by James R Benn
A hand on his shoulder. Jake turned, half jumping, falling back against the tree.
“You okay?” Clay asked, trying to get a fix on Jake’s eyes.
“Yeah,” said Jake, “good enough.”
“There,” said Clay, pushing on Jake’s shoulder, turning him towards the hill, pointing to Tuck slogging through the snow towards them, grinning.
“Goddamn, that boy’s got eyes like a fucking hawk,” Tuck said, heaving out frosted air as he tried to catch his breath.
“What?” said Clay.
“Kraut strongpoint up on that hill, what’s left of it. Looks like heavy mortars, but they got plastered. Bomb craters all around, lots of empty ammo boxes, they musta pulled out.”
“Yeah?” said Clay, waiting for the good news. He glanced at Jake and saw his eyes following the kid from Oakland as he walked back to the knot of men behind them. Jake’s tired face had an odd look, hate or some sort of passion. One second he’d been staring blankly at the ground and then Oakland walked by and Jake’s eyes widened, his lips showing a snarl as he stared at the kid’s face. Clay wondered what was wrong. The thought struck him as funny. What’s wrong? Lost, cold, hungry, darkness, Germans, minefields, and I’m worried about the look on Jake’s face?
He focused back on Tuck, and realized the fatigue and strain of the fight this morning…no, wait, yesterday morning, and the freezing march through the woods was catching up to him. Tuck’s face floated in front of him, and he realized Tuck was talking and he’d better listen.
“…one big dugout with a wood roof, and a bunch of good-sized foxholes, all with log roofs and camouflaged real good, and they’re all lined with hay! These Krauts built first class, there’s enough room for everyone. C’mon!”
Tuck took off back up the hill. Clay could see he was excited, so it had to be good news, but he was nervous. Kraut dugouts? What if they came back?
“Let’s go, guys!” Big Ned said, clapping Clay on the shoulder. “We don’t have a lot of choices.” Miller followed him up the hill, along with the rest of the men. They hadn’t heard everything, but anything was good enough for them. Someone to follow, an end to walking and a place to sleep. It was enough. They all filed by Clay and Jake, who still leaned against the pine tree. He looked almost unconscious, but Clay heard him counting.
“…fourteen, fifteen. You and me, seventeen. There was twenty of us.”
“I’ve been watching for stragglers,” Clay said.
“Don’t think they straggled,” Jake said. “I think they got the same idea Oakland did, ’cept they didn’t ask. They went.”
“Fuck.”
“Yep. Let’s get up there and find a spot.”
The two men walked side by side up the hill, neither of them saying out loud what they both worried about. That right now, some dumb ass replacement was drinking schnapps with a nice English-speaking German, probably smoking cigarettes in a warm house somewhere, safe behind the lines. Behind enemy lines. And telling him all about their escape, and how there was still a bunch of them out there, stumbling around in the dark, a bunch of saps, not like him. He was smart, alive, warm, and in his need to explain himself, excuse himself, he’d make them part of his story. And the German would agree, Ja, you are smart, you did the right thing. Then somebody would leave the room and give the signal for a search to start for twenty or so Amis who were too stupid to give up. They’d smoke a few more cigarettes until they got everything out of him they needed, then they’d throw him in a barbed wire cage and bring in the next smart guy, who’d be surprised at how nice the Krauts were and probably end up telling them the same story, about those dumb fucks wandering around out there, trying to get back to their lines. Trying to get home.
The big dugout was impressive. Wood plank roof, covered in dirt with pine boughs and rocks on top. One entrance at the rear, a narrow trench leading to an actual door, a wood frame fit into the cut earth. Inside, ten G.I.s were crammed in, body heat already building up as they lay next to each other on the soft hay. Wood boards were nailed to the supports. It looked like an underground room, but it smelled like a barn that needed mucking out. It was damp and musty, earth and hay soaking up the odors of the former and current occupants and filling the air with a sour smell, maybe cabbage or sweat, it was hard to tell. You couldn’t stand up straight, but if you bent over or got down on your knees you could get around. A narrow firing slit with a view out towards the open fields ahead ran the length of the dugout. No one else looked out, but Clay and Jake at the door exchanged glances. A silent fuck passed between them. It was obvious this was a good position, and it was obvious why it had been shelled. And why it might be shelled again, for good measure. It was a hay-lined death trap, and either American 155mm shells or a German heavy weapons platoon would come calling sooner or later.
“Keep it quiet in here,” Jake said. “We gotta move out soon as it’s light.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Head down, he pushed the door open and squeezed out. He watched as the other men split into pairs and went into foxholes. They were as elaborate, a thick roof of pine logs, with a rear trench leading to a hole that was covered by a blanket nailed to the logs. Hay-lined and wood planks inside too. Behind the main dugout was a firing pit that had been covered by camouflage netting strung up on poles and tied off to tree limbs. White fabric was pulled through the netting, moonlight gleaming off it. It was ripped and torn, flapping back and forth with the low winds.
“That’s what I saw, Jake,” Shorty said. “That fabric, it was moving and all lit up by the moon, and it was too even. I knew it had to be netting, I knew it.”
“Nice job, Shorty, you saved our asses,” Jake said, looking down into the firing pit to avoid Shorty’s eyes. He didn’t want him to see the worry on his face as he enjoyed his find. Two large mortars were twisted and blacked, the tubes bent from the explosions. Ammo must’ve gone off too, there were black gouges in the snow and bits of burned cloth that maybe had been uniforms. The snow was trampled where it wasn’t blown away, and wooden crates and other debris were scattered all around them. A blackened helmet with a hole in it, unrolled bandages, all signs of casualties and a quick pull-out.
“Look down here,” Clay said, nodding his head down to the ground in front of him. The snow was drifting back over the crater, but where the shell had hit was unmistakable. Right on top of a two-man foxhole. Pine logs were shattered and through the ruined roof were the churned up remains of two Germans. You could tell it was two only by the size of the hole and the fact that three hands were visible. Nothing else was in the right place or attached to anything. Blood had frozen them into a solid mass, clothing, helmets, bones and organs all waiting for the spring thaw. So convenient, dying in a small hole. Fill it in and pound down a marker. Foxhole, grave, it was all the same.
“We can’t stay here long,” Jake said, moving away, looking for an intact foxhole.
“Why not?” Shorty said, as if his feelings were hurt that his discovery was less than perfect. “We could wait…”
“Jake’s right,” Clay cut in. “Either the Krauts come back or this place gets hit again and it’s us they find in the ground up here. We gotta get a few hours sleep, but then we leave, soon as the sun’s up.”
“Okay fellas, okay. Shit.” Shorty dropped his head and went off to help Tuck clear out a foxhole. Big Ned and Miller came over to them with something wrapped under their arms.
“We found three overcoats,” Big Ned whispered. “Miller did, actually. Not enough to go around, but you could use them as blankets.” He handed Jake a rolled up German greatcoat, then went over to Tuck and Shorty and gave them theirs. Miller stood there, a big grin on his face. It was as if Big Ned had tousled his hair after he caught a fly ball on a warm spring day. He’d done good, done good for his buddies, and Clay could see that thought light up his face.
“Thanks, Miller,” Clay said, “you don’t have a bad pair of eyes yourself.”
“Thanks. They’re all a little bloody, but your coat’s
an officer’s, Clay.”
Clay laughed and turned away as Miller chased after Big Ned, still smiling. It was strange how in the middle of this nightmare, normal thoughts and feelings still stood their ground. Like the odd look on Jake’s face, or Miller being so happy at finding three dead men’s coats. Little things that shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t even register in this deep dark cold night. But here they are, as real as if he were back in basic, or back home at a barbeque. Miller wanting to be one of the guys, to prove to them and himself that he was better than the fear that grabbed him and sent his legs running the other day. Jake needing something too, his eyes drifting toward something neither of them could see. Clay had no idea what it was or how Oakland figured in. Maybe Oakland had something Jake wanted, but what could that be?
Clay stood at the trench leading to the hole Jake had crawled into. He looked around, checking to be sure everyone had a spot and that things were quiet. Soft grunts and the rustling of hay, clothing and gear rose up from the ground all around him. Signs of life under the snow, reminding him of late winter back home, when you could feel the plants and roots underground, waking up, getting ready to emerge. The thought was soothing, and it dredged up from the depths of his mind the memory of when he first understood that everything comes back in the spring, nothing really ever died. He had been, what, six years old maybe? He could feel his hand grasping the branch of a bush growing by the front porch, rubbing his fingers against the buds bursting out, understanding that they could grow and bloom and die and come back again. It had seemed wondrous, a silent secret revealed to him alone. Looking back at the two Germans frozen in that hole, he wondered if they’d ever thought about that, and what might creep out of the soil in a few months and further bind them to the earth.
Above ground, it was silent, and Clay looked at the coat in his hands in the full moonlight. The collar was ripped, but the silver stitching was intact. Two sharp angled slashes like lightning bolts. SS.
Fuck.
Inside the hole there wasn’t much light. Clay fixed the blanket as tight as he could behind him and reached out his hand. He felt Jake’s leg and moved to the opposite side, his head by Jake’s feet. The pine logs extended out over the firing slit, blocking most of the moon’s light. Clay moved by touch and settled in. With his head propped up against one end of the hole, he stretched out his legs so they were touching the other end, next to Jake’s head.
“There’s bad news, bad news, and good news,” Clay said.
“Save the good news for last.”
“Okay. Bad news is that the guy who wore this jacket was SS.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jake whispered. “And the bad news?”
“We don’t have any extra socks. We both left our musette bags back at that house.” Clay heard a groan and a half laugh. The groan was real, a pained sound pulled deep from Jake’s throat. The laugh died in his mouth, but even so, Jake said what was expected of him.
“Sure glad there’s good news.”
“The good news,” Clay said, “is that there’s no more bad news.”
They both laughed a bit, the completion of the set up and the punch line relaxing the tension. It was an old joke, an old routine. There never was good news, only an end to the bad. They had said it dozens of times before, maybe more, it was always the same, and they always laughed. But what really gave them comfort was that they’d said it so many times before, and here they were saying it again, which meant that one day they’d be somewhere else, out of this situation, one of them saying sure glad there’s good news, in another place, another time. But this bad news was really bad. No fresh socks, and their feet were cold and soaked in sweat. The shoepacs they wore were waterproof, but they kept the moisture in, and after a long cold day and night, their feet were sweaty, damp and freezing. Trenchfoot became a real possibility, and they needed their feet. Trenchfoot out here was death, or a POW camp at best.
“Red was right about pockets,” Clay said as he began to unlace his boots. Red never carried a pack. Everything he needed was stuffed in pockets. Shirt pockets, fatigue pants pockets, wool pants pockets, field jacket pockets, overcoat pockets, plenty of pockets. On their legs, arms, chest, everywhere. Red believed in having everything on him, so when he had to haul ass fast he only had to worry about his rifle and his helmet. On your head and in your hand, then run like hell. Extra socks were the most important item of clothing to have, and a lot of guys carried them in a musette bag slung over their shoulders, keeping their pockets bulging with ammo, first aid gear, grenades. Others, like Red, put everything in their pockets. It made it harder to sleep with so many stuffed pockets on all sides, but Clay had to admit, Red had been right. His and Jake’s musette bags were on the floor in a back room at the house, and there had been no going back when the shooting started. Krauts were wearing their socks now.
Clay got both boots off and placed them between his legs. He peeled off the damp wool socks and squeezed them, coaxing moisture out as best he could. He could feel Jake moving, doing the same thing. There was only one way to dry socks outdoors in the cold, with no fire. Use your own heat. Clay unbuttoned his coat, his jacket, his shirt, pulled up his wool sweater, and unbuttoned his long johns. He placed the socks on his chest, shivering at the cold damp feel of the wool against his skin. He pulled the sweater down and waited. His feet felt like heavy frozen pieces of meat. They had to dry too, and they were too wet and cold to go back into the boots.
“Ready?” Jake whispered.
“Yeah.”
They moved so they lay directly across from each other. Clay felt for Jake’s bare feet, pulling them up under his clothes, shuddering at the icy cold feel of them as he buttoned up as best he could and pulled his sweater down tight. His own bare feet went under Jake’s clothes, next to his ribs, tucked up as far under his armpits as they could go. He felt Jake shiver as he clamped his arms down as best he could, giving Jake’s icy feet all the warmth he had to spare. With no chance of a fire, it was the only way to dry socks and warm feet. Using your own precious warmth to evaporate the dampness in the socks and your buddy’s warmth to keep your feet from freezing. What you lost at one end you gained at the other.
Clay spread the German overcoat out over them, covering their legs and the boots they had tucked in between them. By first light the socks would be dry and warm, and their feet would emerge from under each other’s clothing feeling like they had been under a down comforter. This was almost good news.
“You okay?” Clay asked. There was a long silence.
“Can’t stop thinking about things back home.” Clay waited after Jake spoke. He could tell something was bothering him, and Jake didn’t usually talk much about his family.
“Funny,” Clay said, “I was thinking before about how little things can still eat at a guy, even out here, going through all this shit. You’d think it would just drive everything else out of your mind. But it doesn’t.”
“You thinking about home too?”
“Yeah,” Clay said, after a moment’s thought. “I guess I always am one way or the other. Thinking about what was, what coulda been. Just remembering people, can’t help it. They drift in and out of my mind all the time. Like visitors.”
“Some visitors you’re glad to see go,” Jake said. Clay could feel Jake’s legs quiver as the cold sent his body into another round of shivering.
“What’s eatin’ at you, Jake?” More shivering, as Clay tried to keep his arms clamped down, giving Jake all the warmth he could. He waited, but Jake didn’t answer him. Maybe he was asleep, maybe he just plain couldn’t talk about it. Clay let his mind drift, listening for noises outside. If he concentrated he could hear the pine branches rustle in the wind, but nothing else. Good news. For the first time since the Germans attacked the house, he could feel his body relax. He felt it in his thighs, then his stomach. His body seemed to melt into the hay, and even the feel of Jake’s cold feet in his armpits didn’t bother him. His own feet felt like they were tucked in un
der the covers, and an image of his mother leaning over his bed flitted through his mind. A visitor. He could feel himself falling asleep, falling, down, down, into a dark safe place, swathed in soft hay. He hoped his mother would visit him as he dreamt. He saw his family in his dreams, enough to keep the memory of their faces fresh in his mind. They’d be sitting at the kitchen table, playing cards or drinking coffee, and he’d look up at his father, suddenly realizing he was supposed to be dead. But there he was, taking high, low and jack as they played Pitch. The dream always ended as soon as he realized his father, mother, brother were dead. For just a split second, he’d look right into their eyes, and really see them again. If could just stay with the dream a few seconds longer, they might say something important to him, share a secret, tell him it was all right where they were. Or that’d it be all right where he was.
“You asleep, Clay?” Jake’s question brought him out of that long fall into sleep.
“Just about,” Clay said.
“SS,” Jake said. “That really is bad news.”
“Yeah,” said Clay, struggling to open his eyes. “Probably that’s who hit us at the house.”
“Yeah, the way they kept coming on. Yeah, probably. Rock and a hard place is what we got here. Could be them or our own artillery waking us up.”
“Yeah,” said Clay, closing his eyes. “Could be.” So instead of falling asleep with images of his family in his dreams like old fading photographs, Clay was left with visions of SS troopers sneaking up the hill, hearing their grunt and snores. Bad news.
“Yeah,” said Jake, hoping to keep the conversation going, but he could hear Clay breathing heavy and he knew he was asleep. Sleep should’ve come easy to Jake, but it didn’t. His mind raced between his hometown in Pennsylvania and everywhere else, thinking of where he could go after the war instead of there. Maybe he’d visit Clay in Tennessee, look for a job, settle down there. Let his folks think he died—but they’d know he didn’t. No telegram with the War Department’s regrets.