An Owl's Whisper

by Michael Smth

  So the couple sat, both of them drenched in syrupy sun and careening thoughts of infinite possibilities. But harsh weather was on the way, and with it, a bit to the east, so was war’s fury.

  Henri’s Questions

  Stanley Chandler was a US Army supply specialist. He described his duty in a September 1944 letter to his uncle, Jess Garrity.

  This new assignment with the Big Red One seems pretty good. Can’t say just where I’m based, but if you’ve seen the newsreels, you know First Army’s spread up and down eastern Belgium, thick as Miss Agatha’s plum jam on toast.

  They got me in supply, stockpiling the doling out whatever the Quartermaster Corps trucks here from Normandy. Not much time for snoozing. Stuff rolls in on one endless convoy of deuce-and-a-halfs, all driven by coloreds. Heard of the Red Ball Express? I’ll tell you, Uncle Jess, it’s like a big old, O-D, steel and canvas snake. If you could feel the thunder of this snake’s engines, smell the smoke of its exhausts, taste the grit those wheels pitch up, and hear the laughs and curses of them Red Ballers, you’d savvy how unstoppable the US Army is over here. Truth is, with Fritz on the ropes like he is, I’m thinking this damn war could be in the history books by Christmas. Sounds good to me.

  After he met Eva, the war’s end sounded even better to Stan. With the fighting done, he might stay put at the Lefebvre supply depot for a while. He could continue to woo his foreign princess. And with some luck, he might head home with the moon and stars on his arm.

  But by October first, optimism seemed cockeyed. Operation Market-Garden was a fiasco. First Army’s move on the Siegfried Line south of Aachen, the Hürtgen Forest campaign, was proving bloody and slow. Maybe Fritz wasn’t quite KO’d yet.

  One October Sunday, Stan managed a pass to call on Eva. It was gray and misting out, so Stan, Eva, and Madame Ducoisie sat in the parlor sipping Bordeaux wine he had bartered for two packs of Camels from one of the Red Ball drivers.

  Suddenly Eva tensed. Her fair complexion went lighter. Stan was asking if she was ill when he heard the sound of an automobile driving up.

  Madame Ducoisie jumped up and, pulling back the curtain, peered through the window. “Ah! Voilà,“ she cried without removing the cigarette dangling from her lip. “C’est Monsieur Messiaen!” She flew to the door and flung it open. Waving, she gleefully chirped, “Ah, Bonjour Monsieur Messiaen,” before the car’s engine was turned off.

  Eva looked upset. “I’m afraid my uncle calls.” Her eyes darted between Stan and the door. “Perhaps we can make our walk after saying hellos.”

  Stan walked to the window and looked out. “Aw, honey, I’d kinda like gettin’ to know the old boy. Your kin and all. Too chilly for a walk anyway.”

  Henri entered. His face lit up when he spied the American GI standing next to Eva. He kept an eye on Stan as he handed Madame Ducoisie a box containing English cigarettes, Danish cheese, a bottle of wine and one of Pernod, and lipstick from France.

  To Stan, he seemed the picture of a European gentleman: No he man, Henri impressed with style and presence. Starting with the trim of his moustache and the set of his bowler hat, his look was meticulous, if a bit out of date. But Henri’s eyes were what held Stan’s attention. Dancing behind that pince-nez of his, they seemed to drink in the world.

  Eva introduced the men. Henri removed his hat, revealing a shiny bald pate. He took Stan’s hand in both of his. “Ah Monsieur, what an extraordinary pleasure to hail one of our liberators. A true hero.” He bowed. “Allow me to make my thanks for your rescue of our nation.”

  Eva’s gaze at her uncle narrowed. Such good English! He’s been studying.

  Stan hemmed, “Aw, just doin’ our duty, Mr. Messiaen. Besides it’s a pleasure to help out folks as charmin’ as your niece and you. And Mrs. Ducoisie, of course.”

  Henri beamed when he saw the GI take Eva’s hand. He pointed to the patch on Stan’s sleeve. “Ah, the Big Red One. You are one of General Hodges’ men. No?”

  “Yes sir. Now that General Bradley’s heading-up the whole shebang.”

  “So, I take it you are stationed directly nearby? In Lefebvre, perhaps? It’s good, is it not, that you are close, since you and Eva are now such fast friends?”

  Stan smiled at Eva. He was surprised by the tension he saw in the set of her jaw. “Yes sir, I’m posted at the Lefebvre depot. Good to be near Eva? Sir, it’s real good.”

  “I know almost nothing about armies, but I do know they need fuel for their stomachs and for their transportations. So your supplying depot is important. Yes? Coming here I see many lorries making way to Liege and many stopping in Lefebvre. It’s a big depot?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, sir. Ain’t big as the one in Liege, but we see a sizeable stream.”

  “Ah. Then there must be a formidable company of your comrades toiling at the depot?” Chuckling, Henri came to attention and saluted. “And guarding it?”

  Stan grinned, “You’re not thinkin’ of tryin’ to sneak in and heist some gas or chocolate bars, are ya?”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Henri tittered. “My interest is only for the—” He moved his hands in circles. “—the curiosity. Surely the Boche cowering in his hole at the East is no threat. And some black marketeer? He might snatch fifteen liters for his lorry. But that wouldn’t deplete you, now would it? You must have many of liters of petrol stored there. Yes?”

  Stan looked proud. “Yep, many, many liters. Heck, we got ten thousand drums of fuel right now, ready to be farmed out to the front.” As the last word left his mouth, he knew he’d said too much, but he didn’t worry. What the heck’s it matter? It’s Eva’s doggone uncle.

  Henri touched his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. “Of course the supplies are nothing to me. My concern is for you, mon ami. Eleven thousand drums of fuel! And bombs! The very thought shivers my back. Such dangerous work! Especially if there aren’t enough of you. But then, you’re Americans! With you, there are always more than enough! Oui?” He elbowed Stan playfully. “But just for the curiosity, how many of the fine men of the Big Red One would you say servir—in English, it’s serve, no?—at Lefebvre’s depot?”

  “It’s up and down, sir. But don’t worry. We got plenty.”

  Henri’s eyes were ablaze. “Ah, I suppose it must be dozens. Certainly dozens for the operating around the clocks! And I dare say, for the security also?” Henri winked.

  Stan’s eyelid twitched. He said softly, “Yeah, security too.”

  Henri studied Stan’s face. His pursed lips broke into a smile. He produced a pack of Camels and tapped one out for Stan, ignoring the women. “Corporal, come have a smoke and tell me about your American chocolate!” Stan had more or less quit smoking, but he took the cigarette to be polite. As they walked to the door, Henri put the Camels away. On the porch, he produced another pack, like a miniature cigar box, black and leather-bound. Its cigarettes were rolled in gold-ringed black paper, and he selected one with care. “I have a weakness for this English brand, myself. Sobranie Black & Golds. Created for the Czar’s court.” He lit Stan’s, then his own. “That Hershey chocolate of yours—I find it quite different from our Belgian variety. Don’t you agree?” He whispered to Stan, “To be honest, I prefer yours.”

  Stan relaxed. “Well, sir, I’ll tell ya.” He moved his head close to Henri’s, as if he were passing along a hot tip on the ponies. “When I have my druthers, I go with the Baby Ruth Bar. I reckon it’s named after the ball player, Babe Ruth. S’pose you know who he was.” Henri looked puzzled and shook his head. “Ruth was a slugger on the Yankees. You must’ve heard of them. Anyway, Baby Ruths are peanuts and chocolate and caramel. Ya get ’em sometimes in your C-Rations. Man, they’re the best. I’ll get you one to try sometime.”

  Henri looked like Stan had suggested using someone else’s toothbrush. Then he smiled politely. “I will wait eagerly for your Baby Ruth’s confection. Now, shall we rejoin the ladies?”

  The next fifteen minutes were occupied with small talk, mostly in French. Ev
a whispered translated summaries for Stan.

  Abruptly, Henri said, “Well, I must away.” After pleasant goodbyes, he said, “Eva dear, might you have a moment please to walk with me to the car?”

  Eva didn’t bother to answer—she knew it was more command than request. She threw a shawl over her shoulders and preceded him through the door. Madame Ducoisie shuffled off to the kitchen to put away the treasures Henri bought. Stan moseyed to the window and casually watched Henri and Eva talking next to his automobile. He was surprised that the conversation looked less than cordial. With anger on his face and a wagging finger, Henri seemed to be scolding his niece. And Eva was firing right back. When Henri drew his right arm up, across his chest, as if he was about to strike her, Stan was shocked. He bolted for the porch, but by the time he stepped outside, Henri was climbing into his car, pulling the door closed behind him. A moment later it sped off.

  Eva walked slowly back to the porch, looking like she was toting a bag of bricks. “Uncle’s visits drain me so. Could we cut off the afternoon, Stanley?”

  Stan began to doubt what he thought he’d seen from the window. He looked closely at Eva’s face. Don’t look like she been slapped. It was dark. Maybe he was just scratchin’ his shoulder. “I hope you mean cut the afternoon short,” he said. “Sure, if you’re tired, I’ll head back to the post. I just hate things afflictin’ you so. Your uncle seemed downright sociable there in your parlor. I just don’t get it.” Stan shook his head. “Say, he never swats at you, does he?”

  “Stanley, you have no idea about—” Eva stared at the floor.

  Stan pressed, “’Bout what?” He waited, but Eva didn’t look up. “OK, OK. Guess I shouldn’t go buttin’ into family business. Long as he don’t do no swattin’.” She still wouldn’t look up. “Any chance you’d let me swing by later this week? Maybe Wednesday?”

  Stan’s request brought Eva’s gaze up to meet his. Her eyes were wet but she was smiling. “I say Okey-dokey. You know I would like that.” Stan grinned and Eva took his hand. “I’m sorry to cut short—yes?—our afternoon, Stanley. I can’t wait for Wednesday.” She kissed his cheek.

  Stan strutted to his borrowed jeep. He was whistling, thinking how he’d always preferred to be called Stan—until he heard Eva turn Stanley into poetry.

  Crickette and Max

  In the weeks tying mid-September to late November 1944, Stan worried every day he’d be reassigned to one of First Army’s infantry units slugging it out in the Hürtgen Woods. Worried he’d take the place of some GI shot-up in combat. Worried it was his turn to get shot-up. Then on November 27, the 121st Infantry punched through to the other side of the Hürtgen and Stan felt safer. Word was, “with this weather, things should quiet down, at least into the new year.”

  Stan made plans for Christmas with Eva. When he told his boss, Sgt. Waxman, he was thinking of taking Eva to Paris for the holidays, the growled reply was, “Yeah. And the Red Sox think about winning the Series, too.” Still Stan was happy. Eva seemed content, too.

  On Saturday December 2, Stan came to call at the Ducoisie place. Sitting together in the parlor, he and Eva heard the crackling whine of a motorcycle, coming up the long drive from the road. Eva went to the window and turned back to Stan, looking peeved.

  “Your uncle, huh?” Stan asked. He still wondered about the tension between Eva and Henri, but hadn’t brought it up again.

  “No,” Eva replied, “It is a girl I knew, a girl from Liege.”

  Stan and Eva went out to the porch. The US Army cycle was parked and a GI was lifting a girl out of the sidecar. She was Crickette Gigault, the girl who had been brought by Henri to stay with Eva at the end of the summer.

  When she saw Eva, Crickette, wearing the GI’s garrison cap, waved wildly. “Oh Eva, hello! My American honey and I are on weekend holiday and I’m so exciting for you to meet him.” Beaming, she pulled the limping soldier by the arm toward the porch.

  As the pair climbed the stairs, Stan was worried. Now, here comes the kissin’. He was right. The women all kissed each other hello. Crickette introduced her GI as “my beau, Max Conroy” and “Maxie,” and Madame Ducoisie and Eva kissed him. Crickette kissed Stan. Max and Stan approached each other warily—and shook hands.

  Stan stepped toward Max and pointed to the unit insignia on his sleeve. “Sarge, always good to meet another First Army joe.”

  Max grinned. “Glad to meet you, too, pally-boy. And gladder still you didn’t try to lay a big wet one on me.”

  With introductions done, Madame Ducoisie shooed everyone inside. As they went in, Crickette took Eva’s arm and whispered to her, loud enough to be sure the men heard, “Ooh-la-la, Eva! Aren’t these American boys handsome!”

  Madame Ducoisie and Eva went to the kitchen for refreshments. Max produced cigarettes for himself and Crickette. He offered one to Stan, who shook his head, saying, “Naw—working at a fuel depot, I quit.”

  Max took an olive-drab Zippo from his jacket pocket and lit Crickette’s Camel and his own. Stan watched them smoke. Max pinched his cigarette between thumb and index finger tips with the lighted end sheltered in his cupped hand. He took powerful drags. After each, he tilted his head back in pleasure. Crickette held her Camel between extended fingers and inhaled lightly. She played with her smoke, for a moment displaying its ghostly paleness inside the red oval of her parted lips, then streaming it serpent-like from her mouth into her nose.

  Madame Ducoisie returned with a tray of clinking bottles of Belgian beer and glasses. Eva followed her with a plate of white crackers and goat cheese. Max offered cigarettes and Madame Ducoisie took one. She inhaled deeply, looking contented as a just burped baby.

  Leaving the women and their French chatter in the parlor, the men strolled into the dining room. Max unbuttoned his uniform jacket and lifted his bottle. “So, here’s to beautiful Belgian broads and the Big Red One.” Clink. “Where ya from, soldier?”

  “Hooker County, Nebraska, Sarge. Cattle country.”

  “So we got us a real cowboy here, huh? Tex Ritter a pardner of yours?”

  “Nah. We owned a farm but it went bust durin’ the hard times. I reckon the closest I get to ol’ Tex is the picture show, ’bout like you.”

  “What outfit you with?” asked Max.

  “285th Supply Battalion. Posted at the sector depot down the road. How ’bout you?”

  “28th Infantry, but I got my leg fucked-up in the early days of the Hürtgen shit, so I’ve spent the last month getting it knit-up at the K-2 hospital south of Liege.” Conroy took a deep drag on his cigarette.

  “Well, don’t let it knit-up too fast, or you’ll find yourself back in the soup.”

  Max looked at Stan with his head cocked. He showed his teeth. “Corporal, a rear echelon mother fucker like you wouldn’t get it, but somebody’s got to be out there in the shooting war. If it ain’t me, it’s gonna be some other dumb GI.” Max shook his head and waved the hand holding his cigarette. “Aw, forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Stan’s jaw was tense as he leaned forward. He wasn’t inclined to drop it. “Hey, I been shot at, too.” Stan wasn’t sure about that but figured he might’ve been. “You wanna take on the Krauts without the grub and ammo you get from us REMFs?”

  “I said forget it. Look, I didn’t mean no offense, pally-boy. I just get itchy playing cards in the bone yard.” Max blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling light.

  Stan swatted the swirling smoke. “OK. Just save your growlin’ for Fritz.”

  Eva noticed the sparks and stepped over to make sure a fire didn’t break out. She said, “You boys come over with us so I can keep an eye on you,” as she took Stan by the tie and led him to the floral sofa in the parlor.

  Cigarette smoke swept the tension into the blue air of the small room. Madame Ducoisie tried English. The boys tried French. Everyone laughed.

  After another beer, Crickette announced, “We brought some plaisirs on our moto. Plaisirs is correct?”

  “Treats
in English,” Eva clarified.

  “Or grub in American,” laughed Max.

  Crickette made a show of ignoring Max. “Yes, some treats. Eva, would you help me chercher?” She took Eva’s arm and pulled her through the door, talking all the way. As the door clicked closed, Stan thought he heard her say the word Henri.

  Madame Ducoisie returned to the kitchen. Max lit another cigarette. He set the pack of Camels on the arm of the sofa and placed his lighter on top. Cautious as a schoolboy showing dirty pictures to buddies in the alley, he looked around to be sure they were alone. “Christ, your squeeze Eva’s right out of the tomato patch. How’d you lasso a sidekick like that, pardner?”

  Stan grinned. “I guess she’s partial to the Jimmy Stewart type.”

  Max grunted. “Nah, these Belgian dames just can’t resist a guy in GI green.”

  “Well, we did boot the goddamn Krauts out, I guess. Next to those Nazi bastards, I s’pose we stack up pretty good. That little Crickette of yours seems like a real kick.”

  “Kick and a half, pally. Nothing like her back home. And she’s crazy about this ol’ kisser of mine.” He struck a pose—chin jutting, cigarette at a jaunty angle, like FDR.

  Stan looked Max over. The man’s body was thick. Firm, not pudgy. Like a smoked ham. Taking in Max’s face, he felt like saying, No shit you never had nothin’ like Crickette back stateside. With that kisser, she’s probably the first dame ever to give you two looks. Brother, I’d peg you for a pug that’s gone ten rounds with Joe Lewis. Pally-boy. What he did say was, “Tell ya what—that Crickette’s cute as bug. Guess you’ve heard that one before.”

  “Yeah. Used it myself a few times. But cute ain’t all, kid.” Max brought his head close and whispered, like it was details of the plan for the final assault on Berlin, “My kisser ain’t the only thing she’s crazy about. She’s got this little place over a bakery in Jupille—right on the corner of Fine and Dandy—and, I’ll tell ya, the people downstairs didn’t get much sleep Sunday night!” Max glowed bright as the coals behind the glass screen in the parlor’s stove.