Shutzer hands me the scope and cups his mouth to my ear.
“Just this side of the road.”
I adjust the scope to my eye. The tracks coming toward us, across the road, are fresh; there’s hardly any snow in them. But we can’t see where they go because they’re blocked by the curve of the hill. Stan leans near to me again.
“Let’s wiggle a little closer.”
He’s already moving before I say anything. I’m not exactly enthusiastic about being this intimate with Germans. In my opinion, four or five thousand miles is about the right distance. But I creep along behind Shutzer; me, the great leader, trying to keep up.
We move another twenty yards until we can see all the way downhill. Below us, less than seventy or eighty yards away, is a German soldier sitting on the edge of a hole. Shutzer brings up his rifle, sights, turns toward me, smiles. I shake my head. Shutzer leans.
“Don’t worry; I’m only enjoying the pleasure of a fucking Nazi in my sights; I could get a hard-on.”
My shakes are starting again. I brace my elbows down tight and scan with the scope. This one outpost seems to be all; at least the Germans are getting some sleep.
I concentrate on the ones cutting wood. With the scope, I can see they’re much older than we are; they look thirty or forty years old. Their uniforms are wrinkled and even dirtier than ours. One’s facing me and has his field hat pushed back. He looks like an older Max Lewis.
We can hear the sound of their saw and snatches of voices. We catch the smell of wood burning and something else. Then I know what it is; the one just below us is smoking. Gordon would’ve picked it up ten minutes ago; maybe he has. He might run down the hill past us, trying to stop this guy from smoking, save him from killing himself so he can kill us.
A soldier comes out of the lodge carrying something in his arms. I focus again. It’s wet clothes and he’s spreading them across a log fallen along the hill up from the flat space where the wood’s being cut. We watch five minutes but these four are all we see. The rest must be inside by the fire; most likely sleeping.
We slip down to Gordon again and backtrack a hundred yards or so. Mel can hardly believe us; it isn’t that often you get so close to the other guys without something happening.
We pull out the map and decide we’ll cut straight to the chateau, over the hills, instead of doglegging the way we came. It’s after three.
On the way back, my stomach gradually stops doing flip-flops. I know we could’ve killed those four guys and gotten away; that’s what war is all about, after all. I’m also sure they could’ve done the same thing to us last night. I know I’d have an awful time pulling a trigger on the one cutting wood who looked like Max. Lord, please let me get through this stupid business without disgracing myself too much!
We mope along at a ten-yard interval, rifles slung barrel down on our shoulders, not much like real soldiers on patrol. I’m in the lead this time, and Gordon’s bringing up the rear. After ten minutes, we stop again to check contours. We’re coming out of thick wood into a cleared area sloping to our right, with a ridge and wood up on our left; it fits the map. Far as I can tell, we’re still about a half mile from our château.
We start off again. We’ve just left the wood behind and are going across the clearing. I’m slipping the map inside my snow jumper along with the scope when I look up toward the ridge to our left.
There, at the edge of the forest, is a German soldier with his rifle to his shoulder, pointed straight at me!
I hit the ground so fast my face gets jammed in snow with my rifle caught under me! I slide downhill and roll. Everything’s happening fast but in thick, slow motion and fumbling. Now it’ll come: the impact, the pain, the blood.
I twist my rifle out, wiping snow from my eyes. Snow’s jammed in the rifle sight. My helmet pops off and skids, rolls, downhill. I push the lock off my rifle and try to aim. The German, now joined by two others, is flailing wildly with both arms in the air, waving; signaling!
It’s hopeless. We’ve had it. They’ve got us dead to rights; the war’s over!
I drop the rifle and put my hands on my head. I look around; Gordon and Shutzer are doing the same thing. Shutzer’s cursing out loud, slipping, crying.
“Fuck! Here we go! Dirty bastards!”
I’m watching the German. He brings down his arms, waves again, then turns his back, walks away from us into the forest and out of sight!
The others fade back with him, rifles at the ready. We’re still, all three, standing there in the middle of an open snowfield with our arms up or our hands on our heads. The army doesn’t give lessons on the proper form for surrendering. Gordon’s rifle’s dangling in the crook of his elbow. My face is wet from melting snow and sweat; maybe from tears, too. We’re a sorry sight, not exactly Congressional Medal winners.
I pick up my rifle and start tear-assing, slipping and sliding down that hill. I scoop up my helmet, but don’t put it on; then halfway I take a real header, belly-flopping at least ten yards, sliding into home plate. My helmet bounces away again. Gordon and Shutzer run past, then stop to wait. I pick up the rifle and helmet, run after them.
We don’t stop till we can duck down in the cut of the streambed, about two hundred yards from the bridge. I flop and try getting my breath back. Shutzer and Gordon are pressed against the bank. Mel looks at me.
“You all right, Wont?”
I nod. They’re both white, so white Shutzer’s whiskers stand out black. It’s then I notice I’m gummy between the legs. In all the excitement my plug gave out. Gordon points and squeezes his nose.
“Smells like those German gents up there stomped the livin’ somethin’ outen ya, Wont.”
Shutzer takes off his helmet, knocks snow from the netting.
“I sure thought you’d had it when you went down. You could get a job in cowboy movies with a pratfall like that. Tom Mix couldn’t do it better.”
Then, uncontrollably, we’re giggling, giggling on the edge of hysteria, giggling, laughing, snorting so it’s hard to breathe.
Finally we pull ourselves together; I begin feeling the cold. I realize I dropped the scope and map up there. Shutzer had a full clip spring from his rifle, too. Somehow, Gordon kept his stuff intact.
In a crouch, rifles at ready, we dash downstream, splashing, running back and forth on rocks, not running for any reason now except we’re deep scared and glad to be alive.
Nobody’s at the bridge but we pick out Miller on the upper post. We go on inside and Mundy’s stretched in his sack by the fire. He sits up when we come in.
“How’d it go? Find any Germans?”
Shutzer sits down and starts digging snow from the action of his MI. I’m trying to figure some way I can wash out my pants, then get them dry fast enough to go back on guard. I slip them off, underpants, too. It’s mostly fluid but stinks to hell. What the hell can I wipe with?
I rub and scrape with one of my K ration boxes. Then I tear off an ear from the D ration box and scrape some more. Shutzer and Gordon take off their wet boots. Gordon goes upstairs. Shutzer pushes his boots close to the fire.
“Found ’em all right, Mundy; then they found us. Krauts almost blew our heads off.”
“Didn’t hear anything here, nothing at all; and I was listening.”
“Nothing to hear, Mundy, very quiet war.”
Shutzer turns to me. I’m standing inspecting the inside crotch of my underpants. Below my field jacket, I’m wearing only wet boots.
“Damn it, Won’t, that pickle head took one hell of a chance just to prove his Goddamned, hot shit Aryan superiority.”
“I’ll say he did that. I think he was surprised as we were, Stan. There were three of them at least, you know.”
“I know, I know. And they had the jump all right, sneaking out of a wood, uphill, like that.”
Mundy’s looking back and forth as we talk.
“Come on, what happened?”
Shutzer bangs his rifle butt on the floor a few
times to shake snow off the webbing.
“Krauts jumped us, had us cold cock, Mundy, then didn’t shoot. That’s what happened.”
“How come?”
“This Nazi bastard waves at us like we’re a private parade for his amusement, then fades into the forest primeval. That’s how come!”
“But you guys should be dead. What’re you complaining about? I don’t get it.”
“Yeah. We’re happy. We’re happy. Hooray! Yippee! OK, Mundy. Make you feel better now?”
I know then none of us is going to admit we were ready to surrender. We talk about giving up a lot but mostly it’s only talk.
Gordon comes down from the john.
“Boy, I only just made it. I don’t think my heart and intestines will ever settle back to their proper places. Shutzer, you still taking it out on the nasty Germans?”
“Dirty Nazi Aryan super fuckers.”
I go outside to rub snow on my spots. I rub till the snow doesn’t come away brown. There’s nothing more I can think to do. I slip the underpants back on and fast slide into my ODs. It also can’t be too terrific for the shits having snow-cold underwear against my crotch. I back against the fireplace to warm myself, and maybe dry things out some. In five minutes I have to relieve Miller on top.
It’s only then I realize I haven’t seen Wilkins. I’ve been so busy, wiping up, I wasn’t looking for him.
“Hey, Mundy, where’s Mother?”
“Oh, he’s tromping around upstairs in the attic playing dolls with the furniture. He’s fine.”
I should’ve known.
The back of my pants are warm now, but as they get warm, I begin to stink. I peek outside; it’s snowing harder again. I grab my shelter half, helmet and rifle, then trudge up the hill.
Miller sees me coming and cuts across. He’s kicking clouds of snow and trying to ski-slide in his boots as he comes down. Pretty damned impressive changing of the guard, yes, sir.
“King Kong cold wind up there, Won’t, and you can’t see a damned thing. I couldn’t even make out the bridge. You’ll be better off down there at the other post. At least when they shoot you we’d have some warning.”
“You get such terrific ideas, Miller. You mean I’m supposed to be a sort of snowfield security early-warning alarm device.”
“Well, you know what I mean, and you’d be a hell of a lot warmer. Maybe we’d even hear you shoot them first. When you think about it, that’s what guard duty’s all about, isn’t it? You’re out there so the rest of us have a chance to hightail into the bushes. It’s your turn; lots of luck. How’d the patrol go?”
“OK. Only we almost got ourselves killed. Shutzer’ll tell you about it.”
I turn and face downhill.
“You’re right, Bud, I can’t see the bridge, not even from here. What’s the use?”
“How’d you like a few extra cigarettes? I snitched them from Gordon’s share before he could do his ‘sacrifice to the gods’ health ritual into that fire.”
“Thanks! But when he catches on, don’t tell him you gave any to me; I can’t face the wrath of the righteous just now.”
Miller and I start back on down together. He goes around behind the château to get more wood. There can’t be much left of that stable. Wilkins’d better get things categorized for order of burning. I can see an intrasquad war coming up: hots versus colds, or something like that.
I walk on down the road and slide in against the wall. Bud’s right; this is better than up on that hill. The wall blocks any wind and whenever I want, I can slump in a squat, lean my back against it, give my legs a rest. While I’m squatting like that, for sure, the only way they’ll know the Germans have arrived is the sound of a bullet tearing through my skull.
But two hours standing up in the snow on a cold day can break you down. I light one of Bud’s, or rather Mel’s, cigarettes. I only have six matches left; I’ll run out of matches before cigarettes. Bud has a lighter, a Zippo he traded something for. He might be the only soldier in the Ardennes Forest, either side, who can keep one of those lighters working.
If I were Miller and could handle all the poopshit little mechanical things in life the way he can, I’d be able to live a lot more comfortably with myself.
For me, just learning to dismantle and put back together my Mi, the carbine, the thirty-caliber machine gun and the BAR was pushing the limits of my mechanical ability. I never did qualify on the fifty caliber. I did OK on the range, but couldn’t reassemble the damned thing so it’d work without jamming.
I’ve watched Miller win bets tearing down those weapons blindfolded, getting them together faster than most people do with eyes open. It’s something special, like his being psychic and a poet.
Nothing, but nothing, seems hard for Miller; he’d probably be a general in the German Army by now. No, they’d most likely shoot him. With Bud, you never know. Any minute, he might just refuse to obey a direct order. He’s not contrary, only bullheaded; he won’t do anything when he’s convinced it’s the wrong way. I don’t think he’s much on ethics, moral correctness or anything; but he has some kind of personal aesthetic which involves being logical, doing things the right way. In fact, Bud could probably do almost any wrong thing so long as it was being done right. Maybe it comes from being a watchmaker’s son, but Shutzer’s not like that at all. I don’t know.
After ten minutes or so spinning like this, my cramps begin. I’m convinced it’s from being scared all the time. When we were running down that hill, my mouth was filled with a sour, bitter taste. I had to keep swallowing just to stop myself from puking.
Somebody’s coming down from the chateau. It’s Shutzer. He has his snow jumper on again. I lean against the wall and watch him work his way along the road. He’s lifting his feet high as he comes down, looking back at his own footsteps in the snow, like goose-stepping.
“Himmler’s tits, Shutzer, haven’t you had enough strolling around in this winter wonderland?”
“If it’s OK with you, Won’t, I’m going back to look for that scope and map, also my clip. We’ve definitely got to make out a Statement of Charges on the scope, so one of us should go check it out. Chances are they’re still there.”
“Hell, the scope’s my problem, Stan. I can always sneak out later and look around.”
“You’d never find it in the dark and this snow’s going to bury everything, anyway.”
“The hell with it.”
“But it’s OK if I go look?”
“I don’t get it, Stan. What’s the sense? Those guys could still be hanging around in the woods. They might even have a post up there.”
“No, I’m sure they were only patrolling.”
“Then they probably got anything we dropped. If it were a patrol, they’d come down to scrounge around after we ran.”
“Maybe; but I’d like to take a look anyway.”
“Rat’s claws, Shutzer! It’s just not that important.”
“Somebody should do it sooner or later. I’m willing to do it right now, so relax.”
I know I don’t want to do it. Stan’s not on for four more hours at least; now’s good a time as any. But there’s sure to be a bridge game going on, with me out here. Maybe that last deal cured Shutzer; maybe he’s looking for some excuse to duck playing.
“OK, Stan; but take it easy. No fooling around. No one-man avenging Jewish army against the forces of darkness and evil. Mundy’s our religious fanatic; remember that.”
“I’ll be back through here before you’re off, and don’t you shoot me.”
“If you’re not back by six-thirty, I’ll send Mundy to sprinkle some holy water over your remains, like urine. A little Extreme Unction couldn’t hurt either. We’ll do it all kosher.”
“Spoke, like in wheel, you, Won’t.”
Shutzer works his way down along the stream, same way we went out, under the bridge, then up over the road where our wall ends. Then he moves on to the other side of the road, and into the trees until I can’t
see him anymore. I light up my second cigarette, trying to breathe slowly and deeply at the same time. I’m painting the inside of my lungs black with soot, according to one of Gordon’s lectures. But sometimes I can stop the cramps that way. I don’t want to crap in the snow. It’d be much better if I can just hold out/in till I’m back inside.
I’m just beginning to get worried when Shutzer crosses the road farther down, at the turn in the road. I watch him as he comes toward me. He slides down off the road and joins me against the wall.
I’ve just phoned in and it’s all OK except they’re about to form a lynching party for Wilkins because of the last bridge deal. Mother’s upstairs and Miller suggests we lock him in and slip a little food under the door once in a while. But Father Mundy says we’ll all starve if Mother doesn’t cook.
“Find the stuff?”
“Just my clip.”
Stan takes out a cigarette and I give him one of those last matches. It isn’t often Shutzer smokes. It’s then I notice his forehead is dripping sweat, his hands shaking and his mittens soaked.
“They came down after we left, I guess, because there’s all kinds of tromping around. They took the scope and map; war souvenirs for the Fräuleins back home.”
“I’m definitely in for a Statement of Charges then. I hate making out those things. Normandin, the company clerk, acts as if I’m stealing the stuff to start a war surplus store when I get home.”
Shutzer pulls off his wet mittens. He’s the only one in the squad who has these new mittens with the index finger separate for firing a rifle; the rest of us still have old-style, wool-backed, leather-fronted, five-fingered gloves, designed to encourage frostbite. I’ve never seen anybody except officers and Shutzer with these new mittens. Shutzer wrings them out before shoving them in his pocket.
“Looks as if you really did a good hunt for that scope, Stan. OK if I use you as a witness to prove I didn’t hide it in my duffel bag or bury it somewhere?