Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 26

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.

‘Who the hell is that? Hold your fuckin’ fire.’

It’s Richards and he’s brushing madly at a kraut. I rush up the hill, forgetting the mines. I get there and help brush phosphorous off the kraut. He’s sitting on the ground. The phosphorous is like pieces of fire that burn through everything. The kraut is screaming and we brush madly to get all the pieces off. He peels off his overcoat and jacket, there’s a dark red spot on his side where the grenade hit.

‘What the fuck you doing back here? You’re supposed to be with Harrington. I’m using this fucker to pick a path through these fuckin’ mines for the rest of the platoon to get through. You get your ass after Harrington. Tell him to meet up with us at the pine trees just over the hill.’

I start going around the hill in the direction Harrington was going. Now, some mortar is coming in. I think one hits just over the hill in front of me, but then from the flash, I know it isn’t mortar. I start hurrying. I’m stepping over mine wires and past shoe mine triggers like I’m playing hopscotch. I don’t get it. A few minutes ago I couldn’t make myself move.

Harrington’s sitting on the ground. He’s holding onto his knee and rocking back and forth. His rifle’s on the ground beside him. He’s screaming!

‘My God, my God! Mother of God! Mother! My leg!! Oh my God!’

I drop beside him. His face is green. Blood is spurting out between his hands from his knee! I almost vomit when I see it. The bottom part of his leg, below the knee, is hanging by a piece of flesh. Jagged bones stick out from shrunken flesh. The other leg has fragments of shrapnel sticking through the cloth, through the boot, into the flesh. Harrington looks at me and his eyes are black holes.

‘Holy God! I’m bleeding to death! Stop it! Help me, Al! Jesus Christ, help me!’

My hands are shaking but I get my belt off. I wrap it tight where Harrington’s squeezing. I pull it taut and try to make it hold. My fingers are slippery with blood. I get the friction bar of the brass buckle to catch. Harrington lets go with his hands and there’s only a trickle. I take off my aid kit and pull out the bandage. I put the pad over the stump end and wrap the strings above the belt. I take out my canteen and make Harrington take the wound tablets. I’d forgotten the sulfa and try lifting the bandage to scatter it inside. Somehow, I’m making it. Harrington is leaning back on his hands and looking down at his leg hanging there cocked sidewise. The shoe’s been completely blown off and you can see the bones where the flesh is flayed away.

I’m afraid to pull any of the shrapnel pieces out of the other leg. Harrington’s sinking into shock fast. His face is completely white and he’s crying. The hell with Richards; I’m going after a medic. They’re probably all hanging back in the woods. I still haven’t said anything to Harrington. I try to steady my voice.

‘Don’t move! I’ll go get a medic!’

Harrington nods his head. He’s biting his lower lip and holding onto the leg that isn’t blown off. I carefully prop the stump of his other leg onto his helmet. I drive his rifle, barrel first, into the ground so the medics can find him. I look once more at Harrington and start back down the hill.

Jesus, the whole field is solid mines! I’m going against the lines of mines and stepping over one wire after another. I’m amazed I can do it. Maybe I’ve gotten past something in myself. About twenty yards down the hill, I look around to orient myself for bringing the medics back. Harrington lifts one hand; he’s been watching me. I wave and start down the hill again. I haven’t gone three steps when there’s a tremendous explosion. I look back and see Harrington’s limp body in the air. It twists once, then hits the ground with a bounce. I run back, jumping over mines and wires.

He’s torn in half. I can see through his stomach. There’s not a mark on his face and he’s already dead. His intestines glisten and slide in the last gushings of blood. I turn my head and throw up.

There’s no excuse to go back now. I get down on my knees carefully. Harrington must’ve had a shoe mine behind him, between his arms, all the time. He probably just lay back on it. I’m absolutely gripped with fear again.

I don’t know how long I stay there beside Harrington. It could’ve been two minutes or even twenty. My mind is going back and forth, not wanting to work. I know I’m crying; I’m not making it at all.

It begins getting lighter; the fog is lifting; the sun is orange over Reuth. I have to do something. I stand up and start working my way up the hill. I’m walking over mines like walking over cracks in the sidewalk; I know I’m not being careful enough. I’m numb in my mind. I get to the top of the hill.

There’s a grove of trees over to the right. The whole platoon is there. I see Richards. They’re all digging in like crazy. Richards comes running to me.

‘Where the fuck’ve you been? We’re going to be pulling out of here and going into the town in a couple minutes! There’re tanks up there! Who the hell has the tank grenades?’

‘Harrington got it back there; shoe mine.’

‘Shit! Christ, we’ve got to get outta here. Who the hell’s got the tank grenades?’

‘One of the replacements had them. He’s back on the hill.’

‘Christ! What a fucking mess! We need bazookas! Mortars getting closer and we’re fucked if those tanks find us! Where-in-hell’s the Lieutenant?’

Richards is dashing back and forth saying these things. He’s at least as scared as I am but he thinks of things to do. He runs back to the others. I flop on the ground there and hold onto it. I’m going to stay right there. I’m ready to take it all, whatever comes. Let the tanks blast away; let the krauts take me prisoner; give me a court-martial, dishonorable discharge. I’m ready for it all. I’m dead; out of it. I’m not thinking these things out loud but that’s the way it is. I’m past even being scared; past everything. I only want it all to stop.

Then Richards stands up and waves his arms in the ‘let’s go’ signal. Everybody stops digging and gets up. I watch myself get up with them. I’m not thinking anymore. I’m just doing it. I’d make a great lemming. They start over the ridge, Richards first, then Vance and Scanlan, then the other replacement, then me. There are other guys who fall in behind. The whole thing is screwed up.

We go about fifty yards and one of the mortars comes in close. We all hit the ground. When we get up, the replacement turns, looks back, then runs past me down the hill. He’s going to hit a mine for sure.

We go on some more. Still no tanks. Maybe Richards is wrong. My mind is starting to work again. Then it comes fast, no sound. Direct fire, eighty-eight. I’m on the ground; the ground socks my guts. I don’t even hear the motors. Dirt is coming down everywhere. I put up my head and it comes again. The ground thumps under me but I’m still all right. I’m enjoying not caring much; it makes it all so much easier. I feel separate, like at a movie of a war.

Somebody’s yelling he’s hit. It’s Vance. He runs past holding his helmet out in his hand. Blood’s flowing. A piece of shrapnel has pinned his hand onto his helmet. I hear a moan in front of me. I look. Scanlan turns his face to me. He’s screaming. It doesn’t look like Scanlan, it’s a death head; bare skull starting to ooze blood.

‘I’m hit! My eyes! I can’t see! Help me, somebody!’

He stands up and wobbles toward me. He can’t see because his whole face’s been wiped off and pulled to one side like a mask. The flesh is hanging over one eye and the other eye is hanging over the bone socket onto his cheek. His nose and upper lip are gone. I can see his teeth sticking into his gums. Some of the teeth are broken and pushed in. I crawl up to him, grab him by the legs and pull him down.

‘Don’t touch your face! You’re hit in the face!’

Scanlan sits on the ground, still holding onto his rifle. I squat in front of him, grab the skin of his face and try to wrap it across into place again. It feels like rubber and is shrunken so it doesn’t fit. I get the nose centered and tell Scanlan to hold onto the end of the flap while I undo my aid kit. For a second, I actually don’t know where my aid kit is. I’m yelling for help but nobody’s behind me anymore and Richards is still on the ground up ahead. I yell again but he doesn’t move.

I take off Scanlan’s aid kit and get out the bandage. I’m scared more stuff is going to come in, but my hands are steady. I wrap the bandage tight around Scanlan’s head and tie it in the back. Scanlan’s having a hard time breathing. He keeps swallowing the blood but more and more blood is leaking out everywhere. The hell with the wound tablets; I’m getting Scanlan back and turning myself in! My mind is working slowly but clearly; I don’t feel like me.

I tell Scanlan to drop his rifle. He isn’t talking anymore, only moaning deeply. He takes off his left glove and there are two fingers in the middle missing. Blood’s pumping out of there, too. I grab his wrist tight, pull him to his feet and start running him back. He’s going to pass out soon and I can’t carry him. I might pass out myself any minute. I’m feeling very empty-eared. Scanlan pulls away from me. He goes back and picks up the glove he just pulled off, the one with the fingers in it. He holds it with his good hand. Jesus Christ! What’s he thinking of?!

Somehow, we get through the mines. This time I go around farther to the right. I only see two masher wires. I’m having a hard time believing in mines anyway. When Harrington got it, it’s as if he defused all of them for me. I have the feeling I could even step on one and it wouldn’t go off. That’s how far gone I am.

We get back to the edge of the wood and there’s Lucessi, the first sergeant. He yells at me.

‘Who is that? Where the hell’re you going?’

I stop and turn Scanlan toward him. He’s my ticket out of hell. It’s lousy, but that’s the way it is. I’m trying to ride Scanlan all the way back to a medic tent.

‘I’m taking Scanlan back, Sarge. He’s hurt bad!’

Lucessi can see that. He can also see I’m scared shitless. He knows what I’m doing. Why the hell should I care what Lucessi thinks anyway? He’s just another fucking wop, even if he is first sergeant. Lucessi is checking Scanlan. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t maybe just make a run for it up to the woods. Lucessi isn’t going to shoot me or anything.

‘Where’s Richards? Where’s the second platoon? Where’s your squad? What the fuck’s going on up there?’

‘Richards says tanks are coming up. He needs bazookas. There’re no anti-tank grenades.’

‘Yeah, and where in hell’s Richards?’

Lucessi is trying to pull the bandage smooth over Scanlan’s face. I’m still holding onto Scanlan’s wrist.

‘He’s up there past the trees. He’s on the ground there where Scanlan got hit. I yelled but he didn’t answer or move.’

That’s how my mind’s working. It’s only then I let myself know that Richards is hit. Richards has had it. Richards got it. I don’t even like Richards, but the shakes start coming. I want to get away, anywhere away. I’m not only running back now; I’m running away. I have a hard time keeping my feet still. But, I’m afraid of Lucessi. I could probably beat the shit out of him one-handed; but I’m afraid. I’m waiting for a chance to run away, hide in the ground, starve to death, anything, just disappear, be alone. I’m still holding onto Scanlan’s wrist to stop the bleeding and he’s fucking around with the glove in his other hand. He pulls something out of the glove and wipes it on his pants. It’s a wedding ring. He puts it in his pocket. Lucessi’s watching me.

‘You get the hell back there, Columbato. If Richards is hit, you’re in charge of the squad. The way things’re going, maybe the whole damned platoon. What a fuck-up. I’ll take Scanlan. I’ll get the bazooka and anti-tank grenades sent up. Now, you haul ass up there!’

He’s already redoing the company organization chart. He’s moving slips of colored paper around in his mind. I hand Scanlan to him and he squeezes the wrist. Blood is dripping from Scanlan’s face all over his field jacket. Lucessi turns and runs Scanlan back toward the woods.

I’m alone again. I know I’m only going up to the trees and hide. I’ll jump in one of those slit trenches the squad was digging. I’ll lie up there and wait till things settle down. Then, maybe I’ll sneak my way back into France, travel at night, find some French family I can hide with. I’m quietly going crazy right out there in the open.

I get across the field again, hopping over wires, trying not to look across to where Harrington is. I make it up to the trees and hide myself in a hollowed-out bit of a hole. I don’t want to dig.

Then it starts. It’s one-five-five; ours. Somebody must’ve given these trees as coordinates and called in division or corp artillery. I jump up and start running madly along the hill toward Reuth. The ground is bouncing and pieces of dirt fly around and thump into me. It’s hitting me in the face as I run, like running through a hailstorm or riding a bicycle behind a truckload of gravel. Then I feel something pull on my left arm and spin me around. I look down and there’s a small hole, shaped like an acorn, on the right side of my left wrist. A drop of blood is oozing slowly out of the hole. It’s dark red. I stop in the middle of the field and stare at it. I close my fist and the little finger stays stiff out. I turn over my hand and there’s no exit hole on the other side. Something breaks inside me and I’m crying. I can go back. I can go to a hospital and be operated on! I can talk to doctors, tell them I’m finished! The war is over!

Another shell hits to the left and I’m knocked down. My ears are ringing and when I wipe my face, my hand comes away wet with blood. I feel all over my face but there’s nothing except where the dirt and pebbles have made little cuts. I start running again. I run till I come to a road on the outskirts of Reuth. I still haven’t seen anybody. I can hear small arms fire up ahead in the town. I see a hole dug on the side of the road. I’ll climb in there and wait till some medic comes for me. I have all the time in the world; the war’s over. Alfonso Columbato is going home as a wounded war hero. I hear another shell coming so I run forward and jump in the hole.

The war isn’t over! There’re two krauts in the hole! I land right on top of them! They struggle out from under me and put their hands on top of their heads. I lean back in the hole and try to cover them with my rifle. I’m scared shitless and they’re smiling at me. The whole thing is crazy. They want me to end the war for them, too. Here we are, three guys in a hole, bucking for civilian.

One’s an old guy, over forty; the other can’t be sixteen. Neither of them has a helmet, just field caps. They keep smiling at me. They’re glad I’m not killing them. I’m glad they’re there, now I have two excuses to go back. I’ll be the wounded war hero coming in with prisoners captured in hand-to-hand combat. Maybe this is the way all heroes are made.

Then the stomping one-five-five starts creeping up the hill. Somebody’s changing the coordinates and marching it right up. The whole world seems to be coming down on us. One hits less than ten yards away and the walls of the hole begin crumbling. I feel panic. Here I am so close and now I’m going to get killed for nothing. I lean back and point my rifle at the krauts. I signal them to get up out of the hole. They’re not smiling now, they don’t want to go. I’m getting out of there and I’m taking them with me. I want to end the war for them and I’m going to be a big war hero on top of it all.

They won’t move. I drive my rifle barrel into the ribs of the older guy and yell at him to get out. He jabbers away but he starts climbing and the young one follows him. They leave their rifles and keep their hands on top of their heads. I point with my rifle toward the trees. If anybody were actually looking, it really would look like some kind of war scene with the bloody hero forcing his prisoners back to the lines. I smile to show them that I’m on their side but I’m too scared to bring off a real smile. They have to trust me; we can’t hole up there with that heavy stuff coming in.

We go about thirty yards down the road toward the trees when all sorts of shit comes down on us. This time it’s kraut artillery, not tanks; this is big. The two krauts hit the dirt, still with their hands on top of their heads. I’m sprawled behind them. The whole world is rocking. We’ve got to get the hell down to the woods and in a hurry. We’re going to be massacred if we stay out here in the open. I’m yelling for them to get up and get moving. They can’t hear me, they can’t understand me, and they wouldn’t move if they did. They push their heads deeper into the dirt. I could’ve just left them there and I should’ve. But I’ve got myself convinced I want these prisoners and I also think I know what’s best for them.

I squeeze off a shot over the head of the older guy. He turns around and looks at me. There’s fear in his eyes all right. I give him the ‘get up’ signal with my rifle. He jumps up, then the young one, and they both start running with their hands still on top of their heads. I’m pushing myself up with the butt of my rifle when, BAM, it happens.

I come to, covered with blood and gore. My rifle stock’s broken in two. I try to get up but I pass out again. When I come to a second time, I’m bleary-eyed, my ears are ringing, and my nose and mouth are full of blood. I sit and look up. The two krauts are on the ground in front of me. The shell hit between them and dug a huge hole there, at least one-five-five. I start checking myself out. Most of the gore is from the krauts. I feel a soggy soft spot in my groin, but it doesn’t hurt.

I try to stand and I can’t. My head buzzes and I fall over. My leg won’t work. I crawl up to the two krauts and they’re both dead. I don’t know how long I was out but it was enough time for them to die; long enough for flies to find them. The sun is up full and it’s a sunny day. It’s the first sun we’ve had in two weeks. There’s no artillery. The world looks new. There’s no sound of fighting from Reuth. It all seems so quiet, I think I might be deaf. I try to say something to hear myself, but there’s something wrong with my jaw. I hear myself moaning as the blackness flows over me. It’s more like going to sleep when you’re really tired. As I pass out, I know that at least I’m not deaf; I heard myself moan.

The next time I come to, I begin crawling toward the woods. I should just stay there and wait till somebody comes but I’m not thinking. I want to get off the road, out of the open, and into a shady place. I want to get away from the krauts. I hold my hand over the soggy spot and I can feel my intestines bulging against my hand when I move. I don’t have any bandage to put over it so I keep my hand there. It isn’t bleeding much. My head is getting clear. I’m thinking things out, trying to save my ass.

I crawl down the field to where Richards is still stretched out. I crawl up to him and there’s no blood at all. I have just a minute when I think he might be ‘dogging it’, letting the war go by him, the way I am. His eyes are open and his mouth. He’s dead. I see the piece of shrapnel sticking out the side of his neck. It’s a long thin piece and it’s sticking out like a pen in a pen holder. The skin of his neck is bent in to fit around the rough edge of the cast metal. I’m seeing very clearly in the morning sunlight. I pull out the piece of shrapnel with my good hand. It comes out easily and there’s a short gush of blood. Richards’ neck bends so his face is against the ground. His eyes stay open.

That’s when I begin cracking up seriously. I hear myself muttering ‘Richards is dead’ over and over like a prayer; it hurts and I can’t stop myself. I lie there beside Richards and can’t move.

Next thing I remember, De John the medic is over me. He’s asking what’s the matter, where it hurts, but I keep muttering and crying. My jaw hurts up into my ears. Harrington is dead and I’m crying about Richards. Even while I’m crying I know it doesn’t make sense, but I can’t stop. De John tapes in my gut and puts on sulfa but doesn’t give me wound tablets. He looks at my face and pulls another bandage out of his kit. He starts wrapping up the bottom of my face and jaw down to the neck. I can see in his eyes that it’s bad and I’m glad. I’m glad for anything that’ll keep me out of combat. I know I’m even trying to section eight it now. I’m keeping on about Richards when it doesn’t make any sense at all. I’m trying to hold onto whatever advantage I’ve got. I don’t have any pride or honor or anything left. I just have a need to go on living.

They get a litter to me, carry me back, and then there’s a ride on top of a jeep and into the field hospital. They put me down on a bloody cement floor. I see the dead ones piled in the corner, covered with blankets, boots sticking out. I look for Harrington, but all of them have two boots.

Now I begin to get the idea that I’m not hurt enough, they’re going to send me back. A T-5 medic squats beside me. He asks me my outfit, name. It hurts too much to talk. I shake my head. He pulls out my dog tags and checks. He looks under the bandages. I feel myself sinking. I’m ready to cry again, to beg them not to send me back. This T-5 is being cheery and telling me it’s not too bad and I’ll be up and around in no time. I’m hating him. He makes out a ticket and wires it to my field jacket. That must mean something. I begin to relax. I’m a package now to be handled by other people. I don’t have a rifle, I don’t have a helmet. I’m not a soldier anymore. I’m a sick person. Somebody else comes over, rolls up my sleeve, and gives me a shot. I feel myself slipping away.

The next thing I’m being jiggled and moved from the litter onto a black operating table. A doctor smiles down at me with clean hands, a clean white coat and splatters of blood on his glasses. He looks at my tag, then starts to scissor off my clothes down to where I’m hit at the top of my leg, in the groin. He cuts off the bandage and I can feel him pressing with his hands. Somebody else is cutting and pulling off my boots and the rest of my clothes. I feel like a little boy. Nobody’s undressed me since I was four years old. The doctor turns to me and smiles. He’s tired. It’s been a red-letter day for surgeons.

‘We’re going to put you to sleep now and clean this up a bit. Don’t be scared, it’ll be all right.’

Hell, I’m not scared; I want to be put to sleep. I want the whole medical corps to come and try themselves out on me. I want them to keep me in hospitals to practice on for five years, or however long it takes to get the crazy war over. I’ll do anything to keep people from knowing what I know. I’ll do anything to keep out of combat; if it means getting cut up by doctors in hospitals, that’s great with me.

When I come to, I’m on another litter, a padded one, and I’m covered with a blanket. My face is practically smothered in bandages, my whole hand and wrist are bandaged. I reach down with my good hand and feel that I’m bandaged from my belly button down, but my cock and balls are still there, squeezed out between the bandages. There’s a tube coming out of the end of my cock. I lie back and relax. They’re not going to be able to give me a rifle for a while anyway.

I feel like I’m on a moving stairway, an escalator. Even the smell of ether is good to me, a smell of security, of calm and of peace. I look around and realize I’m not in the field hospital anymore. There are rows of us and we’re in a big room. I lift my head to look around and I can’t believe what I see. There’s a woman in a uniform and she’s coming over to me. I haven’t seen a real woman in months. I’d forgotten how good they look. Think of it, I’m going to be able to go home where there are women and I’m not going to have a dishonorable discharge. I’ll probably even get a pension and people who don’t know will think I’m a hero. I’ll be able to fuck all the women I want. The lady stops and squats beside my litter.

‘Are you all right there, soldier?’

I see the lieutenant’s bar on her cap. I can’t open my jaw and I talk through my teeth.

‘Yes, sir. Where am I?’

‘You’re at division headquarters and we’re waiting for an ambulance to take you back.’

‘Where will I go back to?’

‘Probably to the hospital in Metz.’

I lie back. They haven’t found me out yet. If I can get as far as Metz, they’ll never get me in combat again.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

As she says this, she’s looking at the tag pinned to me. It’s longer and more official-looking; I’m special delivery now. I wonder if it’s still the same day. It seems like weeks since we left the forest and went down that slanted field toward Reuth. For just a minute I think of the war still going on. Who’s head of the squad now? I could’ve made staff if I’d stayed on. Did they finally take Reuth? I stop thinking about it. I’m rear echelon now; let the boys at the front do the fighting. The lady lieutenant is finished reading my delivery ticket.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. It says here you have a stomach wound. You can’t have any liquids. I saw your face and I thought that was all of it. I’m sorry.’

This must be the first time I’ve ever had a lieutenant sorry for me. I pull my bandaged hand out from under the blankets to drum up a little more sympathy, but she’s already on to somebody else. If she can’t serve me coffee, she doesn’t want anything to do with me.

I lay my head back and try to remember the reality. I want to remember how lousy a soldier I really am. I don’t mind fooling everybody else but I don’t want to fool myself. It’s been a hard lesson to learn. I can already see how easy it’s going to be for me to make myself out the big hero. I’ve got to take what I know about myself now and plan my life around that. I pass out while I’m thinking about it.

The hospital at Metz is a real hospital. I mean it isn’t a school converted into a hospital or a barracks made into a hospital; it was a hospital in the first place.

I have my first operation two days after I get there. It’s the operation on my stomach. Actually it isn’t my stomach. It’s an instant rupture I’ve got down there. They give me the piece of shrapnel afterwards. It looks about like one of the pennies we used to mash on the tracks of the trains at the terminal on Sixty-ninth Street. The doctor says I’m lucky I wagged when I could’ve wigged because it just missed cutting the sperm cord. He says the shrapnel looks like American one-five-five. Maybe he thinks I’m a kraut who snuck in here to get some free treatment.

I couldn’t care whose side I’m on. I don’t even care who wins anymore. I’m out of it. I lie there in bed all day just enjoying the quiet, the normalness of things. My insides are gradually settling down. I’m happier than I can ever remember. When I wake up in the morning, before the nurse comes around to wake everybody up and wash them, before the orange juice, I lie there with my eyes closed, listening, thinking about how I’m out of it. I’m out of everything, not just the war. I’m captured; the world’s prisoner. I’m not fighting anymore. It’s a great feeling, everything seems so unimportant.

Every morning they throw a pack of cigarettes on my bed. Free cigarettes. ‘Another carton of cigarettes for the boys overseas.’ I start smoking. Hell, I’m not trying to be the world’s strongest man anymore. I’m just trying to get through without making too much of a disgrace of myself. I lie there on the white bed, moving nothing but my good hand; a clean, clean hand, washed every day by clean hands. I put the white cigarette in my mouth and blow smoke through my bandages. I’m not really smoking, I’m blowing smoke and watching it. I practice blowing smoke rings. Uncle Caesar used to do it for me so I know all the moves. The air in the room is still and after a few days I get so I can blow perfect rings. I’m saving inhaling for another time. It still hurts to take a deep breath, and coughing is a misery.

I blow away twenty cigarettes worth of smoke rings every day. I allow myself one cigarette each half hour. There’s a clock on the wall and I hold onto every minute I can. Time never seemed so sweet. I don’t think I every actually lived in the present before. Now, I’m forgetting everything that happened and not thinking more than half an hour ahead. Each of those half hours has more in it than most days in my life.

There are other guys in the ward, but they’re mostly other gut wounds and are more serious than I am. All of them are on intravenous. I only have the peeing tube hooked to me, so I’m practically a free man.

They change the bandage on my hand every three or four days and the big operation is looked at every other day. They put clean bandages on my face but it’s two weeks before they do anything except clean it. One day a doctor wheels me into a room and unwraps the face bandages. He takes little scissors and scissors away some pieces. He tapes it up and says I’m going to need plastic surgery. They don’t have any facilities to do it in this hospital. He tells me the jaw is dislocated and shattered in the joint. They’ll have to work on that first.

I don’t care. I’m beginning to like operations. The nurses keep telling me how brave I am. Bullshit! Nobody’s ever going to fool me there. They can keep me in the hospital and cut me up a little at a time; only no pain, please. Take my lovely, muscular body and hack away. But no shocks, no sudden pain, no dirt, no attacks, no patrols; I can’t take it.

I’m just able to sit up again when they tell me I’m being shipped back to the States. I’m being shipped to Fort Dix because it’s the military hospital nearest my home. Christ, I’m beginning to feel like a civilian already. A few pieces of metal cut into me and everything changed. I don’t even think about the squad, the platoon, none of it anymore. I read the Stars and Stripes every day to see how the old war’s going. The Russians are sweeping across Russia, Poland, Germany. Everybody’s squeezing the Nazis. Then, Hitler puts a bullet through his head. It’s like reading a novel; it doesn’t seem real to me. It’s as if everything went from super real to mushroom soup in one morning. I’m not complaining. I can’t even get myself to worry much about being a coward either. I’ll make new tracks. I’ll find something to do so nobody will ever know. Maybe I’ll open a pizza parlor or a hoagie shop. ‘ALFONSO’S’, great name for that kind of place.

It’s hard for me not to put on the tough guy thing with the nurses and the doctors. They want me to, I can tell. That heroic shit is hard to stop.

By this time, the whole side of my mouth is twisting to one side. It’s getting hard to open my mouth at all. The doctors decide I’m an emergency case and put me in an airplane. I’ve never been in an airplane before; I’m wishing Birdy could be with me. He’d love it.

I’m in America almost without knowing it. A hospital is a hospital. I’m rolled off the plane in a stretcher and into an ambulance. We go through New York with the siren blowing. I’m playing poker with another guy in the bottom bunk as we go. The nurses at Dix are different, older and very sympathetic. Everybody seems guilty. They’re practically crying over us. I’m feeling about seven years old now; great feeling. I’m turning into a great baby. Maybe I’ll win a prize in the war baby beauty contest.

I have two days of X-rays with all kinds of doctors fingering my face flaps. Then they put me under anaesthetic and do the first operation. I still haven’t seen my face; it’s always bandaged up. I don’t really want to see it. I can see enough of what it looks like from the other people’s faces when they look at it. I know I’m not as bad as Scanlan. I’ll bet he was a nightmare for some plastic surgeon.

I’m still just relaxing and letting things happen. They call my parents and tell them I’m in the hospital. They come tooling up in the De Soto. I can’t say I’m sorry to see them, except my old lady keeps staring at the bandages on my face and crying. The old man looks tired, much older, and for the first time I realize I’m his kid and he does care. Only he can’t allow himself to show anything. He’s standing pale and scared there trying to be the Sicilian big shot. His face lights up when I tell him I made sergeant. It’s a dumb sad life most men live.

When they go home I turn back into my private world. My body is still my ticket. Come on, doctors, punch holes in it. Punch all the holes you want, it’s gotten me this far, all the way back to America. Punch away.

Now, I start hurting from that first operation. I’m put on intravenous for a week and then I’m fed with a tube. I feel like a baby pigeon being fed regurgitated food. I don’t care; take care of me, world. It’s two weeks before I can even drink thin soup. I can’t chew at all, even on the good side. The doctor tells me how they’ve put in a metal plate and pins to hold my jaw. They have to get the jaw straightened before they can start any plastic surgery. He tells me I’ll have a slight malocclusion anyway. I don’t know what that is so I ask one of the nurses. I have to ask her through my teeth. She says it means my jaw won’t come together quite right. I can live with that. The doctor also tells me he’s going to bring some skin from my ass and put it on my chin. Got a match? Yeah, my face and my ass. That’s when I find out, too, I won’t be able to grow a beard. I’ve got enough hair on my ass, more hair than most people have on their faces, but it won’t help. They’re taking very thin layers.

‘I’m just finished with the third operation when they tell me about you, Birdy. They say you’re down in Kentucky and they want me to go talk to you. Even your shit old lady comes over to our house and asks me to go down. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to see anybody who knew me the way I used to be. I know I’m not me anymore and I don’t want any more pretending than I have to. We were too close. Birdy; we were too much to each other. But I can’t say this to your old lady; she’s crying all over my mother. The crummy pigeon poisoner and baseball crook is crying. I tell her I’ll go.

‘I come down and talk to fatface Weiss, here, and then I start talking to you, Birdy, about how it was with us with the pigeons and all that shit. You’re some kind of freaky bird looking out the window, crouching on the floor, not paying any attention to me.

‘Hell, you’re not even listening now. We’re both impossibly screwed-up, Birdy. I think maybe we put off growing up a little too long.’

I stop talking. What’s the use? What’s the use of anything? Nobody really talks to anybody else anyway, even if they aren’t crazy. Everybody’s only strutting around, pecking and picking.

I close my eyes, put my elbows on my knees, and lean forward with my head in my hands. I still can’t put any pressure on the left side. I figure this is the last time I’ll see Birdy. I can’t take it anymore myself. Old Weiss’s going to figure it out and lock me in one of these bins soon.

I open my eyes and Birdy’s standing up against the bars. He has a big grin on his face and he’s looking straight at me; his eyes aren’t even wiggling.

‘Well, Al, you’re just as full of shit as ever.’