Shutzer and I go out the same way we went the first time with Gordon. About two hundred yards from the shack, Shutzer motions me to a fifty-yard interval so I can just see him through the trees. The whole thing is even more spooky than I thought it would be. I’ve been completely conditioned not to trust Germans. I imagine they don’t trust us much either; I don’t think they even respect us; at least, not as soldiers, probably not as anything. I’ve got to say I respect them, at least as soldiers. If there were as many of them as there are of us in this goofy war, I’d hate to think of how it would come out.
Shutzer drops to one knee and stops on the ridgeline where he can see down to the shack. I drop and wait. Then he gives me an OK sign with his thumb and finger, a soft motion forward. He starts slowly over the ridge with his rifle at ready. I move carefully up after him, my rifle ready too, the lock off. At least we learned something from that mad scrabble in the snow.
When I get to the top, sure enough there are two German soldiers standing in the lee of the shed. They look unarmed. One, probably a noncom, probably the one with the Schmeisser the other night, is talking to Shutzer.
Shutzer’s slung his M1 on his shoulder. I let myself down just at the turn of the ridge to stay out of sight. After three or four minutes, Shutzer comes trudging back uphill to me. He’s sweating the way he sweated in that bathroom back in town at Shelby when he was waiting his turn with the girl.
“Well, there they are. The main guy, the noncom, wants to talk with our officer in charge. Between my Yiddish and his German we can get most things across OK.”
“I don’t understand that lingo, Stan. Besides, I don’t have any stripes or anything. He’s never going to believe I’m an officer.”
“Maybe he’s just not happy talking with a Jew, especially about surrendering. Let me go back. I’ll tell him our officer in charge isn’t with us. There’s another guy, a younger one, and I don’t know why, but I think he understands some English. Unless they have side arms or rifles hidden on the other side of the shack, they look unarmed.”
“God, Shutzer! What should we do? Have they said anything about surrendering?”
“Nope. Only the business about wanting to talk to our commanding officer.”
We stand there a minute, thinking it out.
“Look, Won’t, you come down with me. We’ll tell them our officer is back in the château. I’ll translate whatever he says and you try to watch the other Kraut and see if he’s picking up on what we’re saying. You look goy enough; maybe he’ll come out with more if you’re there.”
So we go back down the hill, trying to saunter casually as if this were an everyday thing, talking to Germans. As we get closer, I see they aren’t the ones we saw at the lodge. These must be the ones who jumped us on the hill. The soldier leaning against the shed is smoking a hand-rolled cigarette in yellow paper.
We walk straight up to the one Shutzer’s been talking with. My God, he looks like a German soldier from a Hollywood hate-the-Nazis movie; only worn down, ragged-looking. He’s almost a foot taller than Shutzer with deep-sunken, pale gray eyes. His blond eyebrows are so thick they almost block his vision, he must see the world through a screen of hair. Maybe he combs them down over his eyes so we can’t fathom the devilish torture schemes he has in mind for us.
The skin on his face is tight against bone and there are deep wrinkles, long lines coming down the side of his face from the outside edges of his eyes almost like scars, deep runnels from the sides of his nose to the bottom of his chin. He could be any age from twenty-five to forty. When he opens his mouth, he has a wedge-shaped broken upper front tooth and one eyetooth missing. There’s something of an often beaten club fighter about him. He’s wearing the gray-green field uniform and even in this cold he isn’t wearing an overcoat or a helmet, only an overseas-type field cap, frayed, greasy and fitting tight to his head. I have the feeling he might be mostly bald.
He and Shutzer start talking. They have a hard time getting things across but work it out with hand movements and trying different words. The German has a tendency to repeat a word only louder when Shutzer doesn’t understand, but Shutzer plays it almost like a game of charades, searching for new ways to say what he wants. The Kraut’s pointing to his stripes and the insignia on his shoulder boards. I figure he’s still trying to get in touch with our officer.
Shutzer takes out two packs of four cigarettes, along with some of his inexhaustible matches, and passes them around. The soldier leaning against the shed leaves what must be their hidden cache of weaponry and comes over to take one. Shutzer lights all four cigarettes on one match, even with the wind blowing. We move close against the shack, out of the wind. The other German smiles at me and I smile back.
This one’s younger and his face is white, thin. His eyes are long, dark and wet along the bottom rims, almost as if he’s been crying, or is about to. Wilkins’s eyes are like that sometimes. Both Germans are wearing the usual black leather boots with thick soles and hobnails but these are soaking wet, cracked and worn.
We’re standing there and the first German begins a long speech. It goes on and on. He doesn’t raise his voice or even particularly look at us but goes through his speech as if he has it memorized. We’re almost finished the cigarettes before he shuts up. Shutzer’s been interrupting him at different times when he didn’t understand, so that slows things down, too. Shutzer turns to me.
“OK, I think I’ve got it. First, he wants to talk to our officer. He’s only told us the stuff he’s told me now so our officer will know he’s serious.
“These guys are tired of the war. They’ve been shipped across Germany from the Russian front, where they had the shit kicked out of them. He says the Krauts have started a big, new offensive here on the west, just south of this sector. They’re part of something like a battalion I and R outfit, and they’re all sure the war’s about over. They don’t want to be killed in the last days after getting through five years. He thinks their outfit is going to push off in a day or two and the whole bunch of them don’t want anything to do with it. They’re convinced even if they live through this attack, they’ll probably be sent back to the eastern front. They don’t want to be captured by Russians.”
“Did he actually say they want to surrender?”
“Not in so many words, but that seems to be the gist of it. He keeps wanting to talk with our commanding officer. I explained we only have a noncom like him with us. He says that’s good enough. There are seven of them all together.”
“What do you think, Stan?”
“Well, we can always go back to the squad and talk it over. I’ll tell him we’re checking with our commanding officer.”
“OK, you do that.”
The Germans are standing there during this. They’re on second cigarettes Shutzer gave them. The noncom takes a last deep drag, then grinds out his cigarette in the snow with the heel of his boot. Shutzer begins yakking away. I watch the other one; I still can’t tell anything. It doesn’t even sound like Shutzer talking when he spouts the Yiddish; it’s more singing, rolling sounds. In English, Shutzer talks in quick spurts, almost as if he can’t get his tongue to go fast as his mind. He comes back to me.
“OK, we’re on. I told him we’ll bring our commanding officer here the day after tomorrow at ten a.m. Wait a minute till I check that time again.”
Stan goes back and gabs a few more minutes.
“That’s right, ten o’clock, with our officer, right here, day after tomorrow. He wants it to be tomorrow but we’ve got to work this out.”
The Germans have already started back up the hill. I didn’t see from where, but they’ve picked up a Mauser and the Schmeisser. The younger one turns, waves, smiles as they go. Stan and I turn and go back the way we came.
“What’re we going to do for an officer, Stan; bring Ware out here?”
“Don’t be crazy. We’ve got the most perfect officer type in our own squad, better than the whole German Army can produce. They’ll come c
rawling in on their bellies when they meet our officer.”
“Miller?”
“Of course. Who else?”
When we get back, it’s just lucky Wilkins is on guard. I guess they had to wrestle him out of his attic. I call everybody together and Shutzer explains what’s been going on. Miller butts in.
“You mean you guys’ve been out there in the bushes talking with Germans?”
“Drinking beer, eating pretzels and dill pickles, out there under the old Tannenbaums. Yes, sir, Buddy boy.”
Mundy keeps shaking his head and smiling all through Shutzer’s spiel.
“You guys are crazy, but what a terrific chance. Imagine Wilkins with medals all over his chest. He can have a Silver Star for the top of his Christmas tree. Far as I’m concerned, he’s been overdue for a medal since he climbed over Hunt in the barracks that day. God rest his soul.”
“You mean Hunt’s soul, Mundy? Hunt didn’t have any soul. He was heel solid through.”
“OK, Shutzer, sorry I mentioned it. There’s no sense talking against the dead.”
Mundy blesses himself.
We push the idea around for ten or fifteen minutes. Everybody has wild fantasies about Wilkins capturing the prisoners. If we’re not careful, we’ll be writing a novel to include everything. We can call it All Cuckoo on the Western Front.
“And, Miller, you’ll be our commanding officer. There never was and there never is going to be an officer like you.”
“Fuzz that. You’re the one, Won’t. You get the extra pay, you be the officer.”
“Come on, Miller,” Shutzer butts in and saves me. “No Kraut’s ever going to believe a hundred-thirty-pound weakling like Won’t is an officer. Besides, he has brown eyes. You can’t have brown eyes and be an officer. You’re the only logical candidate.”
“How about Mundy; he’s big and tall, sort of soft like an officer. Besides, he’s older. I’m too young.”
“Damn it, Miller. You’re not young; you were born old, came into this world checking the doctor’s instruments, telling him how to hold the forceps.”
“Then what’s wrong with you, Gordon? You’re tall enough and you have that Buddha shit-eating smile all the time. You look like the natural leader type; besides, you have corporal stripes in your pocket. I saw them fall out once while you were unhooking grenades. Stop hiding your light under a bushel basket man; be proud, strut a little, maybe even get a swagger stick.”
“Listen, Miller. Those Germans have Jews like me worked out to the ‘J.’ They have pictures, maps, diagrams spread all over Germany: Jewish noses, Jewish lips, Jewish eyes, Jewish ways of talking, walking, spitting, combing hair, tying shoes. Any Kraut worth two cents would see through me in twenty seconds. No, you’re our only pure Aryan type. You’re elected commander-in-chief by acclamation.”
Miller finally succumbs. And do we ever do him up right. We put together the best, cleanest uniform from everything that will fit him, mostly Gordon’s stuff. We take Gordon’s sets of two stripes; then we tear off all our PFC stripes. We use Wilkins’s sewing kit to sew together a conglomerate of stripes, three up and three down, both arms; only all stripes, no rockers. There never was a rank such as we give Miller; he’s our “bastard sergeant minor.” Shutzer screws out a lens from the scope for Miller to wear as a monocle, but he can’t keep it in.
We empty all the crap from the field jacket pockets and tuck folds in back so he looks somewhat tailored. It’d be great having a pair of Love’s form-fitted shirts and pants. Even so, Miller looks more like an officer than Love ever could; when we’re finished, he’s damned impressive.
We have him strut around the room practicing jaw thrusting and general arrogance. Stan assures Miller he doesn’t need to say anything, just nod his head or shake it and act like an S.O.B.
Before Mother comes off post, we shuffle our clothes back and hide the field jacket with all the stripes. We’re excited about Wilkins being a hero. Mel keeps harping on the idea we should tell him, but by now we’re all so wound up with secret planning and wanting to surprise Mother, Mel can’t get anywhere.
That night passes fast. It’s a feeling of Christmas, hiding presents. When I’m not on guard, I sleep like a dead man and when I wake up, even manage a regular solid-type crap.
I’m beginning to feel better about things. Around ten, I make the call to regiment. This time, Ware’s waiting for me.
“How’re things out there, Knott? Over.”
“Quiet, sir. We took a two-man patrol down to that shack and did a brief recon tour but didn’t see anything. All quiet here, sir. Over.”
Gordon, Shutzer and Miller’re hanging over my shoulder. Only Father’s on guard and Mother’s upstairs. Gordon’s even put down his violin for the call. It probably wouldn’t sound so great to Ware, hearing violin music in the background.
“Well, things’re tough here. We’re packing to pull out. We’re not sure we aren’t completely cut off. There’s no intelligence coming in we can count on. We’re going to drive west with the third battalion as point. Nobody knows anything. We can’t locate the first battalion, and our first squad still isn’t back; must’ve run into something. Over.”
“The whole first squad not back, sir? Over.”
“That’s right. I’m telling you, Knott, things are rough. Fucking Krauts are pumped up. People here talk about divisions of tanks and infantry pouring through a twelve-mile break, moving up units from the south to close the gap. But we don’t know anything for sure; communications are all snafu. Germans dressed up in American uniforms with American jeeps are cutting phone lines, changing road signs, confusing troop movements. The best we have here is reports from isolated units. Over.”
“Did the first squad take the other 506? Over.”
“It’s out of commission. We’ve got the communications section working on it, but so far, no luck. Over.”
“Maybe they made contact with another outfit and just can’t get back, sir. Over.”
“It doesn’t matter. Love wants your squad to stay out there so we’ll have some idea if anything breaks. Keep your jeeps ready to run. But most of all, Love wants a prisoner. You go out to that hunting lodge and pick one off. If there’s an officer or a noncom, try to grab him. Since the first squad didn’t get back, we need some kind of intelligence and fast. Over.”
Right here, I don’t know whether to mention this big, new Christmas attack the Germans talked about. How would I explain knowing a thing like that? Also, the Germans could be lying.
“All right, sir. With so few of us, we’ll make it a night patrol; have to jump a guard or something. Over.”
“In any case, call in soon as you have one. We’ll either come out to get the fucker or you can bring him in with one of the jeeps. Over.”
“Wilco, sir. Over.”
“Over and out.”
“Over and out.”
For more than ten seconds nobody says anything. Then Miller puts his hands over his eyes.
“Holy mud! The whole first squad!”
Shutzer starts pacing, pounding his fist in his hand or against the side of his head.
“This lousy war’s never going to end!”
Gordon sits, then lies out on one of the mattresses. He stares up at the high ceiling.
“Think of it. Bergman and Kelly, Moser, Evans, Edwards; the whole squad. Maybe they’re only dogging it. With Love running amuck and Ware charging around in circles, maybe they figured it’d be best to find some calm corner of the world and hide. I’ll bet they’re tucked into holes tight up in a wood somewhere.”
Shutzer’s still stomping back and forth. Once he walks the entire length of the room away from the fireplace.
“What the hell’s going on? I thought this festering war was about finished; now it’s boiling up again!”
Gordon’s voice is calm.
“What’ll we do about the prisoner deal and Wilkins? Maybe we ought to call it off. You know, that idiot Love’s almost wiped out the entire I
and R platoon.”
I flop on a mattress. I’m scared. I didn’t like the sound in Ware’s voice; there was something desperate, the edge of panic. I try getting myself calmed down, stop the butterflies. I remind myself how Love was convinced we were surrounded and wanted to abandon Metz when all we had to do was gather in thousands of prisoners. You almost have to be a fuckup to get in S2 or G2; it’s where the tough-ass soldiers tuck the sissies. This could all be nothing.
But we might just be walking into some kind of convoluted trap. Maybe we should do the whole thing simple as possible: forget the Wilkins part and only take our prisoners. Love’d be happy as hell having seven prisoners to play with and we’d look like conquering heroes. He might even get off our backs for a while. Wilkins and Gordon could march the prisoners back while the rest of us stay out here to see what’s happening.
At two I’ll be on post again. I feel gritty, dirty. The flambeau smoke and smoke escaping from the chimney make my eyes sore, my throat rasping dry. The shits are holding off, but I have a pain on my left side like a stitch and all my innards feel twisted tight. I need some more of that deep, calm sleep. I wonder if it’s still snowing.
4
Throw Me a Why Not
I slip and slide down the hill. There’s a new wind, a wind from the east. Thin bits of snow are flying in the cold air but it could be only from the trees or blown up off the ground.
Mel’s on, waiting for me. It’s just getting dark. Next one will be two-man. I try to think up a new password. God, the whole business seems so ridiculous, like merit badge tests in the Boy Scouts. Sometimes I can’t force any sense into things; this gets to be a lifelong problem.
Gordon’s waiting; his rifle slung on his shoulder. Even he looks pooped.
“God, Wont, the outside of my foot where I had trench foot is killing me. It’s like somebody’s twisting a pipe reamer in there; then when I go in to the warmth, it hurts like hell.”
He’s walking in a circle stamping. I hadn’t thought how this cold weather must be for his bad feet. He starts uphill.