Behavior Report 8

Dearest Love,

Please don’t share this letter with Junior.

I love you. I love you with my entire being. You made me become a good man. You pull the best out of me and right now, I need you more than ever. This war has taken me away from you and my boy. My precious boy. God, how I miss him. I long to hold him, to carry him, to snuggle with him. I miss his sweet smell. I miss his voice, his questions, his silly jokes.

I can barely breathe as I write these words. Each letter scrawls out, ink affixes to the paper and yet, I don’t know how my hand moves. My fingers and arms feel as if they are miles away.

My body is numb.

My soul is lost.

I feel as if a strong breeze could fold and topple me like house of cards.

Writing to you is my only safe harbor, my break from the war. We continue to push forward. We purposefully march toward our noble deaths and for what? Glory? Heroism? Freedom? None of those come to mind when the alcoholic smell of petrol wafts over us when Roland and Surplis yank the tarp off the Kraut car hiding in the village. The scent practically knocks me over, but it’s the words that do the most damage.

 “That’s not any car,” Lieutenant Talbott says. “That’s a Kraut car.”

When the dust finally settles, a vehicle that looks like an oversized bathtub on wheels appears.

“It’s a Kubelwagen,” Lieutenant Talbott adds with a bit of a Kraut accent. “It’s their version of a Jeep.”

Whoever designed the car may have been drunk or built a monster from spare parts. Rounded front fenders hold circular headlights that look like eyes staring out. The soft curves of the fenders clash against the hood, which is flat and has sharp edges that lead to a rectangular windshield. Square seat backs nuzzle into a square driving compartment with no roof. From what I can tell, a pile of canvas and steel parts crumple in the back must pull over the passengers when a roof is needed.

“Roland, is that petrol behind you?” Lieutenant Talbott asks.

Roland turns and examines two steel cans hiding behind the car. He flips open one of the caps and smells. “Yep.”

George says, “Judging by the dust, I’m thinking that this hasn’t been used in quite some time.”

Surplis runs two fingers down the driver’s side of the windshield, creating two distinct streaks on the glass.

“The dirt around this can is soaked with fuel,” Roland says. “Does it take long for gas to dry up?”

“Are there any holes or cracks in the cans?” Earl asks.

“No.”

Others join in with their theories about the dust and fuel. My attention is drawn away from the conversation and to the forest. There is constant movement within the shadows and my imagination begins to fill in images of hundreds of Krauts waiting in ambush. The waft of petrol, the car, the boys arguing all combine into—

‘This is a trap.’

The thought burns and etches each letter into my consciousness. I ready my rifle. My finger wraps around the trigger like a cucumber vine clinging to a fence post.

“Everything all right, Frank?” Lieutenant Talbott says.

“Just keeping an eye out,” I quietly say.

“Good idea.”

“Something’s not right,” George adds. “There’s nobody here. No Krauts. No people. Nothing. There’s not even evidence that people were here recently.”

“What about the footprints in the trail? What about those clothes and things?” Quinten says.

“When’s the last time it rained? Those clothes looked like they had been trampled on and left out for weeks, months maybe.” George turns to Lieutenant Talbott. “There’s nothing here. Whose idea was it to send us here? Did some scout see something and alert the brass? Did a pilot say something? This whole thing feels like—”

“They could be hiding for all we know,” Lieutenant Talbott interrupts.

“If I saw some Krauts park their car in my horse stable, I’d hide,” Russell says. “I’d take everything with me too.”

“That would explain why we can’t find anything.”

George jumps back in and says, “You guys are going about this all wrong. We should stop beating our gums about this stupid car and instead ask who thought up this idea to send us here in the first place!”

“Yes. But sir, we have no idea how long ago the villagers left,” Surplis says. “It could have been yesterday.”

“Like George said, there aren’t any fresh footprints and there’s inches of dust on everything,” Walt adds.

Lieutenant Talbott lets out a long, deep sigh that silences the group.

“Sir, what do you want to do?” Bob says.

Lieutenant Talbott looks around and then says, “There’s no evidence that anyone was here recently, and yet, I don’t want to give up. Maybe the people are hiding? Maybe the people are watching us from places we can’t see? Whatever is the case, our orders were to find everyone and bring them back safely. So, we are going to do everything we can to find them.” He scratches his head and then adjusts his helmet. “First, we’ll dig in and set up two lookouts along the path on either side of the village. Second, we’ll send out search parties from each group to go around the perimeter to look for anything. I want to explore every nook and cranny within one hundred yards of this place. If by twelve hundred tomorrow we find nothing, we go back. If we do find something, we’ll do everything we can to find survivors.”

I feel my body sink when he says, “Twelve hundred.” Almost twenty-four more hours stuck in the forest. Twenty-four more hours of constantly guarding myself. Twenty-four more hours of sickness, of fear, of never knowing what is about to happen. I don’t know if I can take it. I don’t know if I can continue to just push forward. But my attention turns away from the forest and to Earl and I find some solace. If we can stick together, then I may be able to get through.

Lieutenant Talbott continues. “George. You take six with you and set up in the east. Split up on both sides of the path and dig in. I’ll take the rest and we’ll set up in the west.”

“Alright,” George says. “Quinten, Frank, Surplis, Troha, and Roland, you’re coming with me.”

Earl’s shoulders perk up when he recognizes that he and I are not in the same group. Mine take an opposite route.

“It’ll be fine, Frank,” Earl says, padding my shoulder.

I want to scream. It’s not going to be fine. That car is an omen. I want to speak out. I want to say something to the group, like, “The Krauts wouldn’t leave something like that behind.” The back of my throat burns but my heart burns harder at the possibility of embarrassment if I push back on the plan. ‘Push forward,’ I think. All I can muster to say is, “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

And before we can say anything else, our squad is broken into two. George leads my team to a spot in the forest with a small incline. “I want to be able to see all of you,” he says. “I’m digging in right here, so you pick spots that complement mine. Quinten and Troha, I want you two to start the search once you’ve both dug yourself in. The rest of us will stay here until you get back.”

“How far should we go out, sir?” Quinten asks.

“Until you feel like you’ve done enough. Cover as much ground as you can so we don’t get any surprises.”

“Who should follow us once we get back?”

“Frank and Surplis can go after you.”

“Sir, should we have a signal if we find something?”

“No, just come back immediately and report. I don’t want any heroes.”

“What if we find the villagers, sir, and there are only le femmes left? Should we—”

“Shut up, Quinten!”

Troha, Surplis, and Roland dig in on George’s left while Quinten and I burrow in on his right. Picking the spot for my foxhole is always an intentional process. Most of the boys walk up to a spot and begin digging. Not me. I need to feel the spot, to understand where it fits into the overall layout of our plans, and to provide the most protection. The location I pick for the night is about fifteen feet away from Quinten, in a spot directly in the center of three trees. I’m the furthest away from the village. I’m not certain which makes me more comfortable – the village or the forest. Where could the Krauts hide best?

The dirt is beautifully black and full of small roots that hold everything together like a strong webbing. Every cut into the soil releases a splash of moisture into the air and a crisp scent that reminds me of chopping a head of lettuce. Granules stick to my hands and brush off easily. In ten minutes or so, I dig a hole deep enough for me to crouch in. In twenty minutes, I’ve dug a hole long enough to lay in. In that same amount of time the others have created nothing more than a nest in the leaves. Quinten and Troha didn’t even bother to dig. They dropped their packs and headed out to scout.

I don’t care because the more I dig, the calmer I feel. There’s control in what I can do. There is a purpose. Dig deeper and have more protection. Dig wider and have more comfort. What more can I ask for?

When I need a break from digging, I get up and collect sticks and branches and tie them together to form two squares that fit across the top of my foxhole. Within each frame, I weave in smaller branches, vines, and dead leaves to make it so they blend into the forest. I unearth a fern and plant it in the center of one square so that my roof matches as closely to the forest floor as possible. Then, I spread all the soil I dug up evenly around the foxhole to create a natural hump that meets up perfectly with the squares. No Kraut will be able to find me!

When that’s all set, I decide to add amenities inside like an angled floor to keep my head and feet dry if it rains. I build shelves to store my ammunition within arm’s reach if we get into a fire fight. I even make a little cubby to put my canteen to keep the water cool and a pillow to sleep comfortably.

George stops by and says, “I’m expecting Quinten and Troha back soon. Make sure that you talk about where they looked. You and Surplis will go out next.” He laughs and adds, “Got quite the hole there.”

I stand and look up from my hole. “Just passing the time, I guess.”

“Well, that hole isn’t going to do you any good if you leave your rifle on the ground outside.” He points to a spot behind me where my rifle lays in the leaves. “Can you reach it?”

I feel blood rush to my cheeks out of embarrassment. “Oh,” I say. “That’s there purposefully. I didn’t want to get it jammed with dirt.”

George gives a grunt of satisfaction and walks away. When he’s far enough, I stick my arm out to see if I can reach my rifle. Satisfied that it’s close enough, I go back to working on my foxhole.

Near dusk, I hear Quinten and Troha walking back to our camp like drunken sailors. They’re laughing and kicking leaves and making a general raucous that clearly says that they didn’t cross anything in their journey. I don’t know whether to yell at them to be quiet or to celebrate with them, so I decide to play a little joke on them.  Before the can see me, I slide the two squares in place while I hide inside. I hear their voices and feet until they are just outside my foxhole.

“Where’s Frank?” Quinten says.

Troha responds, “I thought this was where he set up his spot.”

“Yeah, his rifle is right there.”

“Really? I don’t under—”

I quickly slide open one of the squares and yell, “Boo!”

Both step back in amazement.

“The wolf’s not going to blow my house down,” I continue.

“What the heck?” Quinten says. “I don’t get you. You build this huge foxhole but leave your rifle laying outside!”

“I did it to confuse you.”

Troha laughs, shakes his head, and walks away.

“Did you guys find anything?” I say.

“Nothing. But if they can hide like you, God knows if we’d ever find them,” Quinten replies. “What kind of place have you made for yourself?” He moves closer and squats just on the edge.

To show off my efforts, I crawl underneath the square still in place. “I’ve dug out this hole to be as long as me. I don’t know if you can see, but—”

The loudest “Snap” I’ve ever heard interrupts me.

It’s loud enough to make me jump. But I think nothing of it. Nothing at all. I figure that Quinten stepped on a stick or something.

I go back to talking, foolishly talking. “But I’ve dug in a couple—”

Quinten’s helmet falls onto the ground just beyond my feet and before I can even react, his body follows. He falls face first into my foxhole. His head takes on the full brunt of his weight and bends unnaturally backwards. His arms and legs collapse into a jumbled mess.

Something, maybe his belt or rifle, catches the ground and prevents him from falling completely in. I crunch up into a ball on the opposite side of my foxhole, binding my arms tightly around my legs.

“What are you doing?” I say.

Then I see it.

The blood.