Back in her time (6 page)

Taylor rinsed the razor blade in the overturned German helmet and scraped her face with the dull back side, trying to avoid the scratches and deep gouges that she could see in the sliver of mirror she held. Ow. Mac had offered her the razor, saying maybe if she started to shave, something would grow. She couldn't say no.
This is what friends do. Sharing wasn't Dieter's thing. Why am I thinking of him now?

“You'll have to get beat up better than that if you want to visit that sister again,” Mac smiled as he smoothed a hand over his clean-shaven face. He was almost handsome, with that smirky smile, Taylor thought.

“Thanks, but I'll take this punishment instead of seeing the girl if it means I get to keep my limbs. Now all we need is a bath and a change of clothes to feel human,” said Taylor as she continued the painful scraping.
Wonder if I'll scar? Couldn't be much worse than acne, could it?

“Hey, ‘Man Who Sees the Future,' any more inside information?” Mac said as looked out the farmhouse's glassless window.

“Inside information? Oh, yeah. I just remembered. Not only do you do well at cards, you're going to do well in the stock market. Just watch out for insider trading.”
Where did this tidbit materialize from? Pretty soon even I will believe I'm psychic.

“I do like to play the ponies. You're right. Numbers have always been my thing. Maybe when this damn war is over I'll play the stock market, too. I've always been keen to try it. Couldn't be any worse than those blokes in '29.”

“Do that, and you'll remember me telling you this when you make lots of money and become a successful businessman.”

“You're a laugh a minute, Junior.”

“What about on the war front? Any more deaths?” Mac cocked his head waiting for an answer, as if he might believe Taylor.

“If I remember correctly, the Pats will soon report fifty-nine killed, over one hundred wounded, and a couple dozen taken prisoner. The Second Brigade will have about 150 killed, hundreds wounded, and lots taken prisoner, too. It will be the worst single-day loss for a brigade in the Italian campaign,” said Taylor.

“You sound like a news report. Where do you get this stuff?” Mac smiled.

“There's more. I see a couple from our unit getting captured by the enemy nearby. One of us will escape and go get help.”

Mac tossed his head back and laughed. “Junior. What an imagination.” With a play poke at Taylor's sore face, he exited the farmhouse, still chuckling.

At least he's laughing now. When Pops and I go missing, he won't be laughing then.

* * *

The river was icy cold, but the men didn't care. Stripping off their uniforms, down to underwear for some, others buck naked, they toed the water and bravely submerged their sweat-soaked and dust-covered bodies in the cleansing current. Someone had a sliver of soap, and it was tossed about like a hot potato as they took turns lathering themselves quickly and racing to rinse so as not to turn into icicles. Whitey was the first finished and ran up to Taylor, splashing her where she was standing on the shoreline, fully clothed and looking as if she would like to be anywhere but here. Taylor, in turn, stepped into the water and splashed Whitey's retreating back, and soon all the men were jumping, avoiding, whipping torrents at their comrades, having a good time despite the air and water temperature.

Taylor and Whitey finally quit and collapsed on the sand. At least Taylor's clothes had had a quick wash. Whitey put his dirty clothes back on. They'd all have to wait until new ones arrived.
Wouldn't Dieter have had a fit wearing clothes this wet and dirty? Dieter was always meticulous with his cleanliness. Why am I thinking about Dieter now? I can see him clearly in his black clothes, jeans pressed. Was it this morning or days ago that I saw him last?

“Junior, you collectin' mothballs up there in that chicken brain of yours?” Red asked as he sauntered by. “Keep movin' so your clothes have a chance to dry. Cook has some vittles on. Let's go and chow down.”

Taylor laughed and caught up to Red, cuffing him on the back of his head. “At least my head isn't stuffed with hay from wrangling horses.” At school, if he called me names, I would have sworn at him or tried to punch him out.

Legs crossed, seated in a circle, eating breakfast, Mac spoke. “Has anyone heard Junior's latest prophecy?”

I can't tell if he's starting to believe me or not.

“If Junior said it, it will come true.” Whitey crossed his heart with the hand not shoving grub into his mouth.

“What's this one, Junior?” Red asked, talking with his full mouth open.

“If you're just going to make fun of me, then forget it.” Taylor put her spoon down.

“Nah. Come on, they want to hear it.” Mac said.

Taylor explained again her feeling that there would be lots of deaths and a couple of them would get captured. But one would escape and go for help.

A new voice joined the group. It was Sarge. “We've captured our share of the enemy; it's not inconceivable that they should take a prisoner or two. Now, tell me who exactly gets captured? And, who is the person who goes for help? Tell me that, and if it comes true, maybe I'll start believing you have this ‘sixth sense,' as you call it.”

This is it. I'll get Pops to believe me after this.
“It's you and me, Pops — I mean, Sarge. We get sidetracked away from the others, and the enemy catches up to us.”

“And who gets away? You the hero, Junior?”

“Is it so hard to believe? Trust me on this.”

“Why don't I make the escape instead of you?”

“Because I can run faster than you, and have a better chance.”

“Oh you can, can you?”

“Well, sir, I am younger by a few years, and I've had to run away from a few situations back in my … city. So I know I'm the better choice. Besides, I can swim across a river to get away, and you never learned how.”

“Who told you that I can't swim?” Sarge abruptly turned and left the group.

“Now you've done it, Junior. You're on the bad side of Sarge, for sure. Sorry I brought it up.” Mac, too, left the circle.

The others busied themselves cleaning their mess tins, eyes averted, and repacked their kits. Taylor wandered off by herself.
This had better work, Pops, or you'll never believe another story I tell you. Or I'll never believe another story you tell me, if I ever get that chance again.

Taylor avoided the others for the next two days as they marched forward.
I might as well be back in my time, for all the friends I have here. At home I was a freak. Here, I'm that crazy nut case. I'm not sure which one is worse.

“Junior, Sarge is looking for you. He's over talking to some Highlanders who caught up to us in the rear,” said Whitey. “Maybe they're some of your unit?”

My unit? They'll know I'm not one of them as soon as they see me. I can't go talk to them.

“Come on, Junior. They're waiting for you down the road.”

Think, think! How do I get out of this?
“Shit, Whitey. They'll want me to go with them. I like it here with you guys. Can't you go back and say you couldn't find me?”

“Orders are orders, Junior. Come on. Maybe they'll let you stay.”

After the court martial, sure. I'll be staying around for a long time
—
in jail. I can't let these guys see me. They'll know I'm not this T. Reid guy as soon as they see my face.

“Gee, you look like you've seen a ghost or something, Junior. Come on.” Whitey took Taylor's arm in a firm grip and pulled her down the wagon track they were using as a road.

Eyes downcast, Taylor let herself be led to the Highlanders.

“Here he is now, gents. Recognize him?” Sarge stood back on his heels as if presenting a new prize bull.

“Well, I'll be. Reid, you trickster! You are alive. We thought you bought it back at Ortono after the mortars started flying,” said a burly man with corporal chevrons.

“More like we thought you went AWOL,” said the other soldier, a private. “Captain nearly wrote your mother that you were missing in action. Where the heck did you get to?”

Taylor stood, mouth hanging open. “You know me? You really know me?”

“He does have it bad. You're right, sergeant. He doesn't have a clue who we are. Are you all right, son?”

“He's fine. He's done some damn good soldiering since he joined my platoon. This boy is a natural leader. Tells some tall tales, though.”

“That's our Reid. Always joking around, half-lying but never hurting anybody. Glad to hear he's toughened up, though. Knew this army would make a man out of you yet,” said the corporal as he pounded Taylor on the arm.

They really know me. I'm here in the past in someone else's body. Strange that I look like this guy. I saw myself in the mirror when I was shaving and it's me, all right. Wait. How can that be? Unless I think I just see me. No. Could I be in the body of one of my ancestors? Like my own grandfather or even great-grandfather? Reid. Maybe that's it. I've come back to the past and found the name of my biological family. Mom would never show me the papers. She just always said I was adopted and could see them when I turned eighteen. That was going to be next month back in my time.

“Yoo-hoo, lost boy. We're having a conversation here.” The private waved his hands in front of Taylor's face.

“Sorry. I was remembering something.”

“He gets like this sometimes. You boys returning him to your unit?”

That got Taylor's attention. “No! I want to stay with you, Sarge, and the guys. I don't even know these Highlanders.”

“He should probably be in sick bay.” The corporal rubbed the stubble on his chin.

Taylor's sarge spoke, “You know we can't spare any able-bodied men, corporal. And he is able-bodied. Just the other day he bragged he could beat me in a foot race.”

“Yeah, Reid is always boasting about all the sprinting he did in high school.”

“Please let me stay with the Sarge until my memory comes back.” Taylor looked from one face to another. “Please.”

“Well, he's a lot politer than I ever remember. It's up to you, Sarge. I can submit the transfer. You might as well keep him until it goes through. He obviously doesn't want to return with us.”

“If you'll do the paperwork, then it's fine with me. We lost a couple of men earlier, and Junior here has stepped up nicely.”

Taylor held her breath, waiting for the final pronouncement.

“He's all yours, then. We have enough on our hands without a ment — a man with memory problems.”

“Thanks, corporal, Sarge. You have no idea what this means to me.” Taylor excused herself and went over to where Whitey was standing, whittling what was shaping into a bird. “I get to stay. Sarge stood up for me. Whew. I'm glad that's over.”

“So you don't even remember your own corporal? You have it worse than I thought, Junior. But, I'm glad you're staying with us. Who else can tell us the future?”

“You mean that, Whitey? Not about having me stay. I mean about believing that I tell the future?”

“Well, you don't have to tell the other guys, but yeah, I do.”

“Thanks, Whitey. It means a lot that you believe me. Come on. Let's go tell the others I'm here to stay.”

At the next rest stop, Taylor approached Sarge to thank him again. “I don't know what I would have done if I'd had to join those Highlanders, Sarge. It would be weird being with a unit where I didn't know anyone all over again. Thanks for keeping me on.”

“You've earned your place with us, Junior. You needn't worry, though, you would have gone back into their fold as easily as you came into ours.”

Taylor coughed to cover a choking feeling she felt in her throat. “Coming from you, Sarge, well, that's — ” She waved a hand and turned her back, walking a few feet away to an olive grove, where she plunked down behind a tree.

* * *

Sarge was fiddling with a compass while the captain spoke on the radio inside a small tent erected for the purpose of a headquarters. The privates took turns passing the tent to pick up tidbits: possible tank action, a river crossing, minefields. The men wouldn't be told too much until it was necessary.

“Intelligence, they call it,” said Mac with a bitter laugh. “How can it be intelligent if we don't know what's going on?”

“What we don't know we can't tell the enemy. Remember the papers we picked up from those dead Germans? I couldn't read them, but they might be helping our side right now.”

Taylor was sorry now she hadn't chosen German as a language to study in high school. She didn't even pay much attention in French class. The few swear words Dieter's father yelled at them when they were at his house didn't help in translating the written words Taylor had read in the papers they had discovered. Oh, well. An expert code-breaker or interpreter would have analyzed them by now.

Taylor remembered the jam incident suddenly and smothered her mouth with a hand. Mac stared at her for a moment and then it was as if a light bulb went off and he too started to laugh.

“What? What's so funny?” Whitey asked.

“It's your story, Mac. You tell it,” said Taylor.

Mac wiped his eyes and between fits of snorting like a horse told how he had been covered in blood until Junior came up and wiped his face off and discovered the true cause. Several listeners joined in the guffawing.

“You're laughing
with
me, right?” Mac managed to squeak out.

“Wish I'd been there, Mac. That must have been a sight,” said Red. “Got to go take a leak after that story.”

“We don't know if we're going to be here for an hour or a day. Anyone up to a game?” asked Mac.

“You still have all our money from the last game until the pay clerk finds us. How about something more physical?” Taylor asked.

“Like what — football, baseball?” asked Red.

“I was thinking baseball,” said Taylor. “To make it interesting, how about we borrow Cook's animals and ride them from base to base? You know, Donkey Baseball. Have you heard of it?” Taylor glanced around the small group.
Where do I get these ideas? Pops must have told me.

“That will make it kind of hard. Those stupid asses never do what they're supposed to,” said Swampy, overhearing the conversation.

“That's the idea,” said Taylor. “Come on, Mac. Let's see if we can round up a couple.”

Cook could be as stubborn as his animals, but seeing it was Junior (who had come up with the beer-cooling idea), he relented. “Now don't wear 'em out. We may still have a big march ahead of us today. They're all that's keeping youse men from starvin' to death until we get a proper truck sent in to take over for them.”

Mac and Taylor made a mock salute to the cook as they pushed and pulled the reluctant animals, Max and Goering, to an open field. Cook donated three burlap bags full of some unknown staple, and the diamond was set up. Someone appeared with a bat, another with a worn glove and ball. Sides were chosen.

As the first batter readied himself, Max, his charge, was held to the right of home by a teammate and pointed in the correct direction after several attempts. After two strikes and two balls, a long hit was achieved, and the batter threw the bat, jumped on his steed, and proceeded to yell and kick the poor animal. Max refused to move, then sauntered out toward the pitcher's mound. Much screaming, cheering, and cajoling finally persuaded Max to head toward first base. By this time, an outfielder had tossed the ball to the first-baseman, and he ran up and tagged the donkey and his man. More cheers and laughter filled the air. The game continued for an hour more. Taylor's team finally had the first home run after Red hit the ball out of the field. With much pushing, Goering was finally dragged across home plate to win the game by one to nothing before the men were called to their units for orders.

Returning as fresh as if they'd had an afternoon rest instead of pushing dumb animals around a baseball diamond, the men paid heed to their sergeants. Cook, who had been watching the game with his assistant, came to take the bewildered animals back to their wagon for water and a deserved rest. He could be overheard whispering endearments into Max and Goering's ears as he coaxed them back to his station.

“Our orders are for firearm practice so we don't get rusty,” Sarge told his men. “We had extra ammo sent up so we're to get to work immediately. Whitey, you take about six men over there and set up some targets for us. Ask Cook for some empty tin cans or find some other things to hit. Mac, start lining the men up several hundred feet from the targets. I'll give the signal to start.”

“Aw, Sarge. We already know how to shoot. At least most of us. We spent hours at Aldershot doing just that,” said Swampy.

“This time, wear your gas mask and see how you do,” Sarge ordered.

Several men grumbled that they couldn't see a thing with that frigging mask fogging up, but they toed the line when Sarge barked at them.

Lying prostrate, breathing heavily in her gas mask, Taylor raised her head to sight the targets. It was true. Her mask was all fogged up. None of the guys seemed to be able to hit anything, even Sharpshooter, who had been around guns all his life. Taylor removed the mask, wiped it off for about the third time, and put it on haphazardly, aimed, and shot. An empty bean can shot high into the sky.

“Now, that's the kind of shooting I want to see, men.” Sarge looked as proud as a new papa.

After practice, Mac and Whitey approached Taylor.

“Giving lessons, Junior?” Whitey asked.

Taylor glanced around to see if anyone was listening and whispered, “My mask was on crooked. I didn't have it over my face completely. I couldn't see a thing with it on, either.”

Mac and Whitey smiled. Fellow conspirators. “You sure fooled Sarge. Good thing he didn't notice,” said Mac.

Whitey said, “I hope this doesn't mean headquarters expects gas warfare, if they've got us training with our masks.”

I don't remember Pops saying anything about gas.

“No, we're okay. They only used it in the First World War.”

The guys nodded gravely and went to see what, if anything, was next.