Part 7

"Now ... now where?" she made herself ask.

"Across the field," he said.

"Your aunt said it may rain."

"We can't let a little thing like rain stop us."

"I'm game."

"Give me your hand."

"What about our bikes?"

"Nobody will bother them."

"Wait ... not so fast. My skirt's tight."

"Jump."

A field of grass: after the tank corps any field was inviting. In Ithaca, fields had extended toward the lake, downslope, fields between residences and groves: _High above Cayuga's waters_ ... the Cornell song twanged for an instant.

He led the way.

Jeannette thought him handsome in his floppy trousers, tight striped jacket. How far off the hospital and its wounded! Orville, she said to herself. "Orv, Orv!" she said, as they walked through grass. Rushing forward she grabbed him, spun him around, and kissed him.

"You'd make a good tackle!"

"On your team."

He gestured:

"Over here there's a shed, if it hasn't been torn down ... see, there it is. That's it."

The shed was three-sided: a cattle feeder and temporary shelter, made of discarded timber and mismatched shingles, something flung together years ago, just high enough to walk under. As Orville and Jean stepped inside swallows flew away.

"It's nice and dry," Orville said. "It would be swell if we could picnic here ... there's a little spring nearby ... I like it here."

"I like it too."

Someone had left a horse blanket rumpled on the bench; straw and hay littered the floor, the place smelled of timothy and clover and cattle.

"You can stand there if you want to," she said. "I'm sitting down ... taking off my clothes." She was laughing at his expression, laughing with anticipation. "I'll get my clothes off before you get yours off. Do you want us to be sedate?"

As she undressed she noticed a pencil of clouds, the scattered hay and straw, the horse blanket: she knew how she was going to spread the blanket, where there was a little sun.

She wanted to say, darling, I love you, but busied herself with her clothes.

He had nothing to say: there was something in this nudity, this love-making, that perplexed him, annoyed him: as he took off his clothes he felt he was some sort of damn puritan: lying beside Jean he was more interested, for a moment, in the swallows as they returned.

Picking up a straw he stuck it between his teeth; he picked up a straw and stuck it into her mouth. Giggling, she took away his straw and substituted her own. Bending over him; she said:

"Bite it."

He bit the straw, staring into her face.

"Now."

She bit the straw and he pulled.

The game was on. They had to stifle their own laughter. Straw and hay got onto their bodies. Straws caught in her hair and fell on her shoulders, freckles and straws ... he was captivated ... his mouth covered hers. She rolled him off. Her fragrance came to him as he lay on her.

"Here's where a mosquito bit you," she said.

They were lying side by side.

"Here's where a flea bit you," he said.

The sun blinked out as they played.

He imagined her in Switzerland, at St. Peter's, old Rome's St. Peter's: domes, arches, pillars and bleeding crosses: they were camped on tiny St. Peter's island: silence, meadows, woods ... where Rousseau had been happy ... where ...

"You're lost to me ... you've drifted away ... where were you?" she objected.

"I was thinking of a trip with you ... Switzerland ... look, look there's a wad of hay in your belly button." And he crumpled some hay and filled her button.

"Love you ... love you ... love you!" she exclaimed.

Queer, he thought, queer about Lena, about us. We used to have fun. Did a lot of wacky things. At school together ... played ... sang together.

"How long will you be with me, Orv?"

The question troubled him.

"Two more days," he said. "Almost two days..."

"I didn't want to ask ... but..."

She avoided his eyes--faced the extensive field.

She felt herself fall away from him, fall through the present, parachute into far, nobody left, only the wounded, her drab quarters in the hospital: wash basin, neglected walls, dirty windows, cracked door, outworn throw rug.

He thought of Lena:

"She has a lover in Paris," he said.

"Who has?"

"Lena..."

"But we have each other ... so..."

"We have forty-eight hours ... ah no ... it doesn't do to count ... We..."

"Can't you stay longer?"

"You know I can't--it's impossible! And Lena ... she wants me to sleep with her." He half heard his own words, resenting them, resenting Lena's influence.

"Who does?" Jeannette was stalling: trying to erase the fact.

"Lena."

"Orv ... you're kidding..."

But she knew he was not kidding. But now, now she wanted to put on her clothes, the playful sex mood was over, she wanted to take her skirt and blouse off the nail, hide her sex. The hay and straw became ugly: why was she such a fool, risking pregnancy again? And in this stable! At this time! She was the biggest ass in France! Then, in spite of herself, in spite of her reasoning, she yanked her body over his and hugged him desperately, kissed him desperately, aware of the weeks ahead without him.

Like Chuck ... another blindness!

All right, then another blindness.

Chuck, Chuck, where are we?

"Hold me, love me love me," she begged.

He cuddled her, mouth to her shoulder, fingers exploring, enjoying her warmth, fumbling at the same time for something had spattered in his brain: a voice, then, a roar, the pressure of fighting, Landel at his cannon, Zinc and his machine gun, all the impotence of violence.

He watched her get dressed.

She was no longer his.

Buttoning the cuff of her blouse, she asked:

"Where will you be fighting ... your Corps?

"Germany."

Eyelids pinched tight, as she slipped on her skirt, she tried to pray, a prayer from her childhood, a prayer her Lutheran pastor had taught: nonsensical, not labelled for adultery, unlabelled for war.

"Will your hospital job get any easier?" he asked, pulling on his sock, sitting on the bench.

"I hope so..."

Dear Orv, I want to be your wife, I want to give you everything you want. Orv, I want to make things easy for you. I want us to have kids. I want us to be happy. It might really happen to us ... we can't tell. Maybe a farm, a Wisconsin farm, nine acres, white house, red barn, maple trees, pines, birch.

"There's a lot of hay in Wisconsin," she said, in a strained voice, wishing to say something amusing, maybe something sensible.

Orville nodded.

He was slipping on his shirt.

Crows specked the sky ... the swallows were above the field. The sun was much cooler, ready to blink out behind clouds.

I'll take her to Ithaca, to Mom's house--for a few days. Mom will love her. We'll hunt for an apartment. I'd rather get started in Ithaca than anywhere else. There used to be a little apartment on Landfair ... pretty good place ...

He was purchasing his ticket for the train to Paris, he was showing his fake ID, answering questions. The ticket agent was saying ... Kissing Jean, he forced himself to memorize her overcoat, its scarlet lining, the row of crummy buttons; he made himself memorize her rundown shoes, her wrinkled felt hat ...

Lena and Aunt Therese were standing close to the scaled walls of the depot, smudged plaster, egg yolk plaster: they were standing side by side, Therese crying.

"Write to me if you can," Jeannette said.

"I will."

"Take care of yourself.'"

"I will ... you, the same ... good-bye..."

"Au revoir."

His brain was scrambling words in French and English, asking questions: wasn't there something more he should tell Jeannette? Wasn't there something he could say to Lena? Wasn't there a word for Therese?

Astride a shabby suitcase, hating the Nazi uniforms around him, inside the beat-up train, he gazed at tiny E through filthy windows: the locomotive jerked pathetically, jerked faces, cobbles, swastikas, and tiled roofs.

* * *

*3*

Dennison examined the lanky civic tower of the town of Bretten, across the Roer River: he noticed the Teutonic coat-of-arms on its tiled side, the ivy climbing its brick walls. He guessed the tower might be 12th century. The clock face was of bronze and brass. The time was 8:10. Lowering his binoculars, he checked the buildings below the tower, then he studied the expanse of hedgerows between the town and the river.

"Can we get through those goddamn hedgerows?" Landel shouted.

"Yes," Dennison yelled.

As he raised his binoculars, at 8:12, he saw the tower explode: the disintegration directly inside the lens appalled him: dust burst from the ancient bricks and mortar, the big clock leaned, crumpled, its gears protruded, a hand tore off, brass inlay twisted, ivy rippled and fell. Bronze and brass gears shot upward, outward, pitched down onto roof tops, accompanied by a shower of debris.

Dennison lowered his binoculars, feeling that he had seen time destroyed: he said nothing.

A series of explosions ripped across the town as the heavy U.S. bombardment got under way: roofs collapsed, walls collapsed, fires broke out, smoke enveloped streets. With another glance at the base of the clock tower, Dennison leaned against his tank and witnessed the destruction as wave after wave of bombers dropped from a mackerel sky. He was architect enough to gauge the losses and realize how costly it would be to reconstruct after such bombings.

And the guys in those houses ... had they been born for that kind of death? Where was man's dignity? His sanity? Landel had a broad grin on his face: it said let the whole lousy German country blow up like this!

The Nazis have had it coming to them, had it coming to them for years: fucking around with their militarism! Bastard Hitler! Jew killer! Maniac!

Landel was sorry the war was drawing to a close.

Bretten ... what a sleazy town!

He timed their advance, eager to push on and crash his tank against opposition: kill. He wished he could invade Germany at the command of a tank division!

Zinc was tightening bolts on the hedge blades: large knives the crew had fixed across the front: without them it was impossible to buck the hedges. The blades gleamed in the bombed sun. Zinc's face shone, clean and fresh: after several days of good food and sleep he appeared rested. The length and toughness of the blades were in contrast to his jockey-built body and boyish face. Helmet on the ground, the wind whipped his hair.

Lord, Lord, he said to himself, they're sure as hell wipin' out that pretty town ... listen ... listen. Ah, there goes a rough one. There's another! Jesus! Yet he did not pause to watch.

Bolts tight, he opened the tank turret and dropped inside, started the engine and began dickering with the carburetor, adjusting it to a faster, more dependable idle. Swiftly, expertly, he dumped in two quarts of oil--tossing away the empties.

Good engine, good V-8, good horses, good wiring.

They had twenty-two machines ready for this attack, most of them parked in a ruined dockyard along the Roer: tumbled bricks, fallen beams, smashed glass everywhere: four-by-fours, bent girders, bent pipes, and mauled boats around: a life preserver dangled from a post near Zinc: HEINRICH VARNA was lettered in red.

Orville, Zinc and Landel had tank 9: a fifteen ton Lee, measuring twenty by eight, nine feet high at the turret. 9 was tough, battered, lame on the port side. Rough terrain had knocked off some of her grousers. Zinc knew how to nurse the Chrysler engine but it drank excess water and extra oil. Her armament was first rate: her machine guns had been reconditioned and a new 78 cannon had been installed--for Landel.

Zinc lit a cigarette under the open turret, feet dangling from the driver's seat.

Jesus, god, we ought to be on our way--they don't know how to coordinate nuthin'--them brass. Peeling a stick of gum he chewed it quickly, spitting on the floor, longing for his 18-footer, slipped on the Vermillion River. As neat a boat as any! She could tack round like a frog.

With Millie they had sailed across Lake Erie, good ole windy Erie ... sunny weather, lie back, drink beer, toss the cans over ... Millie crawlin' over me, unzipping my zipper ... ah, Millie ... Millie ... good Buckeye kid ...

Suppose she's moved away by now: she said she was gonna move ... in her last letter ... job with the county welfare ... what a screwy kid ... beer and more beer ... but she wasn't fat ... now, now do you want to make me pregnant!

She liked it when we went to the synagogue ... Isaac, when you get back, sure ... you'll see, it was better to wait till after the war.

She'll have my letter pretty soon.

Okay, okay ... there's the signal: now, we'll move forward, we'll settle that dumb town, clean it up proper ... okay, I got the signal ... yeah, I've bolted the turret ... okay, Dennison, you okay? Okay, Captain? Okay ...

Caterpillar fashion the tanks crawled from the dockyard and headed for a pontoon bridge across the river: radio reported it should be a routine crossing, keep to the center, the artillery will throw in everything for cover.

The road leading to the bridge had craters and shelled potholes. Fog appeared.

Landel complained bitterly.

The bridge wobbled.

9 shook the planking violently: Dennison clung to his controls, feeling that the bus might keel over on the port side; the motor went sluggish; treads dragged; a Sherman in front of 9 bent the flooring; swayed, then shot ahead.

Say, Dennison thought, that guy's good. Send him to Indianapolis!

Waiting for radio communications, he leaned against the seat and wet his lips with his tongue. Crooked springs in the cushion jabbed him and he tried to avoid them by inching to one side. He wanted a drink. He wanted to rush across the bridge, rush through the town, finish. Wasn't this crossing something Napoleonic?

Through his periscope he tried to penetrate the smoke that hovered over Bretten: he remembered the pattern of hedgerows and remembered the route they had to follow to knife their way through: the rows worried him: supposing their engine conked.

There was a dangerous delay on the bridge, the pontoons fluctuating, exhausts smoking, GI's streaming past on the starboard, jogging by the hundreds. What's the delay, fussed Landel. He roared on the intercom.

Carefully, Dennison eased 9 along, working the carburetor gingerly: he edged to the starboard, increasing his speed little by little, fighting for space with the jogging GI's.

"We'll make it ... we'll get across," he muttered through the phone. "Here we go again! Hang on! Nah, have to cut speed ... have to give those guys a chance ... better run it on the center ... better chance ... won't tilt ... won't tilt..."

"Slow ... slower," Landel yelled. "Watch it ... watch it!"

The bridge had submerged as they approached the town, water sloshed across, brown, crawling with oil slicks.

A GI, wearing an orange helmet, gun belted, wigwagged the route into town. Yet water deepened and chunks of wood floated across the pontoons in front of Dennison. He wallowed through a quagmire at the last pontoon; down she dropped to solid ground with a terrific bump; slobbering and smoking she climbed a grade, the hedges to the right.

Would the terrain support her weight?

Were there minefields?

Word had gotten around that the Nazis were to stage a last ditch stand here: SS troops, reserves, god knew what all: the engineers had had ample time to plant mines, there was no doubt about that: earlier Landel had picked up radio warnings: three divisions in the vicinity. Now it was mud, smoke, hedgerows, hedgerows, with red leaves, red hedgerows raked by gunfire.

A week or so ago the Corps had lost eight tanks to skillfully laid mines and tank traps.

Dennison braked and brought 9 around to avoid a pile of rocks a farmer had heaped up for a boundary.

"Hedgerow," Landel belted through the phone.

"Okay!"

Does the fool think I'm blind?

Slicing through the first was rough: branches and leaves swept over the periscope and viewer, climbed onto the cab, then toppled to one side. The ground held. They climbed toward Bretten. Smoke foamed out of a tree. A shell exploded. Climbing higher, 9 ran into machine gun fire. Dennison snaked the bus, falling, rising, smashing bushes. Leaning forward in his seat he tried to say something to Landel.

Landel grabbed the butt of his gun: he had no notion of being caught: if the Nazi gunners raked their underbelly it would not be because he was slow: where were they: camouflaged: over there, higher, behind those bushes ... yes?

A tank appeared, off starboard, a Pershing, traveling fast.

Zinc detected riflemen behind a hedge: through a slot in the smoke he shot low, retracing, raising the muzzle, screaming his anger as he triggered the gun.

"You won't get away ... I've got you..." he yelled.

9's motor was working hard: she was doing her best at 8 mph, the heat increasing, hitting against the white walls, oozing out the ports, clogging the ceiling: African, German heat. Heat of combat swung the machine.

Landel's burst, as Dennison cut through a hedgerow, accounted for men at an anti-tank gun: the men were assembling it, one was rigging the tripod, another hoisting the barrel: gun, knapsacks, rifles, and ammunition spun into the air. Machinegun slugs plowed into a fellow as he attempted to flee. With a half turn, Dennison rolled over the gun crew and crushed men and gun.

A shell burst beside 9.

Another detonation, and they were in the midst of a barrage, explosive forces yanking at the treads, hammering at the armor plate, slugging mud and gravel against the turret, smoke and acid penetrating inside.

The tank rocking, Dennison stopped until the smoke cleared: they stripped to the waist and dumped their shirts on seats and floor. The sky crackled. The sky flamed. Dennison let the engine idle--he felt the pressure of shellfire on his skull, outside and inside his skull.

Landel was firing: the recoil of his gun made him snap open his mouth and hang his jaw. The cab reeked of cordite and powder.

_Move ... advance_, Landel signalled.

Dennison worked the tank over rough ground, butting, rearing. He beat his hands on his knees to limber them. A shell hole gaped directly in front; he swung his bus expertly. His mind was numb: he was unafraid: he felt he would get Landel and Zinc through. When the tank stalled, the treads circling, circling, Dennison swore shrilly.

His hands felt greasy and he rubbed then over his trousers and on the seat cushion.

Landel signalled:

_Left_

Dennison watched the compass fluctuate, watched the gas gauge, the engine temperature: heat was climbing.

Smoke bombs were dropping.

Some bastard should bob up with a flame thrower, he told himself. Here he comes from behind that hedge. Look at those infantrymen retreating ... now we'll cross that plowed field ... other M4's ... cross together ... what did they raise here, wheat? Isn't that a horse over there, across the field?

As they advanced it was curious how the smoke trapped them and then exposed them. Several houses appeared out of the smoke trap; riflemen fronted one of the houses; others rushed into a small barn; a geyser of earth and smoke replaced the barn.

Dennison grinned when the barn disappeared.

He observed a grove of elm trees: are we lost? No grove was indicated on the maps! He tried to signal Landel but a plunge of the machine almost pitched him out of his seat. Shellfire sprayed white, like flung salt, over the line of vision.

Not on any map!

Up front someone was signalling: standing in the path of their tank he waved both arms. An officer? Some Nazi trick, Dennison thought. Then he saw another GI and identified them as Americans. The nearest GI had his helmet squashed over his eyes; stooping, he pointed to the ground. Hands upraised, he signalled stop.

Without hesitating he rushed to their bus and beat on a forward port. Landel let him inside.

"Minefields," the GI screamed.

"What?" Landel yelled. "Can't hear!"

"Minefield!" the sergeant yelled.

"Louder."'

The fellow grabbed at Landel's leg pad and scribbled on it:

TURN AROUND. STOP OTHERS. USE RADIO. MINEFIELD. SIGNAL OTHERS.

"No use turning our bus around," Landel shouted.

"Radio ... the radio," the sergeant shouted.

"Ok," Landel yelled, reading his lips.

Dennison took over the transmitter.

They had stopped near a woodland; other tanks grouped around them; the barrage had lifted.

It was chilly: the autumn air nipped their nakedness: they huddled behind their machines, talking, urinating, smoking: as soon as they could they donned shirts and jackets: the earth, they discovered, was peppered with apples, exploded from nearby trees--part of the woodland.

Zinc picked up a red-yellow apple, bit it, and smiled.

Dennison grinned as he bit one.

"Come on, Captain, have one!" Zinc said.

"Worms."

But he picked up an apple and found it delicious.

A crewman from their Corps, a corporal named Jim Moore, ran up, flopping his hands and jerking his head crazily.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Dennison shouted.

Moore could not hear him, and yelled:

"Mine!"

"What?"

"Mine ... minefield."

"Yeah ... sure ... we know. That's why we're here, Jim. Have an apple!" Jim shuffled over, flopping his arms, coughing, lurching, eyes glazed.

"He's nuts!" Landel said.

His apple was wormy and he threw it down and tried another. Apples ... apples ... we stand around eating apples ... there's some way out of this ...

Biting and sucking the apple, he circled his tank, trying to get a lay of the land, looking for other GI's who might have information, instructions. Dennison had climbed inside, and was radioing: perhaps information was being broadcast. By now six machines had lined up along the woodland, some of them using foliage for camouflage.

Low flying planes ripped the sky.

Another tank approached Dennison and Zinc.

A GI's face was scrawled with grime and sweat, his helmet had been ripped; he carried shirt and jacket over his arm--the knuckles of one hand were bloody.

"Where's the mine?" he bellowed.

"Dunno," said Zinc.

"How many tanks we lost?"

"Where's the mine?"

"Apple?"

"What?"

"Have an apple."

"Can't hear ya."

"Sit down."

"Cigarette?"

"Had to wait ... dangerous..."

Landel appeared, mud on his clothes. Squatting by Zinc, he hollered:

"Get in the bus!"

"Wait?"

"No, get inside!"

"Hell no, let's wait here," Zinc objected.

"All of us inside ... we move!"

"Where?"

Nobody had a chance to hear that directive: a shell exploded: Zinc dropped his apple, picked it up, and cleaned it warily. Landel and Dennison settled onto their seats; the heat clamped around them: leaving the turret open had not cooled the bus.

Dennison had stuffed apples into his pockets ... what were they expecting, a signal? Landel unfolded his map, he munched an apple carefully, read his wristwatch, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. Grease streaked his jaw. He thought it must be blood till he stared at his fingernails. Sagged in his seat, Dennison saw him bite the apple, saw him dig grease from under his nails, welcoming this respite.

It wasn't so long ago Mother and I strolled about Heidelberg ... we had spent two or three weeks there, boating, climbing, sampling pastries, sight-seeing.

Munching his apple he began to despise the tank, began to fling his mind: Landel ... look at him, chewing away on his apple! Damn ass!

In Heidelberg they had strolled along the Neckar, boats and bridges, chinks of river between trees and houses.

She had sketched a castle that had a heraldic glove chiselled above the door.

A girl had waited on him in a shop, a slender girl, very blonde, very blue-eyed: a woman to lie with ...

Dreams ...

A GI brought Landel a message.

He read it and passed it to Dennison.

_Head West. No minefields_.

"I hope they know what they're doin'!" Dennison yelled.

_West_ ... he consulted the compass.