A Midnight Clear

  “Wait a minute, Mel.”

  He comes back.

  “Tell the rest of them the pass for tonight is ‘jingle—bells.’”

  “OK, ‘jingle—bells.’ Did you call me back just for that?”

  “No. Mel, what do you think’s happening? I’m so confused I’m not thinking; I don’t want to think.”

  “Wont, this war’s such a mess it doesn’t pay thinking too much. Try relaxing. There’s nothing you can do except get killed, wounded, or drop out of it somehow. That’s all there is, worrying doesn’t help.”

  “But about Shutzer’s ‘solve the war’ plan. How’s that fit in with Ware wanting a prisoner and everybody going ape at headquarters?”

  “That can wait. But, no matter what, Wont, I still think we should tell Mother. He’s got to know.

  “Look, I’m freezing and my foot’s killing me; I’m going up. Don’t worry; relax.”

  I lean against the wall. It’s good to be alone for a while. So much is happening and I want to do the right things. I roll over all the possibilities. Somehow, my brain isn’t working. The cold has done something to me; the cold, the fear and the worrying. When I close down against the cold, my mind shrinks from thinking. It only wants to remember what it was to worry about geometry tests or track meets. It seems like ten thousand years ago; a huge rip has been made in my time band.

  On the half hour I phone in and mostly get Miller. We talk about what might’ve happened to the first squad. It’s impossible to think around; none of us can let ourselves believe anything bad’s happened. We’re all turning our minds off.

  I watch and listen to the dark come on. Melting things start freezing; you can hear it, a clicking, clinking sound. I try to figure out the date; maybe we’re on the up side now; every day will be a little longer. And how many days before we stop counting? We haven’t even been in combat half a year; think of those poor sad-assed Germans.

  Miller and Shutzer have the next guard; at least I think they do; the squad’s running itself as usual. They know more about what’s happening than I do and I don’t care much. The time passes; it’s totally dark. I’m cold.

  When Miller and Shutzer come down, I challenge with “jingle,” trying for some military semblance. Shutzer counters with “hell’s bells.” They come to the wall with me. Shutzer gets right into it.

  “What do you think, Won’t? Miller and I’ve been talking. We think the three of us should carry through, go out at ten tomorrow and set things up. At the very least we can get prisoners for Love. We could even just ask for one volunteer prisoner now, gather up the rest later; like jacks or pick-upsticks.”

  “How about Wilkins?”

  “There’s no sense worrying him more than we have to. He’s happy up there in his attic, pushing furniture around, fighting Miller or me when we go for wood. God, he makes me, Stanford Shutzer, feel like the ravaging Hun just because I want to burn an old bed or some broken-down chairs to keep warm. Why don’t we leave him alone? We don’t need anybody flipping out on us right now, anyway.”

  I look over at Miller. He’s already lit a cigarette. He’s staring down at his boots in the snow. He glances up; I have the feeling he’s with Shutzer. It’s OK by me; we aren’t breaking any particular laws I know of.

  “OK, Stan, we’re on. If you and Miller are for it, I am, too.”

  It’s raunchy going inside; our smells are filling the place. It’s hard to remember how I felt when we first walked into this room. The whole place is a mess. With Wilkins upstairs most of the time, nobody’s keeping things straight.

  There are open number ten cans and German sardine cans thrown around. Pieces of equipment and clothes are piled up on the mattresses or on the floor. I try not to look. I pick up some of my own stuff; stack my rifle and equipment by the door.

  I take two flambeau bottles out to the jeep and fill them. The outside might be cold but at least it’s clean and smells good. I’ll ask Miller to turn over our jeeps and check if they start; maybe we can stuff pillows around the batteries to keep them warm. No, that’s dumb. I inspect the jerry cans; we’ve actually only used less than half of one can, so we have plenty of gas. I can’t stop worrying. I breathe in the clean air but mostly only smell gasoline.

  Back in the room, I settle onto one of the mattresses. I close my eyes and try to make myself be somewhere else. I’m not cut out to be a noncom; that’s for sure. I don’t care about things enough to make other people do them. I have hardly enough energy to do things for myself. Both Max and Louis were always running around following up, seeing things were done and letting you know if they weren’t; Edwards the same way. Those guys were natural noncoms. God, I hope the first squad’s OK.

  Now it comes back again; sometimes I can’t shut it out, turn it off.

  Gordon and I were the first ones to reach Max. It was after we’d worked Morrie away and back to the medics. At first, we didn’t know anything was wrong; not serious, anyway. He was doubled up on his knees. We couldn’t see, except he had his hands locked in at the bottom of his gut with his rifle beside him. His helmet was on the ground in front of his face. He wasn’t screaming or even groaning. His eyes were squeezed tight.

  Mortar was still coming in, plus eighty-eight. Gordon and I are glued close against the ground, afraid to move.

  Max looks more like a football player who’s had the wind knocked out, or been kneed, than anything else. Gordon inches close to him. Lewis only shakes his head and doesn’t move. Suddenly, he jerks up, almost standing, then falls over on his side. The blood gives two or three stiff spurts all over Mel; then each pumping is slower till it runs in a thick stream.

  We fast pull his pants down and there it is, a piece of shrapnel, half the size of a Ping-Pong paddle, only curved, cut deep into his groin and halfway through his leg. He’s had it pinched in his fingers but couldn’t hold any longer.

  We try everything to stop the bleeding. We even tie his canteen against it with his belt, but nothing works.

  Max never says a word, only moans or cries. We can see the cut artery, like a piece of plastic tubing, but we can’t squeeze or hold it. Gordon tries giving wound tablets, only Max can’t swallow; he’s already a long way to being dead. I’m sure he’s gone before we get him back.

  Carrying him in, we see the other Louie, Corrollo. He’s not more than thirty yards away, but in a small depression, out of sight if you’re keeping low to the ground. Gordon sprints crouched over there and comes back green. After we get Max in, we go back out and get the other Louie. He has a jagged piece of cast metal wedged into the space between his open eyes.

  That was some recon patrol; it turned into a full-scale war. Love must’ve read the map upside down or inside out. I can’t even remember what we were supposed to be doing that morning, above a crossroad, on a slippery wet meadow with an old white cow munching muddy grass.

  I said I wouldn’t tell about that stupid day but there it is. I can’t trust myself.

  The phone rings and I’m still not asleep. Mundy picks it up.

  “No, this is Mundy. Yeah, OK, wait a minute.”

  Father pulls the battery box close and pushes the phone over to me.

  “It’s Shutzer; he wants you.”

  I work out of my fart sack and take the phone. Already my stomach’s tight; what in hell can it be now?

  “What’s up, Stan?”

  “Our German friends are here again. They’re down the road there by the scarecrow. Maybe they’re going to build us a snowman, a snowman with a cigarette in a long cigarette holder, a sitting-down snowman. Folks, we’re having the snowman war! FOO KROO SIF FELT!”

  “It’s too much; I give up, Stan.”

  “Hell no, you got it all wrong, Won’t. They’re the ones who are supposed to give up. Damn it, they don’t seem to care whether we see them or not; far as I can see, they’re not armed.”

  “Remember, Stan, how they hid the rifle and the Schmeisser. After all, these are ‘the enemy,’ your Nazi murderers.” r />
  “Yeah, I know. Wait a minute.”

  I hold the phone away from my mouth. Gordon’s up on one elbow and Mundy’s leaning his elbows on his knees, looking at me. I explain what’s happening. Wilkins is already pulling on his boots and webbing equipment. He’s looking scared again.

  “Relax, Mother, it’s only our local crazy Germans playing some new kind of game.”

  I hope I’m right. I wait.

  “Won’t?”

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  “It’s too dark to see exactly what they’re doing but there are at least five or six of them down here working like fury. They’ve got something big with them and it’s not a snowman. Could be a mortar! I think maybe you’d better have somebody man that upper post to cover us here.”

  Gordon’s out of his sack and dressing quickly. Mundy’s pulling on his boots.

  “Mel, you and Mother go up top. Stan claims there are five or six of them, and he can see they’re working on something, maybe setting up a mortar! ”

  Mother and Gordon grab their rifles and are out the door before Stan comes on again.

  “Won’t, Miller says they’ve definitely got something tall they’re putting up along the road.”

  “Stan, Gordon and Wilkins are on their way to the other post. Do you want me to come down there?”

  “No, I still don’t think it’s anything serious; it’s just so weird. We’ll hold on and let you know what we find out. Miller’s creeping along the wall to get closer.”

  He hangs up. I ring the upper post. It’s lucky we left that phone in place. I get Gordon.

  “What can you see, Mel?”

  “Can’t see much yet till our eyes get used to the dark, but it looks as if there’s a whole road crew down there working on the bridge. Mother here’s about ready to crap his pants.”

  “Can you see what they’re doing?”

  “Hell no! All we can see is there’s a bunch of them; it looks like almost a whole squad.

  “Wilkins wants to know if we should open fire if they make a move toward Shutzer and Miller.”

  “Put Mother on, will you?”

  The phone rattles, bangs against Wilkins’s helmet. His voice is a whisper.

  “Sarge! Our guys are in a bad spot! If those Germans want, they can rush over and wipe them right out!”

  “Don’t worry, Vance. They’ve both got grenades and I’m still in contact. Shutzer’s not worried, says the Germans aren’t even armed; in fact, he thinks they might be building a snowman to match his, claims we’re in the snowman war.”

  “I don’t get it, Wont. What the devil’s happening around here anyway?”

  Mother usually keeps the vow even under stress. Except for Father himself, I guess he’s the only one who really does.

  “Take it easy, Mother. Let me talk to Gordon again.”

  “Wont, I just saw a light. Somebody struck a match right out in the open and didn’t even hide it.

  “Wait a minute! There’s another light, and another. What the hell? There’re at least six lights burning now. Jesus, there’s another. Wait, hold on, here’s Wilkins again.”

  I’m anxious now to talk with the lower post. This is beginning to sound serious. But I listen to Wilkins.

  “It’s a Christmas tree! Those Germans are standing out there in the snow in the middle of the road lighting candles on a Christmas tree. I can’t believe it; what’s this all about?”

  “Christmas, I think, Mother. Hang up; let me talk to Miller and Shutzer.”

  I ring the other post. It’s Shutzer.

  “Can you see it up there, Won’t? It’s a fucking Christmas tree. These crazy Krauts have stuck a Christmas tree in the snow, smack in the middle of the road, and they’ve tied a bunch of candles to it. The candles are all lit and there are apples and potatoes hung on the branches. There are even stars cut out of cardboard.

  “Come on down! Wait a minute! Now one of them’s putting stuff on the snow next to the tree. It’s that noncom we were talking to yesterday. The rest of the Krauts are standing by the other side of the road with shit-eating smiles on their faces. My God, they’re a sad-sack-looking bunch; they make us look neat.

  “You’ve got to see this, Won’t, or you’ll never believe it.”

  “We’ll be right down. Don’t take any chances. Don’t shoot us.”

  I hang up. Mundy’s standing with his boots on, finally. He slings his rifle.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening down there?”

  I realize Mundy’s the only one who doesn’t know what’s happening. You can’t hear the phone unless you have the receiver against your ear; it isn’t like the 506.

  “Our German buddies have brought us a Christmas tree, Father, and we’re all going out to sing carols and maybe celebrate midnight mass for you. Come on, let’s get going.”

  I swing a bandolier around my head and pick up my rifle. I consider stationing myself behind the fifty caliber in the jeep to keep everything in control, but it doesn’t seem right. I guess I’ll never make it as the big bad killer.

  I’m down with Stan and Bud before I realize Mundy isn’t with me. Maybe it’s just as well; we need somebody on the phone. Those guys up top will be cut off otherwise. I should’ve thought of it.

  They don’t challenge me when I come up, just turn their heads and motion me on. The light from the candles is strong enough so I can see them easily. I can also see the Germans lined beside the tree. We could probably all get courtmartialed for something like this, consorting with the enemy.

  Later, after the war, they used the term “fraternizing” to condemn any uncalled-for familiarity with the Germans. Most of it was with women and they threw the book at some soldiers for it. Fraternizing always seemed the wrong word; it didn’t have much to do with “brothering.” I’ve always felt consorting was more what was going on. We were sure consorting with the enemy that night.

  Miller, Shutzer and I walk to the edge of the bridge. We’re down in a gulley, so the base of the tree is at eye level. We have our rifles over our shoulders and I even forgot to bring a grenade.

  Then they do it. They begin; slowly, first, only one or two voices, then all together, they sing a Christmas carol. It’s in German but I know the song. They’re singing “O Tannenbaum”; it’s the same as “O Christmas Tree.” The Germans stop singing and it’s quiet; the candles keep burning. Then they start again. This time it’s “Adeste Fideles.” Miller leans close to me.

  “Those are Christmas presents under the tree. See? There’s a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and what looks like one of Corrollo’s sausages.”

  When they finish singing this time, the noncom steps into the center of the road beside the tree. He picks up the wine and bread, holding them out toward us. I don’t know what to do. I can’t get myself to vault up and stand there on the road with everybody watching me take presents from a German. He’s there alone, arms spread, looking into the darkness, searching for us.

  Just then, Father Mundy comes loping down the road, singing “Adeste Fideles” at the top of his lungs. He has things in his hands and other stuff tucked under his arm. He forgot his rifle. He goes straight to the German and hands him our last bottle of wine; at the same time, he takes the loaf of bread. Then he gives him another bunch of little packages and takes their bottle. The German leans down and picks up his sausage from under the tree. He gives this to Mundy, too. All the time they’re chattering away at each other, smiling.

  Then, suddenly, the German reaches inside his uniform jacket and pulls out a Luger! I start trying to unsling my rifle but it’s too late. The German passes the Luger to Father, handle first, or, I mean, he tries to pass it. Mundy’s pushing it away! I pick up a loud “No, sir! ”

  Is the Kraut speaking English or has Mundy been holding out on us all this time and is fluent in German; maybe he speaks Yiddish, too, an Irish Jew infiltrating the Catholic church. No, that’s too much.

  Now Mundy unhooks one of the grenades from his fiel
d jacket pocket. Sometimes he even forgets to take them off when he sleeps; as I said, Mundy doesn’t care enough. He passes that Goddamned grenade to the German. The German turns around and hangs it on the Christmas tree. The branch bends to the ground. He and Mundy are laughing.

  The other Germans don’t move while all this is going on. Then they break out with “Silent Night” in German. Miller, Mundy and I sing in English.

  After that, Mundy shakes hands with the German and jumps over the wall back down with us. The German joins his mob on the other side; we’re all still singing. We need Judy Garland in a pink frilly dress, or Sonja Henie to come skating along the creek. I hear singing behind us and it’s Gordon. I figure Mother Wilkins is still up there on the hill keeping us covered. There wasn’t anybody on the phone, after all, so he has no idea what’s happening, but he must hear us singing.

  The candles on the tree have started sputtering. There’s a fair wind and they burn fast; a few have even blown out. I’m watching the candles and I’m lost somewhere deep inside my mind. I don’t see any signal, but the Germans slowly back into the forest, trudge up the hill and away.

  There are only a few candles left lit. We turn, then walk back uphill to the château. Miller and Shutzer still have another half hour to go. We don’t say much; speechless is the word, I guess.

  When we get inside, Mundy spreads the German presents on one of the mattresses. Gordon parks his rifle and sits on another mattress. I didn’t realize how nervous I was but now I’m shaking. I can’t seem to absorb these things the way the others do. Probably the imaginative-creative type isn’t cut out for playing war, or maybe I’m only a garden variety coward.

  I’m glad to be inside and I still have over two hours before I go out again. I take a deep breath. I wish Gordon were out on post; I’d take a smoke right now. Gordon’s pulling his boots off.