“Mel, you check Shutzer and Miller! I’ll go after Mundy! Watch out none of the Krauts is faking it!”
I’m yelling, crying and running. It all came on so fast. I fall twice sliding downhill till I get to Mundy. I flop on the road beside him. At first I can’t see where he’s hit. He’s turned on his back with his knees pulled up, his arms locked around them, rocking back and forth. He’s breathing but he rattles with each breath. Blood is starting to roll out the corners of his mouth. He’s not crying and he’s not screaming. He’s only saying over and over in a low voice, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
I manage to straighten and roll him onto his stomach. He’s been shot in the back and I want to get at it. There’s a deep melted patch, black from his blood, in the moonlit snow. Mundy pushes himself up onto his knees. There’s a great flowing hole in the middle of his back.
I unhook my bayonet, slit up the field jacket. Mundy’s on his knees and elbows, his head on his forearms. He’s still rocking.
“Hold in there, Father. I’ll get you fixed up.”
I pull off his aid kit, cut away the edges of his shirt. His back is white and black in the night. There’s a hole about a half inch round just to the left of his spinal cord. When he breathes, air sucks in and out the hole, making blood bubbles. I can hardly hear his voice against the snow.
“Anybody else get hit?”
“Everything’s OK, Paul. Don’t worry.”
I sneak a look toward Shutzer and Miller. Miller’s up and seems OK. Gordon and he are working over Shutzer. Shutzer’s sitting. Mundy tries again, not much louder than the sound of breathing and slow, slower than usual even.
“All the Germans dead?”
“I think so. Don’t worry about that. We’ll get you wrapped up and out of here. Just relax; don’t think too much. You warm enough?”
“Yeah, I’m warm. May the Lord have mercy on those poor Germans and on all of us. Boy, we really fucked up.”
Fucked up? Mundy? Holy shit! I’ve plugged, patched the hole with my bandage, and now I’m wrapping Mundy’s over top to hold it down and tying the strings on the other side across his chest. I feel around to see if the bullet came out but there’s nothing. By now, my hands are so sticky and wet I can’t tell much. I’ve dumped both packs of sulfa into the wound. I’m sure, at the very least, there are broken ribs and the lung’s punctured. Who knows what else? Father twists his head, looks at me.
“Don’t tell Mother.”
“OK, Paul. We won’t tell anybody.”
So now I’m telling everybody. But for a long time I did keep it to myself.
I glance up to see just where Wilkins is. Maybe he got it, too. Maybe one of those Germans figured out where the firing was coming from and put one into Mother. But then I see him coming along the road. He’s moving cautiously, from tree to tree; I think if anybody moved he’d shoot, no matter who it was. Wilkins still has no idea.
“Don’t worry, Paul, we won’t tell Mother. He’ll never know.”
I take off my belt and Mundy’s. I hook them together and strap that whole thing around to hold down the bandages. The blood seems to be slowing but it’s thicker. Mundy begins coughing.
Huge gobs of blood are coming out of his mouth with each cough. He slides forward so the side of his face is against the snow but he’s still on his knees, rump in the air. He’s trying to say something through all the blood. I take off my helmet and get down so my ear is against his mouth.
“Looks as if those First Fridays didn’t do much good.”
“You don’t need ’em, Father.”
I can’t be sure he hears me. His eyes are still open, almost transparent with the moon shining through them. I dip my right thumb into the mixture of snow, slobber and blood beside his mouth. I make a cross on Father’s forehead, close his eyes, make crosses on them, a cross for his lips, then crosses in the palms of each hand. I can’t think of anything to say I could live with.
Then Mundy, without opening his eyes, his mouth just moving against the snow, is trying to say something more. I get down closer; I can only just hear him.
“Remember, don’t tell Mother.”
He stops breathing; there’s a bubbling and a last sigh of a breath. He lurches forward, thrashes, kicking his feet; then he’s still. I look up and Wilkins is there, standing over us, crying.
“Is he dead? Is Paul dead?”
“I think so, Vance.”
“He ran out to warn me. I heard him call my name just before he was shot. I don’t understand. I heard the firing and had a perfect position. I could’ve put down all those Germans with no trouble at all; they didn’t even know where I was. I don’t get it.”
Mother’s crying hard, racking sobs; he drops on his knees beside Mundy on the road.
“You know how Paul is, Vance. He does crazy things without thinking. He was always making mistakes.”
“I feel terrible. It’s like it’s my fault somehow.”
“There’s nothing you could’ve done, Mother.”
I try folding over the cut in Mundy’s jacket. He isn’t bleeding anymore. When he fell forward on his face, his arms went under him and are crossed on his chest. I turn him over onto his back and put my face next to his mouth to be sure, but he’s stopped. He’s gone.
Wilkins and I drag him by shoulders and feet from the center of the road. I know I have to go help with Shutzer. Gordon and Miller are still working over him. None of the Germans is moving, but that one up on the hill is moaning.
“Vance, go see if you can help the German. I’ll check what the situation is with Shutzer. Make sure that guy doesn’t have a knife or a pistol or anything. Be careful.”
I run uphill to the clearing in front of the lodge. God, it looks like a massacre; it is. At least seven people killed in less than ten seconds. We didn’t mean it, none of us, but there they are. I’m crying and having a hard time breathing but I’m not shaking. I’m still doing the things I have to do. I’m mostly trying not to think. I only know we’ve got to move out of here fast. If those Germans thought their own people would hear the firefight we put on, they can’t be far away. They could come charging out here in a hurry.
When I get to Shutzer, his face is white-green; Gordon has his canteen out and is giving him wound tablets. He’s split Shutzer’s field jacket up the arm and there’s blood over everything and seeping into the snow. It looks practically black, the way Mundy’s did. In some strange way, it doesn’t look like real blood; more like motor oil. It’s partly because there’s so much and it’s thick. There’re two bandages wrapped over Shutzer’s shoulder and his arm is tied twisted across his lap. There’s yellow sulfa powder over the front of his jacket.
“How’s it going, Stan?”
“God, Won’t, what a mess. Shit, it looked so easy. I never thought Wilkins would come charging out like that.”
“How’s it look to you, Mel?”
I lean closer. Stan’s shoulder’s smashed and somehow the arm is twisted around, dislocated. Gordon’s got the blood stopped with a tourniquet.
“I’d say our friend Shutzer here got the million-dollar wound. Your days as avenging Jewish warrior are over and done with, Stan.”
“Me, the one guy who wants to fight these Nazi bastards gets the million-dollar wound. Isn’t it the way?”
Shutzer swallows hard, winces. He’s about ready for heavy shock.
“How’s Mundy?”
“Dead, Stan. He died fast. Nothing I could do.”
I can’t help myself, I’m crying again.
“Fucking Kraut!”
“Come on, Stan. What the hell else could he do? He thought he’d been double-crossed.”
“Shit, what a fuckup.”
“That’s what Mundy said. He also said not to tell Wilkins.”
“Fuckin’ Mundy.”
“The story is we were pinned down; Mother got us all out. OK?”
Shutzer and Gordon look at each other, nod. I help Mel settle Stan
onto the ground. We’ve got to get moving and I’m starting to drift. I head uphill to where Wilkins is with the German. I figure we’ll go straight back to the chateau down the road. It’s going to be some trick moving three bodies with only four of us. We can’t leave the German out here and we’re not leaving Mundy.
I pass the German noncom. He’s on his back with his arms and legs spread like a dead actor. His helmet’s been blown off; above his right eye there’s a bluish dent around a small hole, and there’s not much blood. He is bald. Miller really did it. The snow around isn’t thrashed up and the noncom probably didn’t know what hit him. I hate to think what his last thoughts were. Boy, if he lived, he’d be a one-man beginning for World War III.
I get to Wilkins. The German’s propped on one elbow with his head uphill. His eyes are open and he’s watching me, watching the trigger on my rifle. I realize I’ve been running with my finger inside the trigger guard. I check and the safety’s on but I don’t remember doing it. I’m going to make some mistakes for sure, but how big a mistake can you make after one like this?
The German’s scared out of his mind. It’s the same one I watched cutting wood on the first patrol, the one who looks like Max.
“He hurt bad, Mother?”
“The bone’s broken just above his knee and the bullet tore a chunk of flesh from the back side when it came out. I’ve made a tourniquet, so there’s no hard bleeding now. He won’t take the wound tablets. He even knocked the sulfa out of my hand.”
“Can’t blame him.”
“Wont, is there any chance Shutzer can talk with him so he won’t be so scared?”
“There’s not much we can do, Vance; Stan’s in bad shape himself.”
“We’ve got to get him out of here fast or he’ll freeze.”
“You stay here, Mother; I’ll go look in the lodge for coats or something we can wrap around this guy and Shutzer.”
I’m distinctly losing momentum. We’re in a bad spot and I’m running out of steam. I sprint toward the lodge trying to start my blood moving. Inside, the fire’s burned down. I prop the door open; enough moonlight comes in so I can see overcoats hung at the bottom of each bed. These are the heavy, high-collared, long Wehrmacht overcoats. They look even more bulky than ours. I guess when you’ve come from the Russian front, this kind of weather seems like spring.
It’s right then I get the first good idea I have all night. I gather six overcoats and stumble out into the snow with them. I call Gordon and Miller over, explain what to do. It’s the only way I can think for all of us to get out and away. I go back to Wilkins and give him two of the coats. We’re going to look weird but it might work.
Going back is miserable. We’ve slipped Mundy, Shutzer and the German onto overcoats, then covered each with another coat. Using the arms, we drag the coats like sleds. If we keep moving, it goes OK, but when we stop, the coats stick to the snow. Also snow gathers on the bottoms and front edges. Since there are four of us, we take turns pulling, three at a time. The one not pulling watches that nobody falls off, and cleans away snow from packing in front of the coats. Even though we’ve never come straight along this road before, I figure we must be half a mile or more from the château.
Wilkins tells us why he came out after us. I should have known. Ware and Love are at the château looking for their prisoner. Well, we’ve got one, so long as he stays alive. Mother strapped a tourniquet on him, using the Gott mit uns belt. Not tonight. Mundy’s favorite joke was “We got mittens, too”; somewhat sacrilegious for an almost priest.
Shutzer’s still conscious and the pain is coming on strong. The German moans for a while, then goes quiet. Every time we stop to change on the pulling, Gordon lets up the two tourniquets. I look at Mundy. In one way he looks like a real corpse, his arms folded across his chest, but he’s smiling. It must be some facial muscle spasm pulled up his lips.
We’re almost reaching the ends of our endurance, the changing and stopping getting more and more frequent, when suddenly a voice calls out of the dark.
“Stop! Who goes there?”
I’ve already hit the ground before I realize who it is. It’s in English; it’s Love.
“It’s we, sir. It’s the second squad. This is Sergeant Knott here.”
“Rhythm?”
“We don’t know the counter, sir.”
There’s quiet. I hear Ware’s voice, then Love’s voice again. I’m at the breaking point. Maybe I should just sob, cry, scream, let it out. Maybe then they’d know I can’t do it anymore.
“Advance forward slowly to be recognized. Keep your hands over your head.”
I struggle up off the ground with my hands on my head. My hands are raw from pulling on the sleeves and are numb cold. I walk down the road. Lit by the moonlight I see where they’re crouched in a gulley.
“All right, Knott, you can put your hands down. How come you don’t know the password?”
Ware speaks up. I don’t think I could say anything without bawling. I’m in a bad state.
“They’ve been out on post five days, sir. We didn’t think it wise to give the pass over the radio.”
“With German infiltrators all through here, in American uniforms, speaking perfect English, we can’t be too careful, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s the rest of your squad, Sergeant?”
“Back on the road, sir.”
“Did you manage to take a prisoner?”
“Yes, sir; but he’s badly wounded.”
Ware steps forward. He has his carbine in his left hand.
“We heard firing maybe fifteen minutes after we sent Wilkins out to bring you in. Did you make contact?”
“Yes, sir. Mundy’s dead and Shutzer’s badly hurt. Could we please bring them into the château now, sir? Shutzer and the prisoner are in shock.”
“Jesus Christ. Why the hell didn’t you tell us that before, Sergeant?”
Love flips open his holster and pulls out his side arm.
“The enemy may be in direct pursuit. We’d better get out of here, Lieutenant. Let’s get moving on the double.”
“Except for our prisoner, sir, the Germans here are all dead. We were pinned down in a firefight when Private Wilkins broke us out. I’d like to mention him for a citation, sir. He saved the squad.”
“Wilkins? Ware, is that the soldier we found here at the château?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He didn’t look like much of a soldier to me.”
“Sir, he stood alone in plain view and shot down six of the enemy with eight shots.”
Why go through all this now? We need to get Shutzer and our prisoner into the château. Somehow Love and Ware have to move out of our way.
“My God!”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll see about any citation later; after this is all cleared up and we know what happened.”
“Yes, sir. Is it all right if we move the wounded into the château now, sir? Both of them are bleeding badly.”
“Did you give them their wound tablets, Sergeant?”
“Not the prisoner, sir. He wouldn’t take them.”
“All right. Let’s get those men in, and make it on the double.”
Love breaks into a shuffling jog through the snow along the moonlit road toward the chateau. His leather pistol case has a dangling thong and bounces against his leg. He keeps his pistol out as he runs. He also has a carbine slung over his shoulder. Ware stays back.
“How did Mundy get it?”
“Fast, sir. Right through the chest.”
“How about Shutzer?”
“Shoulder wound, Lieutenant; probably bones broken, a bad dislocation. Gordon fixed him up. We’ve got it tied down and a tourniquet on it, sir.”
I’m afraid I’m going to cry again. It’s all so stupid.
When I get back, the rest of the squad’s busy. Miller’s covering the German; he’s unconscious, could even be dead. Gordon and Wilkins are working on Shutzer. Hi
s eyes are half open, but when I speak he doesn’t answer. He’s breathing hard; it’s almost like snoring. I look at Mel; he shakes his head. I wonder if my face is white as his. Against the snow, with the moonlight, we look like pale greenish ghosts, almost transparent.
We start out, Ware bringing up the rear. He’s walking beside Mundy and not saying anything. Mundy’s smiling his idiot smile.
It takes a good struggle uphill to the chateau. Our fire’s almost out but two of the flambeaux are burning. How long have we been gone? It can’t be much more than two or three hours. It’s hard to believe how fast things change.
First we carefully carry Shutzer and the German in. Even Ware helps. Love is standing with his back to the fire rocking up and down on his toes with his hands behind him, staring around. Our place looks like hell. It’s for sure Wilkins didn’t have much time alone before Ware and Love showed up.
While Gordon, Miller and I carry Mundy in, Ware warms up the radio. Mundy’s already beginning to stiffen. It could be only the cold. Miller cracks a few more frames for the fire. He eases behind Love and throws them in. Love turns around to watch. Then he turns to me. He starts pacing back and forth with his carbine in one hand. He’s put his pistol back in the holster but hasn’t fastened it.
“Sergeant Knott, get some men out on post. We can’t be sure the enemy didn’t hear the firefight and won’t be sending out a patrol.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now I’ve got to tell it. I’m spinning wheels to tell it right; not actually right, the way it was, but so it sounds right.