Souvenir (42 page)

“But what about the farmhouse and the tank?”

“The tank will be busy with the platoon on the ridge. I’ll make sure our guys on the .30 calibers keep hitting that farmhouse window. If they can keep that MG from spraying the field, we got a chance to get in between the buildings and toss grenades.”

“The tank, though, what about the tank?”

“Kraut tankers don’t like being on narrow town roads with infantry swarming around them any more than our guys. If they see their infantry support pull out, they’ll gun their engine and take off. That’s how we can do this thing, get in the village, kill Krauts, let the rest run off. Then we sleep in warm houses tonight. What about it, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know,” Sykes said. “I don’t know. There’s no sergeants, no one told me what to do—”

“Well, I been here since before snow fell, and I’m still alive. So I’m telling you what to do. All you got to do is issue the order, like I told you. Get into the village, before the smoke clears. Fast.”

Sykes looked at Jake, his eyes alight with fear and his mouth set like a pouting child. Jake knew this wasn’t how this fresh second lieutenant imagined his first command. No bugles, no glory, nobody patting him on the back and telling him what a swell guy he was. Instead, some grimy G.I. was telling him he didn’t know shit. Jake knew he had to sweeten the pot to make it more appealing.

“The captain likes his officers to show initiative, Lieutenant. You take this village and he’ll eat it up. But we gotta be in one piece at the bottom of that hill.”

“Okay, okay. But you better be right.”

The minutes passed slowly, anxious looks toward the rear for the Heavy Weapons Platoon alternating with glances at wristwatches buried under layers of clothing and gloves. Sykes had given the orders and settled into a restless pacing, tree to tree, counting the men by twos. He whispered to himself, gesturing with his hands as if arguing a point of logic. The wind came up in spurts, rustling the pine branches, swishing them clean of the white snow that clung in clumps.

They gathered around Big Ned. Tuck, Oakland, Jake and Clay. Huddled together for warmth, leaving unspoken that when they took off downhill, they’d spread out, dispersing the targets for the German gunners. That this could be the last human contact they’d feel, the last warmth, however feeble, against the cold. The last bond holding their young lives together. The last wholeness. The last love. They tightened belts, checked pockets, leaned into each other. They passed around smokes, listened to the click of Clay’s Zippo shutting, inhaled the tobacco, checked watches, waited.

Spread out, Jake told them, but keep each other in sight. Know where each man is. Try to keep the same distance. Don’t lag behind. Don’t listen to Sykes, get to a building and toss grenades. Spread out, move, watch your buddy. Big Ned, stay between us, you’re the middle man. Make sure the replacements keep moving. No one stops.

The sound of Jeeps echoed through the woods. Shouts, commands, frantic words, orders, directions. G.I.s with mortar tubes, plates, ammo crates, setting up around them. Cigarettes out. Hands gripping rifles, tensing and relaxing, breath coming in shallow gulps, as if the air had thinned out.

Shit. Motherfucker. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Curses and prayers spit out along the short line, the remnants of two platoons summoning up courage, banishing fear, going numb with terror, thinking of home, of nothing, of the hill and the downward slope.

Fumph, fumph, fumph.
The strangled sound of mortars firing was drowned out by the two .30 caliber machine guns, rapid bursts sending tracer rounds to hunt out the top floor window of the farmhouse. Jake rose up, watched the smoke rounds burst in front of the village, saw the puffs of gray dust as machine gun rounds pecked at the stone farmhouse. He turned to see Sykes, standing still, face drained white.

“Okay, Lieutenant, just like you said. Let’s go,” Jake yelled to be heard. In the hustle of men filtering between the trees no one noticed that Jake had grabbed Sykes by the sleeve and was pulling him along.

Smoke blossomed like white roses in bloom. Phosphorous tracers raced over their heads and met the smoke as it roiled uphill, the noise of machine gun fire behind and ahead of them leaving an oddly silent gap where they ran, into the smoke. The incline made it easy to run in the snow, and they picked up speed, spreading out to the sides, trying to keep sight of the men around them in the grayness.

The rapid chainsaw sound of the German machine gun began to assert itself. As the smoke grew, it hid their target from the American gunners. Still, the sound of their own guns firing was reassuring, as they glance quickly at each other, nods of luck and hope. Jake could make out both machine guns, and held his breath as one stopped to reload a belt or clear a jam. Jesus, keep firing, keep firing, keep those fuckers down! He looked to his left, saw Clay, a blur in the air, smoke swirling around him as it blew uphill. Big Ned stood out to his right, his broad shoulders hunched forward, parting the smoke like Moses. Turning, Jake saw Sykes, slowing down, holding out his carbine as if to keep his balance, taking little mincing steps in the trampled snow.

The tank fired, the explosion loud on the left flank, and as the tank’s machine gun chattered away as it fired another round of high explosive, then another. The sound of trees cracking followed each explosion, and Jake could feel the men shy away from the sounds, drifting right, beginning to bunch up. Rifle fire rippled out from their front, and he felt hot metal ripping the air above his helmet. He heard a scream, a shout, and a body falling, rolling, still moving fast.

“Take cover!” It was Sykes, shrill terror ripping the sound from his throat. “Take cover!”

“No! Keep moving!” Jake yelled, waving his arm at the forms around him. “Get up, don’t stop!” Tuck and Oakland passed him, snow kicking off their heels, and he stepped back up the hill, kicking G.I.s who’d dropped in the snow, searching for Sykes who was still yelling to take cover. There was no cover for them, only snowdrifts and death.

The German machine gun sprayed the field, searching for the attackers in the smoke. Jake heard a short scream, a moan, a soft thud. He found Sykes, digging in the snow with his helmet, half a dozen replacements gathered around him, motionless, deer in the headlights.

“Take cover,” Sykes screamed, panic shrilling his voice, “we’ll all be killed.”

Gunfire crackled in front of them and from all sides. A G.I. tumbled down the hill, blood spraying from his neck like a pinwheel as he went head over heels. Sykes watched the rolling body and his eyes grew wide at what he saw. Not the dead man, or the sprays of blood, but the clear vision of the field and the village ahead. The smoke was vanishing, blowing uphill, over them, leaving them naked. 
“You can’t stay here. Tell these men to get moving!” The mortar sounds changed. Explosions now. No more smoke. Jesus fucking Christ. “Move!”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Sykes screamed. “I’ll get help. I’ll go get help.”

“Lead these men down the hill, goddamn it,” Jake yelled into his face, grabbing his collar. “Now, or we’re all dead men!”

“You hold here, I’ll go get help. I’ll be back. I’ll be right back.” Sykes shook off Jake’s grip, turned and ran, following the blowing smoke, reaching out for it as if it could pull him along. He disappeared into it, his helmet and carbine left behind in the snow.

“Get down the hill,” Jake screamed, grabbing two of the replacements who started to get up and follow Sykes. He couldn’t let them run away, leaving the others alone at the bottom of the hill. He had to get back to Clay. “Follow me, goddamn it.”

He ran in long steps, thundering down the hill, helmet bouncing on his head, gear flapping and pounding him as he forced his body to go as fast as it could. As swiftly as he went, his thoughts still played out slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. Go back, stay put, or move forward. Fucked every which way. I don’t want to die a coward, or with strangers. Where’s Clay. Where’s Clay? I don’t want to die alone, where’s Clay?

Tears tore at his eyes as he ran through the cold air. He could see the platoon to their left, on the ridge, pulling back. The fire from the tank had chewed them up, leaving blackened craters in the snow speckled with red. He heard explosions, saw the windows blow out of the nearest house, flames following them. Grenades. Somebody made it. The
bam bam bam
of Big Ned’s BAR stood out above it all, steady as a rock.

Jake felt the bullets hitting the ground behind him, heard a gurgling scream, and the screeching of a tank grinding gears. He saw Clay rise up from the corner of the house, aim his M1 up toward the stone farmhouse, and fire off three slow, steady shots. The machine gun stopped. Clay pumped his arm for Jake to hurry, but he was already running as fast as he could. Twenty yards to go, Clay raised his rifle again, fired once, keeping their heads down.

Jake saw the Kraut peer around the side of the house and toss the potato masher.

“Grenade!” he yelled, but he was drowned out by the clanking of the tank coming down the main road. Clay looked at him for a second, a moment, an eternity, eyes locking on Jake’s, not understanding. The explosion threw him forward into the snow, at the same time as the tank fired down the street, towards the sound of Big Ned’s BAR.

“Clay, Clay!” Jake slid in the snow, coming down next to Clay. “Omigod, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Clay.” He felt as if he’d dropped a delicate crystal and watched it shatter on a cold stone floor. He didn’t know what he could have done differently, but he knew Clay had left himself exposed giving him covering fire. Saving his life, losing his own. Grabbing his collar, he dragged Clay away from the alleyway and to the back of the burning building, out of the line of fire from the farmhouse. Clay left a streak of black and red on the snow, smoke curling from the back of his coat. His hands were limp, but his eyes sought out Jake’s.

Slumping to the ground, Jake cradled Clay’s head in his lap, blood soaking into his thighs. He thought he heard the BAR one more time. Then the tank again. The fire in the building crackled.

“Clay, I’m sorry, hang on, a medic’ll get here.”

“What’s wrong with me? Jake—” His face contorted in a spasm of pain.

“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry,” Jake said.

“Nothin’ else you could do. I’m ripped open,” Clay said, before a scream rose from his throat. Jake saw how his coat was shredded, his side sliced through, ribs showing through blood and burned fabric.

A German heard the scream too, and edged around the building, his camouflage smock and SS runes crystal clear through the smoke and haze. Clay shrieked in agony as Jake looked for his rifle, on the ground at Clay’s feet, out of reach. The Kraut worked the bolt of his rifle as Jake’s hand reached for the automatic, fumbling with layers of clothes, leaning over Clay to protect him and leveling the pistol at the German, two quick shots to the midsection, watched him stagger and drop to his knees, the rifle still in his hands. Two more and he was down.

Clay’s eyes found Jake’s. The tank’s engine roared, only yards away.

“Go,” Clay said through gritted teeth, “go.”

Jake looked around. There were only dead men behind him, in a clump where Sykes had left them, and a few who’d followed him. Rifle fire flared up a few buildings down, and the tank’s machine gun responded.

“That might be Tuck,” Clay said, his eyelids fluttering. “Go.”

“Clay, hang on, hang on.”

“Leave me, Jake. You’re a good friend, the best. Go, find Tuck.”

“I can’t, I won’t leave you,” Jake said, his mouth pressed to Clay’s ear to be heard over the advancing tank.

Clay groaned, blood seeping from his mouth. His hand grabbed at Jake’s, taking the pistol. Jake didn’t understand, he thought Clay wanted it to protect himself. He let go, helping Clay to get a grip on it, folding his bloody fingers around the grip.

“It’ll be okay,” Jake said. “I’ll get a medic.”

“I don’t want to die alone,” Clay cried, echoing Jake’s own fear. “Help me.”

Machine guns, tank fire, yells and screams faded into silence as their eyes locked, Clay’s filled with pain, Jake’s with sudden understanding. Clay coughed and a spasm of pain wracked his broken body, a red mist spewing from his nostrils and mouth. He lost his grip on the pistol and Jake did help him, holding his trembling hand, guiding it, bringing it back to his temple, watching Clay’s face wrench as the pain of breathing became too much, looking once again at the blood in the snow and the terrible wounds, knowing he owed Clay this, pressing his finger on Clay’s own wrapped around the trigger.

The sound was louder than anything he’d ever heard.

The burning roof above him collapsed, showering Jake with sparks. He felt the heat at the back of his neck as his hand felt the last bit of warmth in Clay’s cheek. He slid him off his lap, cradling his head as he set it on the ground. A crescendo of sounds came from behind him, the burning building crashing in on itself, the tank, rifle fire, yells and curses in German and English rising up in a babble of fury, even louder and more insistent than before.

Still, Jake moved as if in a dream. He knew what to do, how to grant one last wish of Clay’s and keep his memory alive. Opening Clay’s coat he felt for the metal chain, found it, sticky with blood, and pulled it off. He removed his dogtags and placed them around Clay’s head, tucking them into his shirt, pressing them against his skin. He put Clay’s around his neck, the thick drying blood sticking to his hands. I’m sorry, Clay, sorry to leave you with my name. It isn’t much. But now I’ll pass yours on.