She wants ...
The terrain is solid ... no road ... fields ... Gex is a mile or so in
front ... the radio was crackling ... Landel at the dials ... the Lee
rolled and rolled again ... they passed under trees ... they passed a
giant barn with two cows visible in a stall ... there were no hedgerows
... they passed a country school ... they passed a row of burning homes
and rolled into Gex ...
Gex ... Gex ... what about the guys who had burned to death in that
Sherman?
Gex ...
God, it was raining hard.
An awkward four-legged windmill was batting at the rain.
"Gex, Gex!" exclaimed Landel, and closed his eyes and hung on, worried
that the gas indicator was so low.
Gex was smoke and paved streets and ravaged buildings, a man fleeing, a
gunnysack over his shoulder. Girders jabbed out of ripped apartments.
Burning beams smoked in cottages. In a hotel fire escapes were twisted.
Again more smoke ...
A squad of riflemen sniped from a smashed grocery.
"Get them," Landel ordered.
Their guns began to pound and Dennison wormed his bus closer and closer
to the grocery: the bow crushed its windows and wall: the bow seemed to
be raiding for meat and potatoes. Gunfire shredded the glass counters.
Machinegun bullets cut down the store's sign: it fell. Bullets tore
into a refrigerator.
No riflemen escaped.
A narrow street, trees along one side ...
Dennison read _bakery_ and _meat market_ and wondered when he would
sidle up to a counter and order a loaf of whole wheat..."four center-cut
pork chops." And in the coffee shop, how about liverwurst and beer?
What a way to enter a town! Gex: who wanted Gex? What would the USA do
with Gex? Right now, a beefsteak was worth more!
"Who's that guy?" he yelled on the intercom.
A helmeted GI blocked a doorway in a ruined building and flagged the
tank; other GI's spewed from an aperture left by a shell; Dennison
hesitated to stop the Lee under the riddled wall, yet he obeyed.
Inside de-ribbed apartments he saw a fireplace, book shelves, shoes on a
carpeted floor, clothes on wardrobe hangers, a toilet ... on a brass
plate: Dr. Horace Kreutger, _Child Specialist_. A church dome glistened
in a sewage of light.
The helmeted GI in the doorway was signalling ...
_Starboard ... sharpshooters ... balcony ... port_.
Dennison sent the bus to the port, crawled over garbage in an alley, saw
a piece of sky, and then the sharpshooters on a grilled balcony.
Zinc fired and a fellow sagged to his knee, another dropped his rifle on
the balcony floor, another began dragging a wounded comrade, both
crawling on hands and knees: the wounded man seemed to be shouting: his
dentures popped from his mouth, bounced and smashed in the street.
Landel killed the remaining pair.
A GI appeared, wig-wagging, a walkie-talkie in his big, hairy arms, his
helmet cockeyed. Reporting into his w-t he paced the Lee; as it swung
onto a main street, the motor responded sluggishly, as if running out of
gas, and Dennison worked the choke. As he glanced through the periscope
he noticed the GI walking on the sidewalk, swinging one arm, talking as
he walked. A shell exploded: the GI, his w-t, bones and flesh
splattered across the walk. Another 77 blew up the paving in front of
the Lee: a roof collapsed, mixing steel and concrete.
Dennison reversed.
Following the main street, deserted shops and stores on both sides, he
saw something drop from a second floor--a mattress. It fell across the
tank's prow, swayed, fell again.
Dennison rammed an empty swastika jeep. From second floors machine guns
raked a GI patrol, wiping it out, the men dying in the gutters.
Telephone wires whipped around a lamppost.
It was no longer raining.
Landel began directing Zinc: their guns accounted for several SS outside
a drugstore. Waiting for smoke to clear, Dennison moved along the
street where machine gunners were mounting their gun in a building named
Zorn: ZORN was carved on the facade in tall letters: under shellfire,
Zorn crumbled as they passed.
For Dennison, the grief of other attacks was returning, muddled,
violent, hobnailing his brain.
This is our last attack, he told himself: gasoline low: stop: not any
more: not any more: Gex is a ruin: we'll be able to rest ... rest ... a
little rest ...
Mouth open, he longed for a cool drink, remembering the apple cores
floating on the floor of 9.
Who was that walking along the street?
Jeannette, get off the street!
Jean ... what are you doing here?
Can't you hear me?
Oh, Christ, my head!
He bent forward and wet his lips with his tongue.
Before he could stop the tank it plowed into a wall and stopped with a
great shock. Landel screamed. Zinc fell. Landel grabbed hold of
Dennison and beat him with his fists, the pain in his wound galloping
through his body. He sobbed and babbled; Zinc had to yank him off, and
restrain him.
"What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?" Landel shouted.
Dennison could not figure out what had happened: he could not understand
why the Lee was out of action: he asked Zinc if they had been hit.
In spite of his deafness, he heard Landel ask:
"Why did you ram the wall?"
"Do what?"
"Why did you hit the wall?"
Dennison waited for several seconds.
"I don't know what happened."
"You rammed into this wall--you fool!"
"I went blank."
"Let 'im alone!" Zinc shouted.
"Shut up!" Landel yelled.
"I went blank .... that's all," Dennison repeated.
They rested a few minutes and then began creeping along, patrolling the
main street, under radio orders, their guns silent, the enemy nowhere.
Stopping at a barricaded intersection, where trees had fallen under
bombing, where heaps of rubble smoked, the radio announced the official
take-over of Gex.
They were radio-ordered to park with other machines under trees fringing
a town garden: roses and shell holes, benches and crushed benches, paths
that stopped suddenly: a small bronze figure was still upright under
branches: the three men crawled from their cab and sat on a low stone
wall, faces black, clothes grease-caked, bloody.
Zinc showed Dennison a gashed hand.
"How did you get hit?"
"Oh ... I dunno."
"Need some iodine?"
"Umm."
"Open your hand."
"Can't."
"Open it, Isaac."
Zinc grinned boyishly.
Tenderly, Dennison opened Zinc's hand; he found an emergency kit in the
Lee and cleaned the wound: all of the time he felt the fresh air on his
face and realized he was breathing something worth breathing. He
promised himself he would soon have something to eat.
"Shall I bandage it tighter?"
"No ... like it is."
"Okay now?"
"Yeah ... but awful tired."
"Me too."
"Where's Landel?"
"Gone for water."
"Ah."
A little later, Zinc said:
"I'm gonna marry Millie when I get back."
"What?" Dennison cried.
"Nuthin'."
Landel offered them water from a thermos.
"I've had some ... it's okay."
Zinc drank, Dennison drank, then it went the rounds once more.
"I'm beat," Landel said.
They nodded.
That night, after grub, they slept in a handsome 17th century residence
near the park, in a bedroom on the second floor, under elegant drapes,
elegant table cloths, in mahogany beds: a silent place, gilded
wallpaper, ormolu furniture, golden carpet. Before falling asleep, Zinc
washed and scrubbed with perfumed soap in a basin painted with
forget-me-nots. In his sleep he thought of his boat, an ephemeral boat,
but it was his boat ... he dreamed of a wedding ceremony, people tossing
rice ... his injured hand relaxed ... but his face burned and his head
throbbed violently from time to time.
Landel slept uneasily in his bed, a feverish night: he had gulped down
aspirin from the emergency kit, then he added codeine, a double dose in
the night: tomorrow, he asked himself, tomorrow? He was unsure. How
could he continue?
For Dennison it was a problem to relax: he floated on his mattress,
under the layers of drapery: his subconscious was uncomfortable: he
heard his mother say:
"I think we've had more snow this year than we've had for years."
Of course this was played back a number of times.
In another dream a man whispered:
"Jeannette ... Jean..."
She was sitting on the grass by a lake, a picnic basket beside her, a
blue scarf around her head: her eyes were marvelously blue: she was
smiling: she was saying with her smile: come on, lunch is ready, let's
eat.
"Darling," he said, aloud.
He awoke, shivering, angry with himself for having slept without his
jacket. Putting it on, he climbed back into bed, and pulled the
draperies closer, a rumble of low-flying bombers shaking the room.
... They continued to fight in Germany.
... Christmas was dead and gone.
... Time?
Eight Shermans boiled along an _autobahn_, the paving was excellent, one
gradual curve sliding into another. Telephone lines, on stubby poles,
wandered across fields into a weak sun. Villages lay upside down in a
river.
As he drove, Dennison thought of shaving, recalled the whiff of Yardley
soap, the rasp of his razor. Maybe, someday, somewhere, an electric
shaver ... maybe after shave lotion ... maybe ...
He was doing thirty-five, thirty-seven, third in line, in the left lane.
Heat boiled on its endless tread; noise rushed under the floor, rushed
overhead, rushed along the walls.
They had a new crewman, a fellow from Chicago, a swarthy, husky
outfielder, smart, good-natured, with a shock of black hair and black
eyes: Paul Murphy; PM, the guys called him.
PM was hanging onto Dennison's driving seat as the freeway peeled by: he
was reading the speedometer, tickled by Dennison's skill and
recklessness. His eyes glistened; there was a silly grin on his face;
he wanted to be able to drive a tank like this. As the bus rocked along
smoothly, approaching fifty, he waved his arm at Zinc.
But Landel was squirming, resentful of such speed: he could think of a
dozen reasons for disaster: his neck ached and he did not look forward
to a ghastly jolt. For several weeks he had been sneaking off, drinking
heavily, talking little: he was involved in the art of deception--the
alcoholic's art. He bellowed through the phone, "cut your speed," then
slumped against the armor plate, mouthing a small flask.
He bellowed again, this time at PM, signalling him to his machine gun.
God, Dennison thought, he doesn't leave anybody alone.
Dennison had requested a transfer--any unit: after his injury at the
Roer River, Landel was often violent, word and action. He often fell
asleep on duty. During some of his binges he went homo.
"Maybe he figured I was someone else," Dennison told Zinc. "Did he come
at you?"
"Sure ... sure! But, lord, I haven't cracked up yet! We'll wrangle
transfers, you and I. Have to..."
The driver in front of Dennison was losing speed: he was far to the
right, too close to the shoulder.
"Steady, steady," Dennison mumbled to himself. "If you go slower, make
it steady ... watch yourself."
What's the number on his turret: 6 ... 7 ... 67? Is that right? The 67
was nearly obliterated. The tank's armor was rust colored, mud and
grease smeared, but somebody, at a depot or relay point, had slapped on
yellow paint across one side and it was as though the machine sported a
yellow crab, its pincers toward the prow.
So Chuck Hitchcock killed himself in a Brooklyn hospital! ... poor guy!
Made it to the fire escape, blind as he was! Ten floors. God, to drop
ten floors. Three seconds. Right on a paved driveway. He was out of
his mind. Perhaps not. Dennison had Jeannette's note--dirty and
crumpled--in his billfold. Had it for days, unable to reply. Where was
he to get it mailed? In Berlin? What was there to say? What did she
expect? Dear Jean: so sorry your brother bumped himself off! With
those sightless eyes of his, what could he do? Not even Cyclops!
Better off.
With a jerk, 67 swung violently to starboard: its starboard tread left
the highway, and the machine seemed to balance on one tread, race on
one; then the highway shoulder crumbled and the bus spun over and over
into a gravelled ditch, to stop bottom-up: the whole thing registering
on Dennison, sucked inside his brain through his driving viewer.
"Tank over!" he bellowed, braking his machine gradually. He yanked
Landel's arm, and shook it. "She'll catch fire," he bellowed. "Landel
... 67's in the ditch! Rolled over fast! Can we open her hatches?"
He was yelling at himself.
Landel was alert.
A tread of their tank sank and Dennison yanked her straight, centered
her on the road, slowed, and brought her to a halt behind 67, smoke
belching from the upended machine.
Sweat was running down his face and he wiped it off as he unstrapped his
seatbelt.
The blow must have stunned 67's crew: Ben was there: his shoulder injury
would cripple him: Carson was there ...
The men were dumped together between machine guns, cannon, ammunition,
thermos, gasoline, wrenches, oil, heat.
Dennison was alongside the Lee.
From their firebox at the rear, he grabbed two Pyrenes: he handed one to
Zinc and raced for 67, slipping on mud: he dropped the extinguisher but
snatched it and squirted chemicals on the yellow paint smear, on the
turret.
"Somebody get a shovel ... hunt for a crowbar ... tear open ... let them
out! Smoke's choking them ... they can't see a thing!
"Here, PM, squirt this on the motor area," he shouted: he realized that
PM could not hear and he shoved the extinguisher into his hands.
He began to unwire a crowbar from his own machine, his fingers awkward;
he tried to steady himself; smoke was ballooning; the Pyrenes were
whitening the smoke. Using all his strength he wrenched off the bar and
rushed back to 67. Machinegun bullets were bursting inside. Now Landel
was discharging an extinguisher.
PM had run back to his bus. Now he nosed 67 over: with a huge thud, and
a great cloud of white smoke, she flopped onto her side. Another tankman
attempted to beat open a driving slot, to admit air.
Handkerchief over his face, Dennison climbed onto 67, to force a hatch.
Somebody might be there, ready to be dragged out. Hell, the guys
couldn't see!
Raising his bar he rammed it: smoke blinded him but he struck again: the
steel rebounded: there was less smoke: he struggled to breathe: probably
they were dead: Carson, Ben, Townsend, Lee, Arthur. Yet there might be
a chance ... must be a chance ... must be ...
Slipping, he fell off the tank and somebody helped him up, and he
whirled for one of the forward ports. Sweat drenched his hands and
face. He gripped the bar tighter and drove at the little door and it
seemed to give and he hammered at it again, coughing.
I've got a crack ... lean forward ... hit closer to the rim ... can't
see ...
His handkerchief dropped. He couldn't stop coughing. When smoke blew
away he looked about and saw that nobody was using the extinguishers:
were they empty? Everyone had backed away.
Goddammit ... I'll open that starboard door ... I'll hack it open with
my bare hands!
He rammed and the door yielded. He slammed at it again and it gave a
hair. He hit it again with every ounce of muscle. His hands slipped
and he almost toppled.
He hit nearer the lock: a steel shaving gave way: hurling himself
against the bar, the lock snapped; he pressed down, and the door opened.
Breathing in gasps, he threw the little door wide.
Smoke, black smoke, crawled out of the cab.
Crewmen pushed Dennison aside and crowded close to 67. Leaning against
his tank, Dennison watched them, unseeing, unmoving: glad to be away
from 67. He wanted water but could not ask for it. In spite of himself
he vomited green slime.
Too late ... there's nothing anybody can do ... I was too late.
Nobody can crawl inside: the guys are dead: they've been dead for ...
it's done: it's over: maybe that's something:
"It's over," he yelled.
Ben and his injured shoulder: Ben said he was going to get well: Ben was
majoring in math ...
Carson was a nice guy ...
Arthur said I'm the one and future king ...
Dennison coughed and blinked and walked about and wet his lips with his
tongue.
"You nearly got yourself killed," Landel barked at Dennison. He waved
his fire extinguisher at 67. "They're dead ... fried to a crisp ... you
were a damn fool!"
Dennison barely understood ... he nodded.
Rubbing his eyes, he tried to lessen the sting of the smoke, the acid of
burning rubber, the force of fear ... Presently, he saw Zinc beside him
with a canteen of water in his hands.
"Drink."
He helped Dennison swab his face and sop his neck, his own hands
trembling; he appeared a little idiotic without his helmet, his hair
going every which way, but he smiled insanely. Grease streaked his
forehead and beard and one ear was blobbed with oil.
All tanks had halted: tankmen sat and lay on the freeway or on the
shoulder: the sun was ugly in a salve-like cloud: in a woodland a B-29
hung in some trees, strips of wing metal flashing.
Harold Stragoni, in one of the last tanks to pull up, hurried to
Dennison and Zinc.
"Is that your tank ... did you lose your tank?"
"No."
"67 turned over ... burned."
"Hit by a shell?"
"Turned over."
PM came up.
"I looked inside ... with my flash ... they're incinerated to nuthin'
... clothes all burned ... It's too hot to climb inside..."
Zinc inspected the machine: walking around it, he noticed the yellow
paint, flaked grease, dented armor, damaged cannon, a broken grouser.
In Akron there had been a truck crash, the cab catching fire--this same
incineration. In spite of that vivid Ohio memory he wanted a glimpse of
Arthur--no matter how charred. Arthur was a man ... but Zinc could not
identify anyone: just reddish stuff, a leather helmet, a hand, guns.
Sadly, he rejoined Dennison and they lit cigarettes.
"There was a broken grouser ... maybe that caused 'er to flip," said
Zinc mournfully.
"Maybe."
Landel fished his binocular from its case; focusing it he scrutinized
the woodland, the intervening fields, a remote farm, its heap of manure,
haystacks.
"We ought to bury our guys," someone said.
"Yeah ... let's bury them," Stragoni said, filling his pipe, shaking
tobacco back into a leather pouch.
"Nobody's gonna bury them!" Landel yelled. "They're buried already."
Fools for sentiment. "We've got to shove out of here. We'll be spotted
... our buses all along the highway!"
Near a wire gate he caught a solitary figure: the figure reminded him of
his father before they imprisoned him: the field man had the same
defeated air, the same stoop.
Their company commander, Colonel Fraser, bumped up in a fast jeep: he
and his staff did not have much to say: his brown, middle-aged face
expressed great chagrin: maps under his arm he checked 67, one of his
lieutenants scribbling in a field book.
"You were right behind her," he said to Landel. "Did you see her go
over?"
"I didn't see her go over."
"I saw her ... she seemed to travel on one tread ... drop to the
shoulder ... maybe a broken tread," Dennison said.
Landel grasped the Colonel's shoulder:
"Here, here ... look..."
He pressed his binocular into Fraser's hand.
"See ... see that M129, dangling in those trees ... they're readying a
mortar there ... we've got to clear out!"
He began gesturing, calling to the crewmen:
"Out of here ... everybody ... into the tanks ... mortar fire!"
He hustled from man to man. By the time Fraser had spotted the mortar,
Landel had men bee-lining.
Fraser ordered the tanks to roll. He and his staff piled into their
jeep.
Dennison tossed the crowbar onto the floor of their machine, swung into
the bus, dropped wearily onto the driving seat. He permitted himself
time for a long, long swig: water was incredible. When you're dead you
don't drink much, he told himself. He passed the canteen to Zinc who
passed it to Landel.
"Goddamn the Wehrmacht!" Landel shouted.
Water wet his fingers and wrists, rolled off oil and grease.
"What hellish luck!" Dennison shouted.
"Let's go!" Landel yelled.
Switch on, the cylinders whammed into action; other tanks had raced
ahead; in an instant Dennison passed 67; as they roared on a mortar
shell exploded far from its target, geysering dirt.
This section of the _autobahn_ had been shelled and Dennison kept the
bus at thirty, leery of potholes, treads rolling in unison, the motor
synchronizing, the highway a slant of light.
Jeez, he thought, we didn't get away any too soon!
He scrunched deeper into his seat, wanting to ease his shoulders: that
crowbarring had been rough! Well, here was one up for Fred Landel, old
eagle eye! The grumbling of the engine was satisfying. This bus was in
order.
A sign read _8 K Olpe_.
"Olpe!" Dennison muttered through the phone.
"What?" Zinc yelled.
"Olpe ... Olpe lies ahead!"
He knew exactly what lay ahead because he had seen so many ruined towns:
pulped houses, streets galled and scrambled, downed trees, power plant
in bits, splintered telephone poles, church sheltering a crucifix.
Ten dead lay on the road: he recognized their uniforms: he knew, as he
drove past them, that some of the men had been riding motorcycles and
bicycles. Their motorcycles had swastikas on their sidecars.
The sign read _7 K Olpe_.
_World world_, went the treads.
Water dripping from a brown jar is white, he thought. Honey in a comb
is thick. Goat's milk tastes strong. The desert is yellow in places,
streaked, as though the _mistral_ had ... yeah, and those fly-coated
arms in the wadi...
Robinson's arms raced ahead on the _autobahn_, raced the tank, very
white, flecked with sand...
Chuck was good at assembling an automatic rifle...
How far was it he could throw a grenade?
Dennison's back was paining him more acutely: he felt the drag of the
crowbar, the weight and friction of it:
Gonna be lame tomorrow, lame in my arms and back.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I'll be back in E ... I'll stroll along the Nonette
... that book in the attic ... Chateaubriand ... she had read _Atala_ to
him, dwelling on the most melancholy passages ... Atala's burial ...
that book in the attic ... I'll re-read those passages ... book bound in
red leather ... memories from ...
His head was throbbing as they entered Olpe, a yellow cat crouching in
front of someone's empty cottage. It spat at the crewmen as they
climbed out, parked to grab some air: the town was dead: alone, on a
slab of masonry, Dennison rested his head on one hand. Other tanks
rolled in, stopped. It would be dark in an hour or so. They would be
eating soon?
How he wanted the roar of the tank to seep out of his brain, wanted some
of the filth to ooze from his body.
He wanted a place alone. Better alone in this bombed town than never
alone! Better to die in a field! A B-29 flying low, conspicuous ...
In Britain there had been Spitfires and De Havilands: constantly aloft:
this B-29 was a reconnaissance plane circling lower and lower: the
bomber was reaching a danger point: was it out of fuel, was the crew
about to bale out?
Climbing a big mound of garbage he saw chutes billow; then came the
twisting dive, smoke from the cockpit area as the plane went down. Five
chutes were swaying, drifting. A black column headstoned the crash
site. Dennison jumped from the garbage pile and informed some of the
crewmen. At once several GI's took off, dog trotting through the dusk,
toting small arms. Dennison was glad to run, glad to be on the go
across a field--free of armor.
The first chute man, tangled in his chute, lying on his side, lying
behind bushes, opened fire with his submachine gun, almost killing PM.
Bullets cropped weeds and grass around him.
"Look, you goddamn ass! We're not Nazis!" shrieked PM, flat on his
belly...
"How do I know who you are! Some of you bastards talk English," the
airman yelled.
"Yeah, well, I'm from Chicago, see. I used to clean up the loop every
day for eighteen bucks a week. Dee is my uncle. I'm in the 321st ...
all of us are in the 321st. We just crawled into this lousy town. Put
down your tommy gun: I'll show you some snapshots? Okay?"
"I guess so, but keep your hands up! Don't fuck around!"
In a moment they were shoulder-slapping and pumping hands; within a
short time the tankmen located three more flyers--one with a smashed
leg. Someone hacked a willow and thin pine poles and Dennison and Zinc
improvised a jacket litter.
On the way into Olpe they located the other flyer, his parachute shot
down. Dennison was stung by his death: he felt the tragedy of his
broken body: he looked into Zinc's face: but he was looking at something
else: everyone here about the same age, Dennison thought: all trapped.
Another kick from death! Death, lousy death, that insatiable hellion!
He wanted to defy death. He wanted to kick it in the ass. He wanted
the world to know what death was doing!
Smog was filtering over Olpe's dumpage: the brick and stone walls, a
slate roof, the beams and plaster: nearly every structure had been
shambled. Olpe had been known for its oil refinery but shelling had dug
and re-dug earth, pipes, storage tanks, cracking gear.
They carried the pilot into a ruined inn: somebody had already explored
the town and led them there: somebody rounded up a medic: Dennison,
Zinc, Landel and PM bedded down in the low T-shaped building that still
had a giant elm tree in front.
Debris was everywhere, broken dishes, broken window glass, dangling
plaster, a disemboweled sofa, ripped out wiring, pulverized bricks and
tiles: Dennison walked through the rooms as through a surrealist museum:
finding burlap and a mattress he lay down and unbuttoned his trousers
and scratched and then lay motionless.
No food had come.
One of the flyers hung a flashlight and its swaying light crawled about,
expressing hate. Other crewmen bedded down. Dennison's mind had nothing
to tell him so he wriggled underneath the sacking and hunger became his
anesthesia. Turning his hands palm-up, he gazed at them, one at a time,
dozed, and then slept.
Landel was vomiting from pain, lack of food, alcohol, and fatigue.
Crouched in a corner, he had an empty bottle beside him.
Whiskey would help! He shrugged: who's Johnny Walker? Down in Panama,
years ago, the gambling rooms of the Palacio Rivas had been fabulous:
coco palms in a lush garden, macaws on perches, gardenias floating on
the swimming pools ... lovely whores ... _copitas_. But he had gotten
drunk and killed a man, shot him through the lungs and heart ...
When the war ended he planned to settle in Germany and horn in on the
black market graft: army supplies, PX supplies: sell, buy, swap: a sure
way to stack up the dough!
PM was snoring.
Zinc lay on his side, watching one of the B-29 guys mess with his
lighter: a nearby tankman removed his shoes and sox and massaged his
feet: Zinc felt the smallness of his body: other men had something to be
proud of: muscles were jerking around his mouth: he rubbed the muscles
halfheartedly: closing his eyes he tried to think of home but home had
not existed for a long time. Mom had been dead for four or five years
... Millie ... where was she? He turned onto his back. It seemed to
him his spine was injured. Certainly something was wrong with his
stomach: there were too many aches there.
A cloudy moon hung above Olpe ... in the gutted inn night was eventful:
food began arriving in the early hours: the old walls heard a few
cheerful sounds; the smell of food roused some of the men.
Sometime in the night Landel woke, chilled, afraid: he couldn't find a
cigarette and woke Dennison and asked him for his pack. He tried to
talk to him--wishing to talk about his past: most of all he simply
wanted to talk. Drags on his Luckies helped. He found a blanket. That
helped. With Dennison lying nearby he thought of admitting what a
bastard he was and yet that seemed stupid: everything seemed stupid,
everything was stupid, torn apart, like Olpe.
Under the ribs of an adjoining building--a long shed--fifteen or twenty
tankmen ate breakfast, fog around them: fog had seeped in with a
yellowish thickness, a thickness that seemed related to old masonry, old
walls and crumbling plaster. The eaters appreciated the hot food,
untroubled by the fog; as they ate they simply stared.
_Go to Morb ... Panzers ... Serious_.
That was the morning radio directive: the Corps was dispatched onto the
_autobahn_ again, now crammed with one-way military and civilian
traffic. It began to drizzle as the Shermans and Lees grumbled forward;
then the drizzle changed to a downpour that sloshed over turret,
periscope and viewer. Dim-outs popped on. Olpe traffic jammed: a jeep
had crashed: a truck had stalled: a civilian truck resembled an oiled
animal under its flapping tarp.
Memory's belt began in Dennison's brain:
The Gestapo, the man said at breakfast ... the Gestapo ... they did
their best to get information from the Maquis ... they were trying to
round up the Maquis ... they were ... Fritzes ... that's what the guy at
breakfast called them ... said he had fought in North Africa ... said
...
... Okay, send us back to Olpe; at least there is something to eat there
... what was that radio message?
... Slow, slow, now pass, shift into second, watch that fool, he doesn't
know how to drive ... funny, Zinc squatting there, asleep maybe ...
Landel looks bad ... too much rain, German rain.
When the tanks reached Morb, at 9 kilometers, military cops, outside a
battered school, flagged them past an artillery battery: 88's, 102's and
4.2 mortars were snorting over. General Jake Marlin had his trailer in
the field--a zigzag gash in its gleaming aluminum side, his flag soggy.
Why had they been directed to Morb?
Obviously, there were no Nazis here.
Low-flying bombers were passing.
The radio was sputtering misinformation.
On a side street the crews had a chance to oil and gas up, time to
urinate, time to drink, time for a chew of gum, time to smoke and talk.
Dennison wandered into a wrecked cottage: plaster crunched underfoot; he
straightened a picture on the wall; he listened to the punch of shells;
fragments fell from the ceiling as percussions went on. A door opened.
That was a school, had been a school:
Today we'll confine our lessen to Siberia. Do any of you know anything
special about Siberia? Can you give us an idea of its size? How about
you, Hermann?
What good was it, sending kids to school? They have been attending
school since the Romans, or was it before the Romans? Have schools
stopped war? Nobody through all those centuries has had a peace class.
He grinned, as he leaned against the battered doorframe of the little
cottage.
Again he listened to the constant shellfire.
_Tanks into action_, somebody signalled.
Action!
"Get going!"
"Okay."
"Okay."
Dennison turned over the driving controls to PM and PM smirked his
pleasure like a kid: he settled into the driving seat, checked the
controls, thinking fast, confident. Landel gave him a wigwag. Then 248
hunched forward, the tracks working evenly; the motor revved smoothly.
Dennison punched PM, and they swung left.
A latch of his mind was fastened to the periscope.
Starboard sank into a pothole; they floundered through other potholes,
now following the side of a small river, other tanks in front. Smoke
gnarled the sky. They were in a section of Morb, streets, houses. Port
side a shell exploded. Something clanged against 248, clanged like a
bell. The bus rocked, and Dennison stared anxiously at PM. PM grunted.
The tanks moved through smoke walls down a street: as if propelled
through a tube, through a tunnel, Nazis rushed toward 248. They
bunched. They fell. Some retreated down a cul-de-sac. Scrambling
across barbed wire and fencing, PM followed.
Realizing that the men were trapped, Dennison fired slowly: he tried to
account for each man, firing PM's gun: he shouted and fired, shouted and
fired: this was the same, knocking out wooden ducks at the fair.
Three down, four to go.
So, the tank was an improvement on the Trojan horse!
Smoke closed in.
Frames flitted by, image after image, scenes without continuity, a
sciamachy of trees, people, Greeks, Russians, a cloud, a room,
Jeannette, children's face, a cactus in a steamy conservatory, a swan, a
wounded boy. On the walls of a latrine he read: THE LAST SEVEN WORDS.
PM was circling, circling.
A shell shook 248.
Dennison ducked to avoid the concussion: he rapped his shoulder on the
gun butt: he was angry and fired blindly, and wet his lips with his
tongue.
Men were escaping, dozens of them.
Dennison fired in rage, fired at the windows of an apartment: he riddled
a closed door: he chipped off stucco: he fired into a pine tree: his
shooting jag was warming his belly. 248 swung around a corner.
"Watch out for that concrete slab!" Dennison warned.
PM did not hear.
One of the tracks grazed it.
Dennison signalled again.
His eyes were watering from the heat and smoke.
PM was hit by bullet splash and stopped the tank: fumes and heat almost
overwhelmed the crew as they worked over him, Zinc swabbing. Dennison
was remembering Al, remembering....
PM waved them off: No, I'm not down for a count of ten! No, let me get
back at the controls!
"Where?" he asked Landel.
"How much gas have we?"
"Quarter."
Landel briefed his map, fingers uncertain, eyes uncertain, wanting to
stall, to call a halt.
The radio had conked.
_Turn back_ he scribbled.
Back?
Where?
Near the guns, near the trailer, by the school ... men had camouflaged
Jake Marlin's trailer with a huge camouflage net ... Dennison and Zinc
found a patch of grass in front of the school and settled down,
cross-legged, like Ojibways, the grass uncut and weedy.
Zinc chewed a grass blade.
"PM does all right," he said.
"Huh?"
"PM does all right."
"He's good," said Dennison.
"He's gone to see a medic."
"Scratch ... not bad."
"Good."
"Good."
"Tired," Zinc admitted, unlacing his shoes to ease his feet, cigarette
creasing his mouth: he was no longer in Morb but was tacking along Lake
Erie, on his boat, Millie snuggled down among cushions.
Dennison felt that hate was moving closer, was controlling his hands and
arms: grubbing his jackknife out of his pocket he scraped grease from
his nails, from his fingers: who was that freckled guy, with dirty
beard, sunken eyes? Was that Landel, over there jawing with men? Why
hadn't he been killed?
He tossed the butt of his cigarette away, lay back on the grass, fell
asleep. Unopposed, they stormed along a narrow street: men with a flame
thrower had gutted a tank: 248's guns destroyed the thrower in a giant
swoosh of flames: on the margin of his mind, beyond the roar, he saw a
wire of light, filament: his mind shut around it: he lost track of time:
he clamped his jaws.
_North_.
That was Landel's scribble.
Leaning forward a little, Dennison wet his lips with his tongue.
* * *
*4*
The train was slowing down.
Orville considered the green countryside and then, as the train crept
along, the streets and houses of Ermenonville, appreciating the
simplicity of the village, a few blocks square, scaled to the past, a
park, a lake, a swan or two, a rambling chateau, and rain-wet cobbles.
Rain streaked the train windows ... rain, so, let it rain ... rain has
meaning here. It's home again, home, if there is such a place. He was
seeing the familiar, outwardly unchanged by war: seeing the old
brick/wood house, the mangy Chateaubriand books in the attic, Dad's
poilu hat, the grand piano: certain hours would come alive in certain
rooms.
It was after two p.m. and the train was late ... wasn't that Jean
standing there by the depot, a bunch of farmers around her?
A grey freight car on the siding cut him off, car by car, from the
station. The locomotive whistle cemented rain drops together: his face
close to the window he waited, counting the passing freight cars, aware
too of his compartment: it seemed to rise up around him, threaten: the
shabby seat, the shabby suitcase on the shabby carpeting: everything
attained a linear dimension: for seconds more, as the engine braked and
the cars ground to a stop, he reviewed his trip across Germany, the
dangerous jeep ride to Offenburg, a strafing of the German train, the
endless check-points, ID problems, the mockingly tedious truck trip into
Paris. How could there be so many, many fields and police and hedges
strung together? So many, many stops at villages, on sidings?
Opening his compartment door, he glared at the platform people, dozens
of rain-splattered faces, those blank faces, beseeching faces.
Jeannette was standing under the depot eaves, near the entry door,
wearing her uniform, bareheaded, a cape about her shoulders.
He waved and hollered.
Stepping down, a _gendarme_ bumped him, and then her arms were around
him, her face against his.
"Orville ... Orv, oh, darling!"
Claude was there to shake hands in his old way, something brotherly. He
was ready to carry the suitcase.
She squeezed Orville hard, breathing hard, her face upturned, smiling.
Thinking of his filthy mufti, he wanted to break away from her: her
cleanliness was difficult to accept: he thought her uniform's
immaculateness might make him dangerously conspicuous. No one noticed.
Everyone was busy coming and going.
He asked about Lena.
Jeannette shook her head.
"No tears," he said.
At that she gave him a special smile: her girlishness struck him, made
him shiver, made him wonder how long it could last. To hide his
consternation he said:
"Are you coming along with me?"
"Of course I am."
"Our car's parked at the rear of the depot," Claude said. "How are
you?" The question came with a genuine sense of concern.
Orville simply nodded.
The bearded face seemed unchanged.
Sitting in the car, Jeannette kissed Orville consolingly, understanding
his fatigue, ruling out his greasy mechanic's uniform, his unshaven
face, peasant cap: as they drove the short distance to the Ronde's, he
said very little, but he did admit it had been "a rotten trip ... I
tried phoning you from Paris, but I couldn't get through" ... it was
easier to sit and stare at the village, at things he knew; Jean guessed
the state of his mind.
He asked about Lena again.
"She's very ill."
"Is she in the hospital?"
"She's at home--there's no room at the hospital."
"What really happened to her? The radiograms didn't help me much."
"Overwork ... no, not that ... she took crazy chances ... on a parachute
drop she ... well, it was exposure ... those Maquis ventures ... then
she contracted pneumonia."
Orville realized from her jerky phrases that she was disturbed.
"Aunt Therese ... how's she?"
"Not so well."
"Her telegram said..."
"You're safe ... you're here ... a few days ... we have you for a few
days ... you and I." She kissed his hand. "There will be time for you
... to rest. Let's be glad we have each other."
He held her against him.
Rain and windshield wipers and thoughts mixed.
Going to Lena's room, glad of the family house, he felt dirtier than
ever, perhaps he could have changed, somehow, somewhere: it was Claude
who urged him to see Lena at once--no, don't wait to change. Orville
respected Colonel Ronde for manipulating this brief leave: would he be
arriving in E soon? Walking through the living room, Orville was
comforted by the rose grey of the carpet, the oval mirror, the bust of
Chopin, the piano. Ascending the staircase he heard the downpour hit
the roof.
Home ... yes ...
A priest confronted him at Lena's door and shook hands, saying nothing.
Orville went in: her room smelled of medicines; her oxygen tank reared
up alongside her bed; its red plastic handle grinned; her plasma bottle
hung on its chromium hook--and nodded.
Lena's face was deep in the pillow.
"She's dead," the priest said in an unemotional voice. "She died about
a half hour ago ... she was unconscious, then the end."
Then the end, Orville repeated to himself.
If my train had been on time? he asked himself.
He stared at the priest accusingly, rudely: had he done anything to help
Lena? His fat bearded face was noncommittal. The man's eyes were as
dead Lena's: such apathy.
Orville stepped back, stepped aside in disgust.
He was amazed at the beauty of Lena's yellow hair, flung about the
pillow, amazed too by the athletic face, her open mouth suggestive of
pain. He opened his mouth and shut it again and wet his lips with his
tongue, blaming the war for her death. She had a lace handkerchief
clenched in her hand ... maybe Amelie had died that way ... maybe Lena
had been watching the rain trickle down her bedroom window. Her face
was harsh: shadows added to the harshness. Hand on her bedpost, Orville
wished he had slept with her: how could it have mattered?
Jeannette had come down the stairs as he descended. Hand sliding down
the railing, he saw Lena as a kid, no, the two of them, screaming down
the steps, to get outdoors, to play ball. He found Jean in the living
room: he did not wish to talk: he wanted to feel that Lena was still
alive: as he sat down and faced Jeannette she thought how it must be
coming home to death, death in his home, death after the deaths of war:
coming home was perplexing at best. Slipping her fingers into his, she
tugged at him as they sat together on the sofa.
Claude was standing nearby.
"She's dead," Orville said to him.
Bichain heard Orville. The old man stiffened, and rubbed his beard: he
became unaware of Jean and Orville: with bowed head he walked off,
seeing the girl he had helped to raise, a woman of tantrums, woman of
courage, love and beauty. Mumbling a little, he went to his own room,
shut the door, and lay down, an arm flung across his eyes.
"Where's Aunt Therese?" Orville asked Jean.
"I don't know," she said.
They continued to sit there saying nothing, one lamp lit, no fires
burning in the fireplaces, the room quite cold, the wind fumbling at the
French doors. Slowly, as they sat together, he became aware of his
stench: nobody wanted him: he had nothing for anyone: he clenched his
stained hands, eyes toward the floor: this was no way to be, sitting
beside her.
"They should have been able to save her," he said.
"They tried ... they tried."
"Who?"
"The doctors, several doctors were in and out. Yes, Orv, they tried."
"What were they, hacks?"
"Our best."
"Did they use antibiotics?"
"Yes ... injections ... they tried ... you saw the oxygen tank ... I
came over often ... I know what went on in that room."
Orville covered his face with his hand and hid from Jeannette.
Jean bit her lips: death on the battlefield, death at home: these things
were driving him farther and farther inside himself: they were taking
him farther away. Unable to think of anything more to say about Lena,
she thought of her own problems at the hospital, daily chores, the
endless rounds--patients who required special care.
"Get Bichain to start a fire in the fireplaces," he said after a while.
"I have to wash ... have to change ... must go now."
As he got up, he saw his aunt approaching him slowly, her heels tapping
the parquet and then soundless on the carpet.
There was new puffiness about her face and she seemed to have lost
weight; had neglected to re-dye her hair and grey and white strands hung
about her ears and over her forehead. Wearing a blue ensemble, she
carried a black overcoat and an umbrella--carrying it by its metallic
ring.
"Orville," she said, and kissed him. "Have you just come? Oh, to have
you here? I found a driver to bring Dr. Raoul to see Lena; he's gone
upstairs to examine her. Just let me sit down for a minute ... Jean,
dear, how is Lena? Were you upstairs?"
Jeannette was afraid to tell her of Lena's death: she waited beside Mme.
Ronde's chair, glancing at her, glancing at Orville.
"I need a cigarette ... I'll have one before I see her," Mme. Ronde
said. "Bring me one, from the box on the table over there by you--like
a good boy ... Orville, have you seen Lena?" She was speaking unevenly,
scolding herself for being lukewarm.
Orville reasoned: she'll soon know: it doesn't matter whether I let her
go upstairs: maybe it will be easier to find out from the priest.
Jeannette drew a chair close to Mme. Ronde's chair, leaning toward her,
she said: "We went upstairs to see her ... she's dead ... she died
before we returned from the depot."
For an instant Mme. Ronde doubted Jean; she folded and unfolded her
hands, asking herself why she would lie?
"I must go upstairs ... I'll see ... I..."
She got up, sat down, folded her raincoat across the back of her chair,
and with slow motion movement got up again.
"I'll go upstairs..."
It was Christmas and Lena was racing down the stairs, waving a candy
cane, shouting "_Joyeux noeel, joyeux noeel_!"
Standing motionless Mme. Ronde wept softly, handkerchief to her face,
hating the thought of finding her dead, wanting to hope.
Jeannette glanced at Orville who was watching his aunt. She put her arm
around Mme. Ronde's waist but she was not willing to accept assistance.
"No ... no..."
Facing Orville, she asked:
"Why did she have to die while I was away?"
"The priest was with her."
"The priest was with her!" she scoffed. "Who wants to die alone with a
strange priest?"
She sat down.
Did the priest communicate with her: did she speak to him: was there
consolation? He was in the room--to prevent people from talking:
Bichain had called him in. Precepts: what had they done, had they
stopped the war, had they defied Hitler? ... nothing ... nothing,
there's nothing, no god ... wars ... cuckolds ... war ...
She wiped her face with a handkerchief, a man's handkerchief, her
husband's, snatched from an overcoat. Mopping her face reddened it: it
was more tragic, the red and the putty surface wrinkling, the eyes
sinking in on themselves.
Her face shocked Jeannette as they waited, motionless. For Orville
there was the distorted tie-in with Rousseau's world.
"Orville, help me, take my arm ... I'm going upstairs, best to go, not
wait..."
She said nothing as they climbed the steps; Orville wanted to say a few
words; he tried to re-see something he and Lena had done, so he could
mention it to his aunt; it was almost as if he had never known Lena.
Instead of visualizing or evoking her he recalled his last military
involvement, the stress of the trip to visit Ermenonville; as they
reached the top step, Orville said:
"I heard from Mother, a while ago."
"Ah," his aunt responded.
"She's all right," he said.
Words were automatic--out of the past.
Mme. Ronde wondered what it was Orville had said.
Lena's door was open: the doctor was talking to the young priest whose
cropped head seemed more skull than anything alive. Mme. Ronde found her
way to Lena's bed ... Orville found his way downstairs, rejoining
Jeannette, saying over and over, I must go, I must remember to take a
bath and scrub ... I must say ... I must tell Jean ... I must ... must
say ...
She kissed him and said quietly:
"I'm going to the hospital."
"Yes?"
"I'm on duty, worried about a fellow there. Meet me early at the
hospital, in the entry, say about eight o'clock? ... Okay? but if things
don't work out call me ... no, no, you can't, the phone's out of order."
"The hospital ... at eight? I'll be there ... now, I have to take ...
but how are you getting back? Let Claude drive you there."
"I have my raincoat and umbrella. It's not far, you know."
"Not in this rain!"
"Then I'll ask Claude."
He helped her into her raincoat; Claude came; at the door her red head
disappeared under his black umbrella; then Orville let the window drapes
fall into place.
Have to go upstairs ... rest ... sit on my bed ... take off these
clothes ... rest ...
In his room he closed the door, sensing that the latch slid into place.
He was alone!!
Sitting on his bed he noticed the guns in their oak rack, the tackle,
the reel, the bass above his bed; he thought he had seen them for the
last time. Dragging off his shoes, he attempted to figure out what day
it was: Wednesday? Friday? It didn't matter.
His socks on the floor, he thought of stretching out as he was: his head
was mumbling about fishing gear: his eyes returned to the poles: beads
of light twinkled on ferrules and reels. The transparent cover had
fallen off one of the reels.
In the bathroom he kicked his clothes into a corner and listened to the
water rushing into the tub, amazed by the jet: water, ordinary, hot
water, wonderful water, swishing water. He tossed a washcloth over the
side of the tub and watched it float before it became waterlogged. So,
the heater was okay.
In the clear warmth he found rest: marvelous: marvelous to lie there:
and the cake of soap, spinning! He had planned to scrub his hair and
then dress but he knew he had to sleep: with the hot washcloth over his
face he breathed deeply: he sopped it over his eyelids: reluctantly, he
climbed out and half dried himself, stopping to finger the colorful
towel, hold it out, count the blue and white stripes.
From his bed he turned out the lamp, and let himself go: it was like
that, just couldn't be helped: a sort of a toboggan: the room stopped
existing, the sheets gathered about his belly, legs, and shoulders: they
felt warm: then, there was silence, and then--though he wasn't
sure--someone was knocking, knocking insistently on the door, someone
was speaking:
Lena? Claude? Jean?
" ... Supper's on the table ... It's getting late. Are you coming down?
Jeannette's come back from the hospital..."
"Ah ... ah, I'm coming, let me get dressed ... I, yes ... let me get
dressed."
He had not eaten in Paris: of course there was nothing available on the
train; he swung his feet to the floor: yes, he was hungry: he listened:
it was still raining: he heard the rain-quiet on the big house. In
another moment, he laid clothes on his bed, old clothes from the
wardrobe, and heard that other sound, the quietude of death.
Everyone's.
Switching on a second lamp, one on his chest-of-drawers, he fiddled with
things in the top drawer. He unrolled a belt for his slacks. There was
a tie that Uncle Victor had given him. The cufflinks were from his
mother. He could still wear the old, brown alligator shoes: they went
on comfortably. The sweater had been a favorite: he shook it out,
slipped it on slowly, buttoned it, felt in the pockets.
When he came downstairs, Jean was in the dining room, arranging roses on
the dining table, white roses in a crystal bowl, full blown roses, their
petals shattering as she arranged them.
"Hi, Orville. Aren't you hungry? Did you get some sleep?"
He hugged her.
"Sure ... sure!" He exclaimed and kissed her, her face magical, the
fragrance of roses also there: when had she appeared more beautiful!
"You look rested," she said.
"But I haven't shaved." He scrubbed a hand over his beard. "These old
clothes of mine ... sure great to have them..."
"Sit down, my dear."
She had put on a blue serge, lace at the throat, the lace in a broad,
open pattern of fully open poppies, very provincial, the ensemble
nineteenth century.
"Is Aunt Therese having supper?"
"It's late ... she's gone to bed ... she didn't want any supper."
"Has she sent for Uncle Victor?"
"I don't know. I hope he can come ... she needs him. I hope I can help
her ... I want to do all I can."
Somehow her calm came as a surprise: or was it simplicity and her
concern that surprised! He sat at the table, thinking of the new way
she combed her hair, curling it on her neck and over her ears and
temples. Tiny costume jewels clipped each ear.
"How has it been at the hospital?"
She sat across from him, saying:
"We work in shifts ... I'm in on some of the surgical cases ... they
come in fast ... POW's ... civilians ... officers ... it's the Nazis we
resent..."
All the magic had gone from her face; her sentences were staccato; she
leaned on the table, apprehensive--troubled by gigantism of the war:
thoughts of Lena confused her: she wished to reach a clearer
understanding of Orville and his future.
Annette served, greeting Orville in a hushed voice: obviously, she had
been crying: her face seemed a gnome's face from some cathedral altar or
reredos. Nervous, she acted more like a newcomer than one who had been
with the Ronde household for years.
As he ate, Orville felt out of place: the familiar napkins, fork, knife,
plates and goblets became unfamiliar: so were Jean in her serge and the
surrounding silence: his mind screwed about, circled, picked at itself,
fled somewhere, wanting assurances.
"Was it bad out there, bad most of the time?" she wanted to know,
troubled by the silence and his grim expression, hoping to break
through.
He was afraid to remain silent, afraid to reply: the immediate world
seemed to be beyond the windows, kept there by a mere sheet of glass:
the past was unreal, thin, another sheet of glass: the wrong word might
shatter both: and yet he talked, talked about the Corps, and as he
talked he attempted to conceal his hate and his killings.
"Tell me more about yourself," he urged her.
She shook her head.
It should not be this way, he told himself.
He thought of her hands, how they hovered over her coffee cup and
silver, fragile fingers--not for any Corps. They were meant to help,
help the wounded, help children. His own fingers--he glared at them,
seeing the grime under the nails. They could not help. Concealing them
under his napkins, he shoved them between his legs: tomorrow I have to
clean out the grease. Shave. Wash my hair.
"They have such good things to eat here, at the Rondes'," Jean said.
"While Lena was ill I was here almost every day."
Squab ... peas ... souffle ... chicken ... omelette ... ham ...
"Umm!" he exclaimed.
The rain was moving about.
He stared at Jean's hair--the auburn, the copper.
As she turned her head the colors changed: hers was a dignified head,
heavy eyebrows, smooth forehead, thin nose, good head, loving ... her
lashes were darker than her eyebrows.
"Don't look at me like that," she objected earnestly, misunderstanding
him.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Men glare at me in the hospital," she said.
"It's nothing," he said, frowning, laying down his knife and fork. Have
I been staring at her in some crazy way? He forced himself to continue
eating; he had not eaten much but he was ready to leave the table.
Again he questioned love, how long did it last? A man's love for a
woman, a woman's for a man, a child's love for his parents? Life was
not much at cherishing love: it had lost that gift if it ever had that
gift for any length of time. Now, for love to endure very long it had
to mount a machine gun.
A switch clicked in his brain: a small gate opened: a Sherman tank
roared through the opening: a farm was burning.
After dessert and coffee, they sat in the living room where Claude had
fires blazing, lamps and candles lit. Lena's angora, curled on a floor
cushion, was fast asleep. Orville stroked him and he rolled over and
yawned and stretched: upstairs a door slammed. The mantel clock chimed
delicately: rain was making slow sounds.
Orville sat close to Jeannette on the sofa and the warmth of her body,
the warmth of her hands and the fires made him shut his eyes: nothing
was wrong; then she asked her disturbing question, that old question, as
though in great pain.
"Why do we have to die?"
She was remembering remembrances of London and Wisconsin, remembering
her father who had often said that death was not enough.
"... Hardly a question ... doesn't it evolve out of the medieval ages,
Jean? I guess they were asking that during the Crusades. During the
Inquisition. Sir Walter must have asked it. Joan. Maybe Christ?
"An important question ... but for some of us there's an answer: we die
to escape hell. I've been wanting to escape it. Our inquisition ...
can't we call it that? ... it's not something we cherish ... death is a
way out. You know that..."
"I shouldn't have asked ... I know better ... sometimes it seems there
ought to be a way to live without tragedy ... I want to make life
worthwhile for you, Orv. Back home. Together. I want it to be like
that."
He smiled a smile of thanks and love.
"I still think about Rousseau because I was brought up thinking about
him. Ermenonville's his shadow ... I grew up in that shadow. You want
to make life worthwhile for us ... he wanted to make life worthwhile for
the world. He was a brave guy--a fighter. You know ... he said
civilization is a disease. As the war hounds us, we see he was right.
He was a man of reveries ... I've wanted to be a man of reveries."
It seemed to Orville that Rousseau's philosophy was symbolized by the
white tomb on the island of poplars, by the swans on the Petit Lac. Men
paid their respect by pausing there, confronting the empty tomb.
Jean snuggled closer to Orv.
"Rousseau says we're slaves to our laws and thinks we can free ourselves
by respecting nature, making life simpler. Mom and I thought that too;
that's why we moved to the States ... we thought we wouldn't have to
kowtow to state or church or..."
Orville tasted his own slavery as he talked.
"Men still want to get rid of Rousseau ... too dangerous ... when you
read his _Confessions_ you see how he feels ... Me ... I like his
_Reveries_ ... maybe because he finished them in Ermenonville..."
Lapsing into silence they listened to the house and rain sounds.
Having read Rousseau's first chapters recently, she thumbed through
thoughts as they listened together. Firelight washed the ceiling,
polished the side of the grand piano. Someone was going up the
staircase--thoughtful steps. Servant voices sounded, then faded. A log
sent up brilliant sparks and then flared into saw teeth of orange and
red.
The cat rubbed against Orville's leg.
"I started out living pretty sanely ... at Cornell ... then I fell into
the war trap..."
"It will end, Orville dear. We'll be free soon."
"I wish I thought that."
"We must think that."
"Can luck begin once more? And why should you and I be lucky? Tell me
that. Don't tell me that somebody always is ... a lot of somebodies are
not ... I won't buy that guff."
Deep in his thinking he was convinced that he would not survive: the
conviction slapped him across the face: there it was, in the wood and
sparks and smoke. Getting up abruptly, he lit a cigarette, offering
Jean one.
Now he knew why the Chopin bust expressed mystery: its mystery was
death, death for those who have any kindness in them. Poor Chopin, so
long an exile, always dying, starved for love, always composing ... Part
of an etude rattled through Orville as he walked the floor: his mother
was sitting at the piano there, playing. He squinted at the marble and
the hooded eyes squinted back at him and he walked the length of the
room.
Jean sat with her chin on her hand, wanting to enjoy a movie in
Senlis--something sophisticated or humorous. She missed Chuck: he would
be glad to take her: they had been ardent movie buffs. She felt that he
would not have killed himself if she had been around to care for him,
read to him, help him go for walks. She felt she should have remained
in the States ... then, again, she saw the injured in Europe.
Of course Orville and I could attend a movie in Senlis, away from death.
Tomorrow? Tomorrow they will carry Lena out of this house.
As Claude drove Jean to the hospital, he told her what Lena had meant to
him, saying it well, saying tomorrow will be a rough day.
In the morning he and Orville carried Lena down the staircase to a
pickup truck: the undertaker, a sickly man of fifty, with a grey beard,
braided straw hat, and shabby clothes, was apologetic:
"... Pardon, Monsieur, the hearse wouldn't start ... I think, a little
later, for the funeral, I can get it started, yes ... I had to borrow
this truck. So little gas ... I wasn't sure I could come..."
As Orville covered Lena on the truck floor he heard what was being said:
he was not interested: drawing aside the blanket he had a final look, a
long look, seeing Lena when kindness was kindness, when responsibilities
were nil: fun, that was Lena: they felt they were more than cousins:
slowly folding the blanket over her he was keenly aware that he was
folding it over many things.
In his room he buzzed a reel on one of his Swiss rods: it seemed alive,
waiting for a bluebottle fly. He opened his creel, thumped it, unhooked
a couple of tempting flies and dropped them into the basket. Raising
the lid of his aluminum fly box he grinned:
Jesus ... all those beauties! Peacock quills ... cock's hackle ... crow
wing feathers ... spring, summer, and autumn Nonettes ...
Strewing flies on his bed he checked them one by one: no rust: such
colors!
With a pair of rods, a hatband of flies and his creel, he stole down the
rear stair and out of the house: there was not much wind ... it was cold
but not too damn cold for Jean: she would be there, at Rousseau's
statue, in the village.
She was to meet him at eleven--a change in time.
Eleven ... eleven-twenty ... eleven-thirty!
Saying good morning to several villagers, he half recognized a few of
them.
He eyed bird droppings on the _citoyen's_ bronze shoulders: purple
droppings, blue ones, yellow ones. What was the name of that opera he
had composed? But there, there she was, bustling, a rush basket on her
arm, her red hair blowing.
She had gotten out of her hospital uniform and was wearing corduroy and
sweater.
"Hi, Orv!"
"Hi, kid! You're late, according to my sundial," he said, smiling,
wanting to josh her.
"Oh, our cook was slow fixing our lunch ... he got into some kind of
dither. You know how cooks are! ... Just wait till you see what I've
got here in the basket!"
They kissed, crooked their arms together, and strolled out of the
village, along the Nonette, the sun breaking through onto the stream:
they did not walk far: he knew a fishing spot by an old ruin: among the
willows were regal chestnut and poplar and pine: brown leaves cluttered
the path, most of them soggy; it was as if nobody had walked there since
the days of Napoleon.
They cast from grassy embankments, from muddy flats, and from tiny sandy
beaches. She was as clever with her casting as he: it was Wisconsin
casting upstream versus New York casting downstream: what marvelous,
marvelous flies, she exclaimed.
"I didn't know you're a pro at tieing."
Her face in the leafy sunlight was half-shadow.
Sunlight fell on the huge ruined castle as they fished below it, from
blocks of masonry, thick, limestone slabs, some of them mossy and
intricately carved. Orville's stone--the one he was casting from--bore
a hooded falcon with Latin letters chiselled under its claws. They cast
into a pool overhung by a three-story chunk of masonry, a dark green
pool, free of snags or leaves, pool and castle merging. She dropped a
fly inside a water window: with each flick of the fly the window
disappeared, to reappear almost immediately. They didn't talk as they
fished. A dove talked. A raven settled in a pine, intrigued by the
fishermen. Downstream cattle waded, sucking softly, up to their knees
in the water.
"Good boy," Jean exclaimed, as he got a strike. "Bring him in easy ...
easy does it."
Releasing some line, he played his trout: the reel's spinning thrilled
him: the line sliced across the water, forming a ragged oval: he was in
New York again.
Jeannette longed to sign out, her job forsaken: she longed to keep him
forever.
"Not very big," he said, landing his catch. "A pound or so, I guess."
But he was very pleased.
"He's great ... he's great!"
She loved his face.
Plopping his catch into his creel, he said:
"There used to be some big ones in here ... years ago Prince Radziwill
stocked the Nonette. I've heard some tall stories."
"I've heard that the Radziwills still take care of Ermenonville," she
said, casting again. "I've never met any of the family ... they help
the hospital financially."
"They may convert their country house into a hospital," he said.
"I've heard that too."
While they fished the sun ducked behind the castle. Clouds. The kind
that seem to be sheared off a sheep appeared along the horizon, above
the trees; they seemed headed for the Nonette and E.
As Jean hopped from one block of masonry to another, she slipped into
the stream, soaking herself to the knees: for a while she kidded about
it but as the wind increased she complained of the cold.
"I've got to quit," she said, but at that moment, as she moved toward
the embankment for shelter from the wind, she got a strike. Too cold and
uncomfortable to play her fish she landed the trout quickly, saying:
"Okay ... okay ... I have to quit ... my sweater's not enough to keep me
warm ... let's go to the hospital..."
"Well we've each landed one. That's pretty darn good," he said.
Her rod against a tree, she fussed with her sweater collar and trousers,
appreciating Orville's graceful cast--the dimple of his fly as it
settled.
When will he have another chance?
"Stay on, Orville ... meet at the hospital ... go on ... you'll land
another one."
His thoughts, as he played his line, cameraed across time, clicked,
stopped: there he was with Lena in her boat on the Nonette: she was
trolling, the wind warm, cattails along the banks ...
"I'm coming, Jean ... Just a second."
As he wound the line, speeding his reel, he watched swallows dip, fly
close to the water, rise, ride the wind, turn.
"Let's have our lunch at the hospital," she suggested, as they walked
together. She carried Orville's creel and he carried the lunch basket
and poles. The sky's greyness worked lower into surrounding trees and
fields. Jean shivered as they followed a willow path: she was glad to
hump along briskly.
"Her funeral will be tomorrow," he said.
"Yes, I know," she said.
"Will you be able to come?"
"I think so."
"You and I have seen a lot of death."
"Yes, we have."
"Life's not supposed to be like that."
They detoured to the hospital kitchen. Opening a half-door, placing
their basket on a plank table, Jean told the cook what a mess she was
in.
"Can we eat here?"
"Change your clothes, then have your picnic here, where it's warm. I'll
give you all the hot soup you can eat. You'll be all right in no time,
Mlle. Jean."
He was an obese fellow of seventy or so, his arms swirled with golden
hairs, his moustache white like his crop of hair. He thought Jeannette
very amusing, her accent reminding him of the French he had heard as a
lad in Canada.
While Jean changed, Orville enjoyed soup at the deal table, thinking of
Uncle Victor, Lena, the war: it was possible that Victor would be unable
to attend the burial. If he came, what would they say to each other?
Casual stuff about the war? A string of dull comments about the U.S.?
Something banal about Lena? He was concerned about Aunt Therese ...
That sadness of hers: those hollow eyes!
Through the half-door, Orville could watch the street: villagers in
raincoats, in thick sweaters, some under umbrellas, people and pigeons,
rain, wind, Nazis. Suddenly, nurses flooded the kitchen, entering
through an inside door, some with trays of dishes. Annoying the cook,
they swooped around his stove. Suddenly, they were gone, carrying their
trays and chatter into an adjoining room.
Jeannette and Orville ate at the table, the talkative chef hovering
about, yarning about old times in E. They ate hungrily and then dropped
into a tobacco shop for cigarettes, and Orville bought a copy of _Le
Senlis_.
The proprietor was opinionated about the drab future of France: he
ranted about the Occupation, about local corruption, a big man with a
big mouth. Orville lit a cigarette and slammed the door on him--the
fellow still griping. Jean rolled the newspaper and tucked it under her
arm. Orville held the umbrella. Wind and rain took over as they walked
toward the hospital.
... The sneers of life: so you had a cousin but didn't dare sleep with
her because of your puritanism ... emergency leave ... emergency
thoughts ... you ... you went fishing and gave your catch to the cook
... you have a girl named Jean ... you bought a newspaper ...
Was that Victor's car up ahead?
Is that our military hero, our 1918 professional?
Claude is shutting the car doors.
Well, here we are at the hospital, shall we go in out of the rain?
It was almost fishing in the rain, when fish really bite. A fishing
funeral: is that on tomorrow's agenda? Yes, tomorrow she is to be
buried ... Yes, a cup of coffee, Claude ... Yes, miserable weather.
Yes, Jean's returned: she's on duty.
Orville and Victor sat in the living room: Orville's fishing rods were
leaning against a wall.
"So, you went fishing in the rain?"
"No, Uncle Victor ... it wasn't raining..."
"Any luck? ... I used to have good luck."
"I caught one."
"Ah!"
Flipping open a cigar box, Victor offered cigars.
During seven years the man had become another man: his silky white hair
was brushed over a bald spot; his moustache had become a gentle weed;
there was no color in his cheeks; his chin was porcelain white: what had
happened to his eyes? And his voice? Words came painfully.
A long rectangular coffee table stood between them: on it lay several
current magazines and paperbacks. Colonel Ronde called Bichain and
asked for coffee and a fire in one of the fireplaces.
"Turn on some lamps, Claude."
"It's been years, many years, since we've talked ... did we talk very
much when you were here ... ah, these wars!" His eyelids lifted and the
pupils bored into Orville. "You resemble your dad ... a man I always
liked ... it seems only yesterday he was here." He tugged at a lapel of
his blue serge and then screwed a finger in his ear.
"Bob believed that there never would be another war, he felt that
nations couldn't afford one ... he was thinking of money, the waste of
money ... he was clever with money ... he would not have been able to
understand the billions poured into this crusade." Ronde cracked the
band of his cigar, letting it drop onto the rug.
He described his Marseilles-Paris freight services: he was the line's
supervisor (five years): he sketched in his military duties, carried out
on the side:
"You know I was flown here in a biplane ... to a deserted farm. Active
... ah, active duty, you see."
The problems of the protracted German occupation worried him: problems
that involved the desperate underground. He said that Lena had been
with the Maquis ...
All bravery and foolhardiness ...
"I've tried to keep away from the Maquis for the sake of my family and
business. I'm afraid of reprisals in Marseille and here in little
Ermenonville, after the war. Lena was often entrusted with important
documents ... I suspect that the Maquis were using her ... I think you
get what I infer."
"She had never opened up with me," Orville said.
"I reject her kind of game. It always gets sticky. Your friends become
suspect; your peace of mind is shattered ... it's, umm, ah, bad." He
smoked thoughtfully. "War is preferable to that kind of deceit. I
don't want to blackmail my brain..."
For Orville the relationship was becoming meaningful; he wanted to
continue talking, and as they talked he began to confide:
" ... You understand how our draft works ... you see, I was drafted ...
I tried to make myself believe in personal sacrifice ... sure, sure, we
would accomplish great things--world progress. I hardly knew what
Nazism was. Okay. Invasion. Rescue Europe. To hell with Rommel. Ike
and de Gaulle! I thought of you and Lena and Aunt Therese ... my
Ermenonville. I knew that France was having it rough ...
"At Cornell I got the architecture bug ... sure, a job ... a life doing
churches, houses, barns, silos. That was my idea of freedom. If you ask
me what freedom is I don't know anymore. Right now ... now I'm shackled
... this killing business has me!"
Orville attempted to analyze his uncle's face: was he betraying himself,
hurting Ronde?
Bombers roared over the house, but when it was quiet he continued:
"I have visited Dad's grave. I've been re-thinking ... why is he dead
and why am I living?"
The colonel shook his head, and puffed his cigar.
"You've something to live for," he said. "You have your Jean. It's a
matter of weeks, Orville, because Nazi Germany is collapsing ... only a
matter of weeks. You must manage to stay alive. Look, you are fighting
criminals, not soldiers. There's a prison named Auschwitz where the
Nazis are murdering thousands of Jews, innocents, women, kids. German
factories employ slave labor..."
The clock on the mantel chimed three: Claude was laying a fire in a
fireplace and glanced at the clock and then at the men: he had placed
liqueurs on the table but they were unaware.
Momentarily, Ronde thought of Lena and Orville playing together as kids:
they had meant much to each other: their relationship had pleased almost
everyone who knew them: when he radio-phoned General Meade to grant a
leave to Orville it was this relationship Ronde was remembering. Meade
had met both Lena and Orville when a guest at Ermenonville, in '38.
"Jeannette wants to marry," Orville went on. "I'm not sure how, on
faith ... my Jean. Can I tell you that there are no real compensations?
It's illusion, self-delusion, or nothing!"
Aunt Therese came in and embraced them: pale, very sad, she took a
rocker beside her husband, a shawl about her shoulders.
"I'm glad you've found each other," she said with childish abruptness.
It was comforting to her to have the men together, it eased her loss for
the moment; it brought to mind a summer six years ago when there had
been a family reunion for her birthday, people from Marseilles, Paris,
St. Cloud, Senlis. She saw in Victor's face that reunion: why, they
were growing old in Ermenonville!
"It wasn't so long ago that I was religious, I was a girl who secreted
her crucifix under her pillow, who loved her rosary. It wasn't fear or
superstition. I thought of Christ as my friend: I counted on him ...
"You men count on guns. God's never been real to you; we all know that
those who go to war are disregarding thou shall not. I had Christ as my
friend in those days..."
Claude had left the room. They were silent. The logs were crackling.
"Lena turned her back on Christ," she added. "There was no god to help
her through bad times. She felt that there is no eternal life. The war
was her life."
"Youth ... the hunger of youth," said Victor, as though talking to
himself. "Her country, the struggle for world freedom ... wasn't it
something like that?"
"Perhaps so ... but I know that each of us is poorer for losing faith
... and losing her ... our Lena." She rocked in her rocker, hands
clenched on the arms of the chair.
Next morning they sat together in the village church, skinny blue glass
windows on each side of the room, the altar small and primitively
carved, its gold leaf badly scaled. An 18th century reliquary of gilt
wood--a miniature of gem-like quality--adorned a side table. Its scarf
was tattered, many of the metallic threads tarnished and broken, their
story the story of the crucifixion.
Orville sat between his aunt and uncle, Jeannette beside Victor: he
noticed Annette, Claude, Celeste, Thomassont, neighbors, strangers: was
one of them Charles Chabrun, her lover from Paris? Had Claude informed
him of Lena's death? As everyone knelt on the kneeling pads Orville
looked at Jeannette, considering things she had said indicative of her
faith: it seemed to be a nurse's faith, if there was such a faith.
Candles burned on the altar and alongside Lena's coffin; somebody was
playing a Bach chorale on the organ: the room was cold: icy cold: chill
seeped from the tiled floor and from behind the organ where there seemed
to be a smashed window or open door.
How kind to fuss over the dead like this; it meant so much more than
death on the battlefield.
As Orville knelt, he started a letter to his mother in the back of his
mind, writing it in French, the language she loved most:
Dear Mom:
When I arrived in E I found that Lena was dead of pneumonia. I know you
will be saddened by this news. You two got along so well together. It
is rough these days, but you already know this. I am glad that you are
not in Europe. Your Europe exists no longer.
I know I have not written to you for a long time. I simply can not
write. There is nothing new to tell you. Our Corps is engaged in
battle after battle; you would not want me to recount that kind of
stuff. The war, as I see it, seems far from ending: resistance is
bitter and strong. I am told that the war may end shortly. I don't
believe it ...
Orville glanced about the church, at the windows, at the ceiling, at the
grains in the pew in front of him, syrup-colored grains.
Mom ... our enemy is collective insanity. It is everyone's enemy. I
feel it, here in Ermenonville (even in church) ... I feel impelled to
revolt against all things. I hate myself for I am to blame for many of
the things that have happened to me, tragic things.
In Africa, as we fought against Rommel's tank corps, we had hopes of one
kind and another. Those hopes have vanished one by one ... some of us
are at the bottom rung.
If I get home I will not attend church with you, or go with anyone: my
brain won't stomach it: if I fail to grasp theological preachment it is
due to man's insensate cruelty and nothing I can see ahead cancels those
experiences. My Jesus has been a trigger Jesus. My chapter and verse
have been pain and explosives.