A Midnight Clear

  They put the buckets on the hooks and then each of them dunks a hand into the tub. Wilkins smiles at me.

  “Almost there. We’ve decided you get ‘firsts.’ You aren’t the rankiest but you do have rank on us. Besides it’s a Christmas present.”

  “Oh no, Vance. We pull straws the way we do for everything. No sucking ass around here.”

  God, it’s all so artificial, we’re trying to pretend nothing’s happened, that Mundy’s not there dead beside us, that Shutzer isn’t hurt, that the first squad isn’t missing, that the whole gruesome war isn’t going on out there.

  “Did you hear what Love said to me about a court-martial? What a shit.”

  “Fucking Love couldn’t wipe his own ass without an orderly. Forget it, Sarge.”

  Mother’s standing back admiring the tree he’s jammed in the corner beside the fireplace. It’s surprising how fast the smell goes through the room; there is something of Christmas, despite everything. I know I’m trying not to look over where Mundy is; I’m glad I covered his face. Mother turns the tree a quarter turn.

  “We need some decorations, Bud. Just those apples and potatoes with the paper stars aren’t enough.”

  “God, I hate to think of those poor shithead Krauts.”

  Miller turns toward me.

  “Don’t then, Won’t. For Chrissake, it’s over; we can’t go back.”

  With Mundy gone, we’re talking like rear-echelon barracks cowboys. Miller goes outside. Wilkins spreads one of our satin covers under the tree. Miller comes back, his helmet filled with ammo for the fifty caliber. They’re brass and the tips are painted different colors, red for tracer, black for AP. We pull cartridges from the belt and tie them onto our tree with bits of wire Miller’s hauled in from his magic jeep. The brass reflects flickering light from the fire. I’m still drifting.

  We call Mel in from post. I talk them into pulling straws using thin strips of K ration box. The Mundy plan is being carried through, not for a bath of medals but for a bath in a metal bathtub. I win, Gordon’s second, Wilkins third and poor Miller, engineer of the whole affair, last. That’s the way things seem to work out in this world. I can’t imagine how they ever maneuvered that damned tub downstairs but I’m sure it was another piece of Miller genius. He’s even found soap for us.

  In the tub, I actually do feel like Claudette Colbert. I’m rubbing warm, soapy water all over my body. Miller, Wilkins and Gordon are piling wood in the fire till it’s blazing; Mother must have lowered his standards. The whole room is light for the first time. I wash myself, leaving my filthy clothes on a mattress. We’ll wash clothes last. We’ve definitely turned off the war.

  Each of us takes a turn. We keep adding more hot water till it’s sloshing over the sides. It works out OK for Miller. His water’s got the most dirt but it has the most suds and there’s more of it. None of us wants to get back into stinking clothes so we wrap ourselves in quilts. It looks like a Roman party with all of us in golden togas. Boy, if Love could see this. All of us have washed our hair for the first time in months and we’ve rubbed ourselves down with the quilts. Wilkins is fitting his glasses back over his ears and staring at Mundy.

  “I feel rotten being clean, with poor Mundy there.”

  We’re all quiet. I’d been pushing the same idea out of my mind. Miller goes over to Mundy. Miller has one corner of his quilt looped over his shoulder and then tied somehow high under his armpits.

  “If we can only get the clothes off him.”

  He lifts Mundy’s arm. It’s stiff as a board, the whole body moves.

  “Come on, Won’t, give me a hand here.”

  So the four of us, in the blaze of the fire, shift and push Mundy around, slipping off his field jacket, unbuttoning, sliding down his shirt over his shoulders. Gordon unbuckles his pants while I unlace and pull off his boots and socks. He has holes in both socks, heel and toe.

  When we get him all undressed he looks white, like a statue, and stiff, so we can stand him up. We rock him on his stiff legs over to the tub, then struggle him up till he’s standing in the tub. I want to put more hot water in but Miller says it doesn’t make sense. We’ll save it for washing clothes. Gordon rips some strips from the bottom of his toga. Wilkins and I start sudsing Father while Miller and Gordon hold him up straight. There’s less blood than I expected; most of it’s caked on the shirt and field jacket. We wash his hair and get him generally scrubbed off. Vance reaches down into the water to clean his feet and between his toes.

  Mel goes back upstairs and brings down another quilt. We lift Mundy out and stretch him onto the quilt on his mattress. We dry him off and wrap the quilt tightly around him. Then we slide him into his fart sack. The army calls them mummy bags; this time it’s appropriate.

  Now somehow I feel better. I think we all do. It’s been like playing dolls where you carefully dress the doll in pajamas, and tuck a tiny blanket carefully all around the doll in the doll carriage.

  We pour four new buckets of water into the tub, then dump in our clothes, field jackets and all. We hand slosh them around for a while until Miller tells us to get out of the way. He pulls off his toga, jumps in the tub and starts jumping up and down, bare ass.

  “See, this is the way a washing machine works. You push the water under pressure through the cloth fibers.”

  He’s jumping up and down, stomping in the tub, flickering light and glintings from the burnish of the tub and the brass cartridges on the Christmas tree behind him; it looks like a primitive rite.

  We take turns, stomping in the water. We keep bailing out dirty water and adding new hot. I think we stomp around like that for more than an hour; our feet have never been so clean. If any Germans come in while this is going on, they’ll turn around and run fast as they can just to preserve their sanity.

  After we’ve got the clothes all washed, wrung out and hanging around the room, we go to sleep. I never would have believed I could sleep as deeply as I sleep then. And I think it’s the same for all of us. Bad as everything is, at least we’re going to be clean and ready for what comes.

  At seven-thirty, I wake and try calling regiment again. Nothing. If Ware hasn’t left a jeep to convoy us, we’re really up shit creek. Everybody’s still sleeping soundly.

  Quietly, I dig into the D ration box and cook some hash with chunks of cheese cut into it. I eat one of the fruit bars. It’s the first fruit bar I’ve tried in months. My stomach seems to have given up on me; it’s quiet and there’s no pain. I finish with a full canteen cup of coffee; pushing it all the way. Maybe not eating for so long has helped. The clothes are all pretty much dry; I pull mine on. They’re almost like new, only the bottoms of my sleeves and cuffs are damp.

  At eight I go up on post. I need to be alone, get some fresh air in my lungs. The inside, with the windows and doors closed, the smoke, the fire, the steaming clothes and Father in the middle, wears me thin.

  At about nine o’clock, it begins snowing again. I phone in, get Mother. Everything’s fine. The rest of them are awake. Mother’s cooking breakfast.

  “Wont, how’re we going to get Paul out of here when we take off?”

  “I don’t know, Vance. Put him in a jeep, I guess.”

  “He’s stiff as a board.”

  “Right.”

  “How about if we take one of the bedsprings up in the attic and tie it across the back of a jeep? We could strap him to that.”

  “Good idea.”

  I hate to think of it.

  “We really ought to do it soon, Wont. If we need to get out fast, we won’t have much time.”

  “OK, Vance, we’ll rig it when I come down.”

  I hang up. It looks as if it’s going to snow for a while. There’s a low fog and with the snow I can’t even see the château twenty yards in front of me. For some reason I’m beginning to feel scared again. I guess something in me is wanting to live.

  It’s about nine-thirty when I see someone coming through the thick snow. It’s Mother. He slides down
in the hole beside me.

  “Gosh, Wont. It’s crazy sitting out here. There’s nothing you can do; you can’t see anything.”

  “I know, Mother. I just have to be alone some.”

  “You want me to go back?”

  “No. Thanks for coming out.”

  We sit quiet. I light up a cigarette. Vance doesn’t smoke at all.

  “Mother, I asked Ware to put you in for a citation. I hope you don’t mind; I didn’t have time to ask.”

  “Gosh, Wont, Mundy or Shutzer should get it.”

  “No, Mother. You’re the one who saved our asses; the Germans had us pinned down.”

  I’m glad it’s snowing so hard. I’m not looking at Wilkins. I’m talking out into the floating snow. I didn’t realize how hard it would be lying to Mother. How does Gordon know these things?

  “Wont, I still can’t figure why Mundy ran out that way. It didn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe he panicked. It could only be that.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but it’s not really like Paul. I can see him forgetting to do something, or losing his rifle or sleeping with grenades, but this was different.”

  “Let’s not think about it, Vance. Love’ll probably try to horn in on the deal but I’m sure Ware will keep you in there. We’ll all swear on what happened.”

  “But I only shot twice. After Mundy went down, I didn’t shoot anymore. My glasses were fogged up from running and I still don’t know if I even hit anybody. I was shooting with my gloves on, too.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mother. Just stick to the story. You shot them all; that’s the way we’ll tell it. That’s what I told Ware. Maybe you can get pulled out of here if you get decorated. After all this mess Ware’s been talking about, they’ll be looking for heroes to build up morale. Ride along with it.”

  “I’m just about ready to try for an honest Section Eight, Wont. I hardly sleep anymore and when I do, it’s nightmares mixed up with Linda, the baby, Max and Jim. I think Jim was the first real man friend I ever had. He never laughed at me and he understood how I feel about things.

  “God, Wont, when you think about it, we don’t have a chance. Two-thirds of the squad’s gone now; I don’t see how any of us is going to make it.”

  I need to lie again. He’s saying what I’m thinking, but you can’t make it that way. I guess this is what sergeants are paid for, lying.

  “It’s not so bad, Vance. We’ve only had rotten luck. Maybe I can get Ware to work a deal for you; something like security guard with the motor pool or working in the kitchen. When the new replacements come in, we’ll figure something. With the citation and everything, I’ll bet I can arrange it with Ware.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  “Make you a bet, Mother. In six months, you’ll be back with Linda. She’ll be pregnant and all this will be something you’ll hardly remember.”

  “I doubt it. I’ll never forget.”

  “We forget everything, Vance. But I’ll bet a hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred dollars? Who has a hundred dollars?”

  “You can pay me off a bit at a time, starting New Year’s Day, 1946.”

  “OK, it’s a bet.”

  We shake hands in our gloves. I’m hoping to hell Ware will help out. The snow keeps getting thicker. There’s no sense staying out here in it anymore; talking with Mother has helped. We work our way back downhill. The new snow is wetter and slippery packed over the old.

  For ten years, from January 1, 1946, to January 1, 1956, I got Christmas cards from Vance with a new ten-dollar bill each time. No return address, not a word, no interest. Then I never heard from him again.

  At the chateau, Vance and I go up into the attic. We maneuver a single-bed spring down the two sets of steps, then outside. We choose our jeep without the fifty caliber and tie the spring on with more torn-up strips of satin. It’s the jeep with the missing chains now. When we go out, we’ll put this one in front so the jeep with chains can push if it gets stuck. In this snow it’s going to be one tough trip.

  “What do you think, Wont; should we tie Mundy up there now?”

  “Mother, I’d hate that.”

  “But he could start stinking and we might not have enough time to tie him on later.”

  “I just can’t, Vance. If he starts to stink, we’ll bring him out, OK? We’ll leave the strips here so we’ll have everything ready. We can tie them to the springs now so all we need do is slip them over Father and fasten them when the time comes.”

  “OK. I know what you mean; it’s hard thinking of Father out here in the cold, alone.”

  I’m asleep and it’s almost five in the morning when the barrage starts. Everybody’s running around, jamming on boots, grabbing up rifles, grenades. I try once more getting through to regiment. There’s absolutely nothing. I try different frequencies but it’s all blank.

  This is serious stuff going over: screaming meemies, eighty-eights and something bigger. But nothing’s landing in the forest; not near us, anyway. I get my boots laced and run to our post up on the hill. Miller’s there; I’ve already sent Gordon and Wilkins down by the bridge. I send Miller back to the radio; if anybody can get through, he’s the one. At least, maybe he can get a rise from some other outfit, tell them what’s happening here, find out what’s going on.

  It’s still snowing; the artillery sounds like fast freight trains going over us in the dull white, dark sky, a heavy displacement of air and a shrill diminishing whistle. There’s no light, nothing to see, only that sound; on our left, the sharp, distant muttering whomp of guns firing and now the muffled crump of shells landing to our right. There’s also the weird, sirenlike shrieking of rocket batteries going off. I have no idea what the range of those things is, but even if they’re aimed at Eisenhower, there are always “shorts.”

  After five minutes, I know this isn’t a casual barrage; troops will be moving through here. I phone to hustle Wilkins and Gordon back into the château. This looks like time for us to move out.

  When I get to the château, Miller’s still hanging over the radio, searching frequencies. I look at him but he shakes his head. I tell Gordon to pull wire and phones in from both posts. Wilkins and I carry Father on our shoulders. He’s stiff, hard, but still doesn’t smell. We tie him to the bedspring on back of our jeep. Then we go inside and pack the rest of our stuff, including whitening, camouflage suits, leftover wire; we throw it in back under Mundy. We stuff the fart sacks under there, too. We’re all scared and running around like hell but panic hasn’t struck yet.

  We’re just about loaded when the first mortar hits. The trouble with mortar is it hits before you hear it coming in. Then there’s another, then eighty-eight. There are three bursts. That eighty-eight seems almost like direct fire. These are no shorts; somebody sees us and is calling it in. We’re under observation.

  Gordon and I jump in our jeep with Mundy; the one without chains, without the fifty caliber. I’m driving. The motor turns right over and I hear Miller start behind me. There’s no time for fooling around. I roll over the edge and downhill toward the bridge. It’s going to be mean without chains; just going down that little hill I’m slipping all over the road. It’s dark as hell but the snow’s let up some. Mel looks back.

  “They’re with us OK, Wont. Most of the stuff is landing uphill behind the château, above the upper post.”

  I nod. I’m concentrating on driving and keeping my mind in control. I stay in low-low with four-wheel drive and start uphill on the other side of the bridge, up and away from the château. I’m just about keeping traction, and at the same time losing speed. I can hear the slap-slap of chains on Miller’s jeep. Mel’s looking back, half standing up on his seat to see over Mundy.

  “My God! They put one beside the bridge and blew the scarecrow to bits.”

  I hunch my shoulders a little tighter and peer over the hood. Miller’s already dropped both windshields because snow piles on them and hand wipers don’t keep ahead. So snow blows in my eyes unless
I keep them squinted. I can hardly see a thing through the dark and snow. Also, the damned jeep’s top-heavy with Mundy up high; the back wheels swing right or left with every rut. I’m not sure Miller can push us out if we get stuck on this hill.

  Then, suddenly, the barrage lets up. I’m crawling along at less than ten miles an hour. Mel stands on the seat and leans back over Mundy.

  “Holy Christ! Here they come! It’s a weapons carrier with an eighty-eight and a packed personnel carrier. They’re rolling past the bridge now! Jesus, there’s another one! The whole road’s swarming Krauts; some of them are running up to the château. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  Mel scrunches down, squatting, peering under Mundy now. I don’t look back. I need to concentrate or we’ll stall or slip. I want to get around the ridge and out of sight. I don’t think they can see us much through the snow, but they can hear us and there are tracks. If they come on after us, we’ve had it.

  I keep aiming on the road, using the angle-iron wire cutter we have welded to the bumper. The Germans were supposed to be using piano wire stretched across roads to cut off American heads, so our motor pool put these cutters on every jeep, like masts on sailing ships. Miller almost had a fistfight with the warrant officer about it. I don’t know if the Germans actually did such a thing or if those bits of angle iron would do any good, but right now it helps me aim. The only visual cue I have to go by is a slight opening of white ahead of me where the road winds through the woods. The pitch of the road has leveled off some and now we’re going along a cut in the mountain. There’s a steep drop on the right side; I hug the left as much as I can without going in the ditch.

  I keep telling myself if it’s really an attack they won’t veer off the main road to come chasing us. We only have to get out of sight and away.