stood him against that tree, Bud. They hauled him from somewhere and propped him there.’
I reach down and pick up a typical German bolt-action Mauser balanced beside him. There’s also a piece of white paper with holes in it, no writing or printing.
‘They maybe even had this rifle balanced on his hands, sticking out, leaning against the tree. That’s what Mother saw.’
Except for Wilkins, the rest of the squad’s drifting over now. Boy, am I ever the great leader. ‘Come on, everybody, let’s bunch together so we can be mowed down easily.’ Wow!
Father Mundy kneels by the German. He tries closing the one open eye with his thumb like a real priest, but it’s frozen open. The other eye is only goo, frozen goo. Father pulls off his glove, jams his thumb into the bolt of his M1 and rubs it around. Then he makes little crosses on what’s left of the German’s face: his forehead, his eye, his ear and his lips, then the backs of the stiff decaying hands. He’s mumbling prayers to himself in Latin. I kneel down on one knee beside him, as much to keep from keeling over as anything.
‘That isn’t Extreme Unction you’re doing there, is it, Mundy? I thought you had to be alive to get it and a priest to give it.’
Mundy stands up slowly, still praying. He’s functioning, but he’s in almost as much shock as I am.
‘Right, Wont. But those were the best prayers I could think of. I asked the angels to help and the devils to leave. What else?’
He pulls off his helmet and his head’s sweaty. We start moving back to the jeeps. Mother Wilkins, like the only good soldier in the pack, is still sitting up there behind the fifty caliber covering us. Mundy reaches into his helmet liner and pulls out a wad of toilet paper.
‘Is it all right, Wont, if I go off into the bushes for a minute? Something like this turns my insides out.’
I wave everybody our private ‘piss call’ sign, and Father Mundy goes deeper into the woods. I move back to the jeep. Miller’s sitting in the driver’s seat, his legs hanging over the sides. He has his helmet off, and is pounding on his ears.
‘Look, Mother, could you give me just one second’s notice before you start that thing up again? I have a flock of mockingbirds doing a duet with a squeaking oil well in the middle of my head.’
Miller turns to me.
‘Won’t, is it OK if I take a smoke while we’re waiting for Mundy?’
‘Sure, but I don’t approve. I have to live with Gordon, too, you know.’
I look down the road at the other jeep; Shutzer and Gordon are leaning against it.
Melvin Gordon is squad health nut; he intends to become a doctor if he lives through the war. (He actually does; both those things.) He’s taken on the personal responsibility (unasked) for the state of our bodies. Mundy works on our souls. In today’s terms, I guess Mother’s our ecologist, Miller’s our mechanic and poet, I’m the artist and Shutzer’s our business manager.
Gordon has gotten all of us who smoked to stop, at least in front of him. It can be an enormous nuisance. Miller resists Gordon most, the way Shutzer resists Mundy.
About then, Father Mundy comes dashing from the forest at half mast. He still has the toilet paper in one hand flapping along after him and he’s holding on to the belt of his pants with the other. His rifle has slipped down to the crook of his elbow so it’s swung in front and is thumping against his knees with every step.
‘Mother of God, save me!’
He looks back over his shoulder. He feels for his head with his toilet paper hand and realizes he doesn’t have his helmet. He stops dead in his tracks.
‘No, Lord! Don’t make me go back!’
Father Mundy’s trying to buckle and put himself together. He keeps tangling in the toilet paper. We’ve all sprawled in the snow again except Wilkins, who’s swung that fifty caliber so it’s aimed just over Father’s head.
‘What in the name of heaven is it, Mundy?’
Mundy shambles over and flops beside me. He’s about six three and better than two hundred pounds; on the edge of being soft. His usually white skin is even whiter and his Irish upper lip is covered with beads of sweat; quivering.
‘You won’t believe it, Wont.’
The rest of the squad has scrambled, sprinted or crawled over to us. Maybe nobody could ever lead this bunch of gregarious genii. The trouble is they always want to know. Wilkins leans down from beside the gun.
‘What was it, Mundy? What’s in there? Is there a German patrol?’
‘It’s OK, Vance. Only I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know what’s going on, but you all ought to go look. I’m not exactly sure what I saw. I was so scared I took off without looking much.’
Shutzer pushes himself up, wiping the frost and dirt from his knees and elbows.
‘What’d you see, Father, a little grotto with a mysterious light coming out of it and this lady dressed all in shining blue and white who talked to you? Come on, tell us!’
Mundy gives Shutzer one of his ‘forgive them, Father’ looks.
‘OK, wise guy, what would you think of a German and an American soldier dancing together in the woods there; without music yet?’
Shutzer’s climbing up to take Wilkins’s place behind the fifty caliber. He should really be squad leader. That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to think of. He slips into place while Mother Wilkins lets himself slide off the side of the jeep. He must be frozen. Gordon shakes some snow out of his glove.
‘What’s this? Father Mundy bucking for Section Eight? Well, fan my jawbone. A little counseling might help, Father; my office hours are two till five. I think I can squeeze you in.’
It’s time to play sergeant.
‘OK, Mundy, let’s see whatever it is. Shutzer, you stay here and cover. Miller, you give us cross fire from behind the other jeep.’
I figure Miller can get his smoke in up there while we’re gone.
We start into the woods, rifles at the ready. We get to the spot; Mundy picks up his helmet and points to the left.
I’m almost ready to believe anything; but I have a hard time with this. They look like a statue. They’ve been standing long enough so the last snows have sprinkled helmets and shoulders like powdered sugar. We advance slowly, Gordon in the lead.
Somebody’s propped an American and a German soldier against each other in the final of final embraces. Their arms and legs are cocked so they look like waltzers, or ice skaters about to move off into some intricate figure. I stop; I don’t want to look. Mundy and Gordon go on, with Mother behind them; then Mother turns around and comes back.
‘I don’t understand, Wont. What’s going on? Who’s standing up these corpses? It’s crazy! This whole war’s gone off the track somehow!’
I shake my head. I’m afraid if I talk
