Drawing Blood (11 page)

“Cleary … what the fuck?”

He looked up to the doorway. Murphy filled the frame, rifle at his hip, looking plenty pissed. “What?”

“What the fuck was that? You’re going to get killed pulling shit like that.” When Murphy was mad or overwhelmed he cursed, David remembered. That was the only time. It sounded strange.

“It was you two or me,” David said, and even to him it sounded stupid.

They took up positions next to the windows, pushing the dead bodies out of the way. They would a few targets in the buildings along the street, up on the higher levels. They took a few out before they were found. That was about the time the Panzer rolled forward behind a decimated bakery.

“Shit,” David and Jasper said it in unison. That huge barrel swung in their direction, and they beat feet down the stairs as the building shook around them. On the ground floor they all ducked under the stairwell. It stayed strong, and once the damage was done they flew back out the back door, joining their team where they’d left them.

By the end of that day they’d taken the town and met their D-Day target one day late. They didn’t know it at the time, but the Canadian Third Infantry was the first corps to do just that. All they knew by days’ end was that many more were dead or dying and they’d just gotten started.

Chapter Eighteen

Elliot

The baker’s face was gaunt, Elliot realized. The hollows around his eyes were very deep and looked almost bruised. His cheekbones were very prominent. Even his moustache seemed like it had lost weight rapidly. His son, however, had the complexion and round face of a well-fed child. It wasn’t hard to see where the man’s priorities were, and Elliot felt like an ass asking him to spare something to eat.

He’s known it would be a futile mission anyway. But after days of being on foot eating canned food and very little of it, he would have loved to have found something made fresh for the men, even it was shared among the dozens of them at just a bite a piece.

This man had nothing. And if he was lying, the food was going to the four-year-old who had been born in an occupied city and had never known a time of peace.

Elliot couldn’t begrudge him that.

He thanked the man in French, stepping back on to the street while putting his helmet back on. Cleary was right behind him, shadowing the movement himself. “It was a nice try, sir.”

Elliot shrugged. “Looks like it’s rations for us.” The food was starting to go further. He himself found he could only stomach so much solid food at a time as it was. Too much and he felt sick, and there were fewer stomachs now period.

Falaise had fallen, the Germans were defeated. Great news, but all Elliot knew for sure was that half his company was gone. They had control of the town now, and the civilians were coming out of their basements and shelters to thank them.

It was nice of them, but all these people milling about made him very nervous. He knew that these people had been oppressed for years, but people had changed sides before. He was worried about someone pulling out a gun and taking out their officers, or just shooting indiscriminately.

What Elliot was really hoping to find here was food. But it was a city, and rations were strict. All people had to share here was booze, and he didn’t want that getting passed around. They had to stay sharp.

After he and Cleary determined that there wasn’t even a cup of extra flour to be found, they had at least one thing to look forward to: an apartment building had been commandeered by German officers, and it was still stocked with mattresses. Sleeping inside on a soft bed was almost as good as mom’s meatloaf and chocolate cake.

It was twilight, and on the sidewalks civilians were visiting with British and Canadian soldiers on each street and corner, sharing cigarettes and stories in broken English.

“I guess it’s not a big deal,” Cleary was saying. “A good meal just might make us soft, right?”

Elliot smiled to himself as they crossed by an alleyway. A muffled cry made him stop.

“Sergeant Murphy?” David asked, but Elliot was looking down an alleyway, intent on that sound. It had been faint but desperate.

It came against on the heels of another sharp sound, not unlike an open-handed slap. This cry was louder, then became soft again. Cleary had heard it this time, too.

Elliot had David behind him as he started in to the shadows, and the scuffling sound grew louder. Soon they found out what was happening.

A soldier had a girl pinned against face-first against the wall, pushing her skirt up to her hips. His forearm was across the back of her neck, pinning her painfully in place.

There wasn’t a moment of hesitation. Elliot grabbed the guy by the collar and hauled him away as the girl fell to her knees on the ground, sobbing. Elliot tossed the solider away, telling him to button up and get the fuck out of there.

Surprisingly, the guy spun around and tried to punch him. But David was there, tackling him to the ground.

“Cleary,” Elliot said in his cautioning tone. But the kid was fine: the guy was under control after a couple shots to the gut.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? We’re here to help people you fuck,” David was snarling as he got to his feet. The soldier looked up at them, eyes hazy.

“She’s a whore,” he spat. “They all told me how she sucked German cock for extra rations. I figure I earned something.”

Elliot was ashamed that this kid was a Canadian. “Are you drunk?”

“No sir.”

“At least pretend to be to explain this supreme stupidity. And get the hell out of here. You touch another woman forcefully and Cleary here will plant a size eleven boot so far up your ass you’re tasting shoe leather for a month.”

The young man did as told, and the whole time the girl had only slid down the wall to crouch on the ground. She hadn’t said a word. Her knees were scuffed, he realized, probably from being tossed against the wall. When he looked closer he realized she had to be around fifteen, sixteen. Her lip was split from being struck, and he felt his anger rise up again. He dress was torn, her hair mussed. She looked like a child trying to play grown up, and maybe she was. Elliot wanted to hurt someone for this, but the one to blame was gone.

“Actually my feet are only ten-and-a-half,” Cleary admitted as Elliot held out a hand to help her off the ground.

She shrunk away. He couldn’t really blame her. He held both hands out, palms towards her to show her he had no violent intentions towards her, then he and Cleary just continued on their way. He didn’t know enough French to tell her she was going to be okay. So instead he looked over his shoulder after a moment, and she was gone.

“Jesus.  How old do you think she was?”

“Fifteen,” David guessed immediately.

“Yeah, I thought the same.”

That was all they said about it.

As they neared the apartment building where actual beds awaited them, they were greeted by Lieutenant Chambers from D-company. His rifle was over his shoulder, helmet on and buckled, pack on his back. Elliot heard his inner voice groan.

“We’re moving out,” Chambers informed them. “The whole Third’s moving north. Get packed.”

“So close,” David muttered. “My feet are actually dry and everything.” Chambers just smiled and strode past them. “That guy is such a fucking hero. He’s loving this shit, isn’t he?”

Elliot just shrugged. He was suddenly feeling old; tired, worn out, and incredibly angry that his chance to sleep on a mattress was gone. Of all the ridiculous things to grate on a person’s nerves.

“Get packed,” he told Cleary. The man just nodded and ran off to collect his things.

A passing Canadian was walking by lighting a cigarette. Elliot asked him for one and a light and he got it. He’d never smoked a day in his life. But it seemed like he may as well try it now. It was likely bad for a person but … so was all this.

He choked on that first drag. Despite the sputtering and watering eyes he drew on it again, this time not falling apart like a school kid. His lungs ached from the coughing fit but the rest of the cigarette felt … pretty good, actually.

Once he was kitted up and ready C-company all made for the transport trucks that were gassing up to head out and drop them in dangerous unknown places. He found himself parked between Cleary and Walton, enjoying their back and forth by way of a distraction.

Three minutes out of the city and the trucks stopped. That’s when Elliot realized they really hadn’t been far from the front lines the whole time they’d been in so-called civilization.

They unloaded double-file from the trucks, standing to watch their safe transport speed away back the way they’d come. Then they all turned, almost in unison, and began walking.

Even Elliot had no idea what their goal was. He was still mourning the loss of a good night’s sleep. They hadn’t reached a ridge of trees and greenery before the world exploded in fire and the air was full of singing ammunition.

He hit the ground instinctively, pulling the rifle around off his back as he fell. He could already hear and smell the wounded around him as he sighted the tree line for muzzle flashes. There was a mortar team in there somewhere too. He had to keep moving or he was a stationary target.

Up and running, crouched low, dropping again when the bullets got close. He could see outlines of men in the trees now. He took aim on them, spraying each zone with ammunition. Then it was his turn to run again.

It was strange how he thought nothing of it now; run, duck, not shot? Good. Get up and go again. If this was starting to feel normal …

“Sergeant, you’re hit.” Elliot blinked at Craig Jasper, sprawled out next to him, flattened, just like him. The man was looking down at his leg.

Elliot swiveled his head around to see what it was. There was blood, he could see that. But he couldn’t feel anything. He looked back at Jasper. “Not a bad one, don’t worry.”

Then he was up and running again. He could feel the wetness on his leg now that he was aware of it, but it still didn’t hurt. He had other things on his mind.

He was running at the tree line. He heard people shouting behind him, he didn’t stop. He ran right at where he knew he’d taken out a gunner, and no one had taken up that position yet. As he hit the pocket the gunner had made for himself, he dropped to one knee, picking up the machine gun the dead man had no use of. He turned it to his right, catching another gunner as he realized their ambush had been infiltrated. The man next to him was faster, but not as fast as Elliot. His shirt front exploded bright red as well, and Elliot swung back around to catch the mortar team as they stood to take aim at him.

He cut them all down. All four of them. When he stopped firing there wasn’t another sound, other than a few shots of the left from the rest of his company.

He was breathing hard. The sound of his own heart pumping was louder than the other gun shots, and when they tapered off he was vaguely aware of voices shouting to each other. Next the sound of men screaming came back to him.

He dropped the machine gun, and it tangled in his rifle sling. He cursed and unhitched the strap, and it clattered to the forest floor. Then he sat down.

His legs were sprawled out in front of him. He looked down at the growing stain on his outer left thigh. A soft voice came to him through that reverie.

“Sergeant Murphy?”

He turned his head and it felt very slow. He blinked. The medic was looking at him with an odd expression. “I’m okay,” he assured Wilkins. “I think it grazed me.”

Wilkins set to work patching up his leg, and sure enough it was the combat equivalent of a paper cut. It wasn’t even big enough to stitch. He’d had to rip open the pant leg, but after it was all bandaged up Elliot set about stitching the pants back together again. His hands were trembling like he was palsied and it took much longer than it should have.

Someone rapped against his helmet with knuckles and a khakied body dropped to the ground next to him with a sigh. He looked up to determine that it was Cleary then went back to his clumsy needle point.

“You’re going to get killed pulling shit like that,” Cleary said in a strange voice, and it took Elliot a moment to realize that Cleary was mocking him: the exact same expression he’d used himself.

He looked back up, and Cleary’s sheepish smile made him roar with laughter until his sides hurt and his eyes were watering.

Then he realized it wasn’t the laughing. He was actually crying. All he’d wanted was a bed to sleep in.

Chapter Nineteen

David

It seemed like he had been soaked to the core for the last three and a half months straight. He couldn’t remember the last time his clothes were dry. And at that point he would have considered sawing off his own arm for a clean uniform.

David pulled on the nearly-dry socks he’d been carrying around his neck. The wet ones took their place, and he shuddered at how cold they already felt.

Reinhold was carrying around a pot of something steaming, and David held out his cup. It smelled fantastic, but since he hadn’t eaten since the night before that wasn’t saying much. Shoe leather was looking good some days, too.

The stew tasted old, but it was still food so he wolfed it down quickly. It was enough to stop the rumbling in his gut, and he poured some water in it after, swished it around and made sure all the gravy was gone.

Clyde fell to sit next to him, working on his own helping. He elbowed David and nodded his head to a spot behind him. “You seeing this?”

David peered around Clyde, noting Sergeant Murphy talking with a lot of the higher-up brass that had suddenly shown up to tell them what a great job they were doing. They were all shaking hands, slapping shoulders. Smiles all around.

“What is it?”

“I think the Sergeant’s getting a promotion.”

“Murphy? Lieutenant?”

Clyde nodded, swallowing. “Past due if you ask me. The guy’s a machine.” He pointed with his spoon. “You know that no one believes that the five of us took out two bunkers on Juno? They all think we’re full of shit. Then I mention that Murphy was in charge and suddenly the story has some kind of credibility. And at Caen? Falaise? If we weren’t with him …”

David was nodding along. Clyde was right. He likely should have been promoted on D-Day. Their Lieutenant hadn’t made it up the beach. That’s when Sergeant Baker had been put in charge, but after he was killed in Caen no one had replaced him.

They’d been a little busy.

“This tastes weird today,” Clyde went on, unaffected by everything, as always.

“Eat it faster and you won’t taste it,” David suggested.

Clyde didn’t hear him. “When are we going to see locals again? That was the best meal I’d ever had. Maybe. I can’t remember.”

A farming community had welcomed them in to their town hall for the night a few days after they had taken Falaise. It was the first time they’d been under a roof since D-Day. A band had come to entertain them, too, made up of an accordion, guitar player and singer. David hadn’t known the words to any of the songs, but they had sounded like heaven. He momentarily had forgotten what gunfire, grenades, tanks and Bofors sounded like. He was listening to something that wasn’t made to destroy things. It was made to spread joy.

Clyde remembered the roast the farmers had prepared, and the mounds of potatoes, gravy, homemade bread. David remembered the music. Oh, and the girls. Of course.

He finished lacing his boots, smiling to himself as he remembered that night. Their entire company had been nearly embarrassed by the gratitude of that town. Not a single person there spoke English but a few guys in the brigade spoke French, some fluently. The locals kept thanking everyone. The men all shook hands with every one of them, tears in their eyes. The woman all kissed their cheeks, hugged them tight. Fed them, over-fed them, then fed them some more.

David couldn’t remember too much about the food. He remembered the girl serving the potatoes, though. As the meal was cleared away and the old ladies started grabbing people to dance with, she had taken his hand and led him outside.

She looked shy, true. But shy girls didn’t take strange men outside and lead them in to old, decrepit outbuildings. They didn’t turn around and lean against the walls, hiking their skirt up to show their thighs, licking their lips.

It took him two strides to cross the small shed to her, and rather than kiss him she’d reached for his fly, sliding one hand inside his trousers. He’d been waiting for her to pull a knife to slit his throat, and that’s when he realized he’d been away from civilians for a very long time. She pressed her warm, full lips to his as she stroked him with one hand, very nearly finishing him off in about thirty seconds. He’d stopped her, leaned her against the wall, grunting as she essentially climbed him, wrapping lithe and strong legs around his waist. He used one hand to free himself of his pants, the other to touch her and make sure this wasn’t going to hurt. It hadn’t; she wanted him.

Of course it was brief, but still intense. He thought she liked it; it was hard to be sure without being able to ask her. She’d climbed down off him, pulling her skirt back down, kissed his cheek, and left him to stuff himself back in his pants before he could follow her. She hadn’t so much as told him her name.

They’d been gone all of five minutes when they returned to the hall, but David felt like he’d taken a healthy two-week rest from battle after that.

David looked up as Lou stopped in front of him again. Murphy was passing, a stunned look on his face. Lou held up a ladle of stew. “Sergeant? Hungry, sir?”

Murphy stared at him for a beat then looked around. “I – I can’t remember where I left my … uhh …”

David held up his mug. “Sir? Use mine.”

Murphy took it, smiling. “Thanks Cleary. Appreciate it. Mine’s here somewhere I just …”

Lou served him his share then Murphy sunk to the ground on the other side of David. He took his first mouthful, froze with the spoon in his mouth and looked back at David. “What? What is it? I can’t eat with you two gawking at me.”

David glanced back to Clyde and realized they were both studying him, likely with the same stupid looks on their faces. Even Lou was still staring down on him.

Murphy sighed. “Yeah, they made me Lieutenant. So let me finish eating.”

Lou shot David a grin then moved on to find another victim for his cooking. David smiled down at his feet.

“Congratulations, sir,” he said, the smile obvious in his voice. It was funny to them because if there was one thing Murphy hated, it was subservience. This promotion would be as comfortable for him as paper cuts drenched in lemon juice.

“Stuff it, Cleary.”

“Stuffing it … sir.”

Even Murphy was smiling. “Just for that, you’re first watch tonight.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Being on watch at night was hardly a punishment. David couldn’t figure out how anyone could sleep in their situation. On a good night he maybe got three rounds of a half hour to forty-five minutes of actual shut-eye. The rest of the time lay with his eyes closed, listening for the sounds of someone coming to kill him.

Around him men were snoring, and he kept watchful eyes trained in the general direction of the front. Strange how there weren’t even any birds out here, he thought. It was like they knew better. He was sitting cross-legged behind a fallen log, rifle ready. All he could hear was the blood pounding through his ears, until Clyde rolled over in his sleep and let out a rumbling belch. The guy didn’t even wake himself up. It made David chuckle.

Then he heard mechanized rumbling. Voices. He waited before causing alarm, his entire body tensing up. He had to be sure it was worth worrying about.

David tried to see where it was coming from first. It wasn’t behind them, it was certainly straight ahead. He reached out to shake Clyde awake. “Hey,” he whispered. Clyde came awake immediately.

“Wah?”

“Shhh. Hey. Go get Murphy.”

The good thing about Clyde was always he did as asked. He rolled to his side and scrambled on hands and feet, staying low.

David’s gaze was trained on what he could see of the trees, looking for moving shadows, things that hadn’t been there before. But nothing was making itself seen.

Murphy and Clyde came back, no one asking any questions. The three of them listened and watched. The voices came again, louder, and definitely speaking German.

David felt his pulse speed up. Every nerve tightened.

“Clyde, make sure everyone’s awake. Absolutely silence, right? Armed and ready, then you fall back to the tanks. Tell them where they are.” Clyde nodded as Murphy finished whispering, then made his silent way around the men, sleeping and awake.

Murphy brought his rifle in line with David’s, quiet as the grave. They both were watching down the sights of their barrels. David could hear the men shifting behind them, waking and preparing to engage.

“My command,” Murphy breathed, barely loud enough for David to hear. David just nodded to show he’d heard.

David could see them now. There were men on foot; casual, weapons low, hip level. Just on a walk through the woods at night. In a war zone.

“Left point,” Murphy gave his assignment. “I’m right point. These guys can have the rest.”

“Yes sir.”

David found his assignment and kept his eye trained solely on his man. Murphy was shifting around, likely making sure everyone behind them was at the ready.

David heard the rifle fire next to him, and he saw the man next to his target fall as he squeezed off his first round. His target had time to look down at his friend before he dropped, too. Then David turned his attention to the next man in line. He was able to hit three more before they regrouped and realized where the shots were coming from. Then they took positions and started returning fire.

The first mortar shell sounded from behind them, and it landed in the midst of the approaching platoon. There was yelling, then David could see a few men rise and retreat from their ground cover. He caught two of them.

And that’s when the tank rolled forward.

“Oh shit.” Murphy didn’t curse a lot. “Fall back,” he shouted over the gunfire. “Fall back – now!”

No one needed to be told. The first tank shell came their way, and David and Murphy stayed where they were, covering their head. It struck well east of them, and they didn’t wait for anyone to improve their aim. They were up and running, too.

Smaller ammunition was following them. Without thinking David put himself right behind Murphy; someone had to have the guy’s back.

“Get up here with me,” Murphy was shouting, but David stayed right behind him.

Something burned in his shoulder, and David stumbled as though shoved but stayed on his feet.

The next tank round made a hell of a boom, and David grabbed Murphy by the shoulders, veering them both right. They dropped down in to a dale, rolling through grass and leaves. His right shoulder protested painfully as he hit the ground, and heat exploded through his leg suddenly. David knew he was shrieking, reaching for his leg as an explosion rocked the ground to the right, next to some kind of huge tree he couldn’t name. Murphy was leaning over him, shouting at him. David couldn’t track what he was saying: his ears were ringing and everything was starting to look fuzzy … and golden, like it was lit from within. He saw the tree trunk coming, tried to shove Murphy off of him and out of the way. Then everything went black .