American Dreams (77 page)

Major Nagel joined them. 'We should see them come over the top in approximately one hour. The same pattern has prevailed all month. The French bastards call it nibbling us to death.' Nagel was an overweight Bavarian, bewildered by this peculiar form of warfare and resentful of the conditions in which it placed his men.

Sammy and Paul jumped out of the way as two machine gunners ran into the fire trench from one of the saps, narrower trenches leading to forward gun nests. The men lugged their gun, tripod, and ammo chest.

Other gunners appeared in similar fashion. Nagel shouted, LSchnell, schnell, waving them to dark openings in the trench's forward wall. The gunners disappeared like rodents. 'It's the equipment we're trying to protect, not the men,' Nagel said sourly.

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Major Nagel's position was in the sector stretching from Chalons-surMarne west to Epernay, in the department of the Marne. The major and his men faced units of Marshal Foch's Ninth Army approximately eighty five miles northeast of Paris. On the way to the forward area, Paul and Sammy had filmed German soldiers doing laundry, enjoying mess, marching and singing, tending the mammoth Skoda howitzers and the Big Berthas from Krupp. Each scene was carefully arranged by senior officers to impress the outside world with German morale and materiel. Looking closely, however, Paul saw something else. The troops, even the newest and youngest reinforcements, appeared wan and frightened. Gone were the showy uniforms of last summer, replaced by camouflage colors and new issue steel helmets.

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The German entrenchments were defensive, built to hold last year's gains throughout the winter. Each trench was six feet deep, with three support trenches dug behind and parallel to the forward fire trench. Zigzag communications trenches ran at right angles, connecting them. It was all precise and fine except for the dirt, the smell of unwashed clothes, the reek of bodily waste overflowing the latrine trenches and churned into the mud by booted feet. Paul almost vomited the first time he smelled the trenches. He was told by the embittered Nagel to get used to it; the whole Western front smelled bad.

As it grew dark, the bombardment continued. Nagel insisted Paul and Sammy go down into one of the dugouts. They huddled by a brazier made of an oil drum pierced with many holes. It gave off heat and a lot of smoke. You could suffocate breathing the smoke in the enclosed space. On the other hand, the smoke killed some of the stenches of soggy uniforms, unwashed armpits, excrement.

The earth above them shook as the French shells hit. Dirt fell in Paul's hair. He eyed the timber supports of the dugout. Sammy looked nervous.

'Hell of a spot to be in, huh, gov?'

Under Paul's union suit a verminous visitor was exploring. He dug beneath his muddy overcoat, vest, two shirts, and underwear to scratch.

'I wouldn't want it for a permanent residence.'

At the mouth of the dugout someone yelled, 'They're coming.' Paul heard rifle fire as the artillery ceased. Major Nagel had sent sharpshooters forward into the saps to enfilade the poilus charging across No Man's Land. Paul chewed his cigar to pieces as men began to wail and shriek above ground.

Machine guns stuttered. Flashes of red and yellow reached the dugout --

In the Trenches

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flares sent up to cast light on the attackers. The ground assault lasted forty minutes. The German position held; the lines remained unbroken. Finally the sounds of firing diminished. Quiet returned. Someone shouted down that it was all clear. Paul and Sammy climbed out of the dugout. As Paul came into the open, he saw a young corporal slumped over the lip of the trench. His jaw was shot away; his eyeballs stood out like boiled eggs. Paul gagged.

The poilus had gone back to their trenches. Under the cold, distant stars Nagel's men crept forward to drag bodies out of the saps and pile them in a heap several yards in front of the fire trench. Paul counted silently. Fifteen. Sammy sucked on a cigarette as they watched the activity.

'How many dead in this whole war so far?' he asked.

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'God only knows. A million Germans, a million Frenchmen, maybe just as many English. Is it any wonder the reds call war a conspiracy of kings and capitalists against the poor and powerless?'

Sammy darted looks right and left, said softly, 'But we know which side's right, don't we, gov?'

'Yes. We do.'

He slept half frozen in the dugout that night. At daybreak he loaded the camera, climbed out of the trench, and positioned himself to film the corpse heap. He remembered photographing the same kind of carnage after Colonel Roosevelt had taken San Juan Hill in '98.

The disk of a pale yellow sun shone through a thin morning fog. Sounds were muffled, but Paul could hear men moving to No Man's Land. He was just setting up when Major Nagel came tearing out of the fire trench to confront him.

'You can't do this, it isn't appropriate.'

'Major, I have permission. I have papers signed by--'

'I don't care if they're signed by General Moltke. I don't care if the Blessed Virgin herself came down from heaven and signed them, it isn't appropriate,' the distraught officer cried. 'I lost good men last night. I lost my second, Captain Franz, a young officer of astonishing promise. What's left of him is scattered in little pieces. It isn't appropriate for you to photograph that, do you hear me?'

Suddenly ashen, he threw his hands over his face and sobbed. He swayed like a sapling in a storm. As a sergeant led him away, a lieutenant explained to Paul:

'You must understand about the major. He's a career man, the army's 482

Battlefields

his life. Back home he has four children, girls. He adopted Franz like a son; he was bringing him along. This filthy war is destroying all of us. I must ask you to take cover again. This ground is watched by snipers, and the fog is clearing.'

'All right,' Paul grumbled. The winter cold and their uncomfortable surroundings had started his back aching again. Sammy trotted up and
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offered to take the camera. Paul gladly surrendered it.

'Keep low, please,' the lieutenant said as he went ahead of them. Paul obliged, bending over despite the extra pain. Sammy evidently didn't hear the lieutenant. Talking around a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he said he'd be thankful to retreat to some place where they could enjoy a bath and a hot meal.

'And women. How can a bloke get on without an occasional bit of--?'

A shot rang out, then two more. Paul watched the camera sail from Sammy's hand. Sammy pitched forward, his nose burying in the mud.

The back of his skull was a red pit of gristle and blood.

Paul dropped to his knees, picked up Sammy's shoulders, shook him.

'Sammy. Sammy!' The sight of his friend's vacant eyes, open mouth, shocked and sickened him as few things ever had before.

'I must ask you to leave him until dark,' the lieutenant said, crouching near Paul. "I order it.'

'Go to hell,' Paul said, feeling tears on his dirty cheeks. 'You just go to hell. I'll bring him back when I'm ready.'

The lieutenant retreated. Paul held Sammy against his overcoat, heedless of the blood and the sudden stench of the body. He cried. Sammy's death was the emblem of the nightmare that had enveloped Europe's golden summers of peace and confidence, turning them to winters of despair and ruin.

Under the pale sun, with the coils of wire growing visible again, he dragged Sammy's body to the fire trench. An hour later, he buried the remains in alien ground.

He examined his camera. It was broken beyond repair. He felt the same way. He held the camera in his arms like a dead child, wondering how long the carnage would last - how many millions more would perish with their dreams.

The Boy

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88 The Boy

They stood in the same finely appointed parlor where they'd visited before he left for France. Sunlight streamed in from Woodward Avenue. Melting icicles on the eaves dripped steadily. Carl looked bedraggled, underfed, in need of a barber. His lifeless left arm still hung in the
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black sling.

Using his other hand, he unwound the red scarf with its frayed ends and faded patches, its dark stains and clumsy stitching. Gravely, with ceremony,-he placed it around Tess's neck, drew it down over her shoulders, straightened it.

'The dragons and Saracens are all dead, Tess. I've come home to stay.

With you, if you'll have me.'

Tess touched the scarf, holding back joyous tears. She smelled of sweet lilac water and yeast from the kitchen.

'I never wanted anything more. But what will you do? Work for your father? I'll live in Chicago, if that's what you want.'

He shook his head. 'Prohibition's coming, sure. Pop's recovering slowly, but the brewery may not exist in a year or two.' He thought a moment.

'I'd rather make automobiles than beer. Automobiles and airplanes.'

'The Clymer company's gone.'

'I know.'

'But other manufacturers in Detroit are thriving. I know the right people. First, though--' She drew him to a horsehair sofa, sat close to him.

He reveled in her nearness and her warmth.

With her eye on a sunlit window she said, 'You remember my saying when you left the first time that I'd never let making love turn into guilt or a rope to tie you down? For that reason there's something I've held back, because I thought that telling you would be a kind of blackmail. I didn't want you here with me, and miserable, all your life.'

He took her hands between his. 'What is it, Tess?'

'You haven't suspected? It's my son. I married Wayne so he'd have a name, but his name really isn't Sykes, it's Carl Henry Crown. I changed it legally after Wayne died. I've told him why'

'He's my son?' Carl said. 'Oh, my God. All these years and I didn't--'

She kissed him quickly, ardently. 'If there's any fault, it's mine.'

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'Does he know about me?'

'Yes, I explained. He's small but very quick. He didn't seem hurt, more curious. Principally about you. He asked a great many questions, then
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admitted he never felt strongly attached to Wayne. He said he always felt bad about it, but not after I explained. I called Hal on the speaking tube when they told me you'd arrived. He's waiting in the library.'

She took his hand, tugged him toward the hall doors. 'He's a fine boy, you'll like him.'

They crossed the marble floor to an open doorway. In the library, the tips of his thumbs and index fingers touching in a way that suggested nervousness, the boy peered anxiously toward the sound of the footsteps.

Carl saw the resemblance strongly now. He'd noticed it in the eyes before.

His own eyes filled with tears.

'Hal, here's your father,' Tess said with a loving smile. She stepped aside to let Carl pass. With excitement and a sudden strange sense of contentment, he realized he was stepping into a new world where, one of these days, all the broken dreams might be mended.

89 The Unfinished Song

C\7"es, Mr. Folger, I have it written down. Outdoor rallies in Eureka, X Santa Rosa, Napa, Oakland. Then the parade and auditorium program in San Francisco. No, I can't do any more after that. I've sublet my house. I've decided to return to New York. I'm tired of pictures, and the studio isn't using me. No, Mr. Folger, I'm not joking. Because of circumstances I can't explain; you'd die of boredom if I did. All right, thank you.

Goodbye.'

Fritzi hung the earpiece on the hook of the wall telephone. She lingered there, framed by a rectangle of sunlight. At the front of the hall a stack of empty brown cartons nagged her about packing. At the rear, in the kitchen, Schatze slurped water from her bowl.

The house had a still, dead feel. At two in the afternoon the December sun was already low, the light thin and lacking warmth. Fritzi pushed a strand of hair off her forehead and then lethargically moved away from the wall. She was scheduled to travel east in four days. She would visit her The Unfinished Song 485

parents again, then continue on to New York and start over in the theater, shopworn and faded, and not a little jaded. Hmm, could Harry Poland write a ditty about that? Probably, but who'd care to buy it?

Schatze emerged from the kitchen to follow her. Halfway up the hall, by a wall mirror, something caught her eye. She put her nose near the glass, picked up a strand of hair behind her left ear. Gray. Ye gods - old age.

What next?

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She stomped into the front room, annoyed by the clutter - little ceramic knickknacks, playbills, scrapbooks of reviews of her films lying about, waiting to be wrapped and boxed. She kicked her way through empty cartons and cranked up the Victrola. She played 'A Girl in Central Park' five times, loudly, then put on Caruso's Testi la giubba.' She loved it nearly as much as Harry's song, though the clown's anguished tenor destroyed her every time she heard it. She knew why ilpagliaccio cried.

Her status as a picture actress would open some doors on Broadway, but she suspected it would also restrict the parts she might be offered loopy aunts and zany maids in farces, never Ophelia or Medea. She was typed. After a while, as she reached forty and the little roll of fat around her waist grew big as an inner tube and the gray locks multiplied like dandelions, what parts would be offered then? Any?

Leoncavallo's aria soared through the house. The hell with packing. She fell into the easy chair and lay back, gripped by lassitude. The loud music masked the arrival of a black and white taxi. She saw it through the window, over the Victrola horn. A man in an ill-fitting suit ran around to the curb side, opened the door to assist another passenger, feeble and white-haired.

B. B. Pelzer.

He clung to the arm of a man Fritzi recognized as an attendant from Haven Hill. B.B. came up the flagstone walk with short, tentative steps.

He blinked like a nestling peeping at the world for the first time. Fritzi ran to the door.

B.B. How wonderful to see you. How are you?'