by Piers Platt
Waiting
It is cool, in that early summer morning lull before the cicadas are out, and we sit in the green-painted lean-to, shading our eyes to better see the caddy master’s hut just off the first tee. We sit in various positions of unease, the hard wooden bench forcing our backs upright.
John’s got The Herald, and it rustles crisply as he turns each page, folding it over onto its neighbors. He sips hot coffee, and shares a donut with another experienced caddy, the one who always smokes cigars between rounds. Sonny is chatting away with the bag boys as usual, as they hide in the pro shop behind their clean white towels and ivied brick walls. Paul squelches out some SPF 15 and offers me a dab, but I decline; I’m already lathered up. The sparrows have already started chirping at us for breadcrumbs, but today, no one’s feeling generous. Someone gets up suddenly, his feet crunching in the dusty gravel, as he jogs painfully over the caddy master hut. He comes back empty-handed, his verdict: “I’ll get you out before ten.” There are grumbles as always, and someone leaves to catch the bus back to Cleveland Circle, disappointed. The rest of us settle back in, fiddling with old tees and divot tools and staring at the empty parking lot, and the rolling fairways beyond.
A movement catches my eye; Derek the caddy master is leaving his hut. He shuts the door quickly and waddles briskly towards us. The newer caddies straighten up and hold their breath, but the veterans among us know it is false hope: no cars means no players, and no bags. Derek disappears purposefully into the pro shop, and an audible sigh escapes some weary lips.
“Man, I’ve been here since 7:30 …”
A smooth, sleek convertible eases around the club house and purrs into a space next to the bag racks. This time, everyone on the bench straightens up. Eager eyes watch hungrily as several bags exit the trunk – Ping bags: lightweight, with padded straps and kick-stands, easy on caddies and a sure sign of good golfers, whose low handicaps will keep the round short and sweet. The bags lean expectantly on the old wooden rack. The players set off for Derek’s hut, and he dutifully emerges from the den of the pro shop with a laugh and a quick retort to one of the bag boys. He calls after the players and they turn, spikes slipping uneasily on the tarmac. They have a brief conversation, and disappear into the locker rooms. Derek saunters back towards his hut, and the bench is now alive, humming with a tension previously unimagined. Caddy smocks and slipped over heads and cinched into place. Sneakers are re-laced. Someone takes a last gulp of their soda and then rims the can off the trash can, hurriedly chasing after it to throw it away. The boyish camaraderie of the bench is gone. There is nervousness now in our shuffling feet, an awkward, competitive apprehension that fills the tiny green shack and seems to lift it, hovering, waiting in the humid morning air.
Again, the caddy master emerges from his tiny throne room, and this time we know it will be us he approaches. The parking lot seems miles wide, and Derek seems to take an eternity with each arrogant step. At last, he stops below us, gripping his awful clipboard and surveying each of us in turn, as if weighing our very souls. The nervous shifting has ceased, and in the utter silence a sparrow takes to the air, each fluttering wing beat pronounced with precision. Derek studies his clipboard again, then gives us a final once over. He drops the clipboard to his side, raising his other arm, finger out-stretched in a painfully slow point. The finger wavers, his great mouth opens to speak: just one word, one name …
Ambushing Tigers
The Sherman tank was hidden under a makeshift camouflage of leaves and branches torn from a nearby orchard, but the midday sun beat down on the turret all the same, heating the tank and causing the four men inside to sweat through their uniforms. The Lieutenant took another swig from his canteen, carefully replacing it at his feet without making a noise. The gunner, Jameson, shrugged his shoulders and rolled his head to stretch his neck, then went back to peering out his telescopic sight.
“Let me know as soon as you see one, Jameson.” The Lieutenant whispered for the third time. Jameson nodded. Carter picked his head off of the gun’s breech to check that his reloading station was ready for combat, and then wiped the sweat from his head off of the breech with an oily rag. He spat on the floor of the vehicle, smearing it with the toe of his boot. The air in the tank was stale and heavy with the turret hatch closed for action, and smelled of oil and body odor. After three weeks in Normandy, none of them noticed anymore, or cared when someone had to take a piss in an empty canteen instead of dismounting to use a tree.
“Fuckin’ clouds,” that was Reynolds, who sat in the driver’s seat.
The Lieutenant shushed him, but agreed with the sentiment – low cloud cover meant the fighter-bombers couldn’t support them in the coming fight. And there would be a fight, they were all sure of that. Reconnaissance planes had spotted a Panzer column moving north towards their position just before the clouds set in, and rumor in the platoon had it that it was the 12th SS Panzer division, those hated Hitler Youth troops which had so badly battered the first Allied armor units ashore.
The Lieutenant strained his ears for the rumble of approaching treads, but all he could hear through the tank’s viewing slits were a few afternoon birds and the occasional breeze through the leaves of the tree above them. He hadn’t seen anything on the road since a cat had ran across a half hour ago. He glanced back down at the enemy vehicle identification book in his lap, flipping through the pages … Panzer Mk IV, Panzer Mk V … Jesus, they’re big. He wished he could see the other tanks in his platoon, two to his right across the road, and one on his left, forming a line perpendicular to the road between them. Not that it would do any good to be able to see the other tanks really, but it would have been comforting at least. His platoon sergeant was probably smoking and taking a nap over in his tank, while he just sweated and made his men more nervous.
“Sir …” it was Reynolds again, but he had already heard it himself – the unmistakable rumble and squeak of tracked vehicles.
He brought his binoculars up quickly, scanning the bend in the road a half-mile away. Where are they? It was the waiting that was killing him; these two hours of anticipation had been excruciating. What about the boys who went in on D-Day? They had two months of waiting before they went in. He shuddered at the thought, and then froze. A Panzer had rounded the bend and begun heading for his position. The well-trained officer in him logged it as a Mk V Tiger, the largest German tank, but the rest of his mind could only note the massive bulk of the vehicle, its gray armored sides sloping away from the turret and its lethal main gun. He sucked in a breath: It’s twice the size of our Sherman …
Reynolds shifted uneasily in his seat, and shot the Lieutenant a look of disbelief over his shoulder, who nodded, tight-lipped.
“Steady boys. We’ll get the drop on them, don’t worry.” Please, let there be just one, he added silently.
“Another one,” Jameson hissed.
Carter cursed. They waited, breath held as the two tanks closed on their position, all eyes focused on the bend in the road, willing it to remain empty. The Panzers continued their steady pace forward. At last, the Lieutenant sighed.
“Just two. There’s just two.”
It was cold comfort, and they all knew it. Back in England the North Africa campaign veterans who had briefed them on German capabilities had matter-of-factly spelled out the Germans’ superior speed, armor, and guns. What did they say? Four, sometimes five Shermans to take out one Tiger? And I have only four against two of them.
“Jameson, be ready to traverse the gun on my command. Not a twitch until they get past our position.”
“Yessir.”
“Make ‘em count too, just like the boys from Baker Company said – in the rear of the turret or it’s just going to bounce right off. Reynolds, once the firing starts, you stay right up their asses the whole time, don’t let them get that thick frontal armor around.”
The Panzers were closing fast now, though the rear one was mostly obscured by the lead tank. The Lieutenant could see an
officer in the turret of the lead tank, checking a map as his vehicle drove on. Check the map. Check the map. Don’t look up the road at us …
They had spent the better part of an hour camouflaging the tanks, walking up the road from the bend to ensure they were well hidden from the enemy’s perspective. If they see us, it’ll be over before it’s even begun.
He thought back to a few months ago, walking to the bus stop in his new uniform on his last leave before shipping out. He had been scared even then, anxious and excited and proud all at the same time, the future threateningly ripe, full of potential and danger. But it didn’t compare at all to this moment, the waiting and the uncertainty. He was plagued with doubts as the seconds rolled slowly by, wondering if he would stand up to the challenge, whether he would fail, whether he would lead his men into victory, or whether he would die, or worse, get his men killed.
He shook his head, wiping his brow and taking a deep, ragged breath. He hoped his men hadn’t noticed. And suddenly, the Panzers were there, right on his position and rumbling past, his whole world trembling inside the tank as the enormous machines shook the ground beneath them. He caught a glimpse of the second tank’s commander leaning out of his turret – he seemed incredibly young, in a tattered black SS uniform which looked to be several sizes too large. Then it, too, passed out of his view and into their rear. The Lieutenant waited a second.
“Traverse!”
Jameson’s hand leapt to the controls and the turret began swiveling with what seemed to them all an excruciating amount of noise.
“Quickly, damn it!”
Surely they must have heard that. They’re turning around now, taking aim on us …
The turret came around smoothly, and the Lieutenant saw leaves falling off the Sergeant’s tank across the road as his tank mirrored their own actions. As the turret completed its 180-degree rotation, the rear German tank swung back into view. It was still driving down the road, oblivious to the danger it had driven through. The Lieutenant saw the young officer flick his cigarette off into the hedgerow, leaning down to yell something into the hatch to his crew below.
“Jameson?”
“Almost. Tracking … lined up!”
“Fire!”
Salem Noir
Author’s note: this story was inspired by the Salem Witch Trials.
The name’s Braeburn – Judge Braeburn. I’m a private eye and a judge in my spare time. I was practicing drawing my Bible out of my hip-holster and nursing a flask of whiskey one day when my secretary came in and said she had a job waiting for me in the front office. I was all ears.
“Courier from Salem just come in, sir,” she said, as I unsuccessfully tried to hide my flask inside my Bible. “Says the whole town’s gone crazy with witchin’ and the Devil and all, sir. Says he’d be right pleased if you would come and clear up the mess, sir.”
I thought about this for a moment. A man’s gotta take his time in life, and not rush into anything. All the same, I was low on cash, and my whiskey habit didn’t help.
“Tell him I’ll come as soon as possible,” I told her, motioning her back out.
After she had left, I holstered my Bible, pocketed the flask, and pulled on my hat. Throwing on an overcoat, I shut the door to my office, bid my secretary a good evening, and headed out onto the street. It was a bitterly cold night, and the cobbled streets of Boston shone in the torchlight as a fine, damp drizzle spattered down around me. I turned up my collar and jammed my hands deep in my pockets, ducking into an alley and heading for the city proper. I soon caught a cab heading for Salem, but it was jammed with farmers headed home after market, and I had to wedge myself between two portly gentlemen stinking of manure. Just my luck.
As the cab rumbled along, I reviewed what I knew of the case. My secretary had been brief as always (that’s why I hired the dame), and there hadn’t been too many facts. Girls had been caught running and dancing in the forest at night, obviously bewitched. So there was a witch up in Salem. Catching that witch wouldn’t be easy – it was going to mean ruffling some feathers, likely. I hadn’t had any experience with witches before, but I knew they could do some pretty wild stuff. My first move would be to question the girls, and see if they had any dirt on the witch who nailed them. The carriage suddenly slammed to a halt, throwing me into the arms of a sleeping farmer. I untangled myself, brushed the hay off my coat, and swung open the carriage door.
Apparently, Salem gets worse weather than Boston. The wind was whipping sheets of rain through a huddled cluster of buildings which had to be Main Street, Salem. As the carriage clattered away, I took a good look at the town. It didn’t take long. Salem had six buildings in town, five of which were drab wooden houses. The sixth was obviously the church / meeting house. I set off towards it.
At the door I gave several loud knocks, shivering uncontrollably. Then I remembered my warm pocket friend, and took him out for a quick chat. We were getting into a heated argument when a priest pried the door open and faced me with a frown.
“Private Eye Judge Braeburn at your service, sir,” I said, hastily pocketing my friend.
“You’re Judge Braeburn?”
“The very same that you sent for. Mind if I come in?”
“I … I’m glad you could make it,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise.
He stepped aside and I made my way into the foyer, handing him my business card before shrugging my overcoat off and hanging it up to dry.
“Now then,” I said, “to get down to business. I charge five pounds a day flat rate, plus overtime if the surveillance schedule or detective work requires it.”
He seemed slightly stunned, and I was about to offer him some whiskey, when he finally blurted out, “But we don’t need any ‘detective work,’ sir, just a judge for the court.”
Damn! Seems they’d already found the witch – there goes my capture and conviction bonus. Well, beggars can’t be choosers.
“Then you’ve come to the right man, Mister …?”
“Wilkins. Reverend Wilkins, if you please.”
I could see he wasn’t going to make this job any easier, but hey – I’m an easy kind of guy.
“Is there anywhere I could stay overnight? I assume the trial doesn’t begin now,” I said, giving him my best smile.
He didn’t laugh. I was about to ask him if he was the life of the party in town when he ushered me into an antechamber where a cot had been set up, and told me that the outhouse was (where else?) outside. I resigned myself to a long night. After he had left, I went over my plan for the trial. The goal was to eke it out as long as possible, extending my fee, but at the same time, not overburdening myself. Yeah, it would be tricky, and judging’s not my strong suit, but if the good Reverend was any indication, these bumpkins wouldn’t be too much of a challenge. While I was here, I could probably find a little time for ladies, check out the local tavern … heck, while I was at it I might as well see if I could rustle up a poker game or two, see if these country folks could spot a bottom dealer. I settled back onto the cot, hands behind my head. Yeah, this little Salem excursion wouldn’t turn out so bad after all …
The Investigation
“Tape recorder on. Paranormal Investigators, Limited investigation log for case number 87, on behalf of Century 21 Real Estate. Residence at 34 Wellwood Drive, Millbury. We’re all set.”
The tape recorder picked up the sounds of the woman stepping out of the van and into the night air. Her partner shut the door behind her and settled into his chair, scanning the bank of monitors and instruments in front of him.
“Ok, radio check. Laura? Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, Jim. I have a bad feeling about this one.”
“Oh please. You say that every time.” He flipped on the coffee machine.
“Yeah, but this time I’m not just pulling your leg.”
“Hey, you’re the one who has to go in there, you make the call.”
“I’m going in, I’m just saying …”
“I know, I know.”
“Okay.” Deep breath. “Okay. Watch my back.”
“Always. All of the sensors are giving good readings, no indications as yet.”
“I’m at the front door.”
“I have you on camera 2. You’re all clear.”
“Going in.”
“…”
“Talk to me Jim, you know I don’t like quiet.”
“Sorry, just checking something. One of the sensors in the basement was flipping out on me, but it’s gotta be a loose connection. It’s fine now. Still no signs of activity anywhere in the house.”
He looked over at the coffee machine, but the light was out. Hadn’t he turned it on? He flipped the switch again.
“Let’s go over the file again, Jim.”
“Hold on … here it is. I’ll read it to you. Let me know if you feel anything and I’ll shut up.”
“I’m getting a weird feeling. Something definitely wrong about this place, and something doesn’t like the fact that I’m here. Nothing more definite than that, though. Certainly no contact.” The screens in the van flickered. The man hit the side of one monitor. Fucking wiring.
“Okay, Laura. Just let me know if you get something. Here’s what we have. House was built in 1953, no reports until the suicide in ‘93. Since then, 7 families have lived there, each one moving out within 3 months. Reports of paranormal activity vary, but we classified it as a likely poltergeist. Most of the serious activity was focused against the male inhabitants of the house, for some reason. All the reports show a clear escalation in activity over time … wait, here it is … the last two families both moved out in under a week. This one has serious malevolent tendencies.”
“I’m in the living room, nothing new. Is this furniture from the last family?”
“Yeah … I think so. An older couple, actually. Century 21 said they were in a real hurry to get out, left everything but their toothbrushes. The local moving company refuses to service the house anymore, real estate folks are trying to find someone else to move it all out.”