1

      Briefing

      ‘Holy God, Mother! What’s the matter?’

      He pushes me back hard against my shelter half. He struggles, elbows, presses himself to his feet, boots sinking ankle deep in mud and melted snow at the bottom of our dent. He stands there, looming over me, staggering, slipping, not saying anything; staring into the sky.

      Then he unslings his M1, grabs it in his right hand, arches his lean body into a tight spring and tosses that rifle, like a javelin, out of our hole, in a long, twisting arc at least a hundred feet downhill. He throws so hard his metal-rimmed GI glasses fly off his face, bounce against my chest and slide slowly into mud and water. They’re going to get smashed for sure.

      He doesn’t look at me. Without his glasses, Mother’s face seems empty; he probably couldn’t see me anyhow, even if he did look.

      We’ve been squatting in what could be a leftover one-man trench from World War I, but is probably only a root hole from a rotted, blown-down tree.

      Over the past two and a half hours we haven’t said much. We’re on for four. Sometimes I think Mother might be crying but I don’t look; I’m so close to it myself, I don’t want to start anything. Mother’s scrambling now, rifleless, up onto the edge of our hole. He’s pulling at his webbing equipment, trying to unhook it.

      Normally, the band would be standing this perimeter guard, but they’re in town with the officers entertaining Red Cross ladies. The Red Cross battled its way up to our regiment yesterday and sold us doughnuts, ten cents apiece, two lines, enlisted men and officers. I didn’t peek to see if officers paid. I bought one and shat it half an hour later.

      Squatting there with Mother, I’d been watching one of those little buzzing L5 artillery observation planes circling over us. The motor has a peaceful sound like an airplane on a summer day at the shore dragging an advertisement saying

      PEPSI – COLA

      in the sky. Only now it’s winter and it isn’t peaceful.

      I lean down, carefully pick up Mother’s glasses, then shove myself off from the bottom of our hole, pushing against my muddy shelter half. The frame’s twisted but nothing’s broken; the lenses are thick as milk-bottle bottoms; they’d be hard to break. But they’re slippery, gritty, wet and smeared with mud.

      Mother’s up on the lip of the hole. Now he’s crying hard but isn’t making much noise. I start scrabbling my way out; I want to pull him back down before someone sees us.

      We’re on the side of a hill at the edge of a forest. In fact, we’re surrounded by hilly forests. It’s snowed a few times but green’s showing through today and mostly everything’s either thin hard-crusted snow or mud. I know it’s somewhere around mid-December, but that’s about all. Even though we’re in reserve here, for some reason neither mail nor Stars & Stripes has been getting through.

      Now Mother takes off. He’s gotten himself unhooked and slings his ammo belt, his pack, entrenching tool, bayonet, canteen; the whole kit and caboodle, looping, twisting through the air, downhill. Just before he disappears into the trees, he flips his helmet, discus-style, off in the direction of his rifle. He acts as if he really is quitting the war!

      I’m torn between running after him and not deserting the post. After all, I am sergeant of the guard; can you believe that? I don’t.

      First, I run down to get the rifle, helmet and webbing equipment. Then I run after Mother, picking up his things as I go. When I reach down to snatch up his field jacket, I peer back; nobody’s watching. Everybody with any sense is sleeping, taking advantage of all those missing officers. I know both Ware, that’s our platoon leader, and Major Love, our S2, are off playing ‘hero’ for the ladies. We still don’t have a new platoon sergeant, either.

      I prop my rifle against the first tree, with Mother’s things, and run after him. He’s speeding like the wind, not looking back. Without his glasses he’s liable to smash into a tree. There’s no use hollering, so I squeeze tight and keep on. Who knows, maybe he’ll run us both right on out of the war, through division, corps, army, the whole rear guard. Maybe we’ll find a French family with a lovely daughter and they’ll hide us. If we get caught, I can always say I was only trying to catch Mother, trying to salvage government equipment, picking up Mother’s clothes.

      The trouble is we’re going the wrong way. He’s headed south; all we’ll do is run into the perimeter guard for some other tired, mixed-up regiment. We’re all so scared we’ll shoot at anything, especially some bare-assed, bare-eyed skeleton in boots.

      From what I’ve scooped up so far, Mother is down to boots and socks. I almost caught him while he pulled off his pants, but when I stopped to pick them up, he scooted away again. We’re playing a unique version of Hänsel and Gretel with strip poker overtones; or maybe something of Atalanta’s race.

      Because of the exertion, I’m having my usual problem; the stomach’s turning upside down; soundless, burning squirts are slipping out. I’ll smell like a portable latrine when I catch up with Mother. Big headlines: POISON