A Midnight Clear: A Novel (24 page)

Miller and I try looking as if we know what’s going on. The other Germans have drifted closer. They nod and murmur to each other as the noncom goes on with his spiel. I wonder what else can be coming up; I thought it was all settled, was going to be simple. Shutzer turns to Miller, gives me the eye.

“Somehow we got our signals mixed. They’re still worrying the idea of turning over one prisoner. I think that scared them. They insist on pulling off the whole affair now, tonight. I’m playing hard to get; it’s all coming off perfectly; don’t worry. Miller, act as if you’re not enthusiastic, stroke your chin some more or put on a mean stare. I think they expect it.”

Miller takes his “military” stance. What would happen if I broke out laughing? Those Germans might insist I be court-martialed, hanged by the thumbs. But Shutzer’s playing things straight. He’s concentrating as if he’s pulling off some kind of exotic pseudo squeeze in a bridge tournament.

“They say if we take one prisoner now, they’ll have to report it and somebody might come out. They don’t have any radio contact I can see, so that doesn’t make sense either.”

The noncom looks back at us and Shutzer goes to talk with him again. Miller takes about two steps forward. I crack open some crappy Chesterfield cigarettes and pass them around. One of the Germans whips a bottle off a shelf, along with tin cups. He pours drinks for everybody. It’s that same white lightning they gave us last night. This guy pours me a full cup. I’m liable to get so drunk I’ll hit someone when we start our little firefight. Shutzer comes back with Miller in tow.

“They’re all worried about the big attack; want to get on with the show right away. Sounds great to me. Miller’s given the OK. They’ll gather their things together and we’ll go to it.

“One of them was back for supplies this morning and saw lines of weapons carriers and tanks. I can’t tell if they’re bullshitting or not; I just can’t see any kind of attack coming through here, can you?”

“I don’t know, Stan. I’ll believe anything. The Germans have generals and colonels, the whole shitload of leader types, too. Anything can happen.”

I give Stan a slug of my schnapps. The Germans are wandering around the room packing; they aren’t taking much. I watch as the noncom slips off his watch and jumps up to hide it on a rafter. I don’t think anybody else sees him do it. Maybe when I come back for my drawings, he’ll be looking for his watch. Everybody trying to save something personal.

The Germans are lined up by the door. They’re stamping out cigarettes and checking rifles. Each of them opens one of the little leather cartridge holders they wear the way we wear ammo belts. All the German equipment is worn, brown showing through fake black leather, square edges rubbed down round and smooth.

By the quick way they get ready, you know these would be tough customers in a
real
firefight. It scares me watching how they go about it: no nonsense; quietly slipping cartridges in their rifles. The noncom slings his Schmeisser under his arm and takes out his Luger. He pulls back the bolt to check his load. He looks over at Shutzer and Miller, nods his head.

Shutzer gives me the details.

“Here’s how it’ll go, Won’t. They’re going to line up on the open space in front of the lodge. Miller and I will stay here with them. You go back up to the squad on the hill. When he gives the signal, we all start firing. Maybe have everybody fire off about two clips; that should be enough. Then the squad’ll come down, we meet on the road and take them in. That’s when we disarm them. The noncom wanted to hide his Schmeisser but we said no deal. What the hell can he want with a gun like that after the war? It’s not exactly a gun to hunt rabbits.

“He and I will put up our arms to stop the shooting and that’s all there is to it. Seems OK to me.”

“Sounds fine, Stan. I’ll scoot back uphill to brief Mundy and Gordon. You and Bud play it close, now.”

“Nothing to worry about; it’s in the bag. This might be the high point of my war.”

 

I go out past all the Germans. They have their weapons at the ready and it’s almost like being the groom at a military wedding. The outside is silvery, the moon bright; clouds racing past in a fast moving sky. I think the moon’s about one phase before full and it’s lighter outside than in the lodge. I struggle uphill and pass the guard in the outpost coming down. I wonder how they signaled him? Maybe there’s a phone in his hole. I peer in as I go by but don’t see anything. It’s a good hole, with a fire step. Huge roots on the sides look as if they’ve been hacked through with a bayonet.

I work my way up to Gordon and Mundy. I grab hold of Mundy’s wrist and check the time. The moon just then is clear of clouds and Father’s watch hands are straight up, midnight. The snow on the hill across from us glistens with refracted moonlight, tiny flashes of blue, violet, crimson in glaring moonlight whiteness against the dark. I send Mundy off right, above the road to our château. I stay in the middle; Gordon goes lower and off left twenty or thirty yards. I can see everything, including both of them. We wait; it’s absolutely silent.

I’m feeling unreasonably calm when they walk out from the lodge. Shutzer and the noncom come first. The noncom lines his men in an evenly spaced line. Miller stands behind the noncom and Shutzer. The three of them are on the edge of the clearing with their backs to us up on the hill.

Shutzer looks up to see if we’re all ready. I wave my arm. Shutzer and the German put their arms over their heads. The German soldiers lift rifles to shoulders and point at the sky. I swing my rifle into position aiming out over the lodge. Gordon and Mundy’ve done the same thing. They don’t look at me; they’ve got their eyes on Shutzer.

Then Shutzer and the German bring their arms down. The Germans fire simultaneously, almost like a salute at a military funeral. First the military marriage, now the funeral. I fire off a clip, one at a time, trying to space them unevenly. Mundy and Gordon are doing the same. The Germans are reloading. At least we’ve found one thing we do better than they do: running a fake firefight.

The next round, the Germans fire more irregularly, as they individually shove new cartridges into the chamber and fire. It begins to sound like a real battle.

I’m pushing in my second clip when one of the Germans goes down! Honest to Christ, the way things’ve been going, my first thought is he’s faking it, pretending, the way kids do playing cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers. But then I see this is for real: he’s not playing; he’s kicking his feet, rolling, and blood’s spurting from his neck! I scream at Gordon and Mundy to hold their fire. Shutzer has both his hands up. All firing stops and it’s quiet for two seconds. Then there’s another single shot; another German goes down, buckles and pitches face forward.

I see Mundy breaking fast off our hill and down to the road. He’s farthest forward and is yelling as he runs. He’s holding his rifle over his head; running along the road, waving his arms, yelling.

“Wilkins! Mother! Stop it, for Chrissake, hold your fire!”

There’s another shot. Mundy drops on the road. This time it’s a Luger. The noncom turns and shoots Shutzer, who still has his rifle slung. Miller drops to his knees and fires; the noncom bucks, spins and falls. There’s a few seconds’ silence after that. Then the other Germans begin firing into the hill at us. There’s nothing else to do. I pull off all seven shots in the clip, with Gordon firing away beside me. Miller’s flat on the ground. Shutzer sits up once, then stretches out and rolls over. With our position and semi-automatic rifles, the Germans don’t have a chance. In ten seconds they’re all down; only one’s moving. He’d tried to run uphill toward the latrine. He’s dropped his rifle, but now he’s been hit and is screaming on the side of the hill.

“Mel, you check Shutzer and Miller! I’ll go after Mundy! Watch out none of the Krauts is faking it!”

I’m yelling, crying and running. It all came on so fast. I fall twice sliding downhill till I get to Mundy. I flop on the road beside him. At first I can’t see where he’s hit. He’s turned on his back with his knees pulled up, his arms locked around them, rocking back and forth. He’s breathing but he rattles with each breath. Blood is starting to roll out the corners of his mouth. He’s not crying and he’s not screaming. He’s only saying over and over in a low voice, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

I manage to straighten and roll him onto his stomach. He’s been shot in the back and I want to get at it. There’s a deep melted patch, black from his blood, in the moonlit snow. Mundy pushes himself up onto his knees. There’s a great flowing hole in the middle of his back.

I unhook my bayonet, slit up the field jacket. Mundy’s on his knees and elbows, his head on his forearms. He’s still rocking.

“Hold in there, Father. I’ll get you fixed up.”

I pull off his aid kit, cut away the edges of his shirt. His back is white and black in the night. There’s a hole about a half inch round just to the left of his spinal cord. When he breathes, air sucks in and out the hole, making blood bubbles. I can hardly hear his voice against the snow.

“Anybody else get hit?”

“Everything’s OK, Paul. Don’t worry.”

I sneak a look toward Shutzer and Miller. Miller’s up and seems OK. Gordon and he are working over Shutzer. Shutzer’s sitting. Mundy tries again, not much louder than the sound of breathing and slow, slower than usual even.

“All the Germans dead?”

“I think so. Don’t worry about that. We’ll get you wrapped up and out of here. Just relax; don’t think too much. You warm enough?”

“Yeah, I’m warm. May the Lord have mercy on those poor Germans and on all of us. Boy, we really fucked up.”

Fucked up? Mundy? Holy shit! I’ve plugged, patched the hole with my bandage, and now I’m wrapping Mundy’s over top to hold it down and tying the strings on the other side across his chest. I feel around to see if the bullet came out but there’s nothing. By now, my hands are so sticky and wet I can’t tell much. I’ve dumped both packs of sulfa into the wound. I’m sure, at the very least, there are broken ribs and the lung’s punctured. Who knows what else? Father twists his head, looks at me.

“Don’t tell Mother.”

“OK, Paul. We won’t tell anybody.”

So now I’m telling everybody. But for a long time I did keep it to myself.

I glance up to see just where Wilkins is. Maybe he got it, too. Maybe one of those Germans figured out where the firing was coming from and put one into Mother. But then I see him coming along the road. He’s moving cautiously, from tree to tree; I think if anybody moved he’d shoot, no matter who it was. Wilkins still has no idea.

“Don’t worry, Paul, we won’t tell Mother. He’ll never know.”

 

I take off my belt and Mundy’s. I hook them together and strap that whole thing around to hold down the bandages. The blood seems to be slowing but it’s thicker. Mundy begins coughing.

Huge gobs of blood are coming out of his mouth with each cough. He slides forward so the side of his face is against the snow but he’s still on his knees, rump in the air. He’s trying to say something through all the blood. I take off my helmet and get down so my ear is against his mouth.

“Looks as if those First Fridays didn’t do much good.”

“You don’t need ’em, Father.”

I can’t be sure he hears me. His eyes are still open, almost transparent with the moon shining through them. I dip my right thumb into the mixture of snow, slobber and blood beside his mouth. I make a cross on Father’s forehead, close his eyes, make crosses on them, a cross for his lips, then crosses in the palms of each hand. I can’t think of anything to say I could live with.

Then Mundy, without opening his eyes, his mouth just moving against the snow, is trying to say something more. I get down closer; I can only just hear him.

“Remember, don’t tell Mother.”

He stops breathing; there’s a bubbling and a last sigh of a breath. He lurches forward, thrashes, kicking his feet; then he’s still. I look up and Wilkins is there, standing over us, crying.

“Is he dead? Is Paul dead?”

“I think so, Vance.”

“He ran out to warn me. I heard him call my name just before he was shot. I don’t understand. I heard the firing and had a perfect position. I could’ve put down all those Germans with no trouble at all; they didn’t even know where I was. I don’t get it.”

Mother’s crying hard, racking sobs; he drops on his knees beside Mundy on the road.

“You know how Paul is, Vance. He does crazy things without thinking. He was always making mistakes.”

“I feel terrible. It’s like it’s my fault somehow.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done, Mother.”

I try folding over the cut in Mundy’s jacket. He isn’t bleeding anymore. When he fell forward on his face, his arms went under him and are crossed on his chest. I turn him over onto his back and put my face next to his mouth to be sure, but he’s stopped. He’s gone.

Wilkins and I drag him by shoulders and feet from the center of the road. I know I have to go help with Shutzer. Gordon and Miller are still working over him. None of the Germans is moving, but that one up on the hill is moaning.

“Vance, go see if you can help the German. I’ll check what the situation is with Shutzer. Make sure that guy doesn’t have a knife or a pistol or anything. Be careful.”

I run uphill to the clearing in front of the lodge. God, it looks like a massacre; it
is
. At least seven people killed in less than ten seconds. We didn’t mean it, none of us, but there they are. I’m crying and having a hard time breathing but I’m not shaking. I’m still doing the things I have to do. I’m mostly trying not to think. I only know we’ve got to move out of here fast. If those Germans thought their own people would hear the firefight we put on, they can’t be far away. They could come charging out here in a hurry.

 

When I get to Shutzer, his face is white-green; Gordon has his canteen out and is giving him wound tablets. He’s split Shutzer’s field jacket up the arm and there’s blood over everything and seeping into the snow. It looks practically black, the way Mundy’s did. In some strange way, it doesn’t look like real blood; more like motor oil. It’s partly because there’s so much and it’s thick. There’re two bandages wrapped over Shutzer’s shoulder and his arm is tied twisted across his lap. There’s yellow sulfa powder over the front of his jacket.