Birdy (31 page)

I do not see me. This is as usual. Then I lean down and pick up Perta. There is great unhappiness on my face. It is the unhappiness of a boy; birds’ faces show nothing. I pick up Perta and walk back towards the aviary. I fly painfully after me to the edge of the aviary roof. I watch myself come back out again with a small spoon and a matchbox. It’s one of the kitchen matchboxes in which I keep the eggs. I put Perta carefully into the box and close it. I dig a hole in the back of the aviary beside the wall and bury the box. I go back into the aviary.

I hop from the top of the aviary and stand by Perta’s grave. I’m glad she’s safe from the cat. I know I must go to my babies but I don’t want to leave Perta.

Then I see myself come out of the aviary again. I have a popsicle stick with me. I push the stick into the ground over the space where the matchbox is buried. I hop close and read the
writing.

MY WIFE, PERTA
.

I wake up.

That next day at school I know all the things that have to happen. I’m not too frightened by the strange way the real world has to
follow the dream. I’m sorry for Perta and I think of locking her into the flight cage but then her baby birds would starve. I could put those babies under other birds but this whole thing is something that has to happen. If it doesn’t happen as it must, then my Perta will never be really dead, I can never be free as a boy again.

After school I’m working in the aviary when I hear the cat scream. I walk across the yard and over under the tree. She’s there exactly in the spot where I look for her. I look, but know I cannot see myself. I pick Perta up and her neck is broken. There is no other mark on her body.

I carry her across the yard to the aviary and do the things I’m supposed to do. I’m feeling very calm inside myself. More than ever I feel that I am together. As boy I’m doing exactly what must be. I almost feel myself fitting into the space I occupied in the dream. I put Perta in the box and go out to the place beside the wall. There’s a slight depression in the ground. I dig the hole half-looking, expecting a matchbox to be there. Al will never know about the treasure we didn’t find. In some way it was there, there, in the power of our dream.

There’s no matchbox and I put my matchbox with Perta into the hole. I cover it over and look for myself up on top of the aviary. I’m not there. I go back into the aviary and take the popsicle stick I use for scraping out the corners of the cages. I clean it off and print the message on it with a dark pencil. I go out and push it into the ground over the grave. There are no bird tracks. I wake up.

During the day I can’t keep my thoughts from the dream. My throat hurts because I’m not crying when I should. We’re having final exams so no one notices me much.

That night I’m still standing by Perta’s grave. The dream has become more like a dream. Things don’t happen the way they used to. I don’t see any of the other birds. When I fly, I fly in slow motion. It’s like a dream.

I fly up to the babies and feed them. I tell them their mother won’t be coming back but I will take care of them. I spend all that day and night sitting on the edge of the nest, feeding them when
they’re hungry and remembering Perta. I know they will not remember her. To them, she’s in Echen and that’s all there is to it. It’s not worth thinking about; it doesn’t matter.

In my dream, over the next weeks, I bring the young birds up till they can fly from the nest and join the others. They are free, they can fly where they want to. My babies are completely bird. I do not show them where Perta is buried, it would mean nothing. I’m getting more and more boy in my dream, the bird in me is fading. The dream is becoming less and less real.

As boy, I’m not as interested in the breeding of birds either. I’m seeing them for what they are, canaries. Everything in the aviary seems so automatic. The young birds all look alike. I can’t tell them from last year’s birds anymore. I can feel it all coming to an end. Something is finished.

I build a feeding platform on top of the aviary. I build a roof over it to keep off the rain. I build perches for the feeders so the flying birds can feed up high away from cats. When it’s done, I let all the birds out of the new flying cage. Some few females are still sitting on nests, so I allow them to stay in the cage.

When the last nest is finished, I put the floor back in the cage to separate the upper part from the lower. I begin to select out the singing males from the female flight cage, and put them in the lower cage. As the breeding birds finish up their third nests, I move them into the flight cages, too. Birdie is tired but as friendly as ever and I take her out for a free flight. I take Alfonso out too and it’s the first free flying for him. His flight is weak from the long time in a small cage but he quickly finds his wings and takes long flights to the tree and the house. I’m not sure he’ll come back to the cage but he does. I decide to leave Alfonso and Birdie out with the free fliers. They deserve it.

The free fliers are now totally out of the cages. They sleep in the tree or on the house. I leave the cage door open but they don’t come in. There are about sixty birds out flying free. It makes me proud to see them. I feel I’ve helped put them back in the air where they belong. I wonder if they’ll stay close to the house now when they don’t sleep in the cages. At the end of summer will be the time for northern
hemisphere finches to migrate. What will these birds do? Will this instinct take them off and in which direction? Will Birdie and Alfonso leave and fly with them? How far can a finch fly without eating? There’s no way I can think of for them to get to Africa, their original habitat. Will they learn to live on the grains and fruits our finches live on here? Will they interbreed with other finches or stay apart? It doesn’t matter. It’s so great to see them flying free.

There are over two hundred birds in the flight cages. More than half are males. The price of birds is astronomical. I’ll be glad when the birds are old enough to sell. I don’t want to keep birds in cages anymore. I’d really like to set all of them free but these young birds without free flight experience could never make it. Also, my father is very happy thinking of the money we will get when we sell them. He’s kept my mother off my back, so I can’t let him down. He’d like to get all the free fliers into the cage and sell them, too. He keeps listening to them and has all the males identified. He’s up to thirty-five males.

I’m dreaming again, but in my dreams I’m always alone. I see the other birds flying but I stay away. I fly all the night alone. I fly to every place I’ve ever been. I fly over the roof tops and trees or sometimes high in the sky. It seems so easy and I’m more me, not so much a bird. It’s me, a boy, flying. I’m flapping my arms like wings and it’s easy. It’s just knowing I can do it that makes me fly. In my dreams I’m always wanting someone else so I can show them how to do it. It would be such fun to teach Al or my father how to fly. When you can do it, it seems so incredibly easy.

The wholesale man comes and buys all the birds. We get nine dollars apiece for the males and three dollars for the females. The total check is for over fifteen hundred dollars. My father doesn’t understand why I’m selling the breeding birds, too. He still wants to trap the flying birds and sell them, but I put him off. They are my birds. I let him think I’m going to use them for breeding the next year.

It’s quiet in the aviary now. I clean it all up and cover the breeding cages with newspapers. At night, in my dream, I begin to sense a strange restlessness in myself. Even when I’m flying, I’m thinking
of something else and I don’t know what it is. Then I know. I’m feeling the urge to flock and migrate. Is it in the other birds or is it only me? Is it in the dream birds, too?

Daytimes I watch the birds and I’m sure they’re preparing to leave. There is much flocking and random flight. They have increased their eating and fly further distances from the yard. Sometimes there will be no birds at all in the yard for as long as two or three hours.

My mother is starting to complain about the bird shit on things and the noise. The noise she’s talking about is the singing. My father says they’re all going to freeze in the winter cold. He says it’d be cruel to leave them out, and we have to get them back into the flight cages. Most of them have never lived in a cage.

He opens up the door to the flight cage and moves the feeders inside. The birds start coming into the flight cage to eat, then they come in to sleep at night. A few of them, like Alfonso, still sleep out in the tree, but most times they all come in. I know the time is coming when my father will close the door and lock them in.

In my dream I go to the birds. I tell them it is time to leave. I tell them if they go into the cage to sleep they will be closed in the cage and put into small cages. At first, they do not understand me, then they do not believe me. Alfonso speaks; he says he knows what I say is true, that I have never lied to the birds. It is time to leave. He says he knows how to go, that it is a long flight and some will die, but he is going, so is Birdie, and they are leaving in the early morning. I listen and I’m sad. The birds are excited.

At dawn, all are ready; we go up in a single movement. Alfonso is at the head of the flock. We fly straight south, over the top of the gas tank, over Landsdowne, down over Chester and I am with them. I’m wondering what is happening with my life. Will I ever wake up in my own bed again?

Then, somehow I am not with them. I am in the sky, flying, watching them go. I cannot keep up; they are leaving me. I see myself as bird, with them, flying, up behind Alfonso and Birdie. I know I will be with them wherever they go. I watch from my place in the sky as they, we, become small spots getting smaller until there is only sky. I find myself getting heavier, falling, gliding down
to the earth only a little slower than I fell off the gas tank. I flap my arms as I fall and I just manage to get back into my sleep under the empty sky.

In the morning there are no birds. My father is angry. I feel very lonesome. We wait all day for the birds to come back. It is Saturday and I spend the day watching the sky, trying to keep it empty.

The next day I go out and take apart the aviary. I store the wood behind the garage. I do it quietly so no one will know what I’m doing. Things come apart much easier than they go together. The aviary is down and gone when I go inside to bed.

That night I do not dream.

The days pass slowly. I feel terribly alone. I’m worried about telling my father I’m not going to college. I’m also worried about being drafted. All this works itself out; it’s decided for me.

In September, I get a letter from the army saying I’ve been selected to study engineering with the ASTP, the Army Specialized Training Program. They’ve assigned me to the University of Florida in Gainsville. I’d taken the test for the ASTP at school in February and forgotten about it completely.

It seems like the perfect solution. I can get away from everything and it’s something I can live with. They tell us we’re being trained as engineers to help with the rebuilding of Europe and Japan after the war. My parents are happy, they think I’m going to be an officer, and that impresses them.

I enlist at the end of the month. I’m sent to Florida for a semester, then they dissolve the ASTP. I’m sent to Fort Benning for basic training, then to the South Pacific as an infantry replacement.

I think of ten about the birds, about Perta, and my children, but I don’t dream about them.

The next day, when I go see Birdy, I swear he smiles at me. I fit the chair between the doors and wait till Renaldi is gone.

‘Hi, Birdy, this is your old pal, Al. How about it? You ready to talk yet? Remember who I am?’

He’s squatting and watching me. His arms are crossed over his knees; his chin is resting on his arms. His eyes are on me but there’s no answer in them. He’s watching me the way he used to watch birds. His eyes are flitting back and forth but somehow staying concentrated on me. It’s a creepy feeling but I know for sure that he’s there.

I begin talking some more about the old things we did but I’m boring myself. Birdy and I spent a lot of time together, walking on Sixty-ninth Street or going to the Municipal Library for books on Friday night, but those things aren’t worth talking about. I start with the old high school and the crummy little locker we lived out of, but that doesn’t go anywhere either. I’m getting the feeling he knows all that stuff and doesn’t want to hear it anymore. I know he wants to hear about me but can’t ask.

I’m ready to talk, to tell him. I didn’t know how much I needed to tell somebody. If not Birdy, who else?

After basic they send me to Europe as a replacement with the Eighty-seventh Division. I start telling Birdy some of the good parts; the funny things; riding in trucks in fine weather behind tanks. Then, all the French girls and after that the mud in the Saar. Then, I tell about Metz and the Twenty-eighth charging up
that stupid hill at Fort Jeanne d’Arc and how Joe Higgins got it there. Higg played left tackle beside me at U.M. I’m having a tough time getting to the real part.

By the time we go into Germany and are up against the Siegfried Line, I’ve actually gotten to be a sergeant all right. It’s not because I’m any hell-fire soldier, but there just isn’t much of anybody else left. One thing I didn’t know about myself is I’m lucky. That’s not the only thing I didn’t know about Al Columbato either.

I find out I get more scared than most people do of things I can’t do anything about; things like artillery. Little punks, guys afraid to look anybody in the eye, guys I could wipe out with my left hand; can sit under fire in a hole with the sides falling in and eat chocolate bars or make jokes. They’re scared but they can live with it. I don’t know how to be scared with any dignity. I’m scared deep into my bones about being mangled. I see gore, my gore, in a thousand different ways. My fucking love for my own body wipes me out. I get to a point where I’m even scared of being scared. I’m scared I’ll take off and run sometime, and it takes all my nerve just to stay, even when nothing’s happening. Everybody gets to know I’m the tough wop with no balls.

There’s a little Jew-boy, not big enough to wrestle bantam and he gets to be squad leader. He deserves it. He always knows when to move, when to stay; he’s thinking all the time. That’s what a real soldier does. Big-shot Al is spending his time trying not to crap his pants, literally. I’m breathing deeply in and out, trying not to hotfoot it back to the kitchen truck.

And every time I get up enough nerve to turn myself in, go psycho, take my section eight, we’re taken off the line and I try to put myself together again. I’m not sleeping much; I’ve got the GI’s all the time. My hands shake so much I can hardly load a clip. This is all the time, not just when things are tough. It’s like my freaking body has some kind of controls all its own. My mind, my brain, has nothing to do with it.

Lewis and Brenner, Brenner’s the Jew-boy, get it at the crossroads in Ohmsdorf. There’s nobody left from the old group so they make me assistant to Richards. Richards came in as a
replacement in the Saar. I sew on the stripes while we’re in battalion reserve. I sew them on with big easy stitches. I don’t figure I’ll have them for long; they’re bound to find me out.

I’m bunking with Harrington. Harrington’s ex-ASTP and got trench foot in the Ardennes in the snow. He came back two weeks ago. He’s smart and knows I’m about to crack. Just before we came off the line he took one of Morgan’s stupid patrols for me. There’s no greater gif t than taking another guy’s patrol. Harrington comes from California. I never knew anybody with the kind of nerves he’s got. He’d sure as hell be squad leader if he hadn’t got trench foot.

I shit bricks day after day in reserve, waiting, thanking God for every extra day. Then we get the word we’re going up to relieve the first battalion in a town called Neuendorf. We’re smack against the Siegfried Line there.

We go in around the edges of the hills under a barrage at night, about two hours before dawn. The first battalion passes us going the other way. They’re giving out with all kinds of cheery messages like ‘Good luck, fuckers, you’re going to need it,’ or ‘Welcome to eighty-eight alley.’ Really great for the old morale; I can feel my stomach turning sour. Three or four eighty-eights and mortars hit near us on the way in. They’re near enough so we have to hit the dirt. Shrapnel is flying. Even in the dark we can see the dark places where they hit. They dig up clods of pasture and scatter them thumping around like cow flop.

We get into the town and there’s not a building standing. It must’ve been bombed; artillery alone couldn’t flatten a town like that. We’re herded into the cellar of what used to be a house. It’s beside the church. The church has a front wall almost intact, the rest is rubble.

Lieutenant Wall, the liaison officer from the first battalion, is still there. Richards and I go over to talk with him. He tells us there’s a town called Reuth on the other side of the valley. It’s starting to get light and he points to some white dots near the horizon about a mile and a half away. Reuth is supposed to be a communications center for this section of the line. The krauts are
defending it like crazy men. There’ve been at least ten tiger tanks in and out of the town. There’s been all kinds of patrolling. He says his outfit’s been here in Neuendorf for ten days and has had twenty-seven casualties. He shows us the outposts for our platoon. He tells us we’ll probably have to attack Reuth; the whole division’s being held up here.

When I get back to the cellar, my insides are churning up. When I get scared, my infield gets loose and my head feels empty. I’m already shaking inside. Christ, I’m going to make one crappy assistant squad leader. The only way I can see to get out of all this is to get hit.

The cellar is smoky, smelly but warm. The squad is stretched out sleeping in sacks against the back wall. The fire’s built into an arched hole near the door. It might’ve been used to store potatoes once. There’s no flue so the smoke goes up to the ceiling of the cellar, drifts to the door and up the cellar steps. The smoke comes down to about four feet from the floor and you have to stoop over to breathe or find your way around. There’s a blanket over the doorway, and the only light is the fire. The room smells of smoke, farts, and feet.

I go out again to find the latrine, it’s against what’s left of the back wall of the church. There’s a little path worn through the rubble. The morning light is coming on stronger and taking some of the bite out of the cold. Kohler and Schneider are on post; I can see them standing in the hole out on a small knoll. Christ, I hope there aren’t any patrols. There’ll have to be though if there’s going to be an attack.

I squat and let fly. I’ll probably never take a normal crap again. My asshole hasn’t felt anything solid slide past it in three months. The toilet paper is hung on the handle of an entrenching tool. I wipe about five times to get it all, stand up, button up, then throw a few shovelfuls of dirt over the mess. The latrine’s still deep; should last till the attack anyway.

The next week and a half aren’t actually too bad. We don’t get any of the patrols and we only have the one outpost to man. I get plenty of sleep. I’m hiding in my fart sack in the cellar. The
only way they can hurt me is with a direct hit. It’s not likely at a mile and a half. I’m feeling safe but dreading the attack.

When we do go out, it’s four in the morning. We make a long dogleg to the left and into a forest. It’s a pine forest and has a narrow point going over the edge of a hill, and part way down the other side in the direction of Reuth. It’s the closest we can get without going through open country.

We sneak all the way there and to the front edge of the forest without anything coming in. Richards tells us to dig in. It’s about five o’clock and the attack is for seven. Our artillery barrage is going to start at six-thirty. So, here it is, the whole thing over again. The first times, you don’t really believe it’s going to happen. Then, when it is happening, it’s so real, you can’t think of it ever stopping. Now, I know it’s going to happen; pure fear has me tight by the balls.

Harrington and I are down by the point of the forest. As the light comes up, we can see the houses of Reuth. They can’t be more than three or four hundred yards away. Harrington says maybe they’ve pulled out. How the hell can they pull out of a communications center unless they figure on abandoning this whole section of the line? I can’t see the krauts doing a thing like that. Maybe being brave is not thinking too much; or at least being able to fool yourself.

It’s cold and there’s no smoking. Richards has me going around checking to see if everybody has their weapons in order, bandoliers, grenades, stuff like that. I don’t think anybody’s as scared as I am, not even the two new replacements. How the hell can they know? I’m glad to get back to our hole, jump in, and snuggle deep. It feels good to have solid earth against my back. There’s practically nothing smells or feels so comforting as deep earth when you’re scared. No wonder men lived in caves.

We stay down there during the barrage. The heavy stuff is flying over our heads like freight trains. I huddle deeper; I’ve got a real thing about shorts. I can’t stop myself thinking of all the stupid civilians making those shells and then the morons back at corps shooting them off.

At seven we’re up out of the holes. It’s just our luck; we’re the point squad of the point platoon of the point company; probably the point battalion of the point regiment of the point division of the whole pointed American army. Harrington’s first scout and Richards is with him. I’m bringing up the rear. This is where I’m supposed to be. It also happens to be where I want to be. That’s not quite true. I want to be almost anywhere else but out on this slanted field.

We go down the field in close order route march. We look like mad golfers hunched over our clubs, not running, walking fast, everything pulled in, waiting for it. There’s a ground mist coming up from the field and a fog hanging from above. We walk half way down the hill, too far now to go back. If they see us, now’s the time to do it. I’m hoping Harrington’s right and I keep swallowing to hold back my coffee. My ears are thumping. The cold sweat is sticking on the hollow of my back. I have a phosphorous grenade on the end of my rifle and the tear-shaped, dark green, bulbous tip looms in front of me. In my fear, the whole field and the edges of the houses glow in rainbow colors.

Then it starts. It’s burp guns and some kind of heavy caliber machine gun; then mortars. The tanks must not be there yet. We break into a run. Somebody drops. It’s not Harrington or Richards. It’s Collins. I run past and he’s holding his left shoulder with his right hand. There’s blood. I keep running. One of the replacements falls. He has his hands over his face and he’s rolling down the hill. Then his hands come loose from his face and his arms flop out till they stop his roll. He’s not getting up. I sprint ahead of Morris. Shit, this is going to be a morning! I catch up to Richards and Harrington.

They’re hunkered down in a gully where the two hills meet, the one we’ve just come down and the one going up to Reuth. There’s water running along the gully. There’re flakes of ice on the mud and sticking to the grass. Richards is looking up over the edge of the hill and Harrington looks around at me. I point back.

‘Collins and one of the replacements got it!’

‘Shit!’

Richards doesn’t look back.

‘Fuckin’ hill’s covered with fuckin’ mines. Goddamned mashers with wires strung out and shoe mines, too, I’ll bet. Sons-a-bitches!’

There’s tracers flying over, singing like mad bees. Five stingers you can’t see for every buzzer you can. The rest of the squad’s squatting along the gully now. I look back and see the platoon coming over the hill. It’s going to be a real massacre, the crossroads all over again. We’ve got to do something; mortar’s going to start coming in any minute; we’re for sure under direct observation and when those tanks come up, we’re had. We’ve got to break out; get past the mine field and to the top of the hill. Over the top like WWI, wiping out machine gun nests! I’m thinking all this but I can’t move. I can’t talk. I’m squatting deep in the mud; the cold wetness is cooling where I’m chafed between my legs. I’m shaking and letting myself sink deeper in the mud. I can’t get myself to look around anymore. Harrington stands up.

‘The only way is to work up gradually, not go directly through the mines. They’re strung so we’ll trip ’em if we go straight up. It’s the only way!’

‘Yeah.’

Richards doesn’t move. He’s stuck there too. Harrington begins to crawl along the ditch.

‘Come on, Al. Let’s you and me try it. We can’t stay here! Shit, we’re all going to get killed!’

He moves off and I hate him. I follow him. I keep my eyes on the ground looking for mines. Twice, I step over thin wires between mines. I see one of the little pegs for a shoe mine. I get the shakes so bad, I’m stopped in my tracks. I can’t go on. I’m in the open and I can’t make myself go either way. It’s like on top of the gas tank; I’m paralyzed numb. Harrington is picking his way along. I don’t call out. I look back and Richards is gone. I feel alone. I can’t see anybody and I hope nobody can see me. I sink slowly to the ground.

I don’t know how long I stay like that. I know I should get out my entrenching tool and dig but I can’t make myself do it.

Then, I see somebody coming over the brow of the hill toward me. I scrunch lower. At first it’s just silhouettes, then I see the field green of a kraut soldier. Shaking, I bring my rifle to my cheek and feel for the trigger through my gloves. I pull and nothing happens. They keep coming. I push off the safety and pull again. There’s a tremendous kick. Only then, I remember I still have that phosphorous grenade on the rifle. It hits one of the soldiers and explodes with a flash.