by James R Benn
Jake looked up and saw Clay about twenty yards out, down flat in the snow, his M1 aimed to the left, giving them cover. Jake knew there were Krauts a few yards away, and he was going to have to put his back to them. This wasn’t going to be easy. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to. He couldn’t make sense of it, but without thinking about it he knew he had to try and save Cooper. The poor kid was crying for his mother, and all Jake could do was curse him, curse him for having a sweet mother, loving her, loving something Jake could never think of without anger, disgust, shame, and hatred gnawing at him. It wasn’t fair. Jake felt as if his cursing added to Cooper’s agony, and if he could just get him back he’d be square with him.
Clay signaled Jake to come on, get a move on. On his knees, Jake lifted Cooper by the arms. Cooper had a wide-eyed look like a fish on a hook, struggling against a pain he couldn’t understand. His mouth was open, gasping, a wheezing sound coming with each breath. Jake draped him over his shoulders, fireman style. Cooper yelped as his own weight pressed down on his wounds jammed against Jake’s shoulder blades.
Momma, momma, momma begged Cooper, as if his momma could stop all this if she only tried. Momma!
Jake knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell him to shut up, that the Krauts might hear and follow the sound. They knew what it meant, as he knew what the cries of mutti mutti meant coming from German boys cut down in front of their foxholes. Cooper was somewhere else, maybe in his childhood bed, with his sweet momma spooning some sort of medicine into his mouth, placing her warm hand on his forehead, tucking him in, telling him to say his prayers. Jake knew that feeling too, but Jake also knew it was a lie.
He saw Clay get up and run ahead of them, letting Jake see where he was going, turning and swinging his M1 left and right. Jake had his back to the Krauts, but Clay was his eyes, his protection, his buddy, his brother.
Momma, momma, where’d you go?
Jake pushed off with each step, trying to run as fast as he could with Cooper on his back and a foot of snow at his feet. Cooper’s blood on his neck felt thick and sticky, the weight of him compressing his thighs as he lifted each leg, pulling it clear of the snow and then letting it down, crunch, through crusted ice. His lungs heaved as he tried to take bigger gulps of air, trying to feed them, to keep his legs lifting up and down, up and down. He heard himself breathe in and out, gasp and groan, his sounds mingling with Cooper’s in a crescendo of agony.
Ow, momma, ow, momma.
Jake heard a shot. His head was down, eyes fixed on the snow, concentrating on each step, trying not to think about the weight, the pain in his lungs and legs, about Cooper, about Ma. M1, must be Clay. He lifted his head, saw Clay get up and sprint to a tree trunk, settle down behind it and fire another shot.
Shit. Krauts at his fucking back. Holler all you want, Coop, might be the last chance you get. Up, down, each leg feeling like it was on fire, his breath coming in fast, deep swallows. The air seemed thin, not enough oxygen to feed his starving lungs.
Momma.
It was a whimper, not a yell or even a cry. Don’t you give up on me now you sonuvabitch. You got a real momma, then you hang on, you might see her again. Don’t die, and if you do it ain’t my fault. It ain’t my fault I cursed you, I just couldn’t listen no more.
Ohhhh.
It ain’t your fault, and it ain’t my fault. That’s what his big sister Alice said to him when he held the birth certificate up to her. He was going to join the Army at seventeen, not wait around for the draft to get him on his eighteenth birthday. He needed proof of his age, and waited until his folks were out one night to paw through the cardboard box they kept important papers in. He found it, with his name, place of birth listed as Pottsville Hospital, and his birth date. Father’s name, unknown. Mother’s name, Alice Burnett.
The air broke over his head, the singing crack of a bullet zinging by. He heard Clay fire, four shots, rapid fire. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t spare any wasted effort. His legs were too heavy to clear the snow, and he slowed as each boot dragged against the thick whiteness. His arms ached from holding Cooper, his chest felt like it was on fire, and his mind worked to clear the memories away, put one foot in front of the other, lift, move forward. Lift, move forward. Momma.
Maybe I should fall down, maybe they won’t see me or think I’m dead. Maybe I will. No. Keep going. More shots. What was happening? Who was still alive?
Left leg, lift. Right leg, lift. He felt sweat racing down his backbone. Sweat streaming off his temples and in his mouth, salt. Sweating, crying, bleeding, dying, it all blurred together into a single purpose. Save Cooper so he wouldn’t be cursed, so it wouldn’t be his fault.
Ain’t your fault, Jake. Ain’t my fault neither. Don’t say nothing. Don’t tell nobody. Alice, just thirteen years older than him. Alice, his big sister. His momma. But then who was Ma? Alice’s Ma, not his. Grandma to him was more like it. It was two days later Jake realized who his father was. There was a picture of Pa and Ma on their wedding day, he was dressed in a suit, last time he ever wore one, but young Pa had the same face that Jake was growing into. Everyone said so. Same dark hair, eyes, nose. Jake was a little softer around the mouth, maybe, but he could see the man he’d become. And that scared him, more than Pa’s switch ever did. His Pa was his father all right. His sister’s too, and she was his mother. Made that way by the man he’d grow up to be. God damn it all to hell.
Jake saw snow explode to his right. No strength to weave, zigzag, no strength to do anything but keep going, slow as molasses now, heading for the trees. That must be Clay ahead. Com’n Coop, almost there. He heard a small groan, as if Cooper was saying, about time, too.
He fell. Flat out, face down in the snow. Cooper rolled off him, pitched forward, didn’t move. Jake got up on his knees, crawled to Coop, wanting nothing more than to curl up in the snow and sleep, get away from this weight he had to bear, get away from the memories of Alice and Ma and that bastard Pa. No, wait a minute, I’m the bastard, right? Right, Coop? He started to laugh, then grabbed Cooper by the collar and pulled him toward the trees. He could hardly see. He slipped in the snow and fell again as forms appeared around him, and he heard the BAR bang bang bang bang like it was right next to his ear. Big Ned, Coop, Big Ned’s here. Maybe he knows, maybe word got out to Michigan that Jake Burnett’s Pa fucked his daughter and she bore him into the world and that everything he knew was a lie. Maybe the Germans knew too, and that’s why they wouldn’t kill him.
Jake gave up. He felt hands pull him into the trees. He heard Clay say something as he carried him along but he couldn’t make it out. Miller had him by the other arm. More men were here, the other squads in retreat too. Not everyone though. Not by a long shot. Jake felt his head clear, slowly. Deeper in the woods, behind a ridge lined by pine trees, they stopped. There were maybe twenty of them, should have been thirty or so with the replacements they got yesterday, the ones still alive this morning anyway. Jake saw Shorty and Tuck carrying Cooper, limp in their arms. They set him down. Big Ned and Miller were up on the top of the ridge on lookout. Jake sat by Cooper, holding his head in his hands, trying to get his breathing back to normal. Clay offered him a cigarette but he wagged his hand back and forth, no thanks.He shivered, the sweat freezing on his skin. His clothes were damp and clammy. His teeth started to chatter as his body desperately fought for warmth.
“That was a long way to go to carry a dead man, Jake,” said Shorty.
Jake lifted his head from his hands. Cooper was silent. His mouth was open, as if he died calling for his momma. Jake couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it, and couldn’t understand his own reaction either. Cooper was a replacement. Replacements died, that was it. Why get all worked up? He put his hand to Cooper’s face, felt the cooling skin, the life gone, no mother’s touch bringing it back.
“He was alive, out there,” Jake said. “I heard him.”
“You tried, Jake,” Clay said. “He would’ve died in the house anyway.”
“Why couldn’t he hang on? God damn.” Jake threw his helmet on the ground, wishing he had the strength to hit something, vent his rage, but the anger died inside him, no fuel left to feed it. The back of the helmet was covered with blood, Cooper’s blood from where he had been draped over his shoulders. Coop had been alive, he knew for sure, at least until he fell. Why did he fall? Coop had grunted, he had heard him. Jake leaned forward, lifting Cooper by the shoulder and turning him over. There, right under his left shoulder blade, a bullet hole. Straight on into the heart. Coop had taken a bullet for him. All Jake had wanted to do was save him, to bring this child back to his momma, to keep him from seeing anymore sights like his buddies blown to pieces, to let him feel what Jake never could, never really did, and never would. Feel his mother’s embrace, welcoming him home, caring for him.
Tears came to him. He didn’t sob or blubber, not that he cared. He was glad it was quiet though, this crying over Cooper’s body. He sniffed and rubbed his nose with his sleeve, then brushed it across his eyes. He took Cooper’s dog tag, leaving its partner for Graves Registration.
“Is there an officer around?” Jake asked. Tuck laughed and spit, that was the only reaction to that question.
“Non-com?”
“Sergeant Spinelli got it in the barn. He was the last one in the platoon,” a guy from First Squad said.
“You hold onto it, Jake,” Clay said.
Jake dropped it into his overcoat pocket. He picked up his helmet and wiped the back of it on the snow, leaving a pink smear. Everything was cold, his feet, hands, face, his stomach, all coated in chilled sweat.
“We gotta find the rest of the Company,” said Jake. “They should be due south of here.” He twisted around, looked at the sun, and scanned the woods surrounding them. Yesterday they had attacked the German line. After the artillery barrage, the Germans pulled back, letting them take their positions without a major fight, including the small farm village the platoon had occupied. Obviously they had wanted it back. Maybe other positions too, so they had to find the rest of their unit before they were cut off and alone.
“That way,” Jake said, pointing south. “Let’s go.”
No one objected to Jake giving an order. No one had a better idea. Jake sent a replacement from Baker’s squad ahead to take point. He had Big Ned and Miller bring up the rear, which is where they would have trouble if the Germans followed.
They left Cooper there, and marked the spot on a map. They’d tell Graves Registration, and they’d be by when things calmed down, stacking up frozen bodies like cordwood in the back of their trucks.
Jake felt better walking, warmed a little by the exercise. He put his hand in his pocket, felt the thin stamped metal of the dog tag. Name, number, religion, blood type, everything that identified a man to the army. He could feel his own, pressed against his chest, taped together with electrical tape to keep them from making a sound, a precaution for a warmer season. When would one of them wind up in someone’s pocket? He tried to imagine the day when he’d take them off himself, put them in a drawer, forget about them. Think about that drawer. A nice walnut dresser with some small drawers at the top for cufflinks, tie clips, that sort of thing. He’d put them in there, and once in a while take them out, and remember the moment he decided he’d never be going back to that goddamned town.
Momma, momma.
Chapter Eight
1964
Clay flipped through the pages of the Meriden Record as Addy unplugged the ceramic coffee percolator and carried it to the kitchen table. She set it down hard on the formica tabletop, as if she’d misjudged the distance, thinking there was space enough to slow it down. Clay winced at the sharp noise as plates, forks and knives jumped and jangled. Without saying a word, Addy cleared the breakfast dishes away, brushed her hands on the apron covering her sea green skirt, and sat down with her husband.
Clay folded the newspaper as he watched Addy settle into her chair. She pushed strands of fallen hair back behind one ear, revealing a large pearl earring. The earrings had been her mother’s, a gift from an early admirer, not her father. They were beautiful and perfect, but Clay thought they were nothing compared to the precisely rounded, soft, downy earlobes they sat on. He liked the way she always pushed her brown hair back on one side and not the other, leaving it loose so it hung alongside her face, like Veronica Lake. It made her mysterious, open on one side, offering a treasure to him, white pearl and pink skin. Closed on the other, a curtain of hair shutting her face off from view if she turned away from him, even a little.
Addy looked like a skittish bird settling on a tree branch. Her eyes floated back and forth, to Clay, the coffeepot, and out the kitchen window. Clay knew she wanted to talk. Addy had a way of clearing the decks before talking about something important. He understood she was checking everything, making sure there were no distractions. Coffee on the table, Chris gone to school, dishes in the sink. He waited for her to settle in. As she crossed her legs she fluffed the folds of her skirt, draping it just right across her knees, looking up at him, as if a thought had just occurred to her.
“Clay, how’s Chris doing at work?”
“He’s doing all right, I guess. He does what he’s told. Has a little trouble being on time, though, ever since he started hanging around with that Tony kid.”
“He’s at the age when a boy doesn’t tell his mother much,” Addy said, as if she hadn’t really listened to his answer, or was disappointed that Clay was so literal in his response. Or maybe that question hadn’t been the important one, a way to work up to what it was she really wanted to talk about. As she rested her arm on the table and stared out the window, Clay watched the morning light on her face. It gave her a faint glow, and for a second he wondered if that’s what she’d look like in a painting. A portrait of her face lit by the rising sun, with the one earring showing and her light brown hair curled behind the ear and flowing down into the opening of her blouse. She turned to him.
“What are you looking at?” she said.
“You.”
She pulled her hair back with both hands this time, lifting and stretching her arms up behind her head as she drew her hair off her neck for just a second and let it fall. Clay watched the fabric of her blouse press against her breasts and doubted he could ever keep his mind off her when she arched her back like that. Did she know what she was doing? Did she move that way unconsciously, her innocence at odds with his desire? Did she know she was keeping him off balance like a boxer threatening with a right hook while aiming a left jab at his jaw? He could’ve asked, but then he’d only be left wondering if what she’d said was true or not. He also knew that asking might spoil it all, leaving him with an answer but losing the joy of watching her and wondering.
“Okay,” said Clay. “The topic is Chris. You’re right, he’s at that age. Doesn’t tell me much either.”
“Do you ask him?” said Addy.
“Ask him what?”
“About his friends, what his plans are, what he’s feeling,” said Addy. “Whenever I ask him I get mumbles and evasions. What does he say to you at work?”
“I don’t know; we talk about the job. I did try to talk to him about being on time, doing his homework—”
“I don’t mean lecturing him, Clay. I mean talking with him. It’s important for a boy to be able to talk with his father.”
Clay wanted to slam his fist the table, but he sat quietly. He didn’t know how to talk like that, to get his son to open up to him. Addy had no right. Chris had no right to turn surly, to change from a little boy to a secretive stranger. Everyone wanted something from him, something that felt out of reach, impossible. He knew what he was capable of, and what he wasn’t. Why couldn’t they see that? Why couldn’t Mr. Fiorenza just let him be? Why…
Clay took a deep breath and let it go. Okay, calm down. Addy’s being a protective mother, it’s normal.
“We talked about smoking, too,” said Clay, offering another father and son topic, knowing it wa
s a mistake as soon as he said it. They hadn’t actually talked, had they?
“You think he’s smoking now?” Addy asked. She didn’t seem surprised. Clay felt the question was more of a test for him.
“You know how it is,” he said. “His friends smoke, so maybe he’s trying to fit in. Kind of hard for me to tell him how bad it is, with cases of cigarettes piled up in the storeroom.”
“So who are his friends these days, besides Tony?”
Clay tried to envision the other kids who’d been in Tony’s car. He couldn’t. They were a jumble of laughter, sideburns, and recklessness. If any of them had been Chris’ pals when he was younger, they weren’t recognizable now. Clay used to know their names, when Chris would have them over for birthday parties and family cookouts. Horseshoes in the backyard, with the kids standing halfway to the stake so they’d have a chance at a ringer. Now that they could make a regulation throw, they were nowhere to be seen.
“You know,” Clay said, letting out a sigh, “I can’t say. It’s Tony this and Tony that. Chris seems to be one of his gang.”
“Well, that worries me. Did you know Tony’s been suspended from school?”