A Midnight Clear

  “Hey, Won’t! What’s going on?”

  “I don’t exactly know, Stan; maybe we have a zombie or there could be a looney bin near here for totally bonkered-out German ex-soldiers and some of them escaped. The noise you just heard was me throwing a grenade.”

  Across the road they’re still yelling, now in unison like cheerleaders at a pep rally.

  “FOO KEET LUUR!” “FOO KEET LUUR!”

  I hold the phone receiver up over the edge of our wall, then bring it down again.

  “Can you hear that, Stan?”

  “Hell, yes, we can hear it without the phone. What’re they yelling about this time?”

  “You won’t believe it, Stan. I think they’re yelling Tuck Hitler, FUCK HITLER’ the way your grandmother would say it; that is, if she’d ever say such a thing.”

  “Bull toads!”

  “Serious, Stan. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Want us to come tearing down, San Juan Hill, Charge of the Light Brigade, anything like that?”

  “I don’t think it would do any good. So far, except for the yelling, nothing’s happened. There’s just this crazy guy standing out there on the road pretending grenades don’t hurt. Maybe somebody should bring down a few straitjackets. If we can’t put them on the Germans, we can use them ourselves. This is all insane!”

  Then it happens; a grenade comes sailing over the wall and lands near Mundy. I drop the phone and hit the ground. Then I see it isn’t a grenade at all; this is a snowball with a stick pushed into it. I work myself into a sitting position against the wall, unscramble phone wires.

  “Stan, this is too much. Honest to Christ, now they’re throwing snowballs.”

  I look over at Mundy; he isn’t listening; he’s picked up the fake grenade. He pulls out the stick, packs the snowball more tightly, tosses it back over the wall and across the road.

  “Wait a couple minutes, Stan. I’ll call back. If there’s a lot of combat-type noise, have Miller rev up our jeeps and get the hell out of here!”

  Of course, you’d know it, a few seconds later more snowballs come flying over the wall, this time without sticks. Mundy’s taught the Germans how to make honest-to-God American snowballs without handles. Every time they throw one, we get the FOO KIT LUR yell.

  Mundy’s busy picking up snowballs, packing and throwing them back. I even throw a few myself. We can’t see the Germans and I’m not about to stick up my head higher than our wall. I stay crouched and sling most of the snowballs underhand. But Mundy’s standing straight up, zinging them across the road and into the woods. Theirs are lobbed to drop in on us. I’ve got to say there’s nothing much of hurting anybody with these snowballs. I scrunch down by the phone again and crank.

  “Shutzer?”

  “Yeah, Won’t! We’re all set. Just give the word. Miller will roll on down in the jeep with Gordon behind the fifty. The rest will close in behind.”

  “Well, we’re having a Goddamned snowball fight.”

  “What?”

  “Stan, you don’t think maybe the war’s over and nobody’s telling us? I just finished talking to Ware and he sounded peculiar. They wouldn’t do that to us, would they; end the war and keep it to themselves?”

  “You’re sure you’re OK down there? Mel snuck halfway downhill and along the ridge. He says it looks as if somebody’s put up a scarecrow in a Kraut uniform near the bridge. He couldn’t be sure but that’s what it looks like.”

  “A scarecrow! Damn it, Shutzer, you started all this FOO KIT LUR shit; now it’s snowballs and scarecrows. Why don’t you take over this whole sump hole of a war, just send the rest of us home?”

  I hang up, then stand straight to take a good look. To be honest, at this point the only thing I’m afraid of is being hit in the face by a snowball.

  Sure enough, it’s a scarecrow. What we thought was a rifle is a stick with a piece of paper flapping on the end. From the corner of my eye I catch a movement and somebody steps onto the road from the forest. He waves both arms. He’s far enough away so in the dark I can’t make out his face, but it isn’t the one who looks like Max; that much I can tell. He’s smiling and has a Schmeisser slung upside down over his left arm.

  “Schlaf gut, ami!”

  He waves again and slowly steps back into the forest.

  “Slaff good, Kraut.”

  It’s Mundy standing beside me waving both arms, an Irish windmill. We hear them crashing through the brush uphill on the other side.

  My insides begin unwinding. I stoop, pick up the phone and crank it. I stand leaning against that wall and jam the phone box between my elbows. I’m perspiration-soaked from the top of my head down into my boots. It could be from the snowball throwing but I think it’s pure fear. All my clothes are saturated with fear sweat, so it’ll just dry and that’s that. We all smell the same; there’s no use washing. I get Shutzer again.

  “What’s up now, Won’t? You two started building snow castles yet? German misplaced castles on the Rhine?”

  “Don’t rile me, Stan; this is your war. I’m only reporting it, right? We said good night, politely as sugar pie. You can go beddy-bye now; it’s been settled. You know, we might just end this war ourselves, privately, out here in our forest. We’ll all move into the château together and defend it against the crazies who like wars. Maybe declare ourselves neutrals.”

  “You’re sure you’re OK there? Gordon’s been applying his instinctive, humanist mind. It, combined with Miller’s analytic approach, can be deadly on unsolved problems; but nobody’s come up with any answers that make sense. The bad news is neither of them thinks the war’s over. Maybe we need some of your creative, gooey thinking on this project.”

  “I’ll work on it, Stan.”

  “Yeah, and Foo Kit Lur.”

  After maybe ten minutes more, with the two of us staring into the dark, hoping not to see anything, I decide to slip along the streambed, creep up on the scarecrow.

  All the way I’m watching for mines. I work my way along until I’m beside it. They’ve made their own version of Adolf Hitler. That’s what all the hollering was about. This scarecrow is decked out in a beat-up uniform. The head is made from a good-sized snowball with pinecones and pine needles arranged the way Shutzer said he did it on his. It could even be the same head. On the end of a stick tied to the arms is our map. At the foot of the scarecrow is our scope.

  I scramble up onto the road and signal back to Mundy. He sees me and waves. The fool doesn’t even have his rifle covering me. I pull our map off the stick and pick up the scope. Then I dash back along the road and jump over the wall. I grab Mundy’s wrist and look at his watch; it’s time for the eleven-thirty call-in. This time I get Gordon.

  “Mel, tell Shutzer we got the scope and map back; we can forget the Statement of Charges.”

  “He’s taking a crap. What’d they do; trot up and offer them as Christmas presents, gift wrapped?”

  “They were out there with the scarecrow. By the way, the scarecrow is another Shutzer special, a German version of the great leader. What do you think’s going on, Mel? I can’t figure it.”

  “I admit I’ve given up on any idea the war’s over, or is even about to be, but that’s what I keep wishing.”

  “Wouldn’t it make a great Christmas present? OK this is it, folks. Noel, No Hell, go home! I’ve got to say this is one creepy place to spend Christmas.”

  “Looks real goyish to me, Wont. Here you’ve got the whole thing: Christmas trees by the thousands, snow, pinecones, fireplace, the works. What else could you want?”

  “How about a small-size, dried-up Douglas fir nailed to the living-room floor, with artificial icicles and tinsel, a sheet underneath for snow, trains running around the tree and some colored lights with a few shiny, colored Christmas balls?”

  “All very commercial, no real Christmas spirit there. What’s the opinion of our spiritual adviser, Father Mundy himself? This will probably be the first time he’s missed midnight mass on Christmas Eve
. Do you think we could fly him out, sir?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll work out something for Mundy myself. I remember all the Latin, both give and take. I’ll do a midnight mass with a canteen cup of that wine and a few K ration dog biscuits. It’s the spirit counts; isn’t that right, Mundy?”

  Mundy smiles and shakes his head; the letdown’s set in.

  I hang up and wait for the next half hour to crawl by. Father and I work around a semi-conversation about the best Christmases we can remember. He tells how he believed in Santa Claus till he was twelve years old; used to fight kids in school proving it. I feel sorry about what I said when we were discussing faith; I didn’t know how close I was. This kind of insensitive accidental cruelty is something I wish I could outgrow.

  At midnight we see Wilkins and Shutzer coming. Mundy stands up, stretches and yells, “Merrrry Christmas!”

  Mother is scrunched up inside his pieces of blanket. He looks at Mundy.

  “Come on, it can’t be Christmas yet, Paul. Don’t tell me that.”

  Mundy bangs his split gloves together and stamps his feet.

  “Can’t be long, Vance.”

  He pulls back his field jacket sleeve, glances at his watch.

  “Give or take a week or so.”

  Shutzer leans his Mi against the wall. He looks wiped out; he should be, after all the cockeyed stomping around and playing in the snow.

  “Let’s not rush the season, huh, Mundy?”

  Wilkins has moisture dripping from the end of his nose. His eyes are watering and he’s blowing on his gloved hands. I wonder if he’s going to make it through two hours. Shutzer will keep an eye out and if Mother can’t do it, one of us can come down. Mother seems so frail, almost invisible out here in the dark and cold. Stan stamps his feet.

  “Buttered udders but it’s cold. You guys get on up there where it’s warm. If we throw any grenades, we’ll probably only be keeping ourselves warm.”

  There’s no snow falling now and the moon’s lowered close to the tips of pine trees. The damned wind is gusting again, making whirls of loose snow. Mundy and I tromp uphill. I’m not having cramps and I’m hoping I’ll get in some sleep.

  Miller and Gordon have hot coffee ready, along with soup Mother cooked up. I sip the soup, feel it glow inside and gradually bring me back to life. Soup will most likely go straight on through, but it’s worth it. Wilkins’s used our leftovers from the hash and beans; also, I taste something of sardines. It sounds like a weird combination but tastes good after two hours in the snow.

  Miller wants to know all about the snowball fight. I let Mundy tell it; I’m slowly collapsing.

  “You mean they were lobbing snowballs in on you for no reason at all?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re sure, Mundy? You guys aren’t making this up?”

  “Honest to God, Bud, cross my heart.”

  Mundy actually crosses his heart. Not only that, but Miller doesn’t laugh.

  I slip off my boots and slide carefully into my fart sack, head away from the fire. My feet are numb and starting to tingle. All I want is blank sleep for three or four hours. This craziness is wearing me down more than some kind of actual firefight. My mind’s a jumble, my nerves shot. I always have trouble dealing with something I don’t understand.

  I listen to Miller, Gordon and Mundy talking. The last thing I remember is Father putting more wood on the fire. I can’t even get excited about what we’re burning. I know it doesn’t look like something from a stable. I’ve gotten to the point where there’s no resistance left.

  The next thing I know, Shutzer’s shaking me awake. It’s six o‘clock in the morning. I’ve slept six solid hours. Somebody covered for me on the four o’clock guard. My first thought is it has to be Mundy bucking for martyrdom, but it turns out to be Mother. I’m worried about him making it and he’s doubling up to cover for me. I wonder if my shaky condition is visible to the whole squad.

  Shutzer and I are on the next two hours. I’ve lost all track. I don’t know when Shutzer was last out but he looks fresh enough. We gather grenades, bandoliers and MIS, start down the hill. It’s still pitch dark and the temperature seems to have dropped. It’s so cold now there’s not much chance of snow.

  There’s a feeling in the air of mornings when we’d trudge off to early Christmas mass. We’d sneak down past the Christmas tree without looking, smelling the pine and peeking squint-eyed, just enough to see the tree lit, but saving everything until we came back. This morning has that same feeling of morning about to happen. There’s nothing you can put your finger on, only a sensation of anticipation and imminence. Mel’s probably right; this is as close to Christmas we could ever find in the middle of a war.

  One year I got a two-wheeled bicycle, a new one from Sears Roebuck, with balloon tires and the most glowing red paint and shining chrome that’s ever been put on any machine. That year it was snowing, too, and after mass I rolled the bike down the snow-packed steps of the porch. I rode that bike along the still, dark street between row houses in the falling snow. I’d never ridden a two-wheeler before but managed to get it rolling through sheer exuberance. Then I couldn’t stop; the bike had coaster brakes and I had no idea how to use them. Dad came out in the snow and stood in front of me so I rode between his legs while he grabbed the handlebars and held me.

  “Won’t, would you let me look at that map? Do you have it with you?”

  I reach inside my field jacket and pull it out.

  It was wet from the snow but is almost dry now after six hours against my chest inside the fart sack, beside the fire. I’m too tired to even wonder what Stan wants with a map on a guard post.

  Stan ducks down against the wall and lights some matches. What can he be looking for? We know where we are, more or less. He stands up, his eyes wild.

  “See, Won’t! It’s just as I thought! I’ve been thinking about all the crazy things that’ve been going on ever since the walking dead, and only one answer makes sense!”

  He ducks down and lights another match. I get down with him. Shutzer points at some markings on the map. They’re in dark pencil; it looks like a 4B or even softer. It’s thick writing, which I guess is German. There are about four lines, and they’re on the back. Shutzer lights another match. He runs his fingers along the words.

  “OK, this first part is easy. It asks if any of us speak German. That’s no trouble. But then there’s something more; it looks like a number and a word. It’s either SANDKARTE or LANDKARTE. The fucking Krauts write such pointed letters.”

  The match goes out again. I look around to see if there might be some German standing around who can help us decipher. Shutzer has another match lit. Maybe I’ll ask him if he’ll lend me a few; he seems to have boxes in every pocket. Shutzer’s turning the map over. He lights another match and runs it across the surface. He stops and puts his face close to the map just as this match goes out. He stands and looks at me.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. There’s an X marked beside the shack down on the stream and the number twelve hundred. I’ll be damned.”

  “You think maybe they’ve buried some treasure there and we’re going to play treasure hunt? What’s it all about this time, Stan? Why don’t we just pull out of here and let these crazy characters have the forest to themselves?”

  “Shit no, Won’t. I think at least one of those Krauts wants to surrender, maybe the whole pack.”

  “Aw, come off it, Stan! Things are bad enough.”

  “Listen! Let’s start at the beginning. First there’s the frozen soldier Wilkins shot down. Just suppose that soldier was like this scarecrow here with a piece of paper stuck on the end of his rifle like a surrender flag. Remember, there was a piece of paper on the ground beside that corpse.”

  “Look, Shutzer. I’m the creative-imaginative type around here. You’re our businessman. I’ll write the stories and draw the pictures.”

  “Remember, Won’t; I’m a sculptor now. I’ve even started a sort of fa
shion here in this forest with the Krauts imitating my masterpiece. But if I’m right, then those two soldier stiffs hooked together, dancing—an American and a Kraut—were a message, too, telling us they want us to get together. Crude, I admit, but then remember the kind of minds we’re dealing with. Pushing corpses around for these fuckers is as ordinary as playing dolls for little kids.”

  “OK, I’m listening.”

  “So then they come around with the ‘Schlaf gut’ bit the first night to let us know they know we’re here and they’re not too mad about it, right?”

  “Very good, Stan. And when does the woodsman come through and save Snow White from having her heart eaten out by the big bad wolf?”

  “No, I’m serious. Listen! Think of some other reason why they didn’t mow us down or at least take us prisoner on the side of that hill? Hell, they’re still telling us they want to make a deal. Don’t you get it?”

  I’m beginning to. Shutzer’s right; it’s the one answer that makes everything else fit.

  “Then, Stan, all this FOO KIT LUR crap is part of the same bullshit; they built that thing up on the road to show us they’re agreeing with your lovely message out there on the side of the hill.”

  “Right. It all fits. Now, if I’m right, they want us to come meet them by that shack or shed we checked out today. Look!”

  He scrunches again and I get down with him. He lights another match. There must be over fifty matches still left in that one box alone. I don’t remember if there are matches in D rations. Maybe that’s where he got them.

  “See. It’s right here. There’s the X and the number twelve hundred. What else could it mean?”

  The match goes out and we stand up again. There’s the beginning of some light starting in the sky.

  “Crushed mush, Stan. It could be a trap. I must admit I’m not a big truster of Germans.”

  “Now you’re cutting in on my territory, Won’t. I’ll leave the creative business to you but I’m the Kraut hater around here. Don’t forget that. Still, if we can pick off this bunch it wouldn’t be such a bad idea either.”