A Midnight Clear. William Wharton

the Bible? Answer: A fine couth tome. How in Saint’s name am I ever going to make it as sergeant with a mind that’s scattering all over the landscape like this? I’ve got to concentrate!

      Now Love slips his fresh, orderly-ironed, tailored shirt over his sagging shoulders and turns to face us in his combat pose, shined combat boots about two feet apart, rocking slightly on his toes and buttoning. The tucking of shirttails is a prolonged ritual.

      Lord, he’s got on his ‘recon patrol’ face. We’re going into combat, yes, sir, stand up to the Huns. My slouch gets easier to hold. I can feel that sausage where my heart’s supposed to be.

      Love walks around behind the map and leans on it. It’s angled slightly toward him. He looks up at us and smiles. Here it comes. Three of us on a tiger patrol sneak behind the Siegfried Line and take a prisoner – preferably an officer of staff rank, one who speaks English.

      Love picks up a marking pencil and points at the map.

      We are in for one of Love’s briefings. It’s usually a rehash of what’s been funneled down from division which some creative soul dreamed up at G2 or army intelligence from aerial photos taken fifteen months ago. I must admit, though, Love has the dramatic flair; probably comes from selling all those expensive coffins to grief-stricken little old ladies.

      ‘Lieutenant Ware, Sergeant Knott, as you know, here in this sector of the Ardennes, we have a fluid and, at the same time, static front.’

      He looks to see if we’re comprehending the big words.

      ‘It’s fluid because of these large forest tracts, virtually without roads.’

      He circles some fuzzy parts of the map with his pencil.

      ‘It’s static because nothing has happened here for several months.

      ‘We’re here. And they’re there.’

      Again some pencil twirling to show the lines.

      ‘Neither side wants to set up a line without clear fields of fire, and nobody’s moving.’

      He snaps off another of his Robert Taylor glances up from under the eyebrows. By God, that’s it! I knew Love looked familiar; he’s a sort of faggy Robert Taylor. I need to check this with the squad; it could be only personal prejudice.

      ‘Right here is a five-hundred-acre forest.’

      He traces, again on the celluloid, the forest. This time he makes real marks, so we’re getting serious. My eggs have put themselves back together and are a whole egg, shell and all, just behind my belly button.

      ‘There’s an intersection of two tertiary roads, not paved, almost in the center of the forest. At the intersection is a château.

      ‘At the eastern end, here, is a hunting lodge.’

      He gives us another conspiratorial – up from under eyebrows – steely glance.

      ‘We strongly suspect Jerry has an observation post or outpost there.’

      Oh boy, the plot sickens. Just snuggle up behind those guys and capture a few. I think I’ll faint here in the S2 tent. Or maybe I’ll dash over and tear at Tucker’s fly, while working up a proper drool. Sorry, Father Mundy, I know not what I do; just testing out a possible quick Section Eight.

      ‘Sergeant Knott, I want you to move into that château with your reduced squad. Take two jeeps, one with the fifty caliber mounted; also a week’s rations. Take a 506 radio and keep in contact with us here at regiment.’

      Is this it? Is Love telling me we’re going to live in a château? I wait.

      ‘Lieutenant Ware, you maintain radio contact with Sergeant Knott. We’ll hold the other recon squad here at regiment for any additional patrol work.

      ‘Sergeant Knott, your squad will either be relieved by the end of the week or additional rations will be sent out, according to operational conditions.’

      Ware sort of halfway pulls himself to attention.

      ‘When do you want these men sent out, sir?’

      ‘Tomorrow morning at o-eight-hundred. They’re to keep an eye on any enemy outposts in the area and man posts to surveil the bridge and road going past the château.’

      Love turns to me.

      ‘Well, Sergeant Knott, your squad can’t complain about this one. The Whiz Kids can live like kings.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Sir, is there any evidence of occupation at the château?’

      ‘That’s one of the things you’re to find out, Sergeant. Here’s a chance to use our “intelligence” in a little “reconnaissance” for a change.’

      He smiles his undertaker’s smile, ghoulish anticipation.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Always a hooker. Six guys in two jeeps rolling up to a château in the middle of somebody’s (nobody’s sure whose) forest and inviting themselves in. We can always dog it if things look bad. Most of us have wagging tails, floppy ears and the mange from dogging it during times like this. We are not the best choice for I and R work.

      Love’s finished with his after-toilet before-breakfast military operation. We go through the whole saluting dismissal routine and I break clear of Ware fast. I need advice from the squad. Maybe this might be the chance we need to quit the war. A whole week with nobody looking.

      That’s rot! We’ll do it. For sure, we’ll baby-sit Love’s château in the middle of a frozen forest filled with people trying to kill us.

      I don’t know what makes us think we’re so smart. Just because we can take tests, do crossword puzzles, play bridge, chess and other games; just because we read too damned much, we think we’re something special. Shits like Love or Ware are the real smart ones if you look at it objectively. They stay alive. That’s intelligence!

      2

      The Longest Night

      It snowed during the night, but lightly; temperature’s dropped at least ten degrees. The first snow fell in the Saar for my nineteenth birthday.

      I was on a full-day artillery observation post with the squad twenty-power scope. I’d spent the morning peering through drifting whiteness, trying to keep from breathing on the lenses. It was beautiful, even the black blossoms of mortar; they were far enough away. I’d pick a spot and wait till it happened; you can do this when you get to know the patterns. Now, when I look at the Brueghels in Vienna, I remember my nineteenth birthday.

      Here, this morning, going out, there are frozen leaves and pinecones on the ground when we pass through K Company and drive into the forest. The road’s just two hard ruts; the light, new snow’s blown into them. No sign of other traffic; rough riding, slippery, cold. Miller’s driving our jeep; Wilkins and I, in back, take turns on the fifty caliber. I’m up; it’s miserably cold sitting there in the icy wind.

      As we go deeper into the forest, huge pines loom dark on both sides. Some light is coming into the sky. We drive along not saying much; absolutely beautiful sniper targets.

      Gordon’s driving the other jeep, with Father Mundy and Shutzer; I look back to see if they’re still with us.

      Wilkins taps me and I slide down. He uses the handhold to climb up and crouch behind the sights. Wilkins looks scared, but we’re all looking scared most of the time. We haven’t said anything about our cross-country jaunt through the woods. Maybe it’s because we can’t figure out who won. Wilkins is acting as if it didn’t happen. That’s OK; just thinking about something like that scares me.

      Mother has a piece of blanket cut into a long scarf; he’s tucked it under his helmet like a burnous, then wrapped it around his neck and stuffed it inside his field jacket. It gives him a sad Lawrence of Arabia look. Thank God Sergeant Hunt isn’t around