Behavior Report 10

Dearest Love,

I’ve finally found my purpose. That thing that will drive me forward in this horrific world. The energy I felt once I took up Quinten’s letter is something I’ve never experienced. This energy, this purpose, this confidence is like hearing the perfect sermon in church. I feel like I can take on anything.

Until I’m terrified by a most horrific scream.

I’m about to break free from my muddy foxhole when a scream slices through the thunderstorm and cuts right into my fear. I can’t tell whether the source is a man or creature, but I also don’t want to find out. I sit back down and wait for the next scream. I’m proud to say that my imagination didn’t run wild. No monsters or visions of Krauts appear when I close my eyelids. I focus on rainwater falling from the far corner of my foxhole in a steady stream that collects into a foamy lake near Quinten. Thunder rolls. No lightning strikes. Rain taps steadily.

Then, between the steady beats from the rain, I hear uneven slaps upon wet leaves. The sound is like “Slap,” pause, “Drag. Slap. Slap.” pause, “Drag. Slap. Slap.” Labored breathing wheezes in the pauses. I can’t decipher a tone from the voice behind the breathing and that’s what keeps me inside. One scream stops my purpose.

Moments pass and the footsteps draw closer and closer until they stop in a spot that feels directly overhead. I look up to my roof, wishing that there were some gaps I could see through. The wheezing continues even as the footsteps stop.

“No,” the voice says between breaths. “No.”

I still can’t place the voice, but the English flips off the fear and clicks on a smile. I don’t know what I would have done if the voice said, “Nein.”

“Hang on,” I yell. I quickly stand up and begin thrusting my back into the roof. The wood frame clings and sticks in the mud and I keep pushing and pushing until the roof practically jumps from its hold.

I turn and slide the roof into my foxhole and look up to meet whoever stands above. Just then, lightning flashes, creating a silhouette of the man. Judging from the shoulders and the arms and the person’s overall height, I know immediately who it is.

“Lieutenant Talbott!”

He collapses.

I try to crawl out, but the ground is a sloppy mess. I claw at the mud on the surface and kick into the walls of my foxhole for any kind of foothold. Lieutenant Talbott doesn’t move. With every advance I try to make, the slippery ground pulls me back into my foxhole like a grave refusing to let go.

“Hang on,” I say.

My biggest attempt to crawl out fails and I fall, hitting my head on the roof I set aside. Words leave my mouth that would not make my mother proud, but the pain is unbearable. However, like any good knock to the head, some sense comes to me. After a few deep breaths to let the pain subside, I stand back up, turn around, and use the roof like a ladder out of my foxhole.

I run over to Lieutenant Talbott and lightning again strikes. There’s a wound, just below his left collar bone. Blood has spread through the fabric of his shirt.

“Are you okay?” I say.

He doesn’t reply.

“Are there others?”

Still no reply.

I look to the forest. More lightning flashes and I see Troha not far away, lying awkwardly with his arms crumpled underneath his chest.

My training kicks in. Help the one closest to you. Triage the problem. Clean the wound. Find a place to put him where he’s protected from enemy fire or, in this case, from the weather. My hands and shirt and pants are caked in mud. I find a puddle and use the dirty water to rinse off the largest clumps from my palms and fingers, but they remain stained. ‘Clean the wound?’ I ask myself. ‘I can’t even clean my hands.’ Rain continues to fall in sheets. ‘Find shelter then.’ My thoughts come out like grunts. Lightning shows me that nothing is dry in the forest. ‘The village. A house. One of those houses must be dry.’

I pick up my rifle and run to the first building in the village. Lightning flashes lead the way. Instinct tells me that I need to clear out any Krauts before I bring Lieutenant Talbott. No lights glow in any of the windows, but that isn’t a sign that comforts me. My Love, I won’t lie and say that I’m not afraid. My rebirth didn’t change me from a coward to a comic book superhero. But I did run toward danger. I didn’t freeze. My imagination didn’t create some impossible dilemma.

Outside the door, I lean against the stone wall, take several deep breaths as if I’m going to dive into a lake, and then quickly open the door and rush in. My rifle points in every direction, my finger ready to pull the trigger.

I find nothing.

An empty room greets me, free of Krauts and furniture. Dust is everywhere. I see two sets of footprints padded around in the dust whenever lighting flashes. ‘Quinten and Russell inspected this building before,’ I think. ‘Quinten and Russell. No Krauts.’ Thunder rolls quietly at first and then grows into a massive crescendo that rattles the windows. It feels as if Mother Nature is answering my thoughts.

Stairs lay on either side of the building like parenthesis leading up and down. The furthest ones go to the second floor while the closest ones appear to lead toward a cellar. I run upstairs, rifle at the ready, to find a hallway with several doors. Each room is small and simple and empty with one window that display a lightning show outside.

After I clear each one, I run back downstairs and over to the cellar steps where I find absolute darkness. Lightning continues to flash everywhere but there. The cellar is like an ink spot, void of light, void of life. I take one step down, exhale, and then another. My rifle leads me. I can’t swallow because my mouth is too dry from remaining open, hoping to help me hear. I take another step and wait. I don’t know what to expect when I wait. Gunfire? The shiny glean from a bayonet jabbing at me? Laughter? The gravelly voice of The Unforgiveable Savage? My eyes adjust, slowly. All sorts of strange dark shadows, like sticks and blocks, permeate the foreground against lighter shades along the walls. The cellar is full of something, but most importantly, not Krauts.

A giant exhale leaves me.

I lower my rifle and that’s when I feel my trigger finger shaking. It’s subtle, but sensing it releases an explosion of emotions. I laugh through tears.

“All clear,” I say. “All clear.” I don’t know why I say anything. Maybe to make it feel like someone is with me. Maybe to relieve some of the nerves.

I take in another deep breath and run back outside to Lieutenant Talbott who hasn’t moved. I check to see if he’s breathing and then sling my rifle over my shoulder. There’s no easy way to pick him up without causing him pain. He’s wearing his pack which can be used to help pull him but the wound in his shoulder pops with bloody splashes whenever a raindrop hits it. With no other course of action, I scoop my arms through the straps on his pack and pull. He shrieks in agony.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry. I’ve got to get you out of this rain.” I look around for a solution like a stick or pair of sticks that can work like a stretcher. Heavy, steady raindrops cut through the forest canopy and land like miniature artillery fire.

I can’t pick him up without hurting him. But I must get him out of the rain. Then, I think of the shelter halves we used to cover the other squad members on the shoreline. I can roll him on and then drag him to the building. My pack is still in the foxhole, so I reach in, avoiding Quinten, and pull up my things.

“Sorry,” I say while pushing and rolling Lieutenant Talbott onto the canvas.

He moans.

The canvas slides easily against the wet ground. I’m able to get him all the way to the building with relative ease. The steps up and into the door are a different story.

A dark, musty smelling silence replaces the constant tapping of rain. Dragging Lieutenant Talbott’s body leaves a wide wet swipe on the floor. Once he’s set, I close the door, breathe in deeply and then drop to the floor.

“Did you see anyone else?” I say.

Lieutenant Talbott says nothing.

“Anybody?”

I take out my med kit and unwrap the dressing. Stop the bleeding. Pack it into his wound. Get him stable. I slide off his pack and tear off his soaked shirt. Blood is everywhere, dark and pooling on the shelter half. Lieutenant Talbott grimaced and groans whenever I move him. When I finish dressing his front, I lean him to the side to inspect his back.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

His back is torn to shreds from where the bullet exited. I dig through his pack for more supplies. “I don’t have enough dressing to fix this,” I say while lowering him down on his bundled shirt as a stop gap. “I’m going to run out to get one of the big med packs and check to if there’s anyone else. Okay? Ill grab some water too. Just hang in there.”

He attempts to say something, but it comes out in a mumbled mess.

“I’ll be back. I promise.” I grab his hand and squeeze. “Please just hang in there.”

I give one last squeeze and then leave. Rain pelts me as I run back to the forest. Their percussive beats match my heart as I run through grass and brush to find the others. I start on the side where I dug in, mainly because I knew that Troha had a medic bag. He hasn’t moved since I last saw him, nor did I expect him. The medic bag is near his pack and other belongings. I dig through everything quickly, searching for his letter but it’s terribly too dark to see.

Next, I find George, shot in the back. His things are tossed around the forest floor including his letter. The envelope is soaked.

I continue moving, finding man after man, shot down in the prime of his life. Every time I stumble onto someone, I hold my breath until lightning flashes to let me know who I’ve found. My Love, finding Earl is the last thing I want to do. I may lack the fear and numbness that I felt in the trench, but a not too dissimilar feeling grows within. An emptiness begins to grow.

Earl. Where is he? Is he alive? Did he suffer?

I find Bob, Walt, Emil, Surplis, Lafe, Russell, and Roland all in various positions. Some had their weapons. Some were clearly caught off guard. No one survived. When I find each one, I say a prayer before the lightning reveals who lays before me. Then, when the truth is revealed, I feel guilty that I’m happy it’s not Earl.

How can a man think like this? What sort of selfishness is present when a man is thankful that the dead is not a close friend? The back of my throat burns, my chest too. I don’t know if the pain is coming from finding the dead or hoping for the living.

Many kept their letter folded in their rain-soaked shirt pocket. I take their letter and leave them to rest until the morning when I can see. No plan comes to mind on what to do with everyone or how to dry off the letters, which begins to drag on me like a hundred-pound weight. Upon my interaction with each boy, I go back and forth inside my head, between guilt for leaving him and thankfulness that he isn’t Earl.

Roland is the last I find, a cigarette still in his mouth long burned out. His lighter is stored with his letter in his shirt pocket. I take both and begin to leave before I stop and turn around. There’s a pack of cigarettes in the opposite shirt pocket and I take those too. Smoking has never been something I enjoy, but if there’s ever a time to try one…

I know that the next person I’ll find is Earl.

My footsteps grow short.

Thunder rolls through the forest like a blitzkrieg.

Every breath is a reminder that I am the only one living.

Rain taps on my helmet, like morse code for “You don’t want to see what you are about to see.”

A lightning flash reveals a mound of earth about ten feet from where I stand. The mounds are edgy, purposeful, man-made. Most of the boys didn’t bother to dig in. Earl did. Of course, he would, maybe not to the exact standards of my efforts, but he still would dig in. That’s the smart thing to do.

I step lightly toward his foxhole. Darkness prevails as it seems like a particularly bad spot in the storm. Rain falls harder. Thunder crashes as if God is dropping crates of glass. And if it’s some sort of joke, no lightning flashes. Shadows blend in the darkness like ink washed in the constant rain. My foot feels the mound of dirt and I stop. I wait for lightning to flash. I wait for the announcement that my only friend is gone. I don’t breathe. My stomach gathers into a fist. I want to vomit.

Then, lightning strikes with an impressive crash nearby. My eardrums practically burst from the sound.

The entire forest lights up.

Monsters and men could be standing at every tree, ready to attack me.

My eyes stay trained on the foxhole.

When the light flashes, I see inside.

My heart stops once again.

The hole is empty.

“No!” I yell.

He’s missing.

I look about the hole for other shadows, but my eyes are burned from the light. More lightning flashes and the ground is void of any signs of Earl. His pack is missing. No rifle. No Earl.

I begin walking in ever expanding circles from the foxhole hoping to find anything that explains Earl’s fate. My Love, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know if I should feel excited or sad. There’s nothing around the foxhole. I know that I didn’t miss him when searching the others.

Earl is gone.

I begin to question whether he was real, but his hole exists. No one else would have gone to such lengths. But where is he?

I turn back and go to the foxhole to find any sign of what happened. I snap Roland’s lighter to flame and protect the light from the rain by holding my helmet above it. Yellow rays fall flat onto the mud. Puddles reflect my confusion. The foxhole is full of water and empty of any personal belonging.

The ground outside the hole shows muddy footprints. Mine are distinct because they follow a pattern that stops, turns, walks around, and stops again. I can retrace my steps and separate them from the others. I find another pair that walk up to the foxhole and then lead to a spot in the ground with a massive indentation the size of a body. Another set of footprints move to the same spot.

I stop breathing because of what I see.

The two sets of footprints are joined by a third.

They walk away from the hole.

The prints in the center stagger and drag compared to the two outside sets.

Earl was taken prisoner.

He’s ALIVE!