An Owl's Whisper

by Michael Smth

  After Madame left, Eva said, “It’s good of you to bring her these plaisirs, Stanley.”

  “Aw, it’s nothin’ when you’re assigned to a supply unit. Say, I did bring one more gift.” Stan winked. “For the other lady of the house. Come sit with me in the parlor.” He took Eva by the hand and led her to the sofa.

  When they were seated, Stan took a small package from his pocket and gave it to Eva. It was gift-wrapped in dark blue paper and tied with red yarn. He had thought it looked nice, but in Eva’s small, white hands, it became something magical.

  Tucked under the yarn was a note card. Eva opened it.

  Dear Eva, Been trying to talk old Cupid into sticking you with one of these, but he seems to need target practice. I thought maybe you just having one might be next best. Forever yours, Stanley.

  Eva smiled but said nothing. She untied the bow and slipped a small metal box from the blue paper. The box had been, in a previous life, a medicine tin. On the lid was printed the picture of a child nestled on his mother’s lap. The child’s nose was red and his mouth sported a thermometer. A sprig covered in yellow blossoms arced over the pair’s heads. The label proclaimed, Doctor Ålmer’s Goldenrod Lozenges. The Soothing Tickle Fights Sore Throat Pain.

  Eva popped off the lid, and inside, cradled on a cotton bed, was a flint arrowhead. The size of a padlock key, it looked as it must have on the day it was made: Shiny black exterior. Point sharp as a bayonet. Distinct marks made as each fleck was chipped away.

  Stan said, “I found it on the riverbank when I was ten. Probably Pawnee, my uncle thought. Pawnee had the run of the plains around Hooker County before the white man showed up. I found a few others, but none as nice as this one. I wanted you to have it, so I asked Uncle Jess to send it to me. It just came in on Monday.”

  Eva took a moment to feel the hardness, the coldness, the sharpness. “It’s beautiful, Stanley. But I’m afraid you are wrong about Cupid. He already has shot my heart.” She kissed him as she’d never done before. As if the world depended on its intensity.

  The kiss left Stan breathless. It took him a moment to ask, “You mean you might be in love with me?”

  “Yes, I think I might.” Her tone indicated considerably more certainty than did the word might. “And that’s the reason I had to talk to you today.…Now.”

  Stan replied, “You can talk to me forever, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Stanley, what I’ll say will require some faith for you to accept. You have never found me to be unsound, have you?” Stan’s expression said, no. “And you agree that dreams can speak truth, don’t you?”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought much on it, but some folks do.”

  “Sometimes I have dreams that come true. I dreamed that my parents died a week before it happened. And just before the Germans invaded in 1940, I dreamed that toothed geese were swarming over the countryside. Now I’ve dreamed again, and I’m sure it’s a premonition.”

  Stan said, “I reckon Miss Agatha, my grandma, believes dreams tell the future. Heck, she believes in even crazier stuff than that.”

  Eva pursed her lips. “Please just listen, Stanley. I dreamed that on the coming Saturday I awoke to news on the wireless that the Germans had attacked the Allied lines in the Ardennes. They had broken through and were heading towards us, and I was so afraid for you. I dressed quickly and went on foot to warn you. On the way there I heard noises ahead of me, and I looked and saw geese on the road. The geese had foxes’ teeth, and they were speaking German. I watched them waddle into a pond, and they went under the surface of the water. When they came up they were no longer geese.”

  Eva paused for a moment, looking for Stan’s reaction. He stared down at his shoes. She took his hand and when he looked up, she resumed, “The geese came out of the water as men wearing American uniforms, but if you looked closely they still had the sharp teeth, and they still spoke German. I was shaking with fear for you, Stanley.”

  Stan squeezed her hand. “Don’t you worry—” But Eva put her fingertips on his lips.

  She continued. “I followed them. They split into two groups, one going to Lefebvre to the Pont de Pierre, the old Roman bridge, and one going toward your supply depot. Somehow I saw them arrive at both places. The American soldiers there didn’t see the sharp teeth, and the geese were now speaking English, so the Americans at the bridge and at the depot believed them to be comrades and trusted them. And suddenly the disguised geese fell on the Americans and ripped at their throats and killed them. Soon many more geese swarmed the depot, taking the fuel and supplies. Then they poured across the bridge and had an open way to the sea. I looked all over for you, Stanley, but all I found was despair. And then I awoke.”

  Eva searched Stan’s face. He was staring off, over her head. She bit her lip and went on, “When I awoke, my despair turned to elation, Stanley. For it was not yet Saturday.” Her eyes were wide. “There was still time to save you. To save us. To save everything. But it all depends on your faith in me. Will you believe? Will you spread the alarm?”

  Stan rubbed his chin with his thumb. He took both her hands in his. “Eva. I don’t know what to say. Sure you dreamed it.” He shrugged. “I just can’t say what it means.”

  Eva’s eyes were wild. “It means the Germans will attack. On Saturday. What else could it mean?”

  “Right.” Stan said it slowly. Cautiously. “But the Germans can’t attack. They’re off yonder, on the ropes and bloodied. How would they—could they—pull it off? In this weather?” Stan held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “And even if it was so, who would believe some tale about geese turnin’ into men and overrunnin’ First Army?”

  “Stanley, you don’t have to say geese. In fact, wait until you hear that an attack has begun. That will be the confirmation, and you can go to your superiors. Warn them of the plan to grip the bridge and the depot before the main push.” Her eyes bore into his. “You must promise me you’ll do that. And if there is no attack, then you can laugh and call me the silly girl.”

  Stan was quiet. He rubbed his face. Finally he sighed. “OK, sure. I’ll wait to see what happens, and if the Krauts hit us, I’ll sound an alarm about sabotage. I promise, honey. But to be honest, I think it’s just a bad dream.” He forced a smile.

  Eva said nothing. Admitting her love and telling the dream, with all the risk both meant—she felt completely spent. Sitting there on the couch next to Stan, Eva put her arms around his waist. She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

  December 16th and All’s Hell

  Stan lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. Of course Eva ain’t loony, he thought. Heck, I’d love her even if she was. Just can’t have Sarge thinkin’ I’m nuts, ’cause then he’d send me off somewhere. Somewhere away from Eva. Besides, Stan thought of Miss Agatha and figured Eva’s dream might be right. He rolled over and took out a stubby pencil and a piece of the lined paper he used for letters. He looked around to be sure he was alone then began writing.

  Thursday, 14 December, 1944. Lefebvre, Belgium

  I, Stan Chandler, have reason to believe two predictions. 1. German forces will hit 1st Army hard, probably on about 16 December (Saturday). 2. German commandos in GI uniforms and talking English will try to take the battalion depot for resupply and the Roman bridge in Lefebvre, figuring to bust across the Meuse in a breakout.

  S. Chandler, Cpl, US Army

  Stan bit his lip. He folded the paper and sealed it with a piece of packaging tape. He signed the tape and walked to the foodstuffs warehouse annex that served as Sgt. Waxman’s office.

  The sergeant was there, one hand on the lever of a heavy old Monroe adding machine and the other holding a wad of pleated supply manifests. He was cursing through the chomp of an unlit cigar in his mouth. He didn’t look up at Stan.

  “Blasted entrenching tools,” Waxman muttered, “where are you bastards? Sons ’a bitches! Here’s goddamn Tool, automotive, multipurpose; Tool, cleaning, rifle bore; Tool, repair, sole, boot.
Crap! Where’s the fucking Tool, entrenching? We got 863 of ’em out back. They’ve gotta be on one of these manifests.”

  Stan cleared his throat. “Entrenchin’ tools, Sarge? I was on the dock when they came in. Must’ve been, hmm, Friday.”

  Waxman shuffled through the paperwork. He exclaimed, “You goddamn lousy bastards. I gotcha.” He intently punched in numbers and yanked the adding machine crank a few times. With a flourish, he ripped off the paper tape bearing the entrenching tool count. A look of consummate satisfaction came to his face as he repeated, “Gotcha.” Waxman believed the war was about beating paperwork—doing in the Nazis in the process was a nice bonus.

  The sergeant finally looked up. “Yeah? What’s eating you?”

  “Want you to hold onto somethin’ for a couple days,” Stan said. “Just keep it safe for me till the weekend. You could lock it up in your desk. Could you do that, Sarge?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a bid. Kurtz is sellin’ his Kodak to the highest bidder and he wanted you to hold the sealed bids until Monday so there’s no hanky panky. Got any others yet?”

  “Nah. Tell Kurtz I’ll lock ’em up in my desk.”

  Stan handed Waxman the sealed paper. “I’ll tell him, Sarge.”

  On Saturday, December 16, Stan woke up relieved to hear no shooting. He asked around if anyone had heard news—no one had. Mail call was just before lunch. Kinkaid was holding a large package when he called Stan’s name. The parcel was from Jess and Carrie Garrity. Stan took it to his bunk where he could open it in private.

  Inside the brown paper was a gift-wrapped box—red and white striped paper with a green ribbon. There was a card tucked under the bow. On the card was a jolly-looking Santa wearing an army uniform and helmet. The Santa had a corncob pipe in his mouth and a Merry Christmas banner in one hand. Stan read the note inside.

  October 23, 1944

  Dear Stan,

  I hope this package makes it to you OK and before Xmas. The missus been after me to get it mailed for the last two weeks. Weather here’s held good so far. Papers say it’s been pretty good there, too. We’re not sure just where you’re at, but we hope you are well and safe.

  Hey, I fired up your Ford yesterday. Seems fine. Write when you get a chance, so we’ll know you’re OK. Merry Christmas!

  Your Godfather,

  Uncle Jess

  There was a note with the card. It was from Jess’ wife, Carrie.

  Dear Stan,

  I’ll just pass you my good thoughts and wishes for a Merry Christmas, too. It seems funny to say that in October! I pray for your safe return every night.

  Love,

  Aunt Carrie

  P.S. Enclosed last week’s Tribune. How about Jesse’s new pride and joy?

  Stan put the card and the note aside and slit the ribbon with his pocketknife. He tore the wrapping paper off and opened the cardboard box inside. It contained copies of Life Magazine and of the local paper, which had a picture of Sheriff Jesse Garrity standing next to Hooker County’s new police cruiser, a 1944 Mercury. There were two books: One with Bret Harte short stories and Willa Cather’s My Antonia. The box also contained a dozen Baby Ruth candy bars, some gum, a toothbrush, three pairs of socks and three of undershorts, and one of Mrs. Mercer’s bourbon fruitcakes. Stan changed into one of the new pairs of socks and hid the rest of the loot in his footlocker. Whistling, he ran off to lunch.

  That afternoon Stan was warehousing a truckload of the lightest boxes he’d ever had the pleasure of handling: Bags, sleeping, duck down, three season. Blankets, wool, OD. Overcoats, wool, double-breasted, field brown, size Large. And caps, liner, knit, wool, OD. The assembly summons came over the depot PA system at 14:10 hours.

  When Stan arrived at the mess hall, Waxman was already up front. It was the first time Stan had ever seen him wearing a helmet.

  Waxman seemed nervous. “Gentlemen, I just got word there seems to be some enemy action down in the Ardennes Forest. Looks like normal probing, maybe a recon-in-force. Word is our line troops down there have the situation under control.”

  A tall soldier named Valmont shouted from behind Stan, “Hey Sarge, how come they’re bothering to tell us about this if everything’s hunky-dory?”

  “Aw, you know HQ. Bastards never know whether to bake beans or go blind. Probably just want everyone on their toes…well, just in case. Now get back to work. I’ll keep ya posted.”

  Stan asked the GI next to him what day it was, just to be sure.

  “It’s Saturday. I got one week left before I’m off on leave. All I gotta say is, they better not step on my time off or I’m going apeshit.”

  “Saturday, the 16th, right?”

  The GI nodded. “Saturday, the 16th. Why?”

  Stan turned away without answering. His head spinning, he ran after Waxman and caught him just outside the office. “Hey Sarge, I gotta talk to you.”

  “Jesus, Chandler, I’m busy. What do you want? This better not be about leave.”

  Stan looked to both sides. “I need to talk to you inside.” He yelled, “Now!” as he took Waxman by the elbow and hustled him through the door. The sergeant was too shocked to resist.

  Waxman sank into his chair and studied the wild look in Stan’s eyes. He asked incredulously, “Chandler, you drunk?”

  “Hell no. Just look at that paper I gave you Thursday.” Stan’s hands were fists.

  “What the Christ? I don’t have time for games.” Waxman moved to stand up.

  Stan lunged and slammed both fists on his desk. “Look, you big sack of stupid, just gimme the goddamn paper.”

  Waxman sank back stiffly. Keeping an eye on Stan, he took the sealed paper out of his drawer and gingerly shoved it across the desk. “Here ya go. Take it easy, Chandler.”

  Stan held the paper six inches from Waxman’s face. “Look at this. You’ve had it locked up since I gave it to you. It’s still sealed. Right?” Waxman nodded. Stan broke the seal and unfolded the note. “This’ll scare the shit out of you. It sure as hell is scarin’ the shit out of me. Read the damn thing, Sarge.”

  Waxman looked down at the note. He slowly brought his gaze up and eyed Stan coldly. “You son of a bitch, do I look like I got shit for brains?”

  “Sarge, I ain’t touched the lousy note since I gave it to you. I made up that hooey about Kurtz’s camera. If I told you what I wrote, you’da sent me off to the funny farm.”

  Waxman cocked his head to the side. “How’d you know about this before now?”

  Stan paused. “I, um…dreamed it, or something. I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? How could—”

  Stan grabbed Waxman’s sleeve. “Dammit, what does it matter how I know?”

  Waxman jerked his arm free. “Smells like a load of crap. But I admit, I don’t see the trick.”

  “Listen Sarge, the part about the date and the attack seems right, don’t it? We gotta get goin’ on the second part—Kraut commandos dressed as GIs hittin’ us and the bridge.”

  “Kid, if this is some kind of a game, I swear I’ll see your ass court-martialed.”

  “If it’s bogus, you pin it on me. For now, just tell HQ we got wind of Hun commandos in the area. Warn ’em to be watchin’ for Germans in GI unies, and speakin’ English. Don’t say how we know. They’ll send us extra MPs.” Stan leaned close to Waxman. “Do it, Sarge,” he growled.

  “What I ought to do is kick your ass. But I won’t….yet!” He scratched his ear. “Ain’t doing nothing just yet. Things heat up, I might call Battalion, like ya say. Now beat it, Chandler!”

  The yard lights had already come on when the men were recalled to the assembly point at 17:15. Snowflakes seemed to materialize from thin air as they fluttered into the tent of light cast down by the 200 watt bulbs above the GIs. Waxman ran to the front of the group still pulling on his field jacket. Before he began speaking, he cinched up the chinstrap on his steel helmet.

  “Listen up, men. The goddamn Huns a
re on the move. Turns out they’re hitting hard down in the Ardennes.” Waxman glared at Stan. “Nobody seems to know how it’s going, but HQ’s forming up relief units to throw down there just in case. I got a list of names of men being deployed tonight. Now shut up back there and listen. Adams, Albrecht, Chandler, Denton, Gillman, Gutzler, Ihland, Johnson, Kinkaid, Mitchell, Manson, Nichols, Parsons, Smith, Troutsworth, Valmont, and Zeller. If you heard your name, stay here. If not, get your ass back to work. We got a job to do. And Michelman, I want to see you first.”

  The men broke into small groups to speculate, complain, and wish luck, in that order. Waxman pulled Michelman, the security NCO, aside. He said, “Listen, Pudge, make sure your sentries are on their toes. May be Krauts around wearing GI uniforms, with papers and speaking English. Everyone uses passwords or they don’t get through. I don’t care if they have fucking stars on their collars; make ’em prove they’re legit.”

  Michelman replied, “Will do, Sarge,” and he ran off holding his helmet.

  Waxman hollered again and the men whose names hadn’t been called shuffled off. He went over his list, checking off names as he recognized faces. “OK,” bellowed Waxman, “you yoyos have been volunteered to be rolled into the 28th Division. You’ll truck down near Marche-en Famenne, then be farmed out as needed. The division is deployed southeast of there on a line between Clervaux and Bastogne. Transport’s due here at 01:30 hours. So you got eight hours to get squared away, hit the mess hall, and grab some shuteye. You’ll report to the armory for weapons and ammo at 23:30 hours. As you might have noticed, we’ve got some of the white stuff coming down. Word I get is there’s a lot more of it where you’re going. Dress warm. Maybe several pants, socks, and shirts. You need anything, let Harvey know. I told him to do what he can to get you joes outfitted. Questions?”