Ardennes for Christmas
A chapter from Victory Ruins
It’s been a minute. Many of y’all have subscribed since my last post in yon days of summer and I want to say, welcome and thank you. I have not forgotten my promise to deliver a novel to you. It is taking longer than expected, as it always does. I am close to having the first part done, though, and will release it early next year.
In the hope y’all’ll (that’s “y’all will,” for those who don’t know) stick around, I wanted to drop another chapter from my novel Victory Ruins. Not just for kicks, but for the anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, which started 80 years ago today. When I think of the protagonist, Arlen, and how he might have remembered that battle, it comes down to things he knew little of on his Carolina farm: snow, cold, danger, loneliness. No, not loneliness exactly, not at least as we think of it. He is lonely, but he is not alone. As you shall see, he has a comrade with him, of the closest kind. But when someone so close is not well, they might as well not be there. In such trials, which can stretch on for years in one’s life, one becomes lonely out of the hope for something better. For that yet-to-be time and place where things are set right, for one’s self but also for the other who is close by. Knowing not the contours of eternity, we settle in such moments on what we have known, in a time and place we have already been. And we are not wrong — it is nostalgia in the best sense, a longing for home. For we would not be so alive and capable in this world if home had been bad, if things had not been just so, back then and right there. I think Arlen would have thought of that battle in those terms, that deepening trial that sees too the sharpening of care for another at the same moment.
Without further ado, here is Chapter XV from Victory Ruins. If you want to read the rest, it’s available on Amazon.
“Fuckin’ First Battalion. Goddamn pigs, all of them.”
William Buford Paine’s voice rang from the cellar of the house beside the truck. He was a fast one. The convoy had hardly stopped and no order dismount their trucks had come. But he was already rooting around for a place to stay, just in case. Peering around the corner of the tarpaulin, Arlen looked up the street. It looked like a stop for sure. Arlen jumped off the tail of the deuce-and-a-half. For once, it was cobblestones and not ankle-deep mud. Before they could ask, Arlen told the men, “Y’all go on ahead and find yourself a billet.” He peered up the length of the convoy. “Before Lieutenant Venters sees you,” he added.
“Won’t he be mad?” said Private Wood.
“You just let me worry about that. Y’all go on and burrow in like a tick.”
Poking his head into the cellar, Arlen called out, “Buddy? You in there?”
“Fuckin’ First Battalion . . .” muttered Paine.
Arlen descended into the stone room. It was mighty large and looked like a decent place for a billet, if a little chilly. “And what’d those boys ever do to you?”
“Look at this place. It’s a mess.”
Arlen’s eyes had not quite adjusted to the darkness. “Looks fine to me.”
Paine grumbled over in a dark corner.
“Buddy, if you want, we can take one of the upper floors.”
Paine turned around. His scowl was sinister in the shadows of the cellar. “Are you crazy? The Krauts will know we’re here.”
“Oh, I reckon they already do. You know, there’s a family up there. But we can run ’em out.”
“Walking around up there, the Krauts would see me and call in arty on the house.”
“We ain’t close enough to the front for that.”
“Then they’ll shoot me through the window when I go to the crapper.”
Arlen repressed a sigh. Sometimes his words just did not get through. “Reckon you want me down here, too.”
“I’m not letting you get shot either,” muttered Paine.
Arlen let him be. He shucked his musette bag and rifle and went out onto the street. The regiment had liberated this town nearly two months ago. Now it was a safe spot for the men to rest and relax. For weeks since their perfect infantry attack, the G.I.s had been out there on that awful plain of mud. They had assaulted and patrolled; they were shelled and sniped at; they struggled through quagmires and across swollen streams; they hauled their dead and wounded back the same way. The Krauts hid in the towns and the land around them; the G.I.s killed them amongst the bricks and in the mud. Now that awful offensive was behind them and they could get a little peace. A little was all they needed, a G.I. could make it go quite far. It was a week until Christmas. They would not celebrate in Berlin. But that was all right with Arlen. If he could just go down to the little church where the Germans sang carols, that was just as good. Just let there be peace in Kolscheid, even if not on earth. Then they could send him out again.
The rest of the squad was tucking themselves nicely into the adjoining houses. Some of the other squads had not even dismounted their trucks, still waiting for the order. Poor suckers, they would be left with whatever billets the officers didn’t snap up. Arlen noticed a stack of empty C ration boxes outside the cellar door. He quickly snatched them and went back down into the cellar. Making a neat pile of cardboard cartons in the middle of the floor, Arlen lit them and began an important ritual. Canteen, cup, and instant coffee appeared from his musette bag. Quickly, he made a strong mix.
A tin can scattered across the floor, tinging on the stones.
“Buddy, you want some coffee?”
Paine did not reply. He scuffled across the cellar, nudging empty C ration cans with his toe.
“Get your cup, I’ll make you some.”
Paine shuffled over to his kit. He pulled out his blanket and wrapped it around him. With a grunt, he continued scuffling back and forth. The fire was smoldering. Arlen blew gently on the embers and the cartons finally caught and put up a strong flame. Arlen held his canteen cup of water over the fire and waited for it to heat. His dry, cracked hands prickled at the warmth of the fire. Paine kept making his circles, around and around the cellar, grumbling under his breath. He kicked a can again, sending it scattering into Arlen’s little fire.
“Dammit, you quit that right now.”
“Quit what?”
“All of it. The damn pacin’ most of all. You keep that up, you’ll wear a hole all the way to China.”
Paine scowled. “Why are you in such a good mood today?”
“You ain’t exactly a ray of sunshine yourself.” Arlen looked back to his coffee. It was beginning to steam lightly.
Paine swore indistinctly, and he lashed out, trying to throw something from his hand against the wall. But his arm got caught in the blanket and the object disappeared into the folds, leaving Paine searching for it, swearing under his breath.
“What are you so damned angry about?”
“What do you think, Arlen? Those fuckin’ First Battalion pigs left all these cans and cigarette butts everywhere.”
He was still on about that. “Didn’t know you cared so much,” said Arlen.
“Well, I do.”
“Ain’t so sure we left our positions much cleaner when we left for Kerkrade.”
What a place, Kerkrade. A few weeks back, the whole battalion had retired to the old monastery there for a couple days. It was their first real rest in months. The ancient halls were so ornate that Arlen could not believe men had the patience to carve stone like that. He would have admired the place for hours, but the sound of falling water snatched him away from his gaping. There were showers. Arlen had hung limply under the hot and endless stream like a flag in a summer rain. He had emerged flush, alert, and weak, and the clean towel had made his skin crawl. They ate bowl after bowl of stew and whole loaves of thick bread on captured German china. Others had played cards and written letters, their voices echoing up and down the halls of the college, but Arlen had just slept and slept and slept until he awakened the next day groggy and heavy-limbed. He could laugh and smile and snarl in anger again. Others had recovered, too: Paine had gotten his humor back, for a little while. That was what clean was. Was, was, was — things were always past tense for Arlen. He could remember after he forgot, and he remembered what others forgot. But these days it was harder and harder to think back, as if there was some limit, some bend in the earth where memory stopped. It seemed closer and closer behind him every day.
Arlen coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. The waxy smoke of burning cardboard was beginning to hang against the ceiling like a fog. He dipped his pinkie in the coffee. Just another few minutes. He stirred the dark liquid with his bayonet blade.
“Did you have to build that in here, Arlen?”
“You want me to go build it in the street?”
“The damn smoke is getting my eyes.”
“I ain’t got no heatin’ tabs.” Hopefully the looie would get them more. They needed more of everything. The Army could never seem to get them enough or on time. Arlen’s toes prickled on pinpoints most of the time, for his socks were wearing thin and they had received no winter boots. He had half a mind to write his mother asking for socks, for he had not received any from her. It wouldn’t be much use to write her now, though. Once she received the letter, knitted a pair, and posted it, it would be too late. And she surely couldn’t go out and buy a pair. Things were very tight for the family. He knew that from the last letter she wrote — the letters were always from Legenia, never from Wade, who proclaimed many a time he was no good with a pen. Arlen had already sent home most of his pay. He would not ask for anything more from his parents.
What about Rebecca and Elizabeth? Or Ruth? Maybe they could send a pair.
If only he knew their addresses. He could not remember.
Was there anyone else? Arlen felt there was, but he could not picture who it might be. It was so hard to imagine these days. Whatever it was, he had to see it in front of him or else it remained beyond that creeping horizon that shadowed his memories.
The carton fire was dying out. Arlen fetched more cardboard and returned to the cellar. He piled up the cardboard again and set fire to it again with his cigarette lighter. The flames let off black, waxy smoke again and he set his canteen cup over the fire to let it warm back up. Paine came scuttling over. His arms poked out from the swaddled-up blanket and he put his bare hands over the fire, pushing Arlen’s cup out of the way.
“Buddy, you’d better cut that out.”
“I’m cold.”
Arlen’s face flushed in anger. He was sick and tired of Paine’s griping. He pushed Paine’s hands out of the way with the hot cup. “Go on, now, get out of the way. Let me finish. You can have it after I’m done.”
“Goddamn you, Arlen, you are so greedy.” Paine stomped off to the corner and in between a hiss and a growl, said, “Can’t you see how cold I am? Some fucking friend you are.”
“You’re one to talk!” snapped Arlen. “How about you just leave me be for once? How ’bout you quit doin’ whatever you want and then come whinin’ to me when things ain’t like you like ’em?”
Over in the corner, Paine sat in a lump, his eyes boring a dull hole through some distant thickness. His lips twitched every now and then, but there was no audible mutter.
Lord, what do I do with him?
Arlen dipped his pinkie in the coffee again. It was almost warm enough. Arlen tasted the coffee. Another minute and Paine could come warm his hands.
“Sergeant?”
The voice boomed like an 88 in the cellar. Arlen jumped to his feet. “Yessir?”
Lieutenant Venters was hunched over in the low cellar door. “Get your ass out here,” he said.
“Yessir.” Arlen grabbed his gear and was out of the cellar in two leaps.
Lieutenant Venters’ armor-piercing stare did not waver from Arlen as he spoke. “I had to get your squad out of these houses myself, Sergeant, because you were nowhere to be found.”
“Yessir, I’m sorry, sir.”
“No one told you to secure billets.”
“No, sir, but I figured—”
The convoy cranked up one by one. Arlen’s mouth hung open.
“Mount up, Sergeant.”
Arlen hesitated for a moment, then disappeared into the cellar. The shelter was unnecessary, and Venter’s wrath had been expended, short and sharp like the MG 42. Arlen emerged with Paine beside him. The blanket trailed behind his buddy and Arlen carried his gear.
“Lieutenant, I—” said Arlen.
“Sergeant, the Krauts have broken through. Launched an attack last night.”
Like a knife stropped on old denim, Arlen’s fear came sharp quickly, ready to cut the unknown small enough to handle. “Where’d they break through? Don’t tell me Inden.” Lord, anywhere but Inden, don’t send us back there.
“To the south, Sergeant. Down in Belgium.”
“Ain’t there someone else they can send? I mean, why pull us off the line just to send us back out again? We’re mighty worn out.”
Venters was looking at his watch and not listening.
“Sir, we do all the damn fightin’ in the Army, seems like. Do they have to send us? They sendin’ the battalion? The regiment?”
The lieutenant raised his eyes to Arlen’s. “They’re sending the whole division, Sergeant. And many others.”
“It’s that big, sir?”
“The biggest yet.”
Arlen gnawed on his lip.
“Sergeant, you’re right. We’ve fought more and fought harder than any other division in the Army. We all need a rest. And these Krauts know that. They think they’ve caught us with our pants down. Well, we will show them.”
“Sir—”
“They’ve left their defenses, Sergeant. All they have done is give us a better chance to kill them in the open.” Venters grinned pearl-white. “And this platoon will kill more Krauts than any other in the division.”
Arlen looked away from the maw of the gleeful shark. Paine was trying to pull the dirty blanket over his skinny shoulders with a single shivering hand.
“Sir—”
“Mount up.”
Wordlessly, Arlen boosted Paine into the back of the truck and his buddy disappeared under the dark of the tarpaulin with the rest of the squad. Arlen threw in their gear and climbed in himself. The convoy rumbled into motion and as the truck pulled away, Venters leapt into the back. He hung from the truck, peering around the side at the passing town. His grin still shone brilliantly against the drab houses and grey sky. His thoughts were not with his soldiers. They were already in the fight ahead of them.
Don’t matter to the looie what we can give. He’ll get it from us.
Ask and you shall receive.
Arlen felt a finger on his thigh. Paine was feeling his pants leg. Arlen saw that it was stained. He must have dropped his cup without knowing it when he ran from the cellar. Paine wiped his finger across the brown mark and sniffed his finger. “At least it’s coffee this time.”
This time, at least this time.
A frigid gust of wind lifted the rear tarpaulin and the taped-up headlights of the following truck peeked in. The tiny beam cut across the hunched-over men like a miner’s lamp through a crowded pit. The occasional ember of a cigarette traced the orbit of their heads bobbing on a turbulent tide of no known ebb or flow. Another gust came rushing in under the tarpaulin and chilled them all to the bone. The men shuffled around on the wooden benches, trying to find relief. Their rear ends were asleep and their toes were numb in their leather boots. After dusk had fallen for the second time on this journey, they all stopped asking when they would get there. The roads were choked with tanks and jeeps and trucks and refugees fleeing west, but these elicited no response from them except for the occasional “You got any smokes?” Yet another gust bellowed the tarpaulin and Arlen shivered. He tucked his head further into his thin jacket until his chin grafted itself to his Adam’s apple.
The engine revved and the transmission yawned as the clutch searched for the gear. It engaged with a jerk, yanking everyone onto each other. The truck rolled steadily along at a faster pace. But as soon as the G.I.s settled back onto the benches, the truck slammed to a stop. The G.I.s grabbed onto each other and cursed. The engine coughed to a stop, then instantly ground to life again. The clutch caught and they crawled forward again in an agonizingly low gear. The truck swayed and shifted gears again. Arlen closed his eyes, feeling the truck beginning to gain speed. His heart jumped and his eyes opened to the dark as the truck banged to a stop again. The driver caught the lowest gear this time, and they sat idling for almost a minute before once again the wheels began to turn and they bobbed over the obstruction.
“Don’t they know how to build a damn road in this country?”
Which country was that? Arlen peered through the gap in the tarpaulin. A glimpse revealed dark firs and fields dusted in white. Then the cold wind slapped his face and even his eyeballs went numb. He jerked his head back.
The convoy pounded along at five miles per hour at best. The cigarettes were all gone and it was completely dark now. The truck downshifted again and the shaking and jolting stopped. Smooth paved road flowed under the tires and every man felt the vibrations filter out through their fingers and toes. Relieved, a few fell asleep. The convoy climbed in elevation. Wind whipped stronger and stronger up the ridge as they ascended. Arlen tied the tarpaulin shut tighter against the wind. The miles, taken at no great speed, wore on and on. Arlen laid his head down on his knees and closed his eyes. He dozed off, his mind dropping off into a pool of blankness. He lay like that for some time before hearing the rush of water; he even smelled it. The convoy slowed, stopped, and waited. Someone outside was walking up and down, shouting to the drivers, who shouted back argumentatively. The trucks started again at a creeping pace.
And suddenly the engines reverberated on stone. Arlen opened the tarpaulin and saw houses of brick and carefully fitted stone. There was a sign: Malmedy. There were no lights in the town, but the streets seemed alive: fair-haired young girls and older women, a grandfather, a policeman waving the convoy on in a habitual yet unnecessary gesture, even a couple of young kids, all watching from street corners and doorways, revealed by the slight gleam of the truck lights. The convoy passed through the center of the town. The cobbled streets changed to paved road and the wind whipped up again. Nothing but darkness and, barely audible over the rumble of the trucks, the rattle of tree branches tossing against each other in a violent gust.
Arlen didn’t look up when the trucks stopped again. He just sat, nose tucked beneath his buttoned-up collar, trying to wiggle each toe as much as possible. There was a bang of a falling tailgate, then another, and another. Only then did he look up, the cold nipping down onto his neck before he had a chance to adjust the collar again. The soldiers in the squad began raising their heads. Shouted orders and clamoring voices began to fill the sharp air.
“Well, reckon we’re here.”
The G.I.s jumped off the truck, wincing as they landed on cramped calves and stiff knees. “Y’all hold down the fort,” said Arlen, and he immediately went in search of the lieutenant. Venters found him first. “Give me a minute to find out where we are headed, Sergeant. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”
“You got ’em, sir?”
The platoon leader tossed him a pack of Kools. Arlen went back to the truck, and passed out the cigarettes. The men took them reluctantly.
“Where are we, Sarge?” said another.
“I heard Belgium.”
“Belgium? Why Belgium?”
Arlen did not answer. He tried to smoke his Kool, but it really was too much for a cold night.
“Sarge, are we retreating?”
“Yeah, I heard everyone’s on the run.”
“Ain’t nobody on the run,” said Arlen. “They’re sendin’ us to finish these Krauts off.”
“Yeah, but what if our old positions got hit after we left? What if the Krauts are attacking all over?”
Arlen shook his head in the dark. He didn’t want to listen to all this.
“The Krauts are out there in American uniforms. They dress up like G.I.s, I heard.”
“Shit, so they can sneak past our outposts?”
“Yeah, and ambush us from behind.”
“Those sneaky bastards.”
The rumors went on and on. Nothing stood between the Krauts and the Channel, they were going all the way to Dunkirk, just like in 1940. Hitler himself was at the head of the lead panzer divisions and the SS had orders to take no prisoners. General Eisenhower was back in Washington and Field Marshal Montgomery would take over the defense of the Allied line. The last one angered Arlen. “All right, y’all can cut that out. I ain’t gonna hear nothin’ ’bout us fightin’ for fuckin’ Monty.”
“But what if it’s true, Sarge?”
“Shut up, all y’all,” said Arlen.
Venters finally returned. “Captain Reaser says this is the end of the line for the whole battalion. Get your bedrolls out of the trucks, we’ve got to march to our positions.”
“Tonight? In the dark?” said Arlen.
“The Krauts are out there, close by. We’ve got to get in a strong position and quickly. There might even be a fight tonight.”
The men took the news laconically. They retied their boots, checked their equipment, and loaded their rifles. Hefting their bedrolls, they formed up in a squad column, waiting. One by one, the platoons moved out, each in a different direction, each to be on its own. Venters appeared again. He looked harried and Arlen felt a little knot twist up in his stomach. “Form up, Sergeant. First Squad’s in the lead. Have your scouts fall in with Sergeant Proctor.”
The scouts set out with Venters and Proctor, the platoon guide, and the rest of First Squad followed, each man of the remaining nine pausing until the soldier ahead was five paces ahead. Before them, an open field of snow sloped sharply upwards toward a crest covered with firs. The dim truck lights were gone and with snow-threatening clouds covering the sliver of moon, only the barest silhouette of the man ahead gave any indication of direction. The scouts, moving quickly and confidently, disappeared, and Arlen had to search for their boot prints to find his way. The wind blew stronger and stronger and their steps grew slower and slower. The snow soaked right through their leather boots. Arlen’s feet went numb. Nearing the treeline, Arlen stopped and made a count of his followers as they trickled up to him. All eight. Without a word, he set off again, following the boot prints into the dark forest at the top of the ridge.
The firs were oppressively close, but they broke the wind, at least. Arlen still could not see Sergeant Proctor and the scouts, but he heard snatches of their voices in between the long gusts whistling through the trees. We could fumble about here all night and never find our way out. He stopped and looked for the rest of the squad. There was movement out there, darkness moving on darkness, visible only in the periphery. There was a loud clank and he heard someone swear.
“Y’all all right?” he said.
“Calloway ran into a tree,” said a voice. It sounded like Hazlett, a retread like Calloway. His voice was tense; he had never done this before. Neither had Young, the replacement. Three new men: the latter green, the other two stripped away from their cushy jobs and sent up to the line. Was the Army that desperate? Was the whole enterprise stretched that thin, just like the line here in Belgium had been?
Good Lord, what if we’ve gone as far as we were ever going to?
He shivered. The firs rattled as a gust ran up the length of the ridge.
I want out of these trees.
Arlen left the private behind. His steps fell heavier and faster. He could not see the scouts. He lost sight of their trail through the trees and all he could do was fumble forward.
Twigs cracked like rifles underfoot.
The Krauts are out there, close by.
Venters repeated himself in his head. He could not shake the looie’s words. The resident tactician had rented a room for good.
They were on the wrong side of the slope. They had to get up to the crest. It was safer up there.
Arlen thrashed ahead, kicking through any logs and limbs that stood in his way. Up and up he went, ducking and weaving between branches. He saw nothing except black forest. He had a vague sense of going uphill and so he kept on, tripping and crawling through the trees. Bashing his knee on a stump, Arlen stopped, holding in his swearing. He stayed stock still. The forest was dark and swaying, full of movement and not a sign of life. Where were the scouts? How did they move so quickly?
He dared not look back, but for what reason, he did not know.
Up the slope. Get up that damn slope.
Twigs cracked and snapped underfoot. The wind stroked the trees and the boughs overhead hissed.
Arlen stepped around a big fir and he felt that he was over the crest, headed down the reverse slope. He let out a long breath. If he met any Krauts in the woods, he was in the uphill position. At least that was to his favor.
Another hundred yards passed under his numb feet before he saw the tree line of the far side of the woods. There were figures squatting just inside the tree line. Arlen’s steps slowed, instinctively, not willing to trust his first assumption. He unslung his rifle and lightened each step so he could listen. He heard nothing distinct — they all spoke in hushed tones.
Arlen stopped, catching his breath and composing himself. He waited in the dark until he heard movement behind him. At last able to look back, he held his hand straight up in a signal to halt, hoping that the squad would see it. Once the snapping behind him stopped, he cautiously approached the dark figures.
Venters was waiting with Proctor and the scouts. The lieutenant rubbed his hands together frantically to keep warm. “Sergeant, this is as far as we go tonight.”
“We diggin’ in here?”
“That’s right, Sergeant. First Squad will be here on the right, Second Squad in the center, and Third Squad out there on the left.”
“No reserve?”
“We’re spread thin, but we have to cover as much ground as possible.” Venters made a gesture in the dark. “There’s a crossroads down there, Sergeant, and I want your squad to cover it and the road running out of it toward our position. Understood?”
“Yessir.”
“Good.”
“Lieutenant?”
“Sergeant?”
“We stayin’ here long?”
“Things may change in the morning. But for tonight, prepare like we’re going to stay.”
“Yessir.”
Arlen passed the word along to his men. Close to the edge of the forest, they spread out, staggering themselves in a rough arc along the treeline. Soon the sound of chopping on wood and the clank of entrenching tools drowned out even the wind. Arlen scraped away a thick layer of twigs and needles to get to the hard ground. He slammed the entrenching tool against the dirt, over and over, but he only knocked loose a few frozen clumps of earth.
Arlen stopped his rhythmic swinging as Paine sat down slowly next to him, settling as though a great weight bore on his shoulders, his arms dropping as though he was about to faint. “What is it, buddy?”
“Fuckin’ lost my musette bag.” Paine’s voice was flat, drained of all feeling.
Arlen’s face fell. “Where’d you put it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?”
“It’s next to the tree.”
Arlen looked back into the hopeless forest. He laughed. That short chuckle led to another, and one more, until he could say, “Oh, I know which one you mean. The tall one, right?”
Paine said nothing. Arlen saw his face disappear into the dark — perhaps he was looking down at the ground. Arlen rested on his knees for a minute, watching his closest friend. Then he went back to digging. I’ll finish it.
He got as deep as he could go in the frozen ground, just deep enough. He set the entrenching tool aside, feeling the little bit of sweat he had worked up beginning to grow cold already. But the chill that would stay with him all night was not on Arlen’s mind. He thought about Paine. Arlen scooted over to him. “Hey, buddy, you get down there in the hole. Just go on to bed. And don’t you worry ’bout sentry. I’ll stand guard all night.”
“I’m cold. Really cold.”
“Here, take my blanket. We’ll find yours in the morning.”
“Okay.” Paine slid numbly down into the foxhole, taking the blanket. Again his eyes bored into the distant nothing, and yet they were the only part of Paine which seemed to hold onto life. The rest of his thin body and his grimy, gaunt face was beating a retreat. Arlen pulled the blanket up around Paine’s neck and tucked it behind his shoulders. Paine hardly moved a muscle himself.
The boy needs to go home. Why won’t they pull him off the line?
Lord, what do I do with him?
Arlen shivered and jabbed his hands under his armpits. He needed to check the perimeter. Slinging his M1, he made a slow clockwise trip around his patch of the forest. He found each of his men by their raspy breathing and coughs. Everyone was dug in good and deep. They would add logs to their foxholes tomorrow morning. The BAR, set at the apex of the position, was in good hands with Wood, and Sayers already had the spare magazines laid out. Everything looked safe as could be, way out here, the flanks in the air, the Germans out there in the snow and trees, headed who knew where.
After a few wrong turns, Arlen found the foxhole again. Paine was curled up in the bottom and Arlen slid in slowly so as not to wake him. He rested the M1 on the hump of earth he’d built up in front of the hole and settled down to wait.
His heart leapt when Paine spoke.
“Arlen, why me?”
Paine’s eyes were fully open, though he lay curled up.
“What’s that, buddy?”
“Why haven’t I been hit?”
Arlen tried to answer as quickly as he could. “’Cause you’ve got me around, remember? Your lucky rabbit’s foot?”
The platitude had no effect on target. “You weren’t there at Mortain, and I didn’t get hit there. Why?”
“Buddy, you ain’t gonna be hit, all right? Ain’t yours to worry ’bout. You know what to do. You just go with your gut and don’t get careless and you’ll be fine.”
“No,” said Paine, voice dull and hollow, “my number’s up. Everyone else got theirs. You and I are the only stateside guys left. And you got wounded. You got your number. It wasn’t the million dollar one, but you punched that ticket. You don’t have to worry. But me . . .”
Paine stopped and was quiet for so long that Arlen’s stomach began rising into his throat. The boy was so still.
Oh, Lord, don’t take him from me now. Not like this, not out here.
His buddy spoke again, his voice just as empty as before. “I’ve gone so long — so many close calls — not even a scratch. Never even opened my aid kit.” He went quiet again for a while. Then, thinly, he said, “When it comes, it’ll be the real McCoy. The big one. It’s coming soon. I can feel it.”
And Paine went silent. His time had come, the well had run dry. There was no filling it back up again. Pain and fatigue had crystallized him into this man he was now — not malleable, adaptable, renewable, but hard, frozen, transparent to all the world’s brutality. And the only remaining change in his nature was the right tap with the right force in the right place.
Arlen settled into the foxhole, his rifle in his lap and his back against the foxhole side, his bones becoming one with the frozen earth. Paine began to snore — at least he could sleep. At least he did not have to lay here knowing that there was no relief for him, that there was no returning to safety.
Lord, what can I do for him?
God spoke, but it was not the voice in the flash of light on high. The inevitability of the thing to do was the answer.
But I’m already standin’ beside him, Lord, don’t you see?
And maybe he don’t have to, but I got to fight. Even if he ain’t there.
Lord, you didn’t even give him a chance. You gave me a second chance, dammit, give him one, too.
Arlen wrapped his arms tighter around him and dug his chin into his collar. He looked at Paine. A thin curl of breath whistled between the young soldier’s teeth.
What can I do?
Arlen stayed awake beside him all night.