Boundaries

Boundaries

by Skotti Portal 

 

The Bois-Jacques, Belgium. January, 1945

 

Incoming!

The world erupts.

Flash-BANG!

CLose-by, and then farther, and then Near.

Explosions; after another, after another; tearing apart trees and flaying the sky, with flying debris and thick chunks of wood. 

Dense smoke. Shattering earth.

Splinters and shards, man-size, hurtling, impaling.

Concussions roll the air, continuously. Deafening.

All he can taste is dirt, from keeping his face mashed into the ground, and making himself as small as possible.

*

Afterwards, he recalls the name of the man next to him.

Beecroft.

A  Replacement.

The ragged strand of hot metal, protruding obscenely red, from his final, confused face; like a scrapyard unicorn.

Jesus, fuck, it’s cold.

Still no sign of Winter Issue.

SNAFU

*

His eyes water; from constant staring at a dank treeline opposite. And the glare of snow in between. 

They’re on point; in the refuse and mud foxhole of the Observation Post. Watchful for any movement. Quiet. The day darkening now.

Nothing for a long time.

Nothing at all.

No movement.

Nothing.

 

Anytime though.

Anytime.

Maybe.

They can hear them in there.

Motors. And heavy equipment, being brought forward in the night.

*

I gotta piss. – Reynolds

It’s fucking freezing. – Burghoff

Sorry, fellas. – Reynolds

I’m telling ya…- Mancini – my buddy over in Dog Company says they gave them all canned cherries. Every one of them got a tin. Cherries! 

Meanwhile the chow here is rapidly deteriorating into boiled snow, and bits of wildlife they find scattered around…

Hahaha

Yeh

Sarge, when are we gonna get some real coats? I swear my balls are no longer outside of my body here. – Levine

Yeh. I know. It’s fucked alright.

What are they doing in there? – Burghoff

I counted a few half-tracks, at least one motorcycle, and, I dunno, something heavy. Maybe a Panzer.

Jesus, they’re on the fucking ropes, why don’t these Germans just throw in the towel, already? – Burghoff.

Did you get yourself some new boots, like I told you?

Yeh. I found some. – Burghoff. – on a guy from Abel Company I think.

Because, you may generally be a griping piece of shit, Burghoff; but I can’t afford to lose you to frostbite. I can’t afford to lose any more of you morons.

Beecroft. – Mancini.

Yeh. Beecroft.

Green and Abe got hurt pretty bad too. – Reynolds. – And I think that guy from First Platoon, what’s his name?

Rodriguez. – Levine.

Yeh. Rodriguez. Tall, goofy guy – real good at fixing things, could draw real good too. – Reynolds. – killed.

Man. I can’t stop shivering. – Levine.

..Yeh..

Hey, what was that guy…? – Mancini – Used to do magic tricks? You know…in First Platoon. With the cards and stuff…?

Sikorsky. – Levine and Burghoff.

Sikorsky…yeh… hahaha. Used to pull those flags up out of his pants, like he was pulling them out of his ass… – Mancini.

..yeh.. hahaha..

Phooooooooooooooow

Incoming!

*

The mortar shell explodes, tearing a wound of flame in the air.

Everything slows to a trickle.

He can see dirty snow-clods, arcing up and out, while a part of him registers Reynolds simply disintegrating, down his whole left side.

A force twists him round, and a visible wave tosses him away.

He’s flying.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

I need my rifle.

The world is all white.

I gotta find my rifle.

His eyes…opened?Closed? Blinks them.

Open, then.

Where’s my rifle?

He recognises the voice as his own.

Resolving finally around him, dark stripes form trees.

Solid trunks and needle pines.

He is stumbling about.

*

Everywhere snow.

And nothing else.

Fir forest, empty and pristine.

He stops then.

The fuck am I?

*

A quick surveillance reveals he is unharmed. Though his uniform is spattered and torn.

There is a dark-stained rip down one sleeve, just below the fraying chevrons. And one of his boots is unlaced.

There’s his rifle.

Curiously propped against the rough bark of a tree, and he grabs for it.

And looks around once more.

It’s somehow clear, bright daylight, as earlier in the day.

Cloudless. The sun filtering down in amber stripes through the trees.

His forehead and face momentarily rinsed with warmth, he realises he’s not wearing a helmet.

Shit.

He’s gotta get a grip.

*

Squatting within a hollow, at the chunky base of a wide trunk, he checks his ordnance. 

35 rounds. One grenade. 2 spare clips for his M1911.

But in his pockets; no map pouch, and his wrist compass is completely gone.

He’s lost.

Fuck.

He must have wandered off in shock.

*

Movement.

His head flicks up.

There. 

A figure approaching through the trees.

Moving slowly and cautiously.

But not at the typical crouch.

And no rifle shape either.

And that’s no uniform.

It’s…

*

Nearing and clearer, the fur collar and leather jacket, mark him as an airman, American.

The man sees him; momentarily fumbling at his hip holster.

Easy there, soldier. I’m American.

He approaches and crouches down.

Sarge? Where are we?

Why, we’re in Belgium, Private. – chuckles

Belgium? 

South Eastern Belgium. Foy.

*

The man stares into the trees, screwing up his eyes.

We was flying back from a day raid over Berlin…

Well, I’m a waist-gunner, see? Our plane’s the Miss Dorothy. – smiles.

Well, anyways, I was facing forward, toward the cockpit. 

And the last thing I recall is, a blinding flash. And I knew we’d been hit. But that’s the last thing I remember. 

Guess I bailed out. But we was still over Germany at the time. Leastaways, that’s what I thought.

Anyway; Private Hupper, Arnold Hupper. From Mobile, Alabama. 452nd Bomb Group.

They shake

Staff Sergeant Katarsis; Harry Katarsis. New York, New York. Hundred and First Airborne. I think we better try and find my unit, Private. Or…anyone else’s unit, for that matter.

But; looking around at the empty and silent wood; the gunner walking beside him with distinct holes in the front of his flight jacket; secretly, he is beginning to wonder.

Say, hunnerd an’ first? Ain’t you the boys they got surrounded at Bastogne?

That would be correct, Private, yes.

Naww. Shit. Why’d I have to end up here, a’ all places? Godammit, just my luck.

Got a compass?

Nossir, I musta lost it on the drop.

Well, I think it’s afternoon. And the sun’s over there.

So that way is North. If we head this way, we should find our lines.

Unless we walk straight into The Bulge. And some SS Panzer Division and all, haha. Shit.

Yeh, well. Best I can do for now, Private. Let’s move.

*

*

So they traipse their way cautiously, winding about the trees; until a wearying snow-drift slows them. And they huff and puff, in steaming breaths; laboring their way to the top of a short ridge; around late afternoon. The sky now thick and overcast. A wind has whipped up, prickly chill.

A tang of smoke has been gathering as they progress; and now, bitter ash stings the air as well. Near the top, he signals to the other man to stop. And peers cautiously over, between the snow drenched roots.

A building is there. Huddled, in a small and tree-towered clearing. A cottage, or cabin; of wood, with a stonework foundation and chimney, the latter responsible for all the smoke.

The ground around is a dark, slush gray, and well trodden, but there’s nobody about.

Hupper is beside him, staring.

Wait.

*

Only the whisper and chatter of the wind. No movement all around. It is perfectly still.

He has lost count of his heartbeats; when the front door of the cottage slowly opens, and a single man emerges, backside first and hunched over. In trousers and shirtsleeves, with a cap. Civilian.

Turning, he looks to be an old man. Rough, and shaggy cheeks of grey. He is carrying a large metal pail; thin arms wrapped, hugging it.

Proceeding to the front of the cottage he begins throwing the contents in the air; plumes of ash; all round and about, and all around on the ground.

It drifts and it settles, staining the snow in gray waves.

He enters the cottage again, only to emerge a short time later to repeat the process. Ash, tossed and seething in the air; and spread out across the ground, in a darkening ripple.

Returning after,

to do it again.

What in the world? – Hupper whispers.

***

If he’s a civilian then he’d be on our side, wouldn’t he Sarge?

Likely, but maybe not. We don’t know the situation here, Private.

It is some time after. 

The old man has not re-emerged, though the smoke has grown thicker; his fire fed, as the icy dusk draws in.

That old guy has a fire, Sarge. And it’s freezing out here.

Okay, Private. This is what we’re gonna do. I’ll work my way round to that side of the house, to that corner over there, by that window. That way I’ve got a clear shot at the front door.

Then

You slowly make your way to the door and knock quietly.

Um, Okay.

Okay. Wait till I get in position. And watch for my signal.

*

He navigates the broken terrain, just outside the clearing. Ducking around the thick trees; using their roots for cover.

He sees that the building is old. The stones smooth and rounded, by weather and wear. The wood blackened and mummified.

He cuts to the corner and signals the airman, who walks slowly to the door and raps rapidly and light.

Holding his breath for the steam it causes, he watches the door open; slowly again, the same old man peering out.

*

A brief look of shock. Then a smile, and then the old man lowers his stance somewhat. He hadn’t noticed quite how tall he is.

To his surprise, the young Private addresses the man in French, and he responds in kind; gestures friendly enough, if a little guarded.

He hadn’t been expecting visitors, judging by that first look. 

Odd, in the middle of a war.

*

Hupper dashes over.

He’s on our side, Sarge. And he speaks English. He said to say, there’s food by and by, and bread from his own oven, on the table. I bet he has wine and all. 

Hmmm…

He straightens, lowering his M1. 

Okay. But keep your eyes open. And especially your ears. Is that clear, Private?

Yes, Sergeant.

*

He walks slowly, mounting a low, wooden stoop. The man has opened the door, wide as possible to reveal the interior as unoccupied; seemingly accustomed to the shifting fortunes of war, after all.

Hallo. You are welcome here, you Americans. You are most welcome. 

He is nodding his head and grinning. The whole time, keeping slightly low, making himself appear smaller, deferential. 

Harmless.

*

You must come in. Now you are here.

Wordlessly, Hupper passes him by, entering eagerly; the man turns his head, watching.

Then turns back.

Sergeant?

*

The accent. It’s unusual. The man’s face too. 

He is old, no doubt about that. His face is an aerial photograph of lines and creases. Various tufts of white sprout from all over. Enormous folds pouch the eyes.

But those eyes.

Not quite old at all; or in any way tired.

Almost too wide-awake, and avid. 

Hungry.

*

Awww, what the hell. – he sighs quietly.

The interior is spacious; a single room. The frontmost segment, cordoned off by a curtain; a heavy and mouldering drape, of drab brown.

Elsewhere, a large table, with chairs; and, indeed, bread upon it. To which Hupper is already helping himself. And a jug of wine, just like he said there’d be.

A lantern there provides more light.

To his right, the whole is dominated by an arched fireplace of close fitted stone. Enormous and imposing. The mantelpiece is elaborately worked, though worn. Curious shapes adorn the stonework. Writing or perhaps symbols.

A handful of huge logs blazes within, and the warmth is almost overbearing.

Warily, he enters, crossing to the table, and looks down at Hupper, comfortably seated now.

*

Don’t get too relaxed, there, Private. Remember to keep an ear out.

Yes, Sergeant.

You are both safe here. 

He turns back to the old man. Again, that smile; bordering on the obsequious; yet somehow, a smirk.

Safe? You do know, there’s a war going on out there, don’t you, Monsieur? Monsieur…?

A pause as though he finds it troubling to speak.

*

Vert. 

My name is Jacques Vert and this is my place. And you are perfectly safe here. 

He seems to unfold as he asserts this. 

His height imposing; yet without threat, he retreats to the fireplace; feeding it a few twigs here and there, as he continues. 

Think of this place as…a place found only by chance. 

He throws in a handful of sticks, which flare up.

You were uncommonly lucky. – he holds up two twigs. 

I doubt you could find your way here a second time. 

He places them on the mantelpiece; and then, after a pause, dumps the rest of his twigs in the fire; save one, which he again holds in front of him, speculatively.

It is a place, out of the war; yet not apart from the war, if you see what I mean. After all, we all have our part to play, do we not? – he chuckles.

He tosses in the final twig, watching the brief but tiny blaze it causes, with a greedy look.

*

Katarsis glances over at Hupper, a mug half raised to his face, staring at the old man. The young Private gives a discreet roll of the eyes as if to say he’s probably mad.

And how long have you lived here, Monsieur Vert?

Oh, I have taken care of these parts, well, ever since I can remember. But, look; I believe the stew is ready. Let us eat while we talk.

*

The stew is the best and most flavorful thing Katarsis has eaten in well over a year. Even he forgets to listen out for any forest sounds. 

And fresh bread, homebaked, and red wine. He begins to relax; to feel a little like a man again; not just a thing of war; a creature of long distant stares, crouching, and reflex. 

*

Vert joins them, telling them softly of the life of the woods; outside of the war. The rare and precious species of forest flowers, to be found in the Bois-Jacques. The cycles of the trees; and of the game which still prowled, hereabouts. 

And how he found that people had always spoiled things; with, or without their wars.

Periodically, he descends to a coal cellar, returning with more handfuls of twigs, which he feeds to the fire sporadically while speaking. Sometimes a few, sometimes a stack. Occasionally, one which he might hold up, as though inspecting it for meaning.

They flare swiftly each time. And yet, it seems to Katarsis, carefully watching him, that they bring to him, each time, an odd feeling of dread chill; every one of them.

The fire itself, remains stoutly burning, the great logs unaffected by such tiny kindling.

*

For a short while he pauses, sitting down once again.

There have been other wars here; in the past. – Vert. – it goes with the territory, as they say. 

He makes a sweeping gesture, as he stands, crossing to the huge hearth.

We’re right  in the middle of it here, haha.

Five sticks into the fire. Katarsis watches and sees the man’s hands counting them deftly between fingers, as though by long rote. Mindless in the effort.

Then three. Then, what seems dozens.

And the feeling of cold pain increasing in Katarsis; settling on the heart, each time. Like fresh grief.

*

You mean the Great War? – Hupper, through a mouthful of stew.

You were here then. – Katarsis. It isn’t a question.

Vert merely smiles at him, a tight but tacit smile of approval.

And there are other wars, aside from your own, – Vert. – happening all around us right here and now as well. 

Where others play their part, just like mine.

Hupper looks confused

In other places you’d never reach, save by the devil’s own luck. – Vert smiles indulgently at him. 

Why, just the kind of luck that brought you here. To me. Do you see? 

It’s all about boundaries. And how acts in one place, 

He tosses in a stick.

have their equivalent in others.

A half dozen twigs to the fire. 

 

Hupper grins and nods, pretending to comprehend; mostly intent on the stew and the wine.

Again, to the coal cellar, coming back with a huge bundle of twigs this time.

Or perhaps not even war. He feeds in a handful of them.

But famine. a few more,

or pestilence. A good clump.

Or disaster. Then a large bunch…

And it’s as I said...

…on to an already burning fire of thick logs.

We all have to play our part

*

Katarsis begins to sit up straighter now, slowly. 

His rifle is leaning against the table leg, just within reach, he estimates.

Vert bends toward the mantle; and he snatches it up and points it.

Stop. – he says.

Just that.

Vert is halfway to casting more sticks. He halts abruptly, and turns to face Katarsis.

Oh, Harry. You know I can’t do that. The war carries on. The death and carnage continues.

I could shoot you dead.

Yes, but then someone else would only take up where I left off. War is endemic to men. Part of the inexorable moral decline to which we refer as history.

Jesus. Spare me the guff.

Ever since the greediest began protecting their wealth with walls and organised violence… What the powerful and the foolish have named Civilization, has been only war, slavery, and suffering for everybody else. 

Now I should kill you, just for sounding like a fucking Bolshevik.

Vert laughs then.

And who is strong enough for this work, if you did? Who would carry on after? For, rest assured, the work will carry on. 

Is it you?

Or do you think Hupper here has the stomach for it?

Hupper, for his part, is following the conversation with a bemused look, rolling a smoke.

Katarsis lowers his rifle across his lap.

You have the power to stop it, but you don’t. – Katarsis, softly.

Do I?

Yes. I’ve watched your relish, in doing this; feeding that fire, the whole time; you son of a bitch. You could kill fewer, I bet. Maybe you could stop it altogether. But you hate people, and that’s the only truth.

Hahaha. Yes, I hate them. These Europeans especially. They have made an artform of atrocity and named it Empire. And here is the result. So, yes. Sometimes I take more than is my due; sometimes many more. But even if I should stop; – all over the world, the taking will continue.

With a sweeping flick, Katarsis casts the oil lantern across the room; shattering by the fire, its contents erupt in flames. 

The old wooden wall, nearby, catches fire immediately.

You fool! – Vert is screaming. – You don’t know what you have done!

It stops here, shithead.

You stop nothing, you idiot. You only make matters worse. Far worse.

BANG!

Vert collapses, leaking blood from his chest. 

Hupper stares about him, at the latest craziness this war has brought; and the growing conflagration, filling the room with flame.

He simply runs.

You have done more harm than you can know. – chokes Vert. – And not only to countless others…

He holds up a single stick which, with the last of his strength, he hurls at the spreading fire.

Katarsis tries to stand, but finds all the strength suddenly gone from his legs. He flops to the floor, trying desperately to move, writhing like a fish.

His heart stops dead then, mercifully; just before the fire consumes him, and the ancient cottage, completely.

February, 1945

Hupper bustles into the briefing with all the others, once more ready for active duty. His entire crew lost, he has been assigned to a new aircraft. And a new Bomb Group; the 303rd.

Picked up by Patton’s 3rd Army. He was found wandering the Bois-Jacques with no memory of what had happened to him. Just a little frostbitten.

Shipped back to England, and a short stay in the hospital. 

Then back aboard B-17s.

This next mission is a big one, and there’s some comfort to be had in the safety of numbers.

The tacit hope, reliance even; that someone else will catch the flak, and not you. 

The hangar is filled with seated airmen; who all fall silent, as the briefing begins.

A staff officer steps up to a billboard-sized map. A collage of aerial photographs, and smaller maps crammed around its border.

The target for this raid…- he begins, pointing. – will be the city of Dresden.