Souvenir (14 page)

Jake couldn’t believe it. They kept coming, out over the two hundred yards of clear ground, no good cover between the houses and the forest. He swore they were drunk, the way they yelled and ran straight at them. He could smell the schnapps on the breeze, the odor released as they screamed unknowable things into the cold morning air. Curses, slogans, prayers, Jake had no idea. It wouldn’t be the first time the Germans got their men good and plastered for an attack. Jake didn’t like fighting drunks. They didn’t have enough sense to take cover or turn and run, they just kept coming at you, as likely to smash your head in with a rifle butt as shoot you.

Duck down, new clip in, watch out for Cooper thrashing around, get up, shoot, shoot, move, shoot, duck. Momma momma momma, Cooper begged. Jake had heard that cry before. He’d heard mother, mommy, mama, mom, and momma, he’d even once heard a guy cry out for his auntie, but it was all the same, and it was the one thing Jake hoped he didn’t scream for if he was hit, down on the ground, crying like a new born babe and just as bloody.

Another clip in. Jake lost count of how much ammo he used. Bullets from a heavy machine gun raced across the front of the house, blowing away the stucco finish and sending chips of granite flying, the sharp flinty odor of the split rocks mingling with the coppery smell in the air, the odor of a welling pool of blood. Chalky plasterboard exploding in the room as rapid fire went through the windows and doorway. Everyone was down now, curled up, face to the floor, hugging their rifle and waiting for the fire to lessen. It didn’t. This wasn’t random fire from drunken riflemen. This was a MG-42, set up in the woods, pouring over 1200 rounds per minute into the house, sounding like a chainsaw revved up high it fired so damn fast.

Jake looked over to Clay. They both knew they had to get out. They were pinned down, and that meant there were probably Germans working their way around either side. The MG would keep up firing until they were close enough to throw grenades in the windows. As soon as the MG went silent, they’d move in for a close throw and then there’d be less than a minute to live. Clay glanced over to the windows, then to the back door. Quick nod of agreement, and Jake crawled backwards to Cooper. Maybe there was time.

Clay crawled, flat as he could, to the narrow stairs. Shorty and Tuck had taken all this in and Tuck gave a hand signal to Clay, pointing towards the kitchen and the back door. They’d head for the rear of the house to check for Krauts on their flanks. Clay got to the base of the stairs and was about to yell for Big Ned and Miller, but he didn’t have to. Big Ned looked down from the top of the stairs. Bullets coming in the window chewed up two or three steps, just the height of the window opening. Wood splinters showered Clay as Big Ned shook his head, and cupped his hand around his mouth.

“We’ll go out the back window,” he said, gesturing behind him with his thumb, and then pointing down. A nod and Clay was gone, slithering backwards to the door at the rear of the house. He crawled over shattered furniture, crockery, horsehair stuffing from an old couch, broken glass, crumbled plaster, shell casings, and blood, but nothing mattered, nothing but getting out, getting out now. He got back to Jake, flat on the floor next to Cooper, who was covered in white dust from all the debris sent flying by the bullets that split the air just two feet over their bodies. Before each
thud
as a bullet hit the wall, a sharp
crack
, like a bullwhip, sounded above their heads. Clay touched his helmet to Jake’s so he could talk into his ear and be heard.

“Big Ned and Miller are going out the back window. Shorty and Tuck are at the back door, we gotta go now.”

Clay tried to ignore Cooper. He was an unsolvable problem. He was dying, and there was nothing to do about it, nothing that wouldn’t get at least one other man killed too, and there was no sense in that. Cooper coughed and tried to spit, to clear his mouth of the dust. It hurt, and he spasmed, shrieked, no words this time, only pure terror and agony that came out high pitched and seemed to have no end.

“Go,” said Jake, “right behind you. Take my rifle.” He pulled out a morphine syrette and jammed it down on Cooper’s thigh.

“You can’t carry him.”

“I have to.”

The machine gun stopped. The noise that had been at the center of everything dropped away. It was quiet inside the house, but Jake could still hear the sounds of firing from the other buildings. A section of wall fell away, chewed loose by all the slugs hitting it. As it hit the floor a cloud of dust kicked up, the noise strange in the sudden silence. Even Cooper noticed, or maybe it was the morphine calming him. His leg was still quivering but his eyes focused on them for a second, as if he wanted to tell Clay, yes, he has to, he really has to.

No time to argue. Go. Clay took Jake’s rifle and dragged it alongside him. He went out through the kitchen and crawled to the back door. He could see smoke from the burning barn and figures running across a distant field. Big Ned and Miller were hugging the wall out back, putting on gear they had tossed out ahead of them.

“Where’s Jake?” said Shorty.

“Coming. What’s the plan?”

“Angle left,” said Tuck. “Smoke might cover us. Into the woods over there.” He pointed to small stand of leafless trees. Not much cover, but something.

“Go,” said Clay. “Now.”

No one asked a question. Shorty and Tuck sprinted out of the door, Big Ned and Miller following. Clay craned his neck out the doorway, left and right, looking for Germans. Jake! Hurry the fuck up! No time, no time, com’n! 
Jake stared at Cooper’s stomach, pulling back a hand that covered the wound. Cooper’s coat was open and Jake could see the two holes, right below each ribcage. Blood welled up and Jake could feel Cooper’s hand tremble as he held it. He sprinkled sulfa powder over the wounds, not even bothering to cut open the clothes. No time, and he didn’t want to know how bad it was.

“What—ahh.” Cooper grimaced as Jake put a compress bandage on his stomach and wound gauze tape around him, lifting him by the back, twice, to get the tape tight over the bandage. He couldn’t tell if it covered both holes, but it had to do. It had to. No time, no time to explain, he had to go, now. Jake felt his heart beating, thumping and pounding against his chest as if it wanted to get out of here all by itself. His breath came in shallow gasps. Sweat flushed out on his skin and he felt empty inside, everything drained out. Go.

He got up in half crouch and grabbed Cooper by the collar, dragging him out into the kitchen, over the shattered remnants of a cozy living room. Ain’t that funny, a living room, Coop? Sorry I can’t apologize for this, it must hurt even with the morphine, I didn’t dare give you more, shut the fuck up now.

Cooper shrieked and wailed, momma momma momma over and over again as the movement pulled at his torn insides. His arms flailed against Jake as he tried to stop whatever was causing his ungodly pain. In the kitchen, Jake went upright, taking a chance since the Krauts weren’t firing. They must be close to the windows now. He turned to lift Cooper under his arm and Cooper screamed louder, his face a twisted frenzy of fear. Jake struggled to move him through the tight space in the kitchen, pulling him like a reluctant child. Cooper grabbed at the edge of the stove, a big cast iron cook stove, putting all his remaining strength into that one grip. Jake pulled at him, trying to free the grip that held them both there. He froze as he heard a
clunk clunk
from the living room, then a third
clunk,
as three grenades were tossed in. He slammed his free hand down on Cooper’s wrist, breaking it maybe, not caring, holding onto Cooper under his armpit as he leapt out the back door, hitting the snow packed ground hard as explosions blasted out from the house. Shards of glass and wood sprinkled over them, white lace curtains fluttering in the dark smoke billowing out of the doorway and window.

Jake looked up and saw Clay about twenty yards out, down flat in the snow, his M1 aimed to the left, giving them cover. Jake knew there were Krauts a few yards away, and he was going to have to put his back to them. This wasn’t going to be easy. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to. He couldn’t make sense of it, but without thinking about it he knew he had to try and save Cooper. The poor kid was crying for his mother, and all Jake could do was curse him, curse him for having a sweet mother, loving her, loving something Jake could never think of without anger, disgust, shame, and hatred gnawing at him. It wasn’t fair. Jake felt as if his cursing added to Cooper’s agony, and if he could just get him back he’d be square with him.

Clay signaled Jake to come on, get a move on. On his knees, Jake lifted Cooper by the arms. Cooper had a wide-eyed look like a fish on a hook, struggling against a pain he couldn’t understand. His mouth was open, gasping, a wheezing sound coming with each breath. Jake draped him over his shoulders, fireman style. Cooper yelped as his own weight pressed down on his wounds jammed against Jake’s shoulder blades.

Momma, momma, momma begged Cooper, as if his momma could stop all this if she only tried. Momma!

Jake knew it wouldn’t do any good to tell him to shut up, that the Krauts might hear and follow the sound. They knew what it meant, as he knew what the cries of mutti mutti meant coming from German boys cut down in front of their foxholes. Cooper was somewhere else, maybe in his childhood bed, with his sweet momma spooning some sort of medicine into his mouth, placing her warm hand on his forehead, tucking him in, telling him to say his prayers. Jake knew that feeling too, but Jake also knew it was a lie.

He saw Clay get up and run ahead of them, letting Jake see where he was going, turning and swinging his M1 left and right. Jake had his back to the Krauts, but Clay was his eyes, his protection, his buddy, his brother.

Momma, momma, where’d you go?

Jake pushed off with each step, trying to run as fast as he could with Cooper on his back and a foot of snow at his feet. Cooper’s blood on his neck felt thick and sticky, the weight of him compressing his thighs as he lifted each leg, pulling it clear of the snow and then letting it down,
crunch
, through crusted ice. His lungs heaved as he tried to take bigger gulps of air, trying to feed them, to keep his legs lifting up and down, up and down. He heard himself breathe in and out, gasp and groan, his sounds mingling with Cooper’s in a crescendo of agony.

Ow, momma, ow, momma.

Jake heard a shot. His head was down, eyes fixed on the snow, concentrating on each step, trying not to think about the weight, the pain in his lungs and legs, about Cooper, about Ma. M1, must be Clay. He lifted his head, saw Clay get up and sprint to a tree trunk, settle down behind it and fire another shot.

Shit. Krauts at his fucking back. Holler all you want, Coop, might be the last chance you get. Up, down, each leg feeling like it was on fire, his breath coming in fast, deep swallows. The air seemed thin, not enough oxygen to feed his starving lungs.

Momma.

It was a whimper, not a yell or even a cry. Don’t you give up on me now you sonuvabitch. You got a real momma, then you hang on, you might see her again. Don’t die, and if you do it ain’t my fault. It ain’t my fault I cursed you, I just couldn’t listen no more.

Ohhhh.

It ain’t your fault, and it ain’t my fault. That’s what his big sister Alice said to him when he held the birth certificate up to her. He was going to join the Army at seventeen, not wait around for the draft to get him on his eighteenth birthday. He needed proof of his age, and waited until his folks were out one night to paw through the cardboard box they kept important papers in. He found it, with his name, place of birth listed as Pottsville Hospital, and his birth date. Father’s name, unknown. Mother’s name, Alice Burnett.

The air broke over his head, the singing
crack
of a bullet zinging by. He heard Clay fire, four shots, rapid fire. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t spare any wasted effort. His legs were too heavy to clear the snow, and he slowed as each boot dragged against the thick whiteness. His arms ached from holding Cooper, his chest felt like it was on fire, and his mind worked to clear the memories away, put one foot in front of the other, lift, move forward. Lift, move forward. Momma.

Maybe I should fall down, maybe they won’t see me or think I’m dead. Maybe I will. No. Keep going. More shots. What was happening? Who was still alive?

Left leg, lift. Right leg, lift. He felt sweat racing down his backbone. Sweat streaming off his temples and in his mouth, salt. Sweating, crying, bleeding, dying, it all blurred together into a single purpose. Save Cooper so he wouldn’t be cursed, so it wouldn’t be his fault.

Ain’t your fault, Jake. Ain’t my fault neither. Don’t say nothing. Don’t tell nobody. Alice, just thirteen years older than him. Alice, his big sister. His momma. But then who was Ma? Alice’s Ma, not his. Grandma to him was more like it. It was two days later Jake realized who his father was. There was a picture of Pa and Ma on their wedding day, he was dressed in a suit, last time he ever wore one, but young Pa had the same face that Jake was growing into. Everyone said so. Same dark hair, eyes, nose. Jake was a little softer around the mouth, maybe, but he could see the man he’d become. And that scared him, more than Pa’s switch ever did. His Pa was his father all right. His sister’s too, and she was his mother. Made that way by the man he’d grow up to be. God damn it all to hell.

Jake saw snow explode to his right. No strength to weave, zigzag, no strength to do anything but keep going, slow as molasses now, heading for the trees. That must be Clay ahead. Com’n Coop, almost there. He heard a small groan, as if Cooper was saying, about time, too.