Souvenir (26 page)

“Yeah,” he said again, and touched Shorty’s head, running his hand through the unruly hair, as you would to sooth a child.

“Tuck,” Jake said quietly. “We gotta move. I’ll get his dogtag, then we gotta get out of here, okay?”

“I’ll do it, Jake. Give me a minute.”

Tuck patted down Shorty’s hair some more. Steam rose from the holes in his chest, the warmth leaving his body, drifting out into the cold.

“Okay.”

Putting his arm around Tuck, Jake sat with him for a minute, watching as he gently pulled the dogtags out from under Shorty’s clothes. He unclipped one, wiped the blood off it, and handed it to Jake. Then he went back to smoothing Shorty’s hair as Jake got up and moved off to check the German dead. He prodded and kicked the corpses, making sure none were only wounded and still a threat to them.

Clay handed Jake the dogtags from the two replacements and he dropped all three in his jacket pocket, a dull
clink
sounding as they mingled with the others.

Jake closed his pocket flap, smoothing it down, feeling the metal tags beneath the fabric, thinking of the next-of-kin names on each. Mothers or wives, all waiting at home, not knowing their names no longer hung next to the warm beating heart of someone who loved them. He got the replacements going and told them to move towards the road. As they shuffled out of the gulley, he saw they had left behind a variety of German belt buckles, knives, watches, and a couple a Walther pistols. They were learning.

Every G.I. wanted souvenirs. You just had to know when to carry them and when to get them to the rear. Hunting souvenirs was a good sign, actually. It meant you thought you had a future, could see ahead to a time when you’d be back home, showing off a Nazi flag or an SS helmet and telling stories. When guys got rid of souvenirs, it was either a sign that capture was likely, or that they’d given up any hope of ever getting home. The first was a smart move, the second almost inevitable.

“Hey, I got one!”

Jake looked up to see Oakland marching a prisoner towards them, an SS trooper, with his hände hoch. He pushed him with the barrel of his M1 towards Jake.

“What the fuck is this?” Big Ned said, advancing toward the Kraut with his BAR raised.

“I saw him trying to flank us, so I went over to those trees to wait for him. Sure enough, he came right along and I captured him.” Oakland sounded like a kid who’d come home from school with all As.

“Did you search him?” Big Ned said.

“Best I could, alone. You guys should check him out.”

Clay took the German’s helmet off and threw it in the snow. “First thing,” he said, “is never leave a prisoner’s helmet on. It’s a big fucking steel pot he could smash your head in with.”

Oakland’s smile vanished. Clay and Big Ned searched the Kraut, coming out with one hidden grenade and a pistol. Not a German pistol, but an American .45 caliber automatic. Clay took the pistol and opened up the German’s coat.

“Look at this bastard,” Clay said. “He’s wearing a shoulder holster. They shot a G.I. for a lousy knife and this guy’s sporting some officer’s sidearm.”

Big Ned closed in on the German, looking down on him.

“Take it off,” he said. The German looked at him with dull, vacant eyes. He knew he was dead. “Take it off!” 
Big Ned slammed the German with his fist, sending him to the ground. He pulled at the camouflage smock, ripping it off as he kicked the Kraut in the ribs. He may not have understood English, but the German knew what he was supposed to do. He unhooked the leather strap and let it fall to the ground. He stood, blood flowing from a cut lip, and stared at Big Ned, silent, unwilling to show the fear eating away inside him.

Miller stood by Big Ned as the replacements gravitated back towards them, drawn to the drama unfolding just as the dead all around had been moments before. Not wanting to repeat the German’s mistake, Jake got the replacements moving in small groups up to the road to stand guard, as best they could. Watching the last of them head towards the road, he turned to see Tuck standing near the German.

“Do me a favor, Tuck, head up to the road and watch those guys?”

“Okay,” Tuck said, hesitating. “But if you want someone to take care of things here, just say the word.”

“No, no, I need someone to make sure those guys at the road are quiet,” Jake said, cutting him off.

“Sure, Jake, whatever you say.” Tuck looked at the German, studying him, and then moved away, slowly.

Big Ned and Miller stood back as Jake and Clay approached Oakland and his prisoner. Oakland had expected to be congratulated for bringing in a POW. Instead, he felt three hard stares drilling into his eyes. Miller looked away, pretending to search the woods, his eyes finally settling on the ground in front of him.

“So what the fuck are we supposed to do with this sack of shit?” Big Ned asked to no one in particular.

“Bring him back,” said Oakland. “Maybe he’s got information or something.”

“You speak English?” Jake asked the prisoner, ignoring Oakland. He got no response.

“We can’t bring him back,” Clay said. “Too far to go to risk bringing a Kraut along. He could yell for help, grab a weapon, anything.”

“We’ll shoot him if he does,” Oakland said.

“By then it will be too late. We have to take care of this now,” Jake said.

“He’s right,” Clay said, explaining to Oakland, and perhaps himself. “In a fight like this you can’t take prisoners. You should’ve shot him then and there. It would have been quick and clean.”

“I ain’t shooting him now,” Oakland said. “I don’t shoot prisoners.”

“You don’t know shit from shinola,” Big Ned said. “You saw what they did. They could’ve kept that guy prisoner. It’s us behind their lines, remember, asshole?”

Tension crackled the air around the prisoner, who stood calmly in the middle of it, either not understanding, or understanding fully and unwilling to show his fear. Big Ned looked ready to explode, as mad at Oakland as at the prisoner, maybe more.

“Miller,” Jake said, “take Oakland up to the road, okay?” It would be better for the veterans to take care of this alone.

Miller looked up from the ground he’d been staring at.

“Go on up,” he said to Oakland. “I’m staying.”

There was a heavy silence among them, including the German. Looking at him, Jake felt nothing but irritation at Oakland. The kid didn’t understand how things had to be done. Killing during a fight was killing fair and square. After a fight too, if a guy was beyond all help and suffering, then it was a fair killing too. But sometimes a minute can make a huge difference, all the difference. Same bullet, same gun, same death. But then it felt like murder. Well, so be it. This SS Kraut couldn’t be trusted, he could get them all killed, and Jake was not going to get more of his guys dead before he got them back home. He wanted no more weight in that front pocket. He’d sent Tuck up to the road because losing your buddy was bad enough, no need to let Tuck do this killing and always wonder if had been the right thing. It would’ve been easy to let Tuck plug the guy, but Jake couldn’t play it that way. He looked at Miller and nodded.

“Okay. Oakland, up to the road. The prisoner is my responsibility.”

Oakland shrugged, and walked away. The German stood, hands resting on his head, waiting.

“Bring him over here,” Jake motioned. Walking over to the body of the dead G.I., he looked back, and saw the first expression of fear break out over the German’s face. His eyes widened and Jake could see the sweat on his forehead. Jake watched him looking around, searching the eyes of his captors for something that wasn’t there, wasn’t theirs to give. Still, he didn’t speak as Big Ned and Miller pushed him towards the body of the dead American. Stumbling, the German stood up, still with his hands on top of his head, looking around once again at the G.I.s pointing their weapons at him. His gaze finally lit on the dead G.I., whose blank open eyes answered his unspoken question. Jake thought he saw a rueful, broken grin flash across the German’s face. Maybe he thought he’d show these Americans how well he could die. Maybe he didn’t believe they’d shoot him. Maybe he didn’t give a damn. Slowly he dropped his hands, trying to come to some semblance of attention, looking around one more time. Not at the men, but at the trees and the gray clouds above. Both hands shaking at his side as he closed his eyes, twin clouds of frosted breath flowed from his nostrils.

Clay walked up to Jake and handed him the automatic they’d taken from the German.

“Best do it with this,” Clay said. “There’s some kinda justice in it.”

Jake took the weapon and held Clay’s stare. Keeping his hand on the barrel, Clay raised his eyebrow, checking to see if Jake was ready, or wanted him to take over.

Jake shook his head as he gave his M1 to Clay, taking the automatic from him. Pulling off his glove, he checked the safety, feeling the cross-hatched grip cold against his skin. At that second, the German opened his eyes, looking straight at him. Hazel green eyes burned into Jake’s. The German’s brow knotted, as if he were trying to peer deep inside Jake, trying to understand the man about to kill him, or perhaps wondering if he had the nerve. Jake got caught up in those eyes, the green drawing him in, that same brownish green of his father’s. He raised the pistol, his hand trembling. The German was breathing harder now, and his exhales blew up a fog of frost in front of his face. Jake squinted, uncertain of what he was seeing. He was five feet away from the prisoner, but he was sighting down the .45 like it was five hundred. Sweat dripping into his eyes, he blinked as he saw the stern high cheekbones rising above a grim mouth set shut, the collarless white shirt buttoned tight at the neck, green eyes judging him, damning him…

“Jake,” Clay said softly.

Jake pulled the trigger. One, twice. The German’s legs collapsed under him and he fell backwards, one leg folding awkwardly beneath the other. Jake watched him for a moment, to be sure he was dead. A small swirl of frost drifted out from his open mouth, disappearing as if it were a departing spirit. Jake walked over to him and couldn’t help but kick the one leg out from under the other. It looked so uncomfortable.

“Let’s go,” said Clay, taking the .45 and handing Jake his rifle. Turning, Jake walked away, up to the road, the image of his father’s face swimming in his mind. His father taunting him with the sins he’d committed and the promise of sins handed down, father to son, like an ugly family heirloom on a darkened basement shelf.

They stood in the road, Jake, Clay, Big Ned, Miller and Tuck, in a small circle that excluded the replacements. Oakland stood apart from both groups, not a raw replacement or a veteran, but somewhere in between and alone.

“Which way?” asked Clay, as he swiveled his head, trying to find the sun behind the clouds. His eyes narrowed at a faint disc of light and then pointed to their left. “That seems to be northwest.”

“Good enough,” said Jake. “I’ll take point.”

“I can take point,” said Oakland, loudly, projecting himself into the group.

“You’ll get your turn,” said Jake. “Make sure no more of your buddies there slip away.”

Oakland turned away, muttering, and started pushing the others apart, telling them not to bunch up and to keep their eyes open. Big Ned cranked his head towards the rear, and Jake nodded as Big Ned and Miller dropped back for rear guard. He knew Clay would be right behind him, ready to relay any signal from the point back to the group.

Tuck stood still. While the others moved silently away, gruesome dancers to a practiced tune, Tuck was alone. Jake and Clay exchanged quick glances, and stopped, staying with Tuck.

“You know,” Clay said slowly, as if a thought was just dawning on him, “that Oakland kid might be okay if he can manage not to do anything else stupid.”

“Least he got up off his ass and did something,” Jake agreed. “What do you think, Tuck?”

“I dunno,” Tuck said, shrugging.

“Think you could take him on,” Jake asked, “until we get back?”

Tuck bit his lip, and twisted his hands around the barrel of his rifle as he leaned on it. “You think it’d be okay?”

“Yeah, Tuck. He needs a hand, and Shorty wouldn’t want you all alone out here,” Jake said. Tuck thought about it for a minute.

“Okay. Let’s see how it goes.”

Tuck trudged towards the replacements and fell in next to Oakland. Jake trotted up the road to put some space between them, and settled down into the business of being point man. As he hugged the edge of the road, darting from cover to cover, watching the terrain and listening for man-made sounds, part of his mind drifted as the rest of it focused on the road.

He thought about Shorty, about how he’d gotten that nickname about thirty seconds after showing up with their squad. About how he and Tuck had hit it off right away, like guys he’d known at school, or those older guys you always saw together having their morning coffee at the diner. Jake wasn’t the kind to make pals that easily, and remembered how he and Clay had paired up more as a mathematical consequence than anything else. But they had become pals, more than pals, brothers maybe. Suddenly it occurred to Jake that he didn’t know how he’d stand it if Clay got killed. Wounded would be bad enough, but if Clay died…. What? What would happen to him? He’d grieve and go on, maybe get himself killed, maybe not. Maybe live through it and go home when it was all over. The possibility of life seemed empty, hopeless as death, the mockery of a promise.