A Midnight Clear: A Novel (26 page)

“And where are your stripes, Sergeant? You’ve had enough time to sew them on. You should be proud to be a sergeant in the U.S. Army.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get to it right away.”

God, I hope Miller rips all the garbage off Gordon’s field jacket. If Love ever sees that, we’ll have a court-martial to end all court-martials.

“You get out there now, Sergeant, and hurry that soldier with those chains.”

He flips his wrist. Looks at his watch again.

“We don’t have much time. Lieutenant Ware, be prepared to move the wounded and prisoner into the back of my jeep.”

 

Gordon and I make a four-handed carry. Mother props Stan so we can get him up and out to Love’s jeep. Thank God he’s unconscious, because we must be hurting him. He moans each time we shift or move too fast. When we get him sitting in the jeep, Gordon loosens the tourniquet once more and lets it flow. The blood’s still flowing, so he’s still alive.

“What do you think, Mel? Will he make it?”

“Let’s hope. Shutzer’s strong. With a careful drive back and quick medical help in a warm place, he’ll be OK.”

“Maybe we should keep him out here with us. What can they do for him right now we can’t do?”

“He needs morphine more than anything. He’s got to go back. It’s mostly a question of how much beating he takes getting there.”

We go inside to move the German. He’s not fighting us anymore. He’s conscious when we pick him up but there’s so much pain he passes out again. When we get him propped beside Shutzer in the jeep, Mel lets up on his tourniquet. He isn’t bleeding much.

I go back inside and pull off one of the satin covers. I’m out again before Love can think of some other asshole thing. Miller’s stretched on his back, flat on the snow in the dark trying to hook the chains. He’s pulled off the stripes. I wonder when he did it. Miller always does the right thing and way ahead of when I would.

We tear the satin into strips and tie Shutzer tight to the German so they support each other. Then we tie the two of them to the handholds and the jerry-can clamps. We tie securely so they won’t fall out, but not so tight we block circulation. Gordon’s a genius at this kind of thing. I’ll bet he’s a high-class blood-and-bandage man today.

I wrap all the extra satin tatters around Shutzer and the German’s hands. They’re both already ice cold. Gordon brings out Stan’s sleeping bag and we tuck it around both of them the best we can.

Love and Ware stand beside the jeep talking. Love’s smoking a cigarette in a short holder. Gordon moves off down to the bridge post. Wilkins is on post above the château. I guess Love thinks I sent them out; he’ll never know how this squad runs; self-contained, automatic drive.

Love stamps his feet and uses a stick he picked up somewhere to scrape snow from his boots. Those boots, combat boots, are waxed ten coats thick.

Miller crawls out from hooking the chains. Love climbs into the front passenger seat. Ware walks around back and stops by me. He looks at Shutzer.

“Sir, I think they won’t fall out if you’re careful but it’s going to be a rough trip. It’d help if you could stop once in a while and loosen the tourniquets on each of them.”

“We’ll do what we can, Knott.”

“Sir, you won’t forget about Wilkins?”

“We’ll do everything we can.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re doing a good job, Knott. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

Ware looks at me. I wonder if that’s in the category of insubordination. I don’t care much.

“Major Love wants you to keep the squad here until the Krauts start their attack. Try contacting us by radio, same frequency, then pack up and get the hell out.”

“What about Mundy, sir?”

“Take him with you if you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Headquarters will be moving out at o-eight-hundred. I’ll leave a jeep with a radio to pick up your message, then guide you in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Love turns around in the front seat.

“What’s going on back there, Lieutenant? We can’t stay around here all night. Let’s get going! ”

“Yes, sir; be right there, sir.”

Ware goes around to the front of the jeep, gets in and turns the motor over. They roll off the terrace in front of the château, downhill and over the bridge. Even here, where it isn’t particularly bumpy, Shutzer and the German roll back and forth. They look weirdly like lovers, locked together rocking back and forth, synchronized puppets on a hayride in the snow.

The scarecrow’s still there near the bridge, casting a long shadow in the moonlight. I wonder what Love thought of that. Probably pulled off a couple shots with his carbine. I should talk!

The moon’s all the way across the sky now, and some clouds are beginning to drift in. My feet and hands are freezing but I hate to go inside. I’m feeling empty, drained. Miller’s standing behind me. I’m not only feeling empty; I’m feeling dirty, hollow, cheap and shallow.

“Bud, you go down and get Mel. I’ll go up for Mother. We’re not going to keep any guard unless you want to or one of them does. None of this makes sense. If Germans are going to charge through here, we’ll hear them. Maybe tomorrow morning when we can see something we’ll take turns on the upper post; that’s enough.”

 

Wilkins and Miller bring more stuff down from the attic to burn. I can’t decide whether to cover Mundy’s face or not. I decide not to. I’m about ready to crack and don’t know what to do. I only want to climb into my fart sack, zip it all the way up, cover my head and breathe my own breath. I also want to run. My legs are quivering, jumping to run.

I pick up one of the flambeaux and go upstairs to the toilet. Nothing comes and it hurts; it’s the beginnings of latter-day piles. I almost start sobbing out loud on the toilet and it’s not the pain. I know I can’t go downstairs like this.

I go up into the attic, Wilkins’s hideout. We’ve really cleared out most of the junk, burning. Wilkins has lined up along the walls everything he thinks is too good for us. The rest of the stuff is piled in the center. The paintings he took out of the frames are leaning against one wall. I spread them around me and sit in the middle of them, the way I did with Wilkins. I try to let the calmness come into me again. I sit in that dark, dust-smelling room in the attic cold for a long time. I cry up there alone. It would’ve been so much better for me, for all of us, if we could only have given each other the comfort and support we needed so badly, but it’s hard for young males to share real emotion. It’s probably part of what allows wars to happen in the first place.

Finally, I go downstairs. I look at Mundy’s watch. It’s three-thirty. Wilkins and Miller are sleeping; Gordon’s playing with the fire.

“How’s it going, Wont?”

“Better. But lousy.”

“I’ve been sitting here thinking maybe Mundy’s the lucky one. He won the big prize.”

“Yeah, could be.”

“Is the whole world run by shits like Love? If we get through this, is that the way it’ll be?”

“I can’t even think about it.”

Mel pushes some burnt ends into the heat of the fire; they flare and throw light on his face. He looks bad as I feel.

“Mel, you think Wilkins has a chance?”

“You mean the citation?

“Most likely it’s up to Ware, and he’ll need to let Love write himself in. You heard him on the radio. He’s Buffalo Bill and General Robert E. Lee rolled in one. He writes his own citations. But maybe Mother will get something after all.”

 

I go over and kneel beside Mundy again. I remember doing it and trying to put him in my mind but it doesn’t work. Like looking for a star on a moonless night, it has to happen from the side. The blind spot’s in the center of the eye.

“Ever think about how many dead people there must be, Mel? Mundy’s gone and joined the great majority. I’ll bet there are thousands of dead people for every live one. I’d like to stay in the minority a while longer.”

“You’re not doing much about it; me neither.”

“For some reason I can’t figure, we don’t pay enough attention to important things; like Mundy here.”

“So what’s important?”

“Really being alive, I think. If I ever get through all this, I’m going to do the things I want. I’m going to look at a lot of paintings, and listen to music, really listen, not just hear it. I love to draw, always have; I might even become an artist. That’d sure be worth living for. I know damned well I don’t want to be an engineer; that’s just what my dad thought he wanted, and I don’t think he really knew either.”

“My folks want me to be a dentist, take over the old man’s practice, make
his
life seem to make sense. I think I’d puke every time I brushed my own teeth; I don’t even like the sound of
other
people brushing their teeth. I’m taking my chances at getting to be a doctor; that’d be important to me. But what’s the difference; what chance do we have, anyway?”

“Mundy told me he still wanted to be a priest. He only dropped out because he thought he wasn’t good enough. Can you believe it?”

We’re both talking to Mundy. I’m still kneeling on the floor beside him. I cover his face. I remember now thinking how somebody had to get something out of all this. I wanted it to be me. And it was.

 

That night, the darkness lasts forever. We’re worried about Shutzer. Mel says if Stan makes it back to regiment, he’ll maybe only get a stiff shoulder out of it. It’s his left arm. We try to remember if he’s right-handed; we’re both almost sure he is.

Wilkins and Miller sleep away. I lie out on a mattress but my head spins. The Germans could come and blow us away. I’d have a hard time even getting excited about it.

At eight, just as light is breaking, I try getting through to regiment but nothing doing. Love said they were closing down, but I’m hoping to reach that jeep Ware promised. I try on and off for almost half an hour and finally give up.

We agree somebody should be out on the hole; Miller volunteers. I’m still not hungry but I’m dead tired at last. My eyelids are dropping over my eyes as I pull off my boots, jacket, helmet, and climb into the sack. It’s the first time I’ve been this undressed since we left regiment. I go out cold.

I wake, it’s dark and I don’t know where I am. I see the fire burning but it doesn’t mean anything. I look at my arm and I’m wearing Mundy’s watch. It’s hard to believe but I
still
don’t catch on. The hands are straight up and down. I don’t know if that’s o-six-hundred or eighteen-hundred. I hold the watch to my ear but it isn’t ticking. So I don’t have
any
idea of what time it is. I don’t know much of anything; something in my mind is keeping me from knowing.

This is the first time I experience a separation of the physical and mental.

 

The second time is later, when our first child was born. My wife went through forty-eight hours of hard labor; I was driving home along the Pacific Coast Highway in California and woke up grinding over sand into the Pacific Ocean. It wasn’t that I fell asleep; my mind became detached from me.

A cop saw the whole thing, watched me drive across the oncoming lane, over curbs, through a parking lot, over tire bumpers, down an incline, and chug along the sand. I’d probably’ ve wound up in Hawaii if the motor hadn’t stalled.

Now, that was a nice cop. After I got myself together enough so I could explain, he took me home in his squad car. Then, somehow, he got my car pulled off the beach and drove it to Topanga Canyon, to our house. It was there when I woke up and I never even got a towing bill. It was the kind of thing that gradually tuned me back into life and people.

 

I look around. Somebody’s cleaned and straightened things up, arranged our rations along the high mantel over the fireplace. They’ve also somehow dragged that copper tub down from the bathroom upstairs and stood it beside the fireplace. There are bucketfuls of steaming water hanging on hooks over the fire. There’s no one there but Mundy and me.

“Hey, Father, where is everybody?”

I remember while I’m saying it. I’m not even sure if I finish the sentence. I’m back. It’s all on me again, with a feeling of green slime dripping from my brain into the back of my mouth. I cry again.

When I’m finally pulled together, I swing out of the sack, slide on my boots without lacing them and go outside to take a piss. Things like needing to piss are what bring you back. It’s dark out. From the moon I can tell it’s evening, not early morning. I’ve slept about ten hours.

Wilkins and Miller are struggling and slipping uphill from the bridge with that German Christmas tree on their shoulders. I button up and wait for them. Miller looks through the branches at me.

“Well, well. Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

He isn’t. I hold back one curtain so they can push the tree through the French door.

“What’s up? Who’s on post, or have we given up the whole idea?”

Miller and Wilkins stand the Christmas tree in a corner on the other side of our fireplace. Miller’s knocking snow off branches.

“We’ve more or less kept somebody out there. It’s OK. Don’t worry, Won’t. You’re alive, right?”

“Thanks. When am I on?”

“If you’re really gung ho to sit in a cold hole for a couple hours, you’re on at eight. We’ve about convinced ourselves no patrols are coming through here anyway. If they come in force, it’ll most likely be in the morning.”

“What’s the tree for; going to try burning it?”

Miller looks quickly at Mother, then at me.

“Vance and I here were getting depressed, figured we need some Christmas spirit; so we cleaned this place up. Now we’ll decorate our tree, roast chestnuts, crackle a Yule log or two and stuff ourselves with turkey, cranberry sauce and all the trimmings.