Behavior Report 6

Dearest Love,

The next morning greets us with cloudless skies that begin as a deep burgundy in the east and slowly fades to blue. Cold coffee scents accent our camp. Spoons click and scrape from some of the boys attempting to remove every morsel of chopped ham and eggs from the breakfast tin in their ration.

I stand up, stretch, and look around to take in the mood. Most of the boys remain by themselves. If they aren’t eating, they’re busying themselves. Some chew thumbnails. Some read their letter. A few clean up their space to make it look like they were never there. Anxiety is present.

Earl sits with his legs pulled up to his chest. He rests his chin on his knees and stares off into some place that doesn’t seem to be in the forest. Dark rings circle his eyes as if he’s wearing a mask. His smile is gone. His cheeks seem sunken. Could he have lost enough weight in a single day to appear gaunt?

I want to crawl inside his thoughts and experience where his mind is taking him. Is he back on the shore with the Krauts? Is he at home with his wife? Maybe playing catch with his son? Wherever his stare is taking him, he embraces it fully without any attention to the world around him. He doesn’t acknowledge any of my attempts to get his attention.

Once I clean up my spot, I go over to Earl and whisper, “Good morning.”

Earl looks up and smiles, feebly. His eyes point at me, but there’s nothing behind them. There’s no thought behind the smile. It’s done out of habit. I feel like I’m staring at a deer head mounted on someone’s wall.

“Need any help?”

He slowly looks about himself and then back up at me. Nothing comes out of his mouth, but the action reads to me as if to say, “I have nothing to do that requires help.”

Every thought, every possible emotion, every ounce of my being forms into this glowing ember I can feel in the center of my chest like a miniature burning sun. My throat burns. I want to laugh. I want to sob. I want to scream. I want to embrace Earl in the biggest, strongest hug I can give him.

But I do nothing.

My Love, I don’t know why. I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how I can do anything for him. I don’t know how to help. I don’t know how to save him. All the times he stood by me and helped me are lost because I don’t know how to return the favor when he needs it. I’m a terrible human being. I’m dead inside. I have no purpose here. I can’t will myself to help my closest friend.

 I’m worthless.

Earl returns to staring off to his unknown place as if he understands I cannot help him. I think about turning around and leaving to grab my things and wait for orders, but I don’t. Instead, I decide to sit next to Earl. If I can’t think of anything special to help him, I decide that the least I can do is be present.

“We stick together,” I whisper. “And keep our heads on straight.”

A few minutes pass in silence before Lieutenant Talbott signals for everyone to huddle. I stand and try to help Earl up, but he struggles. It’s as if his blood has solidified or his muscles have frozen. No amount of force can move him, not even a Sherman tank could budge him. I panic when I see the others begin to gather about Lieutenant Talbott. I pull and urge Earl to stand but he doesn’t move. He refuses. I look up and find that the entire squad is gathered, fully packed and ready to go, and staring at us.

The burning sun of emotion that couldn’t work up the energy to help Earl turns into embarrassment. I don’t know why. All I can think is that Earl and I have always been one of the first to obey orders. We’re always the first to move, to clean, to line up, to do whatever is asked of us. Now, when our world has become a challenge, we both fail. I froze in the trench and Earl…I don’t know.

When the pressure of everyone staring builds up to a point that I can’t stand, I grab Earl’s canteen and splash some water on his face. The water jolts him to life. His chest heaves and he gasps for air as if he was under water for too long. I pour more water into my cupped hand and use it to wash the muddy streaks from his face.

“Are you back now?” I whisper.

Earl wipes his face with his sleeve and says, “Yeah. I’m good.”

I look up to gauge how angry Lieutenant Talbott is and I find that the squad has moved around us. No one appears angry at all. Instead, everyone seems concerned. They help us stand. Several pat my shoulders and back.

Lieutenant Talbott says, “Are you guys good now? Okay. Good. We’ll reach the village by midday. I wish I could tell you that I know what we are going to run into, but we don’t have any intelligence. Just be on the lookout and be ready for anything.” He picks up Earl’s pack and begins to help Earl put his arms through the straps. “Whatever we do run into, it’s important that we have each other’s back…through the hard stuff…and easy stuff.”

Lieutenant Talbott picks up Earl’s rifle and then puts his arm around him in a casual manner that seems to say, “Let’s go get ‘em,” and “It’s okay.” He turns with Earl and begins to move again. Two by two, the boys follow, and the line moves so quickly that almost everyone is gone before I even know what’s happening.

“Get your stuff,” George whispers.

I run to my pack and quickly put it on, grab my rifle, and make one more check of my spot before I run back to the line. George waited and even with rushing to get my things, we were still far behind the rest. We double time it, as quietly as we can, to catch up.

As the sun rises higher into the sky, so too does the sounds of the forest. Birds sing. Squirrels scratch as they run along the branches. The wind blows through the trees with a fuzzy noise that sounds like the static of a radio.

Within an hour, we come upon a trail that is wide enough for a Jeep to pass through. I look to George and before I can ask, he whispers, “This is the same path as the one on the shore.”

Lieutenant Talbott leads us back onto the trail. Numerous tire marks are frozen into dried mud along with horse hooves and footprints of all sizes. The toes point opposite of the direction we are going. The longer I study the prints, I realize that the boot prints walk along the edges of the trail and all the other footprints are contained in the center. There was a mass of people who moved along this path, most likely guarded by Krauts. How else can one explain the layout of the prints?

My attention is pulled from the footprints to a small red jacket with missing buttons and a torn sleeve that’s on the side of the path, partially trampled and muddied. The person it would fit couldn’t have been older than five or six years old.

Another piece of debris appears, a woman’s shoe, left to the same fate as the jacket. More and more articles appear. Socks. Hats. A comb. Then larger pieces appear like a briefcase, a purse, and a doll. A suitcase with white blouses and a green wool dress is left open on the side of the path. Everything is matted down or trampled from time and weather. My imagination begins to run away with a vision of the entire village population, whatever the number, being forced to leave their homes and join a labor camp. The Krauts didn’t care who they took. Men. Women. Children. All were just laborers.

My Love, my rifle digs deeper into my shoulder with every passing article. I grip the stock tighter. My trigger finger readies itself. I am confident that if a Kraut were to appear that I would have no problems pulling the trigger.

Lieutenant Talbott stops and signals us to split up and move along the edges of the trail rather than down the center. Bob, Walt, Emil, Russell, Quinten, and Lafe go to the left with Lieutenant Talbott and the rest of us go with George to the right.

Our steps become dramatic, like a cartoon cat sneaking up on a mouse, to avoid shuffling leaves or breaking a stick. Everyone’s rifle is ready, pressed tightly against their shoulder, and pointing in every direction they look. The birds stop singing. I don’t see any squirrels. There’s no wind. Time has stopped in the forest, yet my heart beats three times for every second that passes in my life. I begin to feel that hollowness in my chest again. The same feeling I felt in the trench. My feet still move, but my hands begin to grow numb. Shadows form along the periphery of my vision.

Suddenly, Lieutenant Talbott drops to a knee and the rest of us follow, like dominoes set in motion. My rifle begins frantically searching the forest for movement. I stop breathing. When I see nothing in the wood, I turn to the trail. There’s a bend, maybe one hundred feet in front of us, where a large tree blocks the view. I imagine a tank, surrounded by hundreds of Krauts, rounding the bend. Each one carries machine guns as big as our BAR.

I quickly wipe sweat from my brow and return to holding my rifle. I begin to imagine a monster rounding the bend with metallic scales and claws as large as a man. I envision the beast clawing its way through the trail by tearing down trees in its way. I wait for the roar of a beast that makes a tank seem harmless.

Nothing happens.

We scan the area over and over again. I work up the courage to take a breath.

Still, nothing happens.

Lieutenant Talbott signals everyone to rise and hold. We comply while keeping our eyes and rifles vigilant. He steps forward, slowly, deliberately, with his Thompson machine gun pointing in the direction he moves. He looks like a panther or tiger, latched onto some prey. Nothing takes away his attention.

We receive the signal to move forward, and the line slowly releases like sand through the pinch in an hourglass. Don’t bunch. Two by two, the men begin to move and from my spot at the end, I feel like a wild west carriage driver letting out the reins of my pull team. George rides shotgun on this trip, keeping an eye to our rear and everywhere else around.

While waiting for my turn to move, I jump from person to person and use the sight of their rifle to see what has their attention. Each imaginary line I draw from the barrel leads to…nothing…and I don’t know what’s worse, nothing or seeing something. With nothing, my mind wanders into a territory that I cannot seem to control. Shadows become whatever scares me at that moment. My mind races to a land where anything is possible. I see monsters and beasts and terrible people.

Just when it is about my turn to begin moving, Lieutenant Talbott quickly drops to the ground. There is no gun shot, no flashes. I hear no “Fwip Snaps” or mechanical tapping from a Kraut machine gun. The rest of the boys drop too, flat onto their bellies. They don’t just lower themselves; they fall as if they are diving into a pool. Anxiety comes running through the forest to leap onto my shoulders and dig its dirty thick claws into my skin. Poisonous memories of red puffs and dropping soldiers cloud my vision.

When I hit the ground, I see everyone moving, crawling behind Lieutenant Talbott toward a small mound covered with thick strands of grass and brush. Their rifles tear through the foliage and point to a single position. I follow George to the same spot and push our rifles through. My hands turn to ice as I wonder about what could possibly gain everyone’s attention.

Between the blades of grass and leaves I begin to see a picture develop. From my right, I catch pieces of the trail, a brown stripe cutting through a field of mostly grass. Sunlight floods the space because there are no trees. I follow the path with the tip of my rifle and find a wall that’s maybe four feet tall and made of field stones and yellowed concrete or mortar. The wall runs along the path and stops at a building, followed by three more, all on one side of the path.

I always thought that France was filled with wooden chalets or quant cottages dripping with character. I don’t know why, but I always felt that French villages would include outdoor bakeries, artisans selling their crafts, and cafes teaming with people sipping coffee and smoking. The village I stare at shows no sign of any of those possible dreams. Consider the disappointment I feel when I stumble upon four square, two-story concrete boxes whose only redeeming quality are fetching moss-covered cedar plank roofs and shutters.  

Moving my rifle further into the village, I find more buildings with a little more character and a church placed in the absolute center. Few shadows visit the village underneath the midday sun, yet my imagination finds ample opportunities to find the smallest shadows morph into Krauts and terrible monsters hiding and waiting to ambush. No matter how long I stare at a shadow, nothing moves, nothing gives away its presence, yet I still feel a hollowness form inside my chest.

One of the boys shuffle their feet and the noise pulls my attention away from the village. I find Lieutenant Talbott kneeling behind everyone and talking with George and Lafe. There is a glow about him, success changes in his demeanor. He’s leading the other two through a set of orders accentuated by hand gestures that practically change the air currents as he motions.

He points to George and swings his hand around to indicate flanking to the right. Then points to Lafe and swings a left flanking gesture. Finally, he puts his hand on his chest and nods toward the village. Both George and Lafe shake their heads, but before they can say anything, Lieutenant Talbott mouths the words, “Go now.”

George runs and taps the shoulders of Surplis, Roland, Troha, and me and signals for us to follow. I stay just long enough to watch Lafe tap the shoulders of everyone else. Lieutenant Talbott is staying behind, alone.

I hop up onto my feet, keep myself as low as possible, and stumble my way to a spot behind a fallen tree where George leads the others. Roland is careful to unsnap the pockets on his ammunition belt and feel each of them as if to gain confidence that the clips are all there and ready. Surplis rests his rifle on the tree and stares through the iron sights with one eye closed. Troha hides behind the tree to make one final check of his rifle and then flops over the trunk to find a target.

I do exactly what the others do and push myself to point my rifle towards the village. I’ve fired my rifle hundreds of times back in the States during our training. I know how the kick pushes into my shoulder. I know how to hold the stock to keep the sight down with each blast. I know that the ammunition clip will “Ping” when I’m out and I know how to quickly lock in another set of rounds. I know. I know. I know. But those all are reactions to something that I don’t know.

The unknown is what keeps Anxiety’s poison inside me.

From the corner of my eye, I see Lafe’s team take cover and the BAR get set up. They are more exposed than we are. There are no tree stumps or felled trees to provide them cover. Each man finds a low spot in the field. Earl is fortunate to hide behind a tuft of grass.

“We are to hold,” George whispers. “Keep an eye on that first building. Frank and Troha, stay on the first floor. Surplis, Roland, you train on the second. If you see anything move do not shoot until you are absolutely sure it’s a Kraut.”

Directly in front of us is the first two-story rectangle building with six windows facing the path on each floor. The front step butts up to the path. Our position isn’t ideal because we can’t see inside the windows. Instead, we see a reflection of the prairie covered in patches of Queen Anne’s Lace across the way.

“Oh, dear god,” George says. “Get ready.”

I quickly look at George and follow his attention focused back on our original position. I turn and find Lieutenant Talbott placing his rifle and helmet on the ground. I then look back at George.

“He’s going to walk in like a scout. He doesn’t think anyone will shoot him if he doesn’t have his machine gun.”

Roland responds without drawing his attention away from the building. “Are you serious?”

“Get ready,” George replies and turns back to the building.

I do the same while keeping an eye toward Lieutenant Talbott who hops over the felled tree and begins to casually walk down the path. He holds a piece of paper that he consults from time to time as he walks closer.

Then, out of nowhere, a shot rings out.