That night in camp, Petey approached Gunderson.
“Hey, pretty lucky break with that fencepost, huh?” asked Petey.
“Luck? You call this luck?” Gunderson tilted his head away from Petey, showing his bandages.
“You’d be dead if it wasn’t for that fencepost.”
“Nah. I wouldn’t have big holes in my neck if it wasn’t for that fencepost. It was BAD luck, not good luck.”
“Come on man,” said Kozlowski. “The scarf did its job. You need to pass it on.”
“Bullshit,” said Gunderson. “I’ll tell you when it’s worked.”
Morelli spoke up. “So what, you gonna hang onto that thing for the whole war? You remember what Cooper said about bringing bad luck. You betta’ hope that thing just brings YOU bad luck, ’cause if it brings me bad luck when I’m standing next to you, I’m gonna kick your ass!”
Gunderson didn’t say anything. He turned away from the conversation. But Kozlowski wasn’t done talking yet. He grabbed Gunderson by the arm and spun him back around.
“So, I say you give it up now. Your good luck is you won’t lose any teeth right now.” Kozlowski grabbed Gunderson by the shirt and pulled him close. But Gunderson jerked away and said, “Fuck off. I’ll tell you when I’m done with it.” Then he walked out of the building. I can’t believe Kozlowski didn’t chase him. He just stood there clenching his teeth and scowling.
That next day was when we got attacked while we were defending the bridge. I mentioned what happened to those of us at the bridge. But there was a story in the village too. It turns out that there were about fifteen krauts that snuck up on the village as the rest of us were pinned down by machine gun fire. The Ninth had taken up positions to defend the bridge, and they weren’t really paying attention to their flank. So the krauts got up real close. One of them stepped on a twig and alerted Taft. He called out to everyone just as the krauts open fired on him. They killed him instantly. But it gave the rest of the guys time to take cover, and a firefight started.
Most of the company was pinned down, but they could squeeze shots off now and then. Gunderson was pinned down behind a hay wagon. A kraut threw a grenade at him and it landed about six feet away from him. Gunderson couldn’t run for cover because he’d be out in the open. So he dove for the grenade to throw it back, but his gear got caught on the cart, and he stumbled. He was about six inches short of the grenade, and he scrambled on his belly to reach it. Just as he picked it up to throw it, it blew. He died immediately.
I told you the rest of that story, about how Chartelli cleared the forest and we were able to come back and help out. It’s wrong to say, but none of us felt that bad about Gunderson dying. None of us liked him, and we were all pissed off that he was hanging onto that scarf. And now we were ALL convinced that the scarf worked, just like Cooper said it would. Gunderson had luck and kept it, then he had really bad luck.
“What do we do with it now?” someone asked.
“Cooper, what do we do?” someone called.
Cooper held the scarf. It had a rip in it now, and it was stained with blood from more than one member of the company.
“You think it still works?” someone asked.
Cooper shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to try, does it?”
So someone got it, and we kept going. Sure enough, we continued to have good luck with it for a few more weeks. Then we got to a field HQ where a bunch of platoons had assembled. We got together and decided that we didn’t have much luck remaining, since only about six guys hadn’t held the scarf yet. We figured it was better to pass it on to a larger group, rather than use it up in the middle of nowhere, and then we’d have to throw it away. Or worse, that a kraut would get it.
Trumbull, who had the scarf at the time, talked with another guy in some other platoon. He told them how the scarf worked, and how to use it. The guy didn’t believe Trumbull, so Trumbull brought him to our group. We told all the stories about the scarf, and about Gunderson, and I think he could see that we had religion.
Trumbull pulled the scarf out of its pouch. It wasn’t much to look at any more. It was dirty and bloodstained and ripped. The embroidery was fraying. It had worn out so quickly that we’d started carrying it in a small leather courier pouch to protect it. The guy frowned and looked around the room again with a questioning look on his face.
“This is some kind of joke?” he asked.
Cap stood in the back, and stepped between the men up to the stranger.
“Soldier, I can tell you that this scarf works. Bet your ass on it. And don’t screw it up by not following the three conditions.”
The guy raised his eyebrows in surprise at hearing a Captain talk about the scarf. He nodded, turned and left. That was a depressing moment for me. I don’t know if the scarf really worked or not, but it gave us something to believe in. And I never got to use it. I was one of the six guys who didn’t get a turn.
Chapter 7 - Fresh Meat
After our battle at the farm where we took that barn, the Ninth Platoon had dropped from thirty-five men to twenty-seven. Apparently Brass expected this, because seven new men were assigned to our platoon. They were new to Buzz Company. They felt like strangers because they hadn’t been with us through training, and especially combat. We weren’t snobs. If you were in Buzz Company, then Buzz Company stood by your side. But they hadn’t earned the swagger.
That awkwardness was made harder by the fact that they were all good men. Well, all but one. This jackass named Stankowski thought he could come into the platoon and take command. You know, one of those guys who thinks he should be running the show, barking orders at people, telling them to straighten their uniform.
We earned a day of rest after clearing the area around the farmyard, and we were taking it easy in the same barn that we took a couple nights earlier. The bodies were gone, but the bullet holes remained in the planks. Me and Tin, Butler, Torgeson, and Taft all studied the barn. We recounted the series of events, and found landmarks in the wood’s scars that helped us decipher exactly how it happened. If felt strange to be sleeping and living in there.
“WELLL!” shouted Stankowski as he walked into the barn, with six men behind him. “The day we get here and you cupcakes are laying around doing nothing? This ain’t why I joined the Army!”
I looked around the barn. If eyes could shoot bullets, that guy would have been cut in half.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Kozlowski through gritted teeth as he looked up from cleaning his weapon.
“The name is Stankowski. Me and the boys—”
“Hey, Kozlowski,” Chartelli said without opening his eyes. “This some dumb Polack cousin of yours?”
Stankowski looked at Chartelli and licked his lips. “As I was saying—”
“Nah,” said Kozlowski. “No cousin of mine. But I think he is a dumb Polack.”
“Listen here, goddamnit! You men—”
“Well, that’s a damn shame,” said Chartelli, throwing his feet off a hay bale and swinging into a sitting position. “We already got one Polack. We don’t need another one. Beat it, pal.” He jerked his thumb toward the door.
That brought a few chuckles, not only from the ninth, but some of the men walking in with Stankowski. In fact, the other six men kept walking past the indignant Stankowski, standing there with his mouth open.
“Name’s Vern Fisher,” one of them said to me as he walked up. “Don’t pay any attention to that guy. He’s an asshole who thinks he’s in charge.”
A bunch of us laughed.
“We already got a CO too,” said Stackhouse as he glared at Stankowski. “We don’t need another one of them neither.”
Stankowski was still doing his best to command us. “Listen, men! This is the big bad Buzz Company? A bunch of women sitting around knitting? I came here to win the war—”
“Whooo!” called Tin. “You hear that boys? The Polack came to win the war all by hisself!”
By now, Stankowski was getting mad. His face
was all red and shaking a little bit. He was getting disrespect from everyone, and he had to try to recover from his bad first impression with the group.
“Who’s the meanest son of a bitch in this outfit? Get up here, and I’m going to kick your ass.” He’d resorted to violence. We moved past that mentality weeks ago.
A bunch of the guys groaned. Kozlowski had been behaving since he got his first taste of combat. Now here was some jerk egging him on. Kozlowski looked around the room, and he was clenching and unclenching his jaw again, just like in England. He slowly stood up, and sure enough, his fingers were twitching. He’d fallen off the wagon. Most of us shook our heads. Back to the bad old days. I was worried that once he got a taste of scrapping again, we’d have to deal with that at the same time we were trying to fight the entire German army. I was irritated with this new guy for coming in and stirring up the pot.
I’ve got to give some credit to Stankowski. Kozlowski was a big, muscular man, and when he was wanting to scrap, he pulled his lips back tight and glared with penetrating eyes. Kozlowski was an intimidating man. But Stankowski didn’t budge as Kozlowski moved toward him. Their eyes were locked together.
He looked Kozlowski up and down, disapproving. Like Kozlowski was some puny guy like Trumbull. “So you’re the best this platoon’s got?” asked Stankowski. A few people chuckled. Kozlowski could tear this guy apart and eat him for lunch.
Kozlowski, with a deadpan look on his face, said, “Nope. I ain’t nothing compared to the meanest guy in this platoon.”
We all did a double take. I ticked off our roster in my mind. Who would Kozlowski think was tougher than him? Stackhouse? Big Swede?
“WELLLL!” said Stankowski. “Get him up here!”
“WELLLL!” yelled Kozlowski in mock imitation, then pausing for dramatic effect. “Cooper!”
We were past doing double takes now. Half the guys in the room dropped their jaws in disbelief. Had Kozlowski lost his marbles?
“Hold up, man,” said Chartelli, all dramatic and breathless. “You can’t bring Cooper down on this dumb Polack.”
“Hey, that’s enough of the Polack talk, alright?” yelled Stankowski, pointing a finger at Chartelli. “I’m proud of being Polish. Shut your fat mouth!”
Chartelli shrugged. “Hey man, I’m just sayin’ you don’t want to tangle with Cooper. He’ll bring the snakebite to you.”
“Snakebite?” asked Stankowski, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Yeah!” McIntire stood up, all wide-eyed. He held his hand out with fingers spread wide, like he was telling Stankowski to stop moving. “Listen, friend. You don’t want to tangle with Cooper. None of us tangle with Cooper!”
“And exactly why is that?” asked Stankowski, sneering in disbelief.
“’Cause he’s a GYPSY!” whispered McIntire, “He puts curses on people, and brings them occult powers down on people that piss him off.”
“So where is this all-powerful gypsy?” asked Stankowski. “I don’t believe in that voodoo shit!”
“Oh, he ain’t here right now,” said McIntire, and then after a pause, “He’s out collecting bat shit.”
I had to look away because I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I bit my lip and pinched my leg real hard.
“Bat shit?” asked Stankowski, incredulous. “Cut me some slack. You think I was born yesterday?”
“How do you think they make their spells and curses? They gotta have special stuff. We’re telling you man, don’t fuck with Cooper!”
The truth was that Cooper was with a few of the guys in the small barn in the outbuildings. Kozlowski’s idea was genius. No scrapping, and he put doubt in that blowhard’s mind. And we tried to grow that doubt to downright concern. We told him all kinds of stories. We still had the scarf, so we shared its story. Then we made up all kinds of things about how someone lost a finger overnight—no wound or pain or anything. He just woke up missing a finger and it was all healed over. And we told him that one guy who stole something from Cooper woke up blind the next morning. And a few other stories. But those guys were gone now. Most of them killed in battle. Was that Cooper’s work too? We debated it for a while in front of Stankowski. I could tell there was a smidgeon of doubt in there, because he had finally shut up and just followed the conversation around the room with his eyes.
Stankowski had doubt, but he wasn’t sold yet. He wasn’t stupid. And we were laying it on awfully thick. Looking back, we were laying it on too thick, and made it unbelievable. I don’t think anyone would buy all the hooey we were throwing.
“OK, you want your proof, we got your proof,” said Chartelli. “If we can show you how Cooper has mystical powers, as long as no one pisses him off, will you believe us?”
“How you gonna do that?” asked Stankowski.
“Now just hold on there, goomba,” said Chartelli. “Here’s the deal. We prove to you that Cooper’s got the snakebite voodoo going on, and you give up thinking you’re gonna be some kind of leader here. No more ‘WELLLL.’ You just shut your pie hole and learn how to be Buzz Company. We don’t need flash, we don’t need big mouths. We just need people killing krauts and watching our backs.”
“I think you’re the one with the big mouth,” growled Stankowski.
“See! There you go again! Look pal, I’m trying to help you with the gypsy, and I’m trying to help you so this whole platoon don’t hate your guts. Can’t have that when we’re gettin’ shot at by Jerry. And I sure as hell don’t want you causing none of us to get killed. Deal?”
“Fine,” shrugged Stankowski. “But I ain’t no idiot. You’re not going to fool me with some trick.”
I was convinced that Chartelli had finally painted himself into a corner. How in the world was he going to convince this reasonably intelligent man that Cooper had magical powers?
The answer was so obvious that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it too. We had already shown Stankowski the scarf and explained how we thought it might have magic. We just had proof that it worked, because at the farmhouse battle, Pete Anderson got lucky in battle. He’d passed the scarf to Bert Jackson. We called Jackson Hillbilly, because he was from Tennessee. He wasn’t really from the sticks or anything. Just from Tennessee, so that’s where the name came from.
“Hey Petey and Hillbilly, come here,” called Chartelli.
Petey and Jackson stood up and looked at each other, and walked over to Chartelli and Stankowski in the center of the floor.
“Pete, tell us what happened that night we took this farm.”
“Well,” said Petey, “I was in the left-most group. Once the barn lit up with gunfire, we started focusing on the house. But with all the commotion from gunshots, we didn’t hear a German patrol to our left in the trees. I was standing up against a tree for cover from the house, shooting at the windows. When my clip emptied, I went to switch for a fresh one, and I bobbled it. I bent down to pick it up, just as a half dozen shots pounded the tree where my head and chest would have been.
“I dove down on the ground and yelled ‘Krauts!’ Lucky for me, my group heard. They dove on the ground too, and we all fired to our left. It took us about ten minutes to get those bastards. They were sneaky, moving around in the dark and splitting up. But we got them.”
“See?” said Chartelli. “He had the GOOD snakebite going for him there!”
Stankowski shook his head. “That ain’t no magic. That’s just luck.”
“I don’t know about that,” piped up Tim Robinson. “I saw where the buckle deflected a bullet for Cooper. And I was in the group with Petey. As near as I could tell, having that kind of luck twice this close together, with the only thing tying them together being that scarf... That’s hard to call just luck.”
“So here’s what I’m thinkin’,” said Chartelli, “and fellas, you gotta work with me here.” He was talking to Jackson.
“Hillbilly, once you have your good luck, would you be willing to give the scarf to the Polack—err, Stankowski he
re?”
Jackson frowned. I could tell he didn’t like being told who to give it to. “I thought we said we weren’t supposed to plan this out?”
“Yeah, I hear ya,” nodded Chartelli. “But listen to me. Which would you rather have? Some blowhard spoutin’, and gettin’ us all riled up—ah, no offense, Stankowski. Or let him see what Cooper can do, and shut this guy up permanently and make him a contributing member of Buzz Company?”
Jackson scowled. “I reckon.” Then he turned and walked away. Sometimes he could be pretty quiet.
So, we had a plan, and Stankowski promised he’d shut up until after he’d had the scarf. I wondered about that a few times afterward. Did he agree because he wanted the scarf? Or did he do it because he didn’t want to be in disagreement with the platoon? I never asked. He didn’t have to wait long to get the scarf, though. A few days later we lay on the sides of a road and attacked a German supply convoy as it approached. Someone took out one of the truck’s drivers, and it veered off the road, right at a bunch of the guys. As it barreled down on the men, it flipped onto its side and came sliding to a stop, maybe three feet short. Of Hillbilly Jackson.
Stankowski got the scarf that night, and sure enough, it worked for him. Something about a dud kraut grenade not going off. I don’t remember the details. But I can tell you that Stankowski never pushed anybody around again.
My Honor Flight Page 7