J. J. White

 

 December 23rd 1944 – west of St. Vith, Belgium.

 

Private Bennie Calabro, 106^th U.S. Infantry, serial number 102-47-8911, was a deserter. He was two miles behind enemy lines, had been bombarded relentlessly by Kraut 88s, and was directly in line with the sixth SS Panzer Army’s Blitzkrieg as it raced toward Antwerp.

 It was dusk when the 106^th pulled out and headed east to defend St. Vith. Bennie lagged behind until his division was far enough ahead so that they wouldn’t miss him. He hid in hedgerows along the roads and worked his way back to the foxhole where he had spent the last three days.

He knew he still had a good chance of dying, but it wouldn’t be by getting his ass shot up charging head on into the Nazi Army like the rest of those idiots.

He was thirty years old, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t have even been out here with a bunch of teenagers stopping rounds with their bodies to protect mom and dad back home. The brass promised them the Germans had all but given up and they’d only have to mop up the stragglers. That was before the whole fucking Kraut Army decided the war wasn’t over yet.

Bennie rubbed his hands over the makeshift fire he had built in the large foxhole. The crater had been formed by an artillery shell blast and could easily hold four GI’s. The heat from the fire felt good on his hands, but the cold left little sensation in his feet. They weren’t supposed to be out in the open when the winter hit. The war was supposed to be over by now. Patton and Montgomery should be splitting Germany with the Commies, and Bennie Calabro was supposed to be heading back to Chicago.

He lay flat on the ground and pulled his helmet down hard over his head when he heard the whistle of a descending artillery round. His body bounced slightly off the ground from the concussion of the nearby shell.

When he sat up to brush off the dirt, he flinched, startled by the soldier sitting against the opposite bank of the foxhole.

“Christ!” Bennie exclaimed. “Where the hell did you come from?”

The corporal didn’t answer. He stared ahead, the shadows from the fire dancing across his face, framed by the white smoke.

“You with the 106?” Bennie asked, worried they had sent someone back for him. The soldier stayed silent, his blank stare fixed into space. “You hurt, corporal?”

“No,” the young soldier answered.

Bennie figured he was about nineteen. He had the same vacant look as all the other dogfaces coming back from the fight on the front lines. Kids who had killed their first enemy soldier. Damn fools thought it would be all flag waving and glory. Well that was all bullshit. It was blood, death, frozen hands, and frozen feet, and that’s all it was. Glory was for generals in their headquarters at Versailles, not for the GIs in their bombed out shit holes surrounded by SS troops.

“What’s your name?” Bennie asked, hoping a conversation would relieve the boredom in the silence between the shelling.

Nothing.

The kid was either shell-shocked or just fucking nuts, Bennie thought, as he took two cigarettes out of the pack in his jacket, lit them, and handed one to the corporal. To his delight, the corporal enthusiastically smoked it to a nub.

“Where you from?” Bennie asked.

“Iowa.”

That’s better, Bennie thought. At least now they had something to talk about. They’d both been in Iowa. Not exactly Chicago, but the conversation would take his mind off his feet.

“I’ve been to Iowa,” Bennie said. “Not that I really wanted to go there, but I had a little trouble in Chicago and thought I’d better leave town for a while until things settled down.”

Bennie couldn’t tell if the corporal heard a word of what he said, but what the hell; he felt better just having someone to talk to. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I get in a lot of trouble. Hey, you gotta make a living, you know what I mean?”

The corporal continued his unblinking stare as he held his gloved hands over the fire. A light snow began to fall.

“The judge gave me two choices,” Bennie continued. “Go to prison or join the Army. Some choice, huh? What’d the dope think I was going to say, send me to prison, I like it there? Anyway, I figured the war would be over by the time I got over here. Boy, was I in for a surprise. Two days on Omaha Beach getting my ass shot off and now beautiful Belgium. I’m one lucky Joe, huh buddy? Hey, you don’t’ talk much, do you?”

The corporal cringed at an explosion in the distance.

“Hey, don’t worry about them, Corp. If you can hear ‘em go off, you’re okay. It’s the ones you don’t hear that kill you.”

Bennie lit another Lucky Strike.

“I was telling you about the time I spent there. It was a good time too, I tell you. Virginia Wilson, oh, what a broad. It was in ‘38 and like I said, I had to hightail it out of Chicago. I was hitching rides outside of Iowa City when some sap dropped me off in a hick town called West Liberty. You ever heard of it?”

No answer from the kid, so Bennie kept going. “Real hick town, but I didn’t have no money anyway, except for ten bucks I kept in my hat for emergencies. Anyway, I needed some food and some way to get some bucks to pay for the trip to California. I figured I could make some dough out West. Lots of broads with money out there.

“Now listen to this. I go inside this dive to order a java and some toast and I get waited on by this gorgeous doll. She looked like one of those Norwegian broads up in Minnesota. A real Jean Harlow type, and oh, she had a nice set of tits, I tell you.

“Well, she and I hit it off pretty good. I gave her this bullshit story about being a big shot back in Chicago and how my car broke down and was getting fixed at the local garage. She fell for it like crazy. We talked for a couple of hours. She had the usual story about her parents running her life and how she wanted out of Hicksville to see the big city. You know the usual bullshit you hear from these country broads. You know what I’m saying?

“Well one thing led to another and before I knew it, we were up in her apartment and our clothes were in a pile by the bed. Virginia Wilson—man oh man she had a set of tits on her. What I wouldn’t give to have them wrapped around my face right now. Man oh man.

“Anyway, turns out she’s got five hundred bucks saved up and wants to tag along with me back to Chicago when my Caddy gets fixed the next day. Let me tell you something, it was manna from heaven. How could one guy get so damn lucky when it seemed like everything was going to the dogs.

“Next day, she gets the five hundred and starts packing. I talk her into going to the garage across the street and paying for my car repairs. I give her the ten bucks in my hat. I used some excuse like I had to make some collect calls to Chicago or something.

“Here’s where it gets good. You still with me kid? Yeah, sure you are. So anyways, while she’s across the street, I grab the five hundred out of her suitcase, jump in her jalopy and head West. Let me tell you buddy, Iowa brings up memories for this GI, fond memories. I had me the time of my life on that broad’s money. Hell, I even sold the car for two hundred, later. Best damn time of my life.

“You know, every once in a while I think about old Virginia Wilson. I wonder what ever happened to her.”

The corporal grabbed his M1 off the wet ground and stood, the glow of the dying fire illuminating his hard face. He aimed the barrel at Bennie and fired one round into a spot just above Bennie’s left eyebrow. Bennie’s helmet flew off in a spray of brain matter and blood. Bennie slumped over, his head remarkably settling in his own helmet, which quickly filled with blood oozing from the wound.

The corporal stared down at Bennie’s body.

“I’ll tell you what happened to Virginia Wilson, private,” the corporal said in a low monotone voice. “She died giving birth to my nephew.”

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