Souvenir (27 page)

Scuttling across the road to take cover behind a thick pine stump, Jake got a better look around a pile of boulders ahead. If they were headed in the right direction, they’d be coming up on the German rear, facing the Americans in front of them. That was good. As soon as they saw any signs of the German lines, they’d have to get off the road and try and slip through. That would be the hard part. Jake almost laughed out loud. After all this, we still have the hard part to worry about.

He thought again of his father’s face floating in front of him. He wanted to tell Clay why he’d hesitated, why his hand shook. But he never could. Could he? No.

Why not? Who was he protecting? After the war was over he’d never see Clay again. How long could that be? Well, they still had the Japs to go, and scuttlebutt was that once Germany caved in, they’d all be shipped to the Pacific for the invasion of Japan. It wasn’t fair. No one could survive all that fighting, no one.

He took off, running from tree stump to tree stump along the side of the road. Brushing the snow off the top of one he saw it was fresh cut, sometime this winter. Fuel was probably short, and villagers were cutting the trees along the road for firewood. The clearing allowed him to look back a good length down the road, and he saw Clay’s helmet peeking around the side of a tree. Waving, he darted off again, gloved hands gripping his M1 tight, crouching, making himself as small a target as possible, hoping a German wouldn’t recognize him and an American would. Of course he knew what he’d do on the front lines if he caught a glance of a crouched figure advancing on his position. Maybe it’d be a replacement and he’d be a lousy shot.

Oakland. Maybe he would be okay. Tuck would definitely help, long as he held it together. He seemed on the edge, but that could be shock, hunger, or exhaustion. As if it made any difference. On the edge was on the edge, no matter how you got there.

Oakland. He’d had a fleeting thought the other night, just before they’d found the empty German position. If Oakland or some other replacement got it, maybe he could switch dog tags somehow. Jake Burnett would be dead. He’d be somebody else. But how could he keep the dog tags a secret? And what would happen when Oakland’s mother waited and waited for him to come home and he never showed up? The more he thought about it, the less it made sense, but he liked the idea of his parents getting that telegram. That’d show them.

The road curved to the left up ahead. Good spot for a sentry or an ambush. Stopping, Jake listened, waiting for a shuffle or a cough, any sound or smell that didn’t belong. He took small, careful steps, moving quietly, scanning the curve in the road ahead…

He felt hard metal under his boot.

Omigod, omigod, omigod, I’m on a mine! Jesus! Jesus Christ Almighty!

Jake felt the fear melt his skin white, then turn it clammy cold. Urine flowed down his leg as he peed uncontrollably. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he felt his stomach hollow out. Standing as still as he could, he tried to focus, to not move a muscle. His left leg was behind him, his right foot forward where he’d put it down on top of the metal object in the snow. His boot heel wobbled unevenly on the rim of the mine.

Grimacing, he made himself look down at his feet. He could feel his entire body shaking, and wondered if that could set off a mine. The road was rutted, deep frozen cuts from tires and treads filled with snow, some mounds of mud showing above the whiteness, decorated with ice crystals. He found a spot to set his rifle butt into, and held onto it like a cane, steadying himself. With the other hand he signaled, go back, go back, hoping Clay saw him.

He began to see them, round discs set in the snow. Some were nearly uncovered, obvious now that he knew what to look for. With all the mud and unevenness, they hadn’t stood out before. He craned his neck left and saw more just behind him. Fuck. Right in the middle. Fuck! It had been bad luck to be thinking about that telegram, real bad luck.

Okay, settle down. It hasn’t gone off yet. So it’s not a Schu mine. They explode right away and blow off your foot. Made of wood anyway. Not a Bouncing Betty either. Soon as you step on one of those they spring up waist-high and explode a spread of ball bearings, and you’re pretty much guaranteed not to be bearing yours after that. Okay, okay, maybe it’s an anti-tank mine. I can’t set one of those off, can I? Or is it the kind of mine that goes off when you lift up your foot. Oh, Jesus, please help me, please.

“Whaddya got, Jake?” It was Clay, behind him.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. They’re behind me too, don’t come any closer.”

“Hang on.”

“Clay?”

“What?”

“Don’t come any closer, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Jake, I’m being careful.”

“No, I—it’s not that. I pissed myself.”

There was a hesitation, and Jake was afraid Clay would laugh at him. “That’s okay, you got a right,” Clay said, in a calm, understanding voice. “It’s happened to me too.”

“Really? Don’t tell the other guys, okay?”

Even with panic swirling through his mind, Jake felt ashamed at losing control of his body. Keeping this secret was more important than getting off the mine, crazy as that seemed, even to him.

“Okay.”

Silence. Jake listened and heard a scraping sound.

“What are you doing?”

“Clearing the snow off one of these,” Clay said. “Using my bayonet.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re gonna blow us both up!”

“We got to find out what they are,” Clay said. “What did they tell us about German mines when we had that briefing? I can’t remember.”

Jake wanted to say then maybe he shouldn’t be fooling with that mine, but he knew Clay was getting him to talk so he’d calm down. He tried to remember, tried to get his mind to think about something else besides the scraping of Clay’s bayonet against metal.

“Okay, what are they called, they look like plates?”

“Tellermine,” Clay said. “Means plate in German.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Tellermines. TNT with a pressure fuse. Yeah, didn’t they say they took about 500 pounds pressure before going off?”

“That’s right. Except for the older models. They took about 150, 175 pounds pressure.”

“I forgot about those. Can you see anything yet?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“You remember what the numbers were?” 
“What numbers?” Jake could hear his voice turning shrill.

“There’s numbers painted on the top of this one. It says—
Ti-M 43
—is that the new one or the old one?”

“Jesus, I don’t know. If it’s a pressure mine, wouldn’t it have gone off already if it was the old model?”

“Guess so, yeah. You want to step back?”

“Clay?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh, never mind. Yeah, I’ll step back. Back up, okay?”

“All right. When you’re ready, step back one step, real slow. And don’t trip, no telling what one of those would do if you fell on it.”

Jake wanted to speak, to say something, anything that had any meaning, if it might be the last thing he ever said. There was so much, yet nothing came out. He stepped back.

He heard a small crunch as he lifted his boot, the mine settling back in place. Nothing. The pounding in his chest lessened as he steadied himself, lifting his rifle and taking another step backwards, setting his foot down exactly in the footprint he’d left. He wobbled a bit, found his balance, and righted himself, holding his M1 across his chest for balance.

A flicker from within the trees caught his eye and the felt a rush of fear running through him again. What was that? Again, up in the branches, something swift and eerily quiet.

A silent form flew out of the trees and across the road, gliding down, over Jake’s head before flapping its giant wings, sending a gust of air to brush his face. A Barn Owl, snowy white underneath, soft light brown feathers covering the wings and body, blending into the forest as it flew between the branches of a barren oak tree, disappearing as swiftly and quietly as it had appeared. Jake was left open-mouthed, gawking at the vanished grace that had passed over him.

“Did you see that?” he managed to whisper.

“What?”

“That owl. He flew right over me.”

“Just now?”

Jake looked back and saw Clay about ten feet away. Clear of the minefield, the last one about a yard in front of him, he turned and walked as calmly as he could back to where Clay stood.

“Yeah, just now. I felt the wind from his wings. A Barn Owl, I’m pretty sure.”

“Didn’t know they had Barn Owls over here,” Clay said, looking into the trees.

“It was huge, all white underneath, real quiet.”

“That’s a Barn Owl all right. I musta been looking down at the road. You okay?”

Jake couldn’t answer right away. Remnants of fear still flooded his body, shame following right behind. The inside of his leg felt cold and clammy. Looking back to the oak tree, he wished the owl would come again so Clay could see it, and they could both feel the silent wings beating against air.

“Yeah. I’m okay. We gotta go around, way around. There could be other mines.”

“Right,” Clay said. “We’re probably going to run out of woods soon anyway. Those owls like to be near fields and open ground. We might be coming up on a farm or village.”

“It could be ours, you know.”

“Why?”

“Look around. The road set with anti-tank mines, under the snow. No other Germans around. Maybe they pulled out, left this here to slow down our tanks. Either way, at least we know there’s no heavy stuff in front of us. This is the only road around here. They had to have mined it after their vehicles pulled out.”

It made sense to Clay. Getting the others off the road, they looped around the minefield, skirting the road as widely as they could, staying parallel with it as best they could. The sun was low in the sky now, glimmering through a tiny break in the clouds right on the horizon. Jake knew everything was going to be okay. The owl had to be good luck, anything that majestic coming close to you had to be lucky. He watched the sunlight brighten the tree branches and remembered the soft air moving against his cheek. He felt alive.

Chapter Fourteen

1964

Friday night was the busiest night at Jake’s Tavern. It was a winning combination, folks getting off the job and not having to get up and go to work in the morning. By six o’clock, the place was packed, and Brick kept busy flipping burgers as Clay and Cheryl worked the bar and brought food and drinks to the tables. It was different on Saturday nights, people drifting in and out, on their way somewhere else or heading home. Jake’s wasn’t a Saturday night destination, but it was a fine Friday night way-station, a place to let the tension of the week drain away and to settle down for the weekend.

Friday night was a good numbers night too. The more folks drank, the easier the dollars came. Relaxing into the evening, all things seemed possible, dreams more achievable, fortunes more winnable, the numbers luckier. Tonight was a night like that, for everyone except Clay.

Nothing had gone right all day. The road crew outside was close to the Tavern, making a racket with all their tools, tearing up the roadway. There was no parking on Miller Street while they worked, but at least they’d started to lay asphalt down the other end, so it wouldn’t last long. But that was a mild annoyance compared to things at home. Addy hadn’t even let him finish when he told her he would be out of the numbers racket soon. All the things he could’ve said, should’ve said, ran through his mind, perfect in their logic now that it was too late.

“Don’t even make a promise to me, Clay. Just do it and tell me it’s over. I can’t be bothered with what you promise, I want to know what’s done.” With that she’d turned on her heel and walked out of their bedroom, as certain of what needed to be done as she had been seventeen years ago when Clay stammered out the beginnings of a proposal, stumbling over the words, hesitating and nearly retreating before she grabbed him by the lapels and said yes, of course, yes, I’ll marry you. Her determination was one of the things he loved about her. Her ability to see the outcome she wanted and make it happen, whether it was the supervisor’s job at the phone company or Clay saying I do, endeared her to him. What he loved was now focused on him full force, a line drawn in the sand.

She hadn’t said another word to him the rest of the morning. He’d worked out in the yard, weeding the garden, planting a holly bush in the back yard that he’d picked up at a nursery. When he stopped home after his rounds, she wasn’t there. He’d waited an hour, but it was getting late in the afternoon. Damn her, he’d said to himself as he walked out to his car, damn her all to hell.

But he couldn’t keep the epithet alive. He didn’t want her damned, couldn’t even work up a decent rage at her threat to leave. She was right, he knew. He’d brought them to this place, with his ease at lying and covering things up. It had been easy, so easy, except that he hadn’t known the hard part would come later, after he was caught up in barbed wire, in the thick of it, taking fire from all sides.