Once an Eagle

by Anton Myrer

“Do as I say!—do you hear?”

  “No, Sarge. I—”

  Hands plucked at him, yanked him to his feet. He stood there swaying, his teeth chattering uncontrollably, started to mouth a protest—heard Damon’s rifle right beside him, an absurdly loud crashing roar that half-deafened him, and saw the bright cone of flame from the muzzle. The shot released him. There was a scream and then a chorus of shouts, but he paid no attention to them now: he was running with all his might through the wheat, racing toward the woods with a speed he didn’t know he possessed. He flew over the ground, ran right past Damon, who was singing for air. Tracers burned out into the night sky like red-hot wires, crisscrossing. Someone howled with pain, and a deep voice roared: “—Unterlassen Sie das, Ihr verrückten Bastarden!”

  “Crazy bastards,” he breathed. Running toward the dense mass of the woods under the seesawing tracers he was invaded by a wild, teeth-clenched mood of hilarity. Something droned past his right ear, like the plucking of a taut string, and he gasped in glee. Then he was in the woods, and an absolute dark washed over him. He leaned against a tree trunk, his mouth so dry it hurt him, his head pounding as though it would burst. But now he was safe.

  Damon’s hand shook him. The big man could hardly speak. “Now. We move—out. Follow me.”

  “But which—way?” he panted.

  “Tree to tree. Pick one out and move to it. Then another.”

  “I can’t see …”

  “Like cowboys—and Indians. All right?”

  Like cowboys and Indians. He started to giggle, choked it off. If Mother could see me, he thought. Here. Now. In these woods. Then fear of losing Damon absorbed him, right to his fingers and toes. He could see nothing, groped warily ahead until his hand struck the bark of a tree, then crept on, listening for the Sergeant’s movements. Suddenly he could see a little: the trunks of the pines were a little blacker than the dark of the woods. The difficulty was in moving without making any noise. He kept stumbling, hooking his feet on roots, on dead limbs. Branches whipped him in the face and drove him frantic; when he stepped on some dead leaves it sounded like kicking bags of broken glass. What in God’s name were they trying to do? How did Damon know what direction to take? Everyone was gone and here they were wandering around in pitch-dark woods—

  There was a sound of movement. To their right. Not where Sergeant Damon was. He froze by a tree, his mouth opened wide to silence his own breathing. Someone was moving straight toward Damon, then he had stopped. Brewster tried to raise his rifle, found he could not. His whole body was shaking with every heartbeat, and his hands had no sensation. For an instant he wanted to scream something, anything, and crash off through the woods; then that passed and he felt suddenly very alert, completely aware of all that was going on around him.

  The man took two or three more steps: he should be almost exactly where Damon was. “Konrad?” the man said once, tentatively; his voice was unbearably loud in the close dark of the woods. Why, he’s afraid, Brewster thought in amazement; he’s more afraid than I am. He raised his rifle calmly.

  “—Konrad?” the man repeated. “Wo sind—”

  Before he could fire there was a thick, meaty sound, a grunt; the slow, even rustle of leaves, and then stillness. Brewster went carefully toward this tiny commotion, holding his rifle at his shoulder.

  “Brewster?” Damon’s voice came.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “What happened, Sarge?”

  “I slugged him.”

  “Jesus.” The man lay slumped by the trunk of the tree, a part of it now in the darkness.

  “He’s either a stray, or lost from a patrol. Let’s get going.”

  For a time it was quite still; even the distant firing had faded. After the monstrous uproar of the bombardment, the collapsing walls of shock and the fury of the German attack, the silence seemed like a precious and tangible thing. Brewster could hear a frog croaking in some marshy place nearby. The pine needles here and there muffled their footsteps perfectly. He felt more confidence as his vision grew keener. As a child he had always been afraid of the dark; his most fearsome memory was a night when his parents had gone to the opera and the power had gone off while he was upstairs in his bedroom reading Conan Doyle—an onrush of sheer blackness without warning so sudden he had only gasped once, then lain rigid with the big book across his belly, while the darkness, swollen with terrors, descended on him pitilessly. After a very long time he had crept out of bed and lighted a candle—and his own shadow guttering and leaping along the wall had frightened him even more. But he had got out of bed and lighted the candle …

  “Sarge,” he whispered hoarsely when he caught up with him again. “It must be almost dawn …”

  Damon nodded; his face was gray, with a web of tiny lines under his eyes. “We’ve got to be more careful. Don’t fire at anything unless your life depends on it. If you do you’ll alert the whole German army.”

  They worked their way along to the south and west, following a little ridge above a wood road. Twice more they heard men talking in German, and once they sank out of sight just as an artillery team trotted back along the road, heading toward the German rear. The riders were slumped over their saddles, their heads rocking, nearly asleep.

  The ridge ended abruptly at the edge of a little ravine. The path ran down it for a way, between rock outcroppings covered with vines and old leaves. For some reason Brewster could not explain, the little gully filled him with dread. It looked exposed—so sunk in its depression, so bare of cover. To stop Damon he touched him on the shoulder and said: “Where are we going?”

  Damon’s brows rose. “Back to our own lines. Where’d you think?”

  “—We’ll never make it back, Sarge.”

  “Sure we will. Of course we will. I’ll bet you my next month’s pay against yours.”

  The Sergeant was grinning at him. “Hang on, Brewster. You’re doing fine.”

  It was much lighter now; through the breaks in the foliage overhead the sky was pearl and lavender behind the clouds. Moisture dripped from the branches. They started down the gully, crossed it, and entered the woods again. A horseman was riding hard through the field at the edge of the woods to their right—an officer in an immaculate gray uniform, the bill of his cap drawn low over his eyes. His saber and the horse’s bridle made a loud jingling in the dawn stillness.

  “Hurrying back with the good news,” Damon muttered, and spat. “Sons of bitches”—and Brewster was surprised at the anger in the Sergeant’s voice.

  The land ran downhill now; the trees thinned and the path wandered through dense banks of shrubs. They followed it in cautious little advances of twenty to thirty feet, pausing and peering ahead through the trees. Brewster had just come up to Damon and was about to say something to him when he saw the Sergeant stiffen. Below them, coming across the field, they could see a file of men walking.

  “Prisoners,” Damon murmured.

  Peering down Brewster counted six of them, three struggling with a wounded man carried on a stretcher, and two others. They were guarded by two Germans, one at the front and one in the rear of the little column. They kept passing and repassing behind the screen of trees. The Americans looked awkward and weary, particularly the three struggling with the improvised stretcher, which was made out of two rifles and a poncho; the wounded man lay inert, his bare head lolling against the chest of the man at the rear. They’re coming this way, Brewster thought in a flash of panic, they’re going to come up this path. Right past us. But he couldn’t avert his gaze. One of the men carrying the stretcher stumbled, and the guard at the rear shoved at him roughly. The American threw up his head in protest, snarled something. His face caught the light: an angular, bony face, a broad mouth—

  “Sarge,” he whispered, “—it’s Reb! that’s Reb! And that’s Poletti with him …”

  “You’re right.”

  “And there’s Corporal Devlin—”

  Damon grunted. “Where?”r />
  “In front. Walking alone. With that rag around his head. See him?”

  They were easily recognizable now. They came along the path slowly, stumbling and slipping on the slope, the bushes swinging wildly as they passed. Their faces looked dejected and whipped. Only two of them still had their helmets. Corporal Devlin, then someone Brewster didn’t know, then Raebyrne and Poletti and a stranger carrying the wounded man, who looked vaguely familiar. The guard at the rear called something and pushed Raebyrne, who glared back at him, in silence this time.

  He started. Sergeant Damon was pulling him back up the path. “Come on, come on …”

  “Where?” He followed, glancing back fearfully. They recrossed the ravine to the ridge. Back in the dense woods again Damon turned and said:

  “We’re going to jump them. Right here.”

  “Jump them?”

  “I’m going to hit the one in the rear first, and when the man in front turns, you nail him. Got that?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t move till I do. I want to jump the rear man first. We’ve got to take them before they can fire a shot.”

  “—how, Sarge?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Didn’t I tell you not to fire except as a last resort?”

  Brewster stared at him. The Sergeant’s face looked wrathful and stern, the way it did when he was reading off someone after inspection; only worse. He was serious about this. Completely serious. They were going—they were going to attack these Germans, he was expected to—

  “… Couldn’t we—couldn’t we just—cover them?”

  Damon’s eyes widened with exasperation. “And have them fire on you, or dive for cover and holler for help? There are Germans right—over—there,” he hissed, pointing off through the heavy shadows of the woods.

  “But—” he stammered. Fear rolled around inside him like dirty water. “But—I can’t, Sarge …”

  “You can. You’ve got to!”

  “But—there’s only two of us—”

  “There’s only two of them, too. And that’s where they made their mistake, the sons of bitches …” He pulled Brewster off the path with him. “Quick, now. Right here. Behind this tree. Remember: don’t show yourself until you’ve heard me make my rush. I’m going to be right there—see? that pine with the burl low on its trunk? You must not fire—”

  “But Sarge, I’m not—”

  “Kill the bastard. Kill him! It’s him or you!—and all the rest of us …” Damon was shaking him fiercely, glaring at him. “Brewster, if you let me down now … stick him! Run him through!” He gave the Private one final shake, then vanished through the bushes without a sound.

  “Oh God,” Brewster breathed. Crouched behind the broad base of the pine he checked his bayonet studs automatically. His face was soaked with sweat; it dripped from his nose and chin, kept streaming into his eyes and made them sting. His stomach growled and whined. From down in the ravine he heard the German guard’s voice again, and pressed his hand against his stomach to make it stop growling. Drops of pitch on the black flakes of bark before his eyes were like globules of milky amber; he touched one, and his fingers came away furred and sticky. “We’ve come to a little conclusion about you, Brewster.” Sohier’s voice, lazy and mocking, the ring of faces watching him flatly from cots and desk corners. “It’s the consensus of the group that your liver is just a mite on the pale side. In short, that you’ve got a saffron streak in you a mile wide, which keeps getting in your way. Ours, too. So this is just to let you know we’d appreciate it if you’d go your own erring way from now on and not intrude your company on us. Do we make ourselves clear, Brewster?” Markham, Bullert, Himes, all the others. A coward, they’d told him they wanted no part of him and they’d branded him a coward all the way through school because of that scrimmage, their faces smooth and smug and their eyes glinting with the amused contempt that had filled him with such sick shame—

  They were coming up the path: he heard the muffled clinking of equipment, the thud of boots on the hard-baked earth. He saw movement, then the gray uniform, the face broad and square-jawed, well tanned under the flaring black helmet rim. His heart swelled up into his throat and wedged itself there; he had a terrible desire to flee, throw down his rifle and race away through the woods and hide forever—who would know? who would care?—replaced on the instant by Sergeant Damon’s wrathful, importunate eyes, the memory of that moment in the common room at St. Andrew’s. A flood of sheer rage coursed through him, and a swift tensing of his muscles over which he had no control.

  There was a thump like a batten struck against a blanketed log, and a low, tremulous cry. He leaped out from behind the tree. The German—not six feet away—had turned back toward the brief commotion; Brewster paused, staring at his back. Beyond the German the other faces gazed back at him in a blurred frieze of amazement: white blank faces. The man’s back was broad, with sweat stains in large green loops above the wide black-leather belt. He started to lunge and could not—stood there staring, frozen, indecisive, at the shiny black bullet pouch, the cylindrical gas-mask holder, a tear in the tunic pleat for one endless, horrible instant and then the German spun back again, his eyes wide and very clear, his lips in a thin, cruel line, and his bayoneted rifle described a long, high arc through the level sunlight. Brewster had the swift thought, He’s trying to hurt me—and lunged down and in, the movement automatic and defined, a deep thrust, as Damon had taught him. There was a shock and the bayonet went into the man’s body just above the metal belt buckle, which looked like the head of a snarling jaguar. The man stiffened, his body arching toward his assailant, as though trying to push the blade in still farther. Something struck Brewster a blinding blow on the bridge of the nose; his sight darkened, blurred, he saw as if through streaming glass the man’s eyes rolling whitely. A hand danced in the air, clawing and clawing at his face. They were bound together by the bayonet, conjoined for an eternity of clawing, gasping, writhing intimacy. Then all at once Devlin had snapped his arm around the German’s neck from behind and snatched his trench knife out of its scabbard, was driving it into his back, once, twice, the blows like fists pounding sand bags. The man sank to the path without a sound. Brewster kept wrenching at the blade, which would not come loose; then without warning it did, and a greasy tongue of blood leaped after the bright steel, gliding back along the blood channel. Lowering the weapon, he looked up—at Devlin, at Raebyrne and Poletti and the others, who watched him as if he were possessed of some magical and terrible powers. It was over. He had done it. He had done what Sergeant Damon had ordered him to do.

  Then he was bent over retching dryly, foolishly, brushing the branches away in sudden petulance. He felt ashamed, then he didn’t care. Someone had a hand around his shoulders, was saying something to him quietly; but the words meant nothing.

  “I’m all right,” he heard his voice say. He passed his hand over his face, noticed with faint surprise that his palm was smeared with blood. His nose felt astonishingly thick and furry. “I just need a minute. Or two …”

  But no one was listening to him, they were all doing something now: stealthy, quick movements in the dense ripples of light and shadow. Damon had signaled to the others that the enemy was not a hundred yards away, on their right; Raebyrne and Devlin were stripping the dead Germans of their cartridge belts. Everyone seemed to have something to do, and only he stood there, musing, dazed, bound in timelessness.

  “What took you so long, Sam?” Corporal Devlin was saying to Damon, his eyes bright and beady. “I’ve had that call in for five hours now.”

  The Sergeant slowly grinned. “You know these French telephone operators, they never get the numbers right.” He was still peering calmly toward the woods beyond the ridge. “Planning a little trip to Germany, Dev?”

  “Why sure—it’s just the time to lay in a stock of Bernkasteler Riesling before it’s all gone—” Then he gave it up, his jaw dropped. “I guess so,” he muttered. “Jesus, I guess so.”


  “What happened?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Lieutenant yelled to fall back, I didn’t think we were supposed to but it seemed like a hell of a good idea right then. I got back over the embankment with several of the boys, and the Heinies were swarming all over us, I didn’t know who was what. I’d just drilled one who was all set to skewer Turner and was taking aim at another one, and something got me on the side of the head. And when I came to I was lying flat on my back with a head like New Year’s morning and these two heroes and no weapons, and a thousand and one Heinies all around, pointing bayonets at my belly.”

  “All right, Corp,” Raebyrne rejoined, “I know I ain’t no hell-fire hero, all I know is I’d a been five counties away by now if I hadn’t stopped to try and pick you up …”

  “Lot of good that did you,” Devlin murmured, though he grinned wearily.

  Raebyrne shrugged. “Well, it come out all right in the end…”

  Brewster watched them all strangely. His eyes strayed to the dead German, the square, tanned face and heavy body—then he looked away quickly. He had done it. They had called him a coward and wouldn’t let him eat at their table or use the common room, but he wasn’t a coward; he wasn’t any more of a coward or a hero than anyone else. And he had made his body do what it had to … It was odd: he could not feel his hands, or his feet, or his nose, even when he put his fingers to it and pressed it gently. It looked huge, his sight was curiously affected. Damon’s face seemed to come at him over a thick purple promontory.

  “You all right, kid?”

  “I can’t seem to see too well,” he mumbled.

  “He must have caught you with the trigger guard, or maybe his fist. He broke your nose.”

  “Broke my nose?”

  “Yep. It’ll improve your looks. Give you more character.”

  “Everybody’s nose has got to be broken once before he’s a grown man,” Devlin said. “Didn’t you know that, Brewster? And then it’s got to be rebroke.”

  “Shoot, all he needs is to slap a pulse of suet and ashes in a red flannel sock and hold it on for two days and two nights to draw the poison, and it’ll cure it right smart …”