Gilbert Morris Read online

  * * *

  “This is good stew,” Roger nodded. “You can get a job as a chef in Boston after the war, Chief.”

  The six men were sitting on the edge of the crater, eating the hot stew out of their mess kits. A pot of coffee was boiling in Pete Maxwell’s helmet, sending a sharp fragrance to the soldiers. They were all laughing and prophesying when the Germans would draw back.

  “I heard Patton is on his way with his tanks to relieve us,” Pete Maxwell said, gulping down the hot coffee so fast he could hardly talk.

  “Old Blood and Guts,” Billy Bob said. “I wish he was here.”

  “Think he’s as good as Stonewall Jackson was, Junior?”

  “No Yankee is as good as Stonewall—and stop callin’ me ‘Junior.’”

  Chief Shoulders nudged Willie with his elbow. “How about we get a leave when we whip these guys? Maybe in Paris.”

  “You’d scare them to death, Chief,” Pete Maxwell said. “They’re afraid of Indians.”

  Willie Raines sat back enjoying his stew. He had no idea what was in it, and he didn’t want to ask the cook. It was hot, and that was all that mattered. But he was more pleased with the obvious pleasure the squad was taking in the break. These men had become his whole life, and as his glance moved from face to face, he thought again of the poem and the lines “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.” It pleased him, but he was nervous. He finished his stew and was about to order the men to finish so they could move into their new position when the quiet suddenly was split wide open by explosions on their left.

  “Mortars!” Willie yelled. “Everybody keep down!”

  Another explosion came from their left and then another from the right.

  “They got us straddled!” Pete Maxwell yelled. “Run for it!”

  But Willie had heard the sound of automatic weapons and knew that if they got up and ran, they’d be cut down. “Get in the foxhole!” he yelled, and the men fell into it headlong.

  Willie tried to think, but he knew that Maxwell was right. The mortar squads had spotted them, and they were straddled.

  To “straddle” a position meant that the Germans knew where they were. They were dropping shells to the left and to the right, with each mortar shell moving the mortar so that the shells fell inexorably closer to the target.

  Willie knew that there was no way out, for each round was closer than the last.

  “You guys keep clear.” Willie grabbed the automatic rifle that Maxwell usually carried and got out of the hole.

  “Where are you goin’, Sarge?” Chief asked.

  “Somebody’s got to knock out that mortar squad.” Willie leaped up and began running. He heard several voices calling on him to stop, but he ran full speed, but not in a straight line. Sudden shots rang out, and he saw a branch not five feet from his head clipped by a bullet and fall to the ground.

  Infantry with covering fire, Willie thought and fell into one of the smaller craters. He huddled there enduring the cold but his mind working rapidly. I’ve got to get that mortar! But how? I can’t run straight forward against infantry fire. There are probably snipers there.

  While Willie stayed in the hole trying to think, the mortar continued to drop shells, and bullets were zipping all around.

  Suddenly Willie was aware of a shape that had appeared to his left. He threw his rifle up, but a voice came, “Don’t shoot, soldier. I’m with you.”

  The soldier who joined Willie in the crater was a lieutenant. There was nothing special about him except that he seemed very calm. He did not even bother to stoop down inside the hole but sat down on the lip of it. “It looks bad, doesn’t it, Willie?”

  “Do I know you, sir?”

  The officer did not answer. He turned and looked over his shoulder. “The mortars are right over the ridge behind a small mound. You can’t see ’em, but they’re there. If you’d cut to your left, you can follow that line of trees and come up over the ridge. That way you can get to them.”

  Willie heard a singing of bullets and the explosions of the mortar shells and knew he had to do something.

  “Are you ordering me to go, Lieutenant?”

  “No. It’s up to you, but your men back there won’t make it unless somebody gets that mortar crew.”

  Willie Raines was a very ordinary individual. He was a good sergeant, but he had never been in a position like this. He had heard of suicide charges, and this seemed like one to him.

  “What . . . what should I do, Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant turned toward him. His eyes had a strange glow, and he seemed calm—so calm that it was unnatural. He said quietly, “Save your men, Willie.”

  Willie Raines did not hesitate. Leaving his automatic weapon on the ground, he pulled one of the grenades from his belt and jumped up. He ran to his left where the officer said there was no covering fire, but still he heard bullets whistling by. There were plenty of trees to take cover behind, and the noise of the mortar shells exploding seemed dim and far away. All the same, however, he knew he had little time to save his squad.

  Emerging from the trees, he ran up a slight hill, and when he got to the top and glanced to his left he saw the mortar squad. They were dropping mortar shells into the steel tube and shifting it after every fire to straddle the target.

  Willie started running again. He pulled the pin from the grenade. Bullets were whistling around him, but he ignored them. He knew he had to get close, and as he did, he saw the mortar squad turn. One of the men was scrambling for a rifle, and Willie knew he had little time. He heaved the grenade with all of his might and with the same motion pulled the pin on the second one and threw it. Just as he did, something seemed to explode. It seemed to be inside his head, and he was aware of a blinding display of sparks much like holiday fireworks. His last conscious thought before the sparks and the fire display faded was, I sure do hate to die on Christmas!

  Chapter Two

  Ben Raines looked up from the colored brochures that littered his coffee table and grinned broadly. “Euphoria,” that’s what I have. I don’t believe I’ve ever had euphoria before.”

  Clara Munson, Raines’s cleaning lady, was running the vacuum cleaner over to his right. The ancient cleaner made more noise than a B-17, but Clara had acute hearing. She looked across the room at Raines and bellowed, “You got what?”

  “Euphoria,” Ben shouted back.

  “It ain’t catchin’, is it?”

  “I wish it were. No, euphoria, my dear Clara, means ‘a feeling of well-being or elation.’”

  Clara gave the vacuum cleaner another push, considered this, then shut the machine off. “Why are you feelin’ so good?”

  “Because, dear lady, I’m going to Spain.”

  “Nothin’ over there but Spaniards.”

  Ben Raines laughed and stretched broadly, reaching for the ceiling and arching his back. “I suppose that’s true enough, but then there are Germans in Germany and Frenchmen and frogs in France.”

  Clara sniffed and went back to vacuuming. She was a heavyset woman of fifty, usually cheerful, but with stretches of depression when she did not win at Bingo.

  Raines sat back down and began studying the travel brochures. All of his life he had wanted to go to Spain for some reason, and now he was going!

  Suddenly a sound from the television reached him, and he looked up to see that a game show was on. “I can’t stand game shows!” He clicked the remote and suddenly there was Jimmy Stewart and It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Raines quickly clicked the remote again, and Clara, who had stopped to watch the screen, said, “Why did you turn that movie off?”

  “I can’t stand It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  Clara was scandalized. “It’s my favorite movie!” she protested, her face screwed up as if she had bitten into something sour. “It’s everybody’s favorite Christmas movie.”

  “Clara, it’s not true.”

  “What do you mean it’s not true? It ain’t supposed to be true. It’s a
movie. You read true stuff in newspapers.”

  “Not always, Clara,” Raines said wryly. “I wish everything you read in the papers were true, but unfortunately that’s not the way things are.”

  “Well, ain’t that an awful thing to say!” Clara snorted. “Here you write for a newspaper, and now you tell me they don’t tell the truth.”

  “Clara?”

  “Anyways, movies ain’t true—not like the Bible. They’re just supposed to make you feel good.”

  Ben knew he shouldn’t argue with Clara, for he’d never won an argument with her. “That movie shows life the way life is not.”

  “What do you want, one of these movies where they chop people up with chain saws? That’s true enough. People really do those awful things.”

  “No, I don’t want a chain saw movie, but I don’t want It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  “It’s a movie that makes you feel good.”

  Raines always found it impossible to argue with Clara Munson. She was incapable of reason. He had announced once to his boss, “My cleaning lady thinks with her feet.”

  “It’s a Wonderful Life makes people hope for miracles,” Ben said finally, knowing that would not help with Clara.

  Clara turned to face Raines. The fact that he was her employer never caused her to modify her behavior one fraction. “And what’s wrong with hoping for miracles?”

  “I don’t believe in miracles, Clara.”

  “Didn’t I tell you how my first husband nearly died but God healed him, how he got up out of that hospital bed and walked when all the doctors said he would die? God healed him. It was a miracle.”

  Raines grinned but refused to argue. “I’ll tell you about a miracle, Clara,” he said quickly. “I’m going to Spain and have a month of sunshine and no writing! Now that is a real miracle!”

  “You just want to go watch them poor bulls get killed, that’s what.”

  “I’m not going to a bullfight.”

  But declarative sentences had never influenced Clara. She had bullfights on her mind and could not get them out. “You’re just awful, Ben Raines, that’s what you are. Them poor bulls never hurt nobody.”

  Knowing he was making a mistake, Ben said, “Look, Clara, do you know anything about those bulls?”

  “I know they get kilt.”

  “Those bulls are taken care of all their lives better than any animal on earth. They’re very valuable. Their owners have special herdsmen to take care of them. They have the best grass, good water. If they get sick they have a vet.”

  “They still get kilt.”

  Raines threw up his hands. “They have one bad afternoon in their whole life. I’ve had as many as twenty bad afternoons in one month.”

  “So you’d rather be one of them bulls and get kilt with a sword?” She pronounced the w in the word sword persistently.

  “I think I would. It beats what I’ve got.”

  “You ain’t got no gratitude. That’s what’s wrong with you.”

  “Well, I’m going to Spain, and I’m grateful for that and it’s a miracle.”

  Clara Munson sniffed. “That ain’t no miracle. That’s just leavin’. You arranged it all your own self. A miracle is somethin’ God has to do. It ain’t something you can do yourself.”

  “Well, if it’s not a miracle, it’s close enough for me, Clara.”

  Ben Raines vowed for the five hundredth time never to argue with Clara. He went back and studied the brochure. It featured a picture of a flamenco dancer, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with her hands over her head, clicking her castanets and smiling seductively.

  “Spain, here I come—a miracle, no matter what Clara says!”

  * * *

  Although Christmas was nearly a month away, there were the beginnings of decorations and signs of the holiday spirit at the Veteran’s Hospital. As Ben entered the lobby, he saw a Christmas tree being erected by two sturdy women and stopped long enough to say, “You’re a little bit early, aren’t you?”

  “Never too early for Christmas.” The older of the two women gave him a wink and said, “Merry Christmas to you.”

  “Bah humbug,” Ben said and saw the two stare at him. “Just kidding. Imitating Scrooge.”

  “Scrooge who?”

  “Ebenezer Scrooge from A Christmas Carol.”

  “Is it a movie?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is. But before it was a movie it was a novel by Charles Dickens.”

  “I never seen it, but if he says ‘Bah humbug!’ about Christmas, it couldn’t be a good movie.”

  “Well, I beg your pardon. Go on with your decorating, ladies.”

  Ben made his way to the elevator, and when he got inside he saw a hand-printed sign: “Wanted: Someone to be Santa Claus.”

  Ben stared at it, then muttered, “Here’s my chance. If I really wanted to have a miserable Christmas instead of just my usual not-good Christmas, I could dress up in a red suit with a pillow for a stomach, come down and be Santa Claus to the veterans.”

  The elevator stopped at the third floor, and Ben got off and walked down the hall. He saw that already there were Christmas cards pinned to the bulletin board where important bulletins were usually kept. When he reached his father’s room, he started to turn in, but Mabelene Williams, a large black woman in a white uniform, was coming out. “Hello, Mabelene.”

  Nurse Williams stared at him. “Well, you did come—at last.”

  “I’ve been real busy, Mabelene.”

  “I’ll bet you have.”

  For some reason Mabelene felt it was her calling in life to shame Benjamin Raines for not coming to see his father more often. She was usually successful, for Ben already had a guilty conscience about the matter. Every year he made resolutions to come and see his father at least once a week, but somehow it never worked out that way. “I’m going away for Christmas, but I promise you, Mabelene, I’ll come every week before Christmas.”

  “You won’t be here for our Christmas party?”

  “No, I’ll be in Spain.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.” Mabelene’s eyes went all flinty, and she had more to say, but Ben didn’t want to hear it. He had heard it all before, and besides, he didn’t need to carry a guilty conscience with him to Spain. It probably was against the law to do such a thing. He said, “Merry Christmas, Mabelene,” and ducked inside the room. His father was in his wheelchair, and his head was tilted to one side. He was sound asleep. His mouth was open, and he looked helpless and vulnerable.

  Ben stood there uncertainly and then took a chair, moving quietly. He knew his father wouldn’t mind being awakened, that he always wanted to talk, but what was there to talk about? Desperately, Ben had tried to interest himself in the affairs of the Veterans Hospital. When his father had first come here four years earlier, he had been more faithful, but coming to visit his dad had become a drudgery that he hated.

  Ben sat and studied his father, and as he did, uninvited thoughts came trooping into his head. He wished heartily that there was a lock on the door of the mind—that he could shut things out that had no business there. But there was not. He had tried everything. It irritated him that he was an intelligent man but could not control his thoughts.

  Sitting there with the pale sunlight streaming through the window, Ben regarded his father, Willie Raines. In Ben’s mind William Raines had always been a failure. He had volunteered for the army and had been so terribly wounded at the Battle of the Bulge that he could never again do heavy work. He was unskilled at anything, and during Ben’s formative childhood years the family had moved from one place to a cheaper one throughout the meaner streets of Chicago.

  Ben thought about how many times during his teenage years his father had been unable to work, and Ben had had to struggle to bring in what income he could. This meant that he was not able to participate in sports, at which he had been rather good, and even after all these years it took all the strength he had to keep the resentment back.

  The s
leeping man stirred, coughed, and suddenly reached out with his hand as if trying to grasp something. He mumbled something in his sleep, and his face twisted. But then he relaxed, and Ben leaned back in his chair. He thought of the years he had spent at the newsstand on Thirteenth Street. His father had finally managed to buy into a newsstand, but it had been Ben who had had to keep it running. It was an outside newsstand, covered with plastic and canvas when it was closed, but Ben had sat there many weary days, through snow and sleet and ice and blistering summers, while the other boys were out playing ball.

  Harsh, bitter memories stirred within Ben, and he had a sudden impulse to get up and flee the room. He was not a Christian, but he had strong notions of right and wrong, and one of these notions was that it was wrong for him to despise his father for his failures. When he tried being logical, it had come out something like, You should have been born to a rich father. Your mistake was being born to a poor daddy. Somehow it’s all his fault. He realized the ludicrous logic that lay here, but now as he sat there he tried desperately to think of other things.

  “Why, hello, Son.”

  Snapping back to planet earth, Ben made himself smile and stood up. “Hey, Dad. How you doing?” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder and felt how fragile the man was. He seemed to be nothing but skin and bones, but the blue eyes that had turned up to him were lively.

  “I’m glad to see you, Son. You’re looking good.”

  “So are you, Pop.”

  Willie Raines’s face was shrunken. The flesh was faded, and though he had been an attractive man in his youth, he had lost all that. “Clark Gable had better watch out, eh?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Ben pulled the chair over and began searching for conversation topics. His father liked baseball, but baseball season was far away. Willie cared little for football, so that was out. Finally Ben began edging toward the subject that he dreaded. He talked about his work and how he hadn’t had a vacation in nearly three years.