An Owl's Whisper (26 page)

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.

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

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 16
^th
, right?”

The GI nodded. “Saturday, the 16
^th
. 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 are 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 28
^th
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?”

From the back of the group someone asked, “Hey Sarge, remind me. Which end of the rifle do the bullets come out?” A volley of nervous laughs rippled through the group.

Waxman snarled, “Get out of here, you clowns. Go get some grub.”

Stan went back to his bunk and wrote a note for Eva:

Stan folded the note and wrote Eva’s name on it. He took it to Sgt. Michelman at the depot’s front gate. “Sarge, I’m one of ’em shippin’ out tonight. My girl might come lookin’ for me. Could ya give this to her if she shows up? Name’s Eva.” He set the note by the package of Lucky Strikes on the gatehouse windowsill.

“She ain’t no Hun spy is she, Chandler?” Michelman squinted. “We been warned ’bout them.” He broke into a laugh and slapped Stan on the back. “Sure, kid, I’ll put it in the drawer here. Dent, Christie, and me’ll be manning the gate. I’ll mention it to ’em.” As Stan hustled off, Michelman called, “Hey Chandler, you take care of yourself down there, hear?”

Ardennes Truck Stop

Stan got his M-1 rifle, a bayonet, and sixty rounds of ammunition from the armory. He packed a shelter half, a sleeping bag, and a rifle cleaning kit. His readied his web gear—canteen, gas mask, entrenching tool, flashlight, ammo pouch. He crammed extra socks, pants, underwear, and shirts into his duffle bag. He stuck in his fruitcake and eleven Baby Ruths—left one behind to give to Henri Messiaen. He tied rubber galoshes on the outside of the duffle. It was a load to tote, but it was ready. By midnight he’d written to Uncle Jess.

At 01:15 Stan fell out with the others to wait for the trucks. He was glad everyone else seemed nervous too. At 02:30, when the convoy hadn’t arrived yet, the shivering men were moved into the dry goods storage building to wait. At 05:40, four trucks arrived. Two were already full of mechanics, clerks, illustrators, machinists, and cooks from other units. All suddenly infantrymen. By 06:15 the trucks were fueled and loaded with supplies and men. Out the gate they rolled. Without chow. Breakfast and hand grenades they would get when they hooked up with the 28
^th
.

It was just forty kilometers to Marche-en Famenne. An easy two hours, Stan figured. That was before the fouled up signs at one road juncture sent the trucks off in the wrong direction. Before the traffic jam at the blown bridge over the River Tarder. Before the road closure from the fuel truck fire just outside Barvaux. It was dusk on the evening of December 17 when the trucks found the 28
^th
Division rally point near Marche-en Famenne. There was no hot food, just K-Rations and all the radishes you could eat. Men were griping, but no one passed on the chow.

Fifty minutes after arriving, Stan and eleven others were back on the road in one of the trucks, heading to the 28
^th
’s G Company, located north of Bastogne. A sergeant named Harkin from the division rode up front as guide. With his thin face and wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like a librarian than an infantry sergeant. The road was torturous, mostly tracking the Ourthe River. Near La Roche-en- Ardenne, about half way, traffic was snarled due to snow, stalled vehicles, and trucks coming the other way. They spent hours stopped, the diesel engines idling. Some men managed to sleep. Feeling sick from exhaust fumes, Stan shivered in the back of the truck, thinking, sittin’ here gives ya a bad feelin’. Sounds too much like sittin’ duck.