“It’s your story, Mac. You tell it,” said Taylor.
Mac wiped his eyes and between fits of snorting like a horse told how he had been covered in blood until Junior came up and wiped his face off and discovered the true cause. Several listeners joined in the guffawing.
“You’re laughing with me, right?” Mac managed to squeak out.
“Wish I’d been there, Mac. That must have been a sight,” said Red. “Got to go take a leak after that story.”
“We don’t know if we’re going to be here for an hour or a day. Anyone up to a game?” asked Mac.
“You still have all our money from the last game until the pay clerk finds us. How about something more physical?” Taylor asked.
“Like what — football, baseball?” asked Red.
“I was thinking baseball,” said Taylor. “To make it interesting, how about we borrow Cook’s animals and ride them from base to base? You know, Donkey Baseball. Have you heard of it?” Taylor glanced around the small group. Where do I get these ideas? Pops must have told me.
“That will make it kind of hard. Those stupid asses never do what they’re supposed to,” said Swampy, overhearing the conversation.
“That’s the idea,” said Taylor. “Come on, Mac. Let’s see if we can round up a couple.”
Cook could be as stubborn as his animals, but seeing it was Junior (who had come up with the beer-cooling idea), he relented. “Now don’t wear ’em out. We may still have a big march ahead of us today. They’re all that’s keeping youse men from starvin’ to death until we get a proper truck sent in to take over for them.”
Mac and Taylor made a mock salute to the cook as they pushed and pulled the reluctant animals, Max and Goering, to an open field. Cook donated three burlap bags full of some unknown staple, and the diamond was set up. Someone appeared with a bat, another with a worn glove and ball. Sides were chosen.
As the first batter readied himself, Max, his charge, was held to the right of home by a teammate and pointed in the correct direction after several attempts. After two strikes and two balls, a long hit was achieved, and the batter threw the bat, jumped on his steed, and proceeded to yell and kick the poor animal. Max refused to move, then sauntered out toward the pitcher’s mound. Much screaming, cheering, and cajoling finally persuaded Max to head toward first base. By this time, an outfielder had tossed the ball to the first-baseman, and he ran up and tagged the donkey and his man. More cheers and laughter filled the air. The game continued for an hour more. Taylor’s team finally had the first home run after Red hit the ball out of the field. With much pushing, Goering was finally dragged across home plate to win the game by one to nothing before the men were called to their units for orders.
Returning as fresh as if they’d had an afternoon rest instead of pushing dumb animals around a baseball diamond, the men paid heed to their sergeants. Cook, who had been watching the game with his assistant, came to take the bewildered animals back to their wagon for water and a deserved rest. He could be overheard whispering endearments into Max and Goering’s ears as he coaxed them back to his station.
“Our orders are for firearm practice so we don’t get rusty,” Sarge told his men. “We had extra ammo sent up so we’re to get to work immediately. Whitey, you take about six men over there and set up some targets for us. Ask Cook for some empty tin cans or find some other things to hit. Mac, start lining the men up several hundred feet from the targets. I’ll give the signal to start.”
“Aw, Sarge. We already know how to shoot. At least most of us. We spent hours at Aldershot doing just that,” said Swampy.
“This time, wear your gas mask and see how you do,” Sarge ordered.
Several men grumbled that they couldn’t see a thing with that frigging mask fogging up, but they toed the line when Sarge barked at them.
Lying prostrate, breathing heavily in her gas mask, Taylor raised her head to sight the targets. It was true. Her mask was all fogged up. None of the guys seemed to be able to hit anything, even Sharpshooter, who had been around guns all his life. Taylor removed the mask, wiped it off for about the third time, and put it on haphazardly, aimed, and shot. An empty bean can shot high into the sky.
“Now, that’s the kind of shooting I want to see, men.” Sarge looked as proud as a new papa.
After practice, Mac and Whitey approached Taylor.
“Giving lessons, Junior?” Whitey asked.
Taylor glanced around to see if anyone was listening and whispered, “My mask was on crooked. I didn’t have it over my face completely. I couldn’t see a thing with it on, either.”
Mac and Whitey smiled. Fellow conspirators. “You sure fooled Sarge. Good thing he didn’t notice,” said Mac.
Whitey said, “I hope this doesn’t mean headquarters expects gas warfare, if they’ve got us training with our masks.”
I don’t remember Pops saying anything about gas.
“No, we’re okay. They only used it in the First World War.”
The guys nodded gravely and went to see what, if anything, was next.
Chapter Fourteen
A march no harder than usual commenced. Mac, Taylor, and Whitey walked one behind the other, quiet now as they concentrated on their footing as they made their way over the mountainous terrain toward their next battle. Taylor was lost in thought as usual.
I might be here forever. It’s not too bad, though, if you don’t count this friggin’ war. This guy Reid has a mother waiting back in Toronto, apparently. She could be my great-grandmother, I think. It would be nice to meet my birth relatives. How many people get to meet their biological “greats”? That’s if I survive this war. I know Pops does, ’cause he’s around back in my time, but I could still die, couldn’t I? If I’m killed here, will I still exist back at home? Wait. I will survive back home. I have to because Reid goes on to father my kin. Unless he’s already fathered them? Then, I could get killed here. That corporal talked about sending a letter to Reid’s mother, not his wife, so Reid’s not married yet. Reid could have fathered a child, though. That doesn’t add up. Reid’s son or daughter would be too old to have me, wouldn’t they? He could have had my parent later in life — or he is my great-grandfather. This is so confusing!
Taylor added and subtracted from 1944 to her birth date in the 1990s. Mumbling to herself, she didn’t hear Sarge come up beside her.
“Just heard another story about you, Junior. Is it true you saved an American soldier from a minefield when you were returning from the field hospital?”
“I didn’t actually save him, sir. He jumped into the jeep I was in and saved himself.”
“That’s not quite the way I heard it. You gave one of your predictions again. Something about knowing where the enemy had planted those mines, wasn’t it, Junior?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you know, Junior?”
“Sir, I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe it.” This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’ll tell Pops who I really am now.
“Look, I don’t want to get the men all riled up with this hocus-pocus nonsense. It was probably a lucky guess that saved that American’s life. Let’s keep this to ourselves. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” Taylor lowered her head and marched on by rote as the sergeant fell back toward the rear. He’ll never believe me. He’s as stubborn here as he is back home. Will I ever get a chance to tell him who I really am?
* * *
The top of the mountain was in sight. A castle-like building loomed above them in the darkening sky.
“How come the enemy didn’t establish a fortification here?” Taylor asked Whitey.
“It’s probably too easy to get to. Look how easy we climbed up here. The Krauts only dig in when they know it’s hard for us to get to them, like at Monte Cassino.”
“It’s getting dark. Hope we make camp here. It w
ould be nice to have a real roof over our heads for a change,” Taylor yawned.
Two scouts were sent ahead to check for occupancy while the rest of the soldiers sat around the steep path, waiting.
The captain appeared. “Forward, men.”
The soldiers entered the gates under the silent, watchful eyes of several monks. An older one standing to the side in his hooded brown robe nodded to the first men to follow him into the main building. Here, in a cavernous, high-ceilinged room with rows of tables, the monk indicated they were to stay.
“It’s no palace, but it’s nice to get away from the mosquitoes and bugs,” Red said, settling in.
“Now, if there was a nice feather bed, it’d be perfect,” said Mac, laying out his blankets.
“We’re lucky they let us in here. Nice billet,” said Taylor.
A door at the side of the room banged shut, and the monks disappeared.
“What say we check out this old place? It looks to be a hundrit years old,” said Red.
“Sure, but don’t let Sarge catch us scouting around or he’ll give us what for,” said Whitey.
“Coming, Junior?”
“Nah. I’m going to catch some sleep.”
“What about you, Mac?”
“No, thanks, I have to check the stock market in this old paper Cook gave me.”
“Stock market? Is that like the stockade?” asked Red.
“Go, you guys.” Mac threw the newspaper at Red.
Red and Whitey disappeared quietly through the door at the rear of the room while Sarge was engaged in a conversation with some other NCOs.
Mac retrieved his dated newspaper while Taylor settled down peacefully on the floor nearby. Whitey appeared about twenty minutes later, peeked through the door to see if all was clear, and crept up to Mac and Taylor.
“Wake Junior up. We’ve got something to show you,” Whitey said.
“Yeah, what’s up?” asked Mac, laying his newspaper down while he gently shook Taylor awake.
“Huh?” Taylor said, squinting her eyes. “What?”
“Get up, sleepyhead. Follow me.”
Mac pulled Taylor up and pushed her toward the door through which Whitey had disappeared. Mac looked around the large room as he shoved the door open. Sarge had his back to him, writing a letter, it appeared, and most of the men seemed to be sleeping, paying them no attention.
Once through the door, Whitey led the way down a dark hallway, retrieving a single flaming torch.
“Watch your step,” he said as he led them toward a staircase of steep, slippery, stone steps lacking a railing.
Down they went, stepping cautiously. The air was pungent with mildew and dust. The wet walls were useless as supports, so they used their open arms to balance themselves.
Reaching the bottom, Whitey whispered, “This way.”
They followed, wondering where Red was. A bright light appeared before them and they made their way toward it. And there was Red, grinning lopsidedly, sitting on a large barrel.
“Beer?” asked Taylor.
“How lowbrow, my boy. Only the best for you. Brandy!” Whitey waved his hands like a magician and held his torch closer to the walls to reveal rows upon rows of dark bluish bottles.
“Brandy? Let’s sample the wares, boys. Opened one yet?” Mac said.
“Is George the King of England?” said Red as he pulled out a bottle he had hidden behind his back.
Mac looked questionably at Red and Whitey. “Glasses?”
“Well, the brewmaster must taste, mustn’t he?” said Whitey, pulling four pewter cups off a shelf.
Mac rubbed his hands together. “I knew these monks must have had a good reason to live way up here in the middle of nowhere.”
Whitey distributed the cups, and Red poured. The boys sipped the thick, mellow liquid at first and then gulped it down when they tasted the nectar. They were just refilling their glasses when they heard footsteps coming.
Too late to hide, they stood still like deer in headlights as a torch carried by a soldier appeared. “I knew you were on to something when you came back for your friends,” said the man. “In here, boys. They’re up to no good, and we’re about to join them.”
The room filled with several others from the platoon. The men started pulling bottles off the racks.
“How do you open them?” Then there were smashing sounds as impatient soldiers broke open the bottle tops. The small, cold room was soon littered with broken glass and thirsty soldiers taking their full.
“I think I’m drunk,” Red said and plopped down on the floor on a pile of glass. He hadn’t spilled a drop so he tilted his cup toward his mouth and finished his drink. Struggling to stand up, Red tripped on some more glass and fell forward. Taylor caught him before he hit the floor.
“Somebody help me, here,” Taylor said as she tried to drag Red toward the door.
Someone shouted drunkenly, “Gawd. Look at the poor bugger. He’s been hit in the arse.”
Mac crossed the room and assisted Taylor in pulling Red up so he could look at his back. “Cripes! You’ve gone and cut yourself, you chump,” he said. “Your backside has more cuts than Junior’s face.”
“Will Sarge string me up?” Red smiled and leaned into Taylor, almost knocking her over.
Taylor took charge. “Come on, everyone. The party’s over. Let’s try to return upstairs quietly and find a medic for Red.”
“I’m a medic,” said a man with slurred speech.
Mac and Taylor lifted Red and carried him toward the stairs. The others followed, but not before grabbing numerous bottles off the racks and stuffing them in their pants and under their shirts. More than one crashed to the floor, soaking the men’s feet and pants cuffs.
Struggling with their charge, Mac said, “You seem awfully sober, Junior. Weren’t you drinking?”
“Can’t stand brandy. Got into my grandfather’s liquor cabinet a few years ago and got sick. My grandfather left it open to teach me a lesson. Haven’t been able to stand the smell or taste of it ever since. While you guys were busy drinking, I was finding places to dump mine.”
“Such a waste,” Mac grinned.
The stairs seemed more slippery than before as the two carried and dragged Red up them. Finally they reached the top and dragged him to the lit torch Whitey had replaced.
“Lay him on his stomach here, Mac. Let’s see if we can pick out the bigger shards under the light.”
The other soldiers staggered by not quite as quietly as Taylor would have liked and disappeared back into the sleeping room. Taylor worked, diligently pulling out glass.
“We’ll have to pull down his trousers,” said Mac.
“We’ll need tweezers to get the rest,” said Taylor. “Can you slip into the room and find that medic and get some gauze and tape?”
“Yes, sir, Junior, sir.” Mac stood, saluted, and stumbled toward the door.
Taylor slid to the floor from her knee position and patted the semi-conscious Red on the head. “You’re going to have to go to the field hospital, pal. There’s no way I can get all these pieces out. You won’t be able to sit on a horse for a while, cowboy. I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to see you again if they send you away, so try to remember what I’m telling you. You will find a great girl with black hair to marry and all your children will have dark hair. You won’t have any redheads in the family like you until you have grandchildren. You’ll do very well at the Calgary Stampede for a few years and then gradually get into management there. Several years of hard work later and you’ll be in charge of the whole thing. Your first car will be a used 1947 Hudson that you’ll crack up in a serious accident where you’ll injure your legs. You’ll still ride and will encourage others with handicaps to do so. That’s all I can tell you as that’s all I remember Pops telling me about you.”
Ta
ylor stared as two shoes appeared in front of her. She had been so intent talking to Red she hadn’t noticed. She looked up into the face of her young grandfather.
“Hi, Sarge.”
“We’ll discuss your part in this later. How bad is he hurt?”
“I think he’s going to need more help than we can give him, Sarge, but I’m no medic.”
“I heard your little speech, Junior. Who is Pops? Your ghostly medium?”
Taylor pulled herself up. “That can wait. Let’s get Red some decent help.”
Sarge sent Taylor for a stretcher, and she returned quickly with it and two sober soldiers. They gently hoisted Red onto it on his stomach and carted him off. As they passed Taylor, Red called out in an amazed voice, “Me, the Chief of the Stampede.”
Taylor mock-saluted her friend and watched him being carted away.
Chapter Fifteen
Early the following morning, three of the brandy drinkers were roughly awakened and sent down the mountain to get some items from the supply truck. They were to replace the monks’ stolen and damaged horde. They returned much later in the day, exhausted, but with several pairs of leather boots, which were ceremoniously awarded to the monks. The monks stared at their own sandalled feet but graciously accepted the trade and the cleanup job that Taylor and company did in the brandy cellar.
Sarge could be seen laughing and sharing something with the lieutenant and corporal the next evening. It looked suspiciously like a brandy bottle.
Red was bandaged up, but blood continued to seep through, so he was sent on to the nearest field hospital for treatment. Taylor was saddened by the loss, unsure if they would meet again.
Back on the road, Whitey and Mac were quiet, too. They marched steadily down the mountain until they came to a broad river. The engineers were called, and a Bailey bridge constructed after several hours. The crossing was uneventful.
The men marched all day, with brief stops, and finally came to a small, bombed-out village. They were ordered to find shelter for the night. After the usual dinner of M and V and some dark, hard bread scrounged from some locals, most of the men settled in where they could find an overhang.
Back in her time Page 6