Table of Contents
TEN
NOT JOHNNY!
Click.
The lead weights that pulled down my eyelids dropped, and my eyes flew open. I lay on a heap of straw in the basement of a German row house, waiting for slumber to suffocate the ghastliness of the day’s events. I held my breath and heard rapid, ragged breathing.
“Johnny,” I said sternly, “put it down.”
For my friend, Johnny Snarr, there was no optimism. Each day his eyes became duller, his despondency more perceptible, his behavior more erratic. And now the click of a .45 in the darkness betrayed his consideration of a final solution.
“We’ve come too far to be giving up now, Johnny,” I addressed the blackness. “Now’s no time to be taking the easy way out. We depend on you. I depend on you. Maggie and that little girl of yours are depending on you to come back home safely. That little curly-head can’t wait to see the daddy she’s heard about, but can’t remember. It wouldn’t be fair to her.” I stopped, praying that my only reply wouldn’t be the sharp report of a pistol.
“If you’re going to pull that trigger, Johnny, you’d better first come over and put a bullet through my heart, because that’s exactly what you’d be doing. You’re my brother, Johnny. The only brother I’ve ever known.” My own candid words clogged my throat. War puts a hair trigger on a man’s emotions.
“Put it away!” I pleaded, my voice husky. I steeled myself for the shot I hoped I wouldn’t hear.
Bang!
My ears rang. My heart raced. I heard bits of stone and mortar trickle onto the basement floor. And a nervous giggle.
“Oops!” a quiet voice said sheepishly.
“Damn you son of a bitch!” I exploded in relief. A sob tripped over a laugh and escaped my mouth as a cough. “I—I,” I blustered, not knowing whether to fillet him alive or laugh. “Aw, shit!” I laughed uncontrollably through tears. “I oughta have you court-martialed!”
I could hear Johnny laughing and sniffling over on his heap. “Whew!” Johnny caught his breath. “This war is gonna be the end of me.”
“Maybe,” I said, seriously now. “Maybe it’ll be the end of us all.”
I settled back down in my straw heap and tried to calm my mind. I knew what Johnny felt. Without a doubt, many GIs, after a day of seeing old friends blown to shreds, had sat in a foxhole at night, bit down on cold metal, and teased the trigger. I had. Bit by bit, we were all losing our sanity. I just hoped the war ended before mine ran out. And as much as I hated to, I decided that maybe I should send Johnny home before his did, too.
“If you want, you can go home tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll see to it that there’s no disciplinary action.”
“No!” came the swift response. “If I go home alive, I go home with my head held high,” he stated emphatically. A man’s pride is a holy thing to trample.
“Well, if you want to, you just say the word,” I conceded.
“Uh-huh,” he said, but he sounded distrait, and our conversation ended.
“Oh, Shenandoah,” I heard him sing to himself. “Hmm-hmm hmm-hmm-hmm.”
~~~
The stiff resistance we’d faced when we’d entered Germany began to weaken. The emaciated skeleton the German army had become was beginning to falter beneath the weight of the Allied forces.
In February we participated in a successful offensive across the Cologne Plain. Though enemy opposition was muted and casualties were limited, several events occurred during this time that, at least for me, made them the most tragic days of the war.
~~~
“I need to get wounded,” Johnny told me confidentially.
“What?” I turned my head, disbelieving my ears.
“I need to get wounded,” he repeated seriously.
We had just finished capturing another little German village without firing a shot and were walking on toward the next one just a mile down the road. The dominoes were falling, and we could begin feeling the winds of momentum at our backs.
I laughed. “Why get wounded now, when things are getting easy? You’re the only D-Day veteran in the platoon that hasn’t gotten hit,” I chided.
“That’s the whole problem,” he told me with the wide-eyed earnestness of a child. “Everyone but me has been hit at least once.” He studied me to see if I caught his drift. “Robert,” he lowered his voice, “once I catch it . . . it’s gonna be bad.”
It was common for soldiers to think that way. Many men seemed to believe remaining unwounded was like a poison in the blood; without occasional bloodletting, the toxic buildup would kill them. To many, getting wounded was the surest inoculation for death.
“So what, do you want me to shoot you in the leg or something?” I asked lightly.
“I don’t know,” he replied thoughtfully. “Maybe.” The look on his face betrayed his serious consideration of that option.
“Don’t be stupid,” I told him. “Not now. I can see the light at the top of the well. We’ll be home before you know it.” I gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.
“Now, stop your moping and have a cigarette,” I handed him a Lucky Strike.
He didn’t mention it again. But the droop of his countenance betrayed the weight that hung heavy on his mind. We continued walking in silence. Johnny spoke again, but I didn’t get the feeling he was talking to me. It felt more like I was eavesdropping on his thoughts.
“I remember when Maggie and I were young. Her pa thought she was too young to court, so we always met in secret, down by the creek, under a big ol’ maple tree.”
I waited for him to continue the story, but he said no more. He walked along in his own world, a little smile playing on his lips. I realized he had just told me a story. A beautiful story. A precious memory that was dear to his heart and needed no further explanation.
~~~
A thin wind blew through our threadbare pant legs on a soggy afternoon. The sun attempted to slip a few rays through the clouds that had blanketed the sky for days.
We were wet, cold, hungry, and eager to dry off and eat some hot food as we walked toward a large two-story farmhouse we hoped would offer the food and shelter we sought. A farmhouse was usually a reliable source of bread, cheese, wine, eggs, and when desired, fresh meat, so it was with some keenness I led the men through the gate and up the lane.
Today, however, we weren’t the first scavengers on the carcass. Small arms fire spattered at us from an upstairs window.
“To the wall!” I yelled as I returned fire. I walked backward, firing all the while, hoping to keep the shooter down until the men had retreated behind the stone wall that ran around the perimeter of the yard. When my back touched the cold, wet stone, I threw myself over, landing with a thump on Dick’s legs.
“Ow!” he grimaced.
“Is everyone alright?” I asked. The men nodded.
“Good!” I said, and picked up a twig to draw up a plan of attack in the mud.
“No!” Johnny shouted, jumping wildly to his feet. A bullet whined off the top of the wall, spraying us with fragments. He looked around his feet, panic in his eyes, and leapt back over the wall.
“Johnny, get back!” I yelled, peering over the wall. In the dissipating light I could see two muzzle flashes from the top of the old farmhouse.
Johnny zigzagged frantically back and forth like an excited beagle hot on a rabbit scent, oblivious to the bullets that splattered in the slop around him. I began returning fire, and the other men rested their weapons on top of the wall and opened fire as well.
“Keep firing!” I ordered, as we cowed the two would-be assassins with a barrage of lead.
“Johnny!” I screamed at him. He fell to his hands and knees and I thought he was hit, but he began clawing through the slush and mud. He picked something up and raised it triumphantly over his head as he charged 50 yards back toward the wall. His lucky shell had been lost and was found. Johnny flopped over the wall headfirst, doing a somersault and landing on his back.
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br /> We ducked back behind the wall. I stared at Johnny dumbly as he held the dirty casing up between his fingers. He turned it upside down and tapped the end, letting the water and mud drip out of it. He wiped it with his sleeve, and once the mud was gone, he polished it, almost caressed it, with a hanky. His lips moved faintly as though he was whispering tenderly to a lover. Private Haney stared incredulously at him. Dick and Leroy, the veterans of D-Day, just averted their eyes. They had watched this scene before. All that changed was times, and players, and settings.
“Robert?” Johnny said, not taking his eyes off the piece of brass in his hands.
“Yes?” I replied hesitantly. He stroked the casing with the tips of his thumb and fingers.
“When I die, promise me you’ll give this to Maggie,” he said. His voice was flat and lifeless.
My mind quickly searched for a rebuttal to his assumption that he would die. I prepared to deliver one of my stand-by pep talks I kept handy for situations like that. The words came, but the conviction to roll them off the tip of my tongue did not. Johnny walked a treacherous road now, a path so dark words had no power to fortify the heart and nourish the spirit. And so I sat, speechless.
Still awaiting my response, he turned his head and looked at me with empty eyes. I gave a nod of agreement. I peered into his eyes, those portals to the soul, and almost cried out. The Johnny I had known was gone.
As the light fled before darkness, we moved quickly to remove whatever threat still remained in the house. Fortunately for us, fate dealt us a lucky hand, and the two shooters in the second-story windows had fallen victim in our little skirmish. A third soldier attempted to escape out the back door, but was cut down quickly by my men.
After posting two men at both the front and the back doors, I cautiously entered the front door and followed my M1 into the kitchen. I held up my hand to signal my men to stop. I motioned for two men to go upstairs, and Dick and I split up and began searching the main floor for stragglers.
“Nein, schiess nicht!” I heard a male voice shout excitedly in German.
Running back to the kitchen, I saw Dick standing there with his barrel pointed down into the cellar. I peered down into the dimness, and in the light of a candle he held, could make out the fear-stricken faces of a stout German farmer, his middle-aged wife, and their 11 or 12-year-old daughter.
“Wir sind nicht Nazis!” the woman assured us emphatically.
“Of course not,” Dick said sarcastically. Everyone we met claimed they weren’t Nazi supporters. It was uncanny, no matter where we went, we were told the neighborhood Nazi had just skipped town but moments before we showed up. After encountering such a dearth of Nazi supporters, Leroy once mused it was a wonder how Hitler had been able to conquer most of Europe with only a handful of followers.
“Come,” I motioned to the cowering trio with my hand, and they hesitantly climbed out of the cellar. Dick relieved the trembling farmer of the candle and went down into the cellar, emerging with a loaf of bread in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. I heard the carefree clomp of boots on the stairway, and laughter and chatter, indicating to me that the upstairs was through being searched.
“Go tell Lowe and Haney they can come inside,” I told Dick. He nodded, took a big bite from the end of the loaf, had a swig of brandy, and set them both down on the table.
“Party time!” Leroy hollered, seeing the bottle of brandy on the kitchen table. He sat down at the end of the table and took a hearty drink. He set down the bottle heavily, wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve, looked at the German frau, and roared, “Where’s my supper, old woman!” He slurred as though he was drunk.
For one brief moment, I felt like I was eight years old, peering through the crack in my bedroom door, watching Moses throw a drunken fit at the kitchen table. Raucous laughter snapped me back to the present situation.
“Don’t just stand there, bitch!” he continued. Most of the men encouraged his clownish antics with laughter. I forced a thin smile.
“OK, enough, Leroy,” I said, seeing the fearful look on the housewife’s face.
“Here Sarge, have the last of the brandy!” Malone offered festively.
“No, thanks,” I declined, “go ahead.”
“Don’t mind if I do!” he replied, and eagerly guzzled down the last few mouthfuls.
“Hey, I hardly got a drop!” Private Bertram Lowe complained.
“Don’t worry, there’s four more bottles in the cellar,” Dick assured him.
“Whoo-hoo!” he whooped, and made a beeline for the cellar.
“Private Lowe!” I said sharply above the rising din. He fairly skidded to a stop.
“Yes, Sergeant Mattox?” he asked, almost timidly, as though he feared reprimand.
“One bottle of brandy will do for now,” I said.
“OK, sir,” he said, taking a few steps before stopping slowly and turning. “Um, Sergeant, did you mean I should only get one more bottle, or were you referring to the bottle we already drank?” he asked hesitantly.
I smiled. “The one you already drank, Bert.”
“Oh.”
“Aww!” a chorus of voices expressed their dismay.
“I said for now, boys. If I’m feeling generous I may allow another for nightcap,” I said, trying to placate their disappointment. I was highly averse to the idea of having my men and their weapons loaded at the same time.
Dick and I, both being farm boys, went outside and used our trench knives to slaughter several chickens for supper. The frau and her daughter were more than willing to cook supper for us. We were beginning to find that the role of conqueror carried with it the benefit of being able to easily make the conquered capitulate to our demands.
While supper was being cooked, we stood by the fire to dry out our uniforms, and listened to Bert lament unceasingly about how he’d been cheated out of his share of the brandy.
“I could really use a good, strong glass of brandy right now,” he’d sigh disappointedly. He was barely more than a child, and it showed.
I gave the farmer a package of cigarettes, which he thanked me profusely for, and his daughter’s eyes lit up when she shyly accepted some chocolate from Private Haney.
When supper was finally served, the room fell silent except for the clank and clatter of silverware, and the contented sighs of hungry men. I shoveled down my first plate of food, by-passing my taste buds entirely and delivering it straight to my impatient stomach, all the while marveling at what culinary wizards the woman and her daughter were. I was well into my second plateful before I realized that the chicken was undercooked, the potatoes overdone, the gravy too thin, and the bread stale. It would not have passed for good cooking at home, but compared to cold K-rations, it was manna from the hands of angels.
After supper we sat around the fireplace and smoked. The men were in good spirits, except for Johnny, who sat off to the side by himself, ignoring their loud banter and boisterous laughter. He fingered his lucky shell and stared at the fire as though hypnotized. His eye twitched constantly as he rocked gently back and forth like an old man, his cigarette burning down near to his lips. I looked at him for a minute, trying to make eye contact. I thought maybe I could lighten his mind with a wink or a smile, but his mind was not in my world. I wanted to go over and talk to him, tell him his war was over tomorrow whether he wanted it to be or not. Let him know he had fought a hell of a good fight, and that he could go home to Maggie with his head held high. I wanted to tell him how much it ripped me up to see him like that, and how badly I wanted to see him become who he’d been once again. If I could only convince him the end was in sight and persuade him that his chances of survival were getting better and better. But it felt like a lost cause to reason with a mind that wasn’t there, so I just stared into the fire and felt sad.
“They didn’t even offer us their beds! And we’re the guests! We should make them sleep in the barn, and we can sleep in their beds. Damn Krauts!” Bill Potts exclaimed as th
e farmer and his family retreated upstairs to their bedrooms.
“We should fix bayonets and storm the master bedroom!” Don Malone joked.
“Yeah, that ain’t very hospitable!” Bert chimed in. “I could use a night in a nice soft bed! What do you think, Sergeant,” he asked me, “should we send the Nazi swine to the barn where they belong?”
Until that point I had just listened to the conversation like one listens to the cackle of chickens, so it took me a moment to divert my stream of thought to their conversation. I looked at him blankly for a second, processed his question and the preceding comments, and replied, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Aw! I could sure use a night in a nice soft bed!” he whined. He was beginning to sound like a pouting child again.
“There’s a nice feather bed in the spare room upstairs,” Leroy offered.
“I call dibs on that!” Bert said quickly.
I got up and took one last drag from my Lucky Strike. “Sorry, Bert, but someone beat you to it,” I told him.
“Damn it!” he cussed. “Who?”
I flicked the smoldering butt of my cigarette into the fire. “I don’t remember,” I furrowed my brow as though puzzled, “but I’m going to go up right now and make sure no one steals it from him,” I finished with a smile. Everyone laughed at the disappointed look on Bert’s face.
“Good night,” I said, stepping over Bill’s legs to get to the stairway. I noticed several fellows whispering to each other, like a couple of kids discussing which one should ask their father for ice cream money.
“Sergeant?” Haney called as I mounted the third step.
“Yes?” I stopped, turning my head and ducking down so I could see him.
“The brandy?” he asked hopefully.
“Ah, yes, the brandy,” I yawned. “The brandy.” I rubbed my forehead. Every face looked expectantly up at me.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 22