudden there’s a crowd in front of the store, a cop, and little Dominick – he must’ve been ten or so then – looking a little worse for wear from falling through the store’s skylight. It was a hot summer night, Dominick had gone out on the roof to cool off, tripped in the dark, bang and through. That’s what he told me, I said I believed him, I got the guy who owned the store to believe him, we got the cop to believe him.
“That was a lie. I knew it then.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“There were only two people in the world who spent more time with that kid than me: his mom and his dad. I knew him. I knew he lied. I just…knew. The way I’d know if it’d been one of my kids and he lied. I don’t know if he was looking to steal from the place, or he just thought it would be fun to break in and walk around because that’s how he was.”
“I think the word we used back at the chateau was ‘pixy–esque.’”
“Use a word like that back in the North Ward and they’ll kick the crap out of you. Anyway, Dominick didn’t know I knew. Still doesn’t. He pretended that’s what happened, I pretended to believe him, and it was kind of unsaid that, ‘Dominick, you’re only getting a pass this one time. Next time, I’m taking a belt to your fanny.’”
“Why we Continentals consider you Colonials barbarians is beyond me.”
“He’s lying now,” Harry said sadly.
“Ahhhh!” I said, experiencing a small epiphany. “That was what you meant back at the chateau when you said there was something still on the round–about in your head.”
“Bingo. The radio message.”
“What message?”
“When Dominick radioed to Joyce that he was pulling his men off the top of the hill,” Ricks put in.
I shook my head, puzzled. “I don’t, um…”
“It didn’t make any sense,” Harry said.
“I still don’t – ”
“Why bother to make the call?” Ricks said impatiently.
“Joyce said it during the trial,” I responded. “He suspected Porter was already dead, and that Dominick was trying to give the impression – ”
“These two weren’t strangers to each other, Dominick and Joyce,” Ricks cut in. “Dominick tells Joyce Porter has ordered them off the hill and then spins this yarn about, ‘Sorry, Major, the colonel’s in the shower the next hole over and can’t come to the phone.’ He had to know Joyce wasn’t going to swallow that, and he had to know Joyce was going to beef about a withdrawal. Why not just pull the men down and deal with Joyce later? He could’ve dished up some story about bad communications; as bad as they really were most of the time out there, that would hardly have been a stretch. ‘The colonel was dead, I couldn’t get through to battalion HQ, I had to act on my own.’ Under the circumstances, that would’ve been a hell of a hard story to shake apart.”
“You don’t think it makes sense he’d at least make the attempt to make Joyce think Porter was still giving the orders?” I ventured. “Or maybe not just Porter; maybe the other men as well?”
Harry sat up and I must say he looked quite disappointed in me. “You know, for a professional cynic you’re sounding awfully unskeptical.”
“An unaccustomed role, I admit.”
“Ok, Eddie, let’s try it,” Harry said. “But remember what came out when I had Joyce under cross? Dominick gets on the blower, he tells everybody, ‘Colonel Porter has ordered us off the hill.’ What does this buy him? It buys him only as long as it takes him to get from the top of the hill back to the trenchline because when Porter doesn’t show up, well, that’s that. Porter’s gone, that means command falls to Joyce and everybody up there who still has a working radio already knows because of that first damned message that Joyce wants them to stay on the hill. So where is Dominick ahead? What did his little make–believe in that radio message get him? Joyce didn’t believe him, I don’t think anybody really believed him.”
“Hell,” grunted Ricks, “I didn’t believe him.”
Harry, quietly: “Neither did I.”
“You just pretended to.”
Harry nodded guiltily.
I was beginning to understand. A little. But in the shadows of the stall I could see Harry brooding. He claimed it to be a mystery, but he did have some clue, some insight as to what might truly be about…and it gnawed at him. He caught my look, smiled apologetically. He was not hoarding his suspicion; I think he was afraid to hear it aloud from his own lips.
I turned to Peter Ricks. The captain had none of Harry’s inhibitions. “Maybe all he was after was those couple of minutes.”
“For what?”
Mindful of the straw all about, Ricks carefully and thoroughly stubbed out his fag on his boot before tossing it away and laying back down, pulling his several blankets about himself. “It didn’t matter if Dominick got people to think he had Porter’s blessing to do what he did. Joyce wasn’t buying it, and anybody on the hill worried about getting off alive wasn’t going to call him on it. Maybe Dominick just wanted them to believe Porter was still alive when he ma
de the call.”
*
I awoke still tired, groggy. My back ached from the floor, my leg from a day and a night in the cup of the prosthesis. Harry and Peter Ricks were nowhere to be seen. I stumbled my way down to the end of the barn where we’d found VanDerMeer the night before. There was only Lieutenant Dobie and the sergeant. Dobie lay sleeping close by the heater under a pile of blankets, shivering violently despite his face being agleam with sweat. The sergeant was kneeling by him, dabbing at Dobie’s forehead with a cloth.
“How is he?”
It was VanDerMeer, standing at my shoulder.
The sergeant shrugged.
“See how he does after he wakes up. Get some hot food in him. Make sure he eats something. If he’s not any better, get him back to Rott. I don’t care what he says this time. If you have to tie him to a stretcher and haul him out of here, you do it. Understand?”
The sergeant nodded.
I followed VanDerMeer back to the other end of the barn. A new group of faces were gathered about the heater: a buck sergeant, a BAR gunner, and five riflemen. The steel shells from two helmets had been filled with snow and set on the heater to melt and boil. Several of the men had put ration tins into one helmet to heat them. In the other, they dipped their canteen cups, then emptied their Nescafe packets into their cups and swirled it round to make coffee. Harry and Peter Ricks were there as well.
VanDerMeer introduced Harry and Ricks, then pointed to the sergeant. He was a small–eyed lad, with a large, hooked nose, not much of a chin, and a stooped posture all of which gave him something of a vulture–like appearance. “This is Sergeant Woolchuck, Colonel. It’s him and his squad you’ll be abusing today.”
“Sorry to put you out, Sergeant,” Harry said.
“So’m I,” said Woolchuck with absolutely no hint of humor, in a drawl I estimated to be from some part of the American West.
VanDerMeer mixed himself a cup of coffee. “Ok, here’s the deal,” he addressed the squad. “This is strictly a walk; no contact. We see so much as one kraut – ” and here he looked directly at Harry “ – and we’re on a rocket back here.”
“I’m all for that,” said one trooper.
“Damn, I wish they were all like that,” said another.
“Take a standard ammo load, bring one ration in case you get hungry. We’ll head out in ten minutes. That gives you time to finish this scrumptious breakfast and take your morning dump. Sarge, it’s your squad, your show, but I’m going along.”
While the soldiers ate, Woolchuck moved about the group with a roll of white gauze tape, tearing off two strips and laying them in a cross at the back of each man’s helmet. He came to Harry and Ricks.
“Lootenant says you know how this goes,” Woolchuck addressed Ricks, “but ah’m gonna give both y’all sirs the drill just so’s we’re t’gether on this. Once we’re on the road, y’all keep yer mouths shut. Y’all don’t say boo lessen I says so. Ya keep yase’f spaced out in the file, let the man in front git ahead until ya kin jus’ ‘bout see this tape. Whatever y’all do, don’t step outta the file. The krauts keep minin’ the road, the engineers clear ‘em, but they’s so many they just dump ‘em by the side a the road. Ya gotta take a leak, y’all wait ‘till we stop, or jus’ hang yer hose out ‘n’ do it on the march, but don’t step outta the file. ‘N’ if ya still manage to git yase’f lost, don’t try stumblin’ ‘round lookin’ for us. Jus’ sit tight. Nobody comes for you, once it gits light, follow the trail back to heah. Don’t try ta catch up; jus’ come back heah. Y’all heah a noise, sign’s ‘banana,’ countersign’s ‘cream.’ Y’all say ‘banana’ ‘n’ somebody says, “Seig hiel,’ or, ‘banana split,’ start blastin’. Somebody done fergit the sign ‘n’ gets it wrong, tha’s his fuck–up. Y’all got it? Colonel?”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
The door opened, there was a blast of icy air.
“Hey, Colonel, you’re getting’ the four–star treatment this trip!”
“Yeah, Colonel! Welcome to the infantry!”
I didn’t know what the soldiers meant until I followed them outside and felt the wet touch of snowflakes – invisible in the Huertgen night – on my face. I’d never seen a night so empty of any manner of light; like the bottom of a Welsh coal pit. No more than a few feet from me, the rank of soldiers was barely perceptible.
“I wish you’d reconsider this, Harry,” I said.
“You’re just jealous you’re not coming.” The jest abraded against the tension he couldn’t keep from his voice.
“Aye, yes, jealous. There’s nothing I like better than a pre–dawn jaunt through Paschendale with trees. I envy you your good fortune. For God’s sake, be careful out there.”
“I intend to.”
I turned to the shadow standing just aback of him. “Peter, do look after this poor Ahab. He’s bound to do himself some harm.”
“I’ll keep him out of trouble, Eddie.”
“It’s too late for that, laddie. Just get him back intact.”
I gave them each a clasp on the shoulder then, as I headed back toward the stable, I bumped into VanDerMeer and took the opportunity to thank him.
“For what?”
“I understand your reluctance in this matter, Lieutenant, which is why I all the more appreciate your going along to look after things.”
“Shove it, mister,” he said coldly. “I’m going along because if there’s any trouble, I want to make sure some of it happens to your pal the colonel.”
*
There is a difference between what one hears of a thing…and reality. Any journalist can tell you as much. No matter how well the thing is told, how craftily written, you will never know it the way you’ll know it when you’re there. That awareness must have swept over Harry as soon as the stable door closed, sealing the light of the kerosene lanterns away and leaving him in the cold, in the dark, with the other men in the file. He would have thought he’d heard enough, read enough about the Huertgen to be prepared. He would have thought wrongly.
In just the few moments I’d stood outside that stable it was clear the men of Love Company I’d interviewed in Wiltz had exaggerated nothing about their time in the forest. To stand in the Huertgen night was to stand in a boundless, frigid void. It gave me an idea of how disoriented Harry must have felt – but only an idea, a hint, a sketch – of how it must have been for him walking through the blackness, seeing nothing but a ghostly white cross hovering dimly just a few feet ahead, feeling nothing but the frozen ruts of the road beneath the snow, the soft licks of wet flakes falling unseen onto his face. There was little noise. If the war was on somewhere, it was distant enough, and muted by the walls of firs so none of it violated the solemn air over the trail. Harry could hear nothing but the sound of footfalls in the snow, an occasional huff of wind, sounds from the invisible forest on either side. His gloved fingers tensed about his carbine at each moan of a snow–laden bough swaying, the rasp of branches rubbing against one another, the muffled sound of a clump of snow slipping from one overburdened branch to another until it hit the ground with a soft thud.
As I waited for him back at the stable, VanDerMeer’s sergeant related to me what had, for me, become the familiar tropes of the Huertgen. Only he added this:
“You think of hell as all hot ‘n’ fires. I figger it’s cold. ‘N’ you don’t go to hell; you walk there. ‘N’ mister, you walk down the Kall Trail on a night like this, ‘n’ you’ll know what it’s like to walk to your place in hell.”
*
It did not take long for the cold to work on Harry. His fingertips – already aching from the nervous pressure with which he gripped his weapon – tingled painfully, and he could no longer feel the snow falling upon his cheeks, only knew it was still falling by the flakes that lit on his lashes. A dull pain began in his legs, partly from fatigue, but mostly from his feet twisting this way and that over a road that had been deeply mangled by heavy lorries and armor before the deepening winter had frozen i
ts wounds. And then there was another exhaustion, one of the mind, the one that naturally comes when you wonder if any sound you hear other than that of your own boot on the ground will be the last one you hear.
He did not know how long they walked – he could not pry his hands from his carbine to even glance at his watch – before he realized he could now make out the vaguest outlines of the helmet of the man before him, then his shoulders, then the band of open snow that marked the trail. Lastly, the crowded ranks of trees emerged from the dark, their snow–limned branches so thickly interlaced they looked to have trapped the night beneath them, for Harry could see only a few yards into the forest on either side before the ground lapsed quickly into shadow then solid black. This was what passed for dawn. There was no sun. The sky remained featureless and dull as slate; the snow continued to flutter down.
Along the side of the road, odd heaps – he thought, for some reason, of building stones. Then he remembered: these were the cleared mines he’d heard of, so many and replaced so often by German infiltration patrols there’d never been time to disarm them; just pile them to the side. He reminded himself: don’t step out of the file.
The trail began to slant downward into the gorge of the Kall River, and the snowy footing was sometimes slippery as the path often zigzagged sharply to cling to the steepening angle of the slope. The crisp, woodland air and evergreen scent was now cut with a foul, intrusive order, an unnatural, man–carried infection: the reek of burnt petrol, scorched metal, melted rubber.
On the downhill side of the trail, Harry could see a jumble of vehicles at the bottom of the gorge: jeeps, quarter–ton and deuce–and–a–half lorries, Weasels, ambulances, trailers, half–tracks, scout cars, tanks. Some were relatively intact, in as much as a tumble down the gorge could leave them so. They had either lost the road, or had become stalled or hung up and had been pushed over to clear the way. Others were victims of German artillery, laying twisted – the metal having offered no more resistance than taffy – and burned out.
