Back in her time (5 page)

“The prime minister isn't into that mystic stuff?” Mac said unbelievably.

“Yeah, he's supposed to be trying to get in touch with his mother. Goin' to those spiritual meetins',” said Whitey.

Hacking on her cigarette, Taylor strolled over to see what the guys were talking about.

“Are you guys talking about MacKenzie King?” asked Taylor.

“He's the prime minister, ain't he?” said Red.

“Right. You say he goes to séances?” said Taylor.
How do I steer this conversation my way?

“He's playing politics with the army, and now he's ready for the loony bin with this séance malarkey,” said Whitey.

“Maybe it's not all foolishness,” said Taylor. “Maybe there's something to it, this talking to spirits or getting messages from them.”
Look at their faces. They think I've lost it.
“For example, remember at that town, I just knew there was one more sniper left in the church and that he was unarmed?”

“That was a lucky guess. You said so yourself.” Mac snickered.

“What's up, men?” asked Sarge as he came up to the group.

“Junior, here, is telling us he talks to spirits,” said Whitey.

“Not
talk
to them. Sometimes I just know things. Sarge, you remember how I knew your wife's name and what you did to earn a living?”
Have I gone too far?

“I thought that was just a game. You really believe you have some sort of power?”

“Not power, just a gift. Okay, Sarge, think about how many brothers and sisters you have. Got a number?” said Taylor.

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. Mac, standing to Taylor's left, made a hand twirling sign, pointing to his own head.

“Okay, Sarge. You're the oldest of nine children. You have three brothers, the rest sisters. Their names are …”

“How the hell did you know that? You worked in records at headquarters? That's it.” Lips pressed together, Sarge smiled knowingly.

“Faker. Of course that's how he done it,” said Red, laughing.

“No, no. I've never worked at headquarters. Let me prove it. We broke the Gustav Line and are headed toward the Hitler Line. The way is heavily booby-trapped and barbwired. The Germans have really dug in trying to keep us out. Three infantry from Able Company will be killed, but our group will get by with just some minor shrapnel injuries.
I can't remember the exact date. Pops said it happened right after the celebrations of the tank takeover. They're looking at me like I'm a geek. This was stupid.

“Ha. You really had us going there, Junior. Everyone knows the enemy is trying to keep us from breaking the Hitler Line and reaching Rome. Of course they've put out a protective screen all around. You don't have to be a mystic for that. Sure, some men will be hurt and die.” Sarge walked away chuckling.

Taylor shrugged and walked away to sit by herself and think.

“But how did Junior know about Sarge's family? That was an awfully good guess,” said Whitey, scratching his head under his helmet.

* * *

I've blown it. They think I'm nuts. I'll just have to wait for that skirmish and I'll prove it to them. Soon, Pops will know the truth about who I am.
Taylor found her pack, rolled out her ground sheet and one of her two blankets, lay down, rested her head on her kit, and fell into a fitful sleep.

“Wake up, oh mighty mystic,” someone whispered in her ear. Taylor sat up abruptly to see Mac leaning over her. “Hit the road, Junior. We're on to our next battle. You know. The one where we get hit by shrapnel.”

The late May sun was warm on Taylor's back by mid-morning, but she kept her khaki jacket on over her tee shirt to hide her small breasts. So far, it had worked. Taylor lifted her face to the sun to soak in the rays. An abandoned farmhouse could be seen topping a hill about half a mile away. Its tiled roof glimmered reddish orange on this brilliant day. Taylor sat apart from the others. She wasn't in the mood for their ribbing.
How can the day be so beautiful when I feel like shit? I'm right back where I was at home. Shooting off my big mouth. The kids at school were right. I'm a geek, even here in the past.

“We wait here for awhile. Able is patrolling the farmhouse up the road. We wait for an all-clear before we move forward.” Sarge passed the word around. “Junior and Mac go with Padre across those fields for some intelligence work.”

“Sure, Sarge.” Mac headed across the fields with the Padre. Taylor followed behind, picking up her rifle and slinging it over her shoulder.
What is this? A night patrol? In daytime?
The Padre plodded slowly through the bushy land as if to a funeral, and Taylor soon discovered why. German bodies, and those of a few civilians, were strewn across the landscape, partially hidden by the thick underbrush. Taylor tried to avoid looking at the dead, but her eyes were drawn to them. One was a young woman in her twenties, lying face-up with a large congealed blood spot in the middle of her bosom. Her arms were open wide as if to say, “Why me?” Another was a young boy lying in the fetal position. A black dog, of unknown breed, lay dead next to the boy, one paw stretched out protectively. Too late.

Taylor started as an arm encircled her shoulders.

“Leave them for now. We'll bury them later. Check the soldiers for personal belongings — a letter home, anything that might indicate what they were planning next or where they were going.”

Taylor nodded and knelt down beside a German soldier who had a bullet hole through the middle of his forehead. Taylor avoided the open, staring eyes and reached into the dead man's tunic pocket. She fingered a package of cigarettes but couldn't read the German labelling. Awkwardly, she reached into the man's hip pockets and came up with a picture. On the back were some numbers and lettering, probably a date and a name, blurred from much fingering. Taylor turned the picture over to see the black and white shot of a fair-haired girl of about sixteen or seventeen. She returned the picture to the pocket and moved on to the next body.

Mac yelled, “Cripes! I've got Jerry blood all over me! He jumped up, flinging one hand away. Some of the red gooey stuff flew off and hit him in the face. Mac brushed his hands over his head as if he were hit by a barrage of bullets. Taylor rushed over and pulled out the handkerchief Nurse Alma had wrapped the biscuits in and wiped Mac's face.
Gawd, I hope the blood washes off so I can return this to her someday.
Taylor took a closer look at the handkerchief and started to laugh.

Mac shoved Taylor, “You wouldn't think it so funny if
you
had Jerry blood all over you.”

Taylor couldn't help laughing. She struggled to talk as tears coursed down her face. The Padre rushed over. He too started to laugh when Taylor showed him the handkerchief.

Mac stood with feet spread apart, staring at them. How could they both laugh at his situation? Taylor finally blurted out, “It's not blood. It's a jam ration.”

Mac lifted his right hand and stared. He stuck a finger in his mouth. “Yummy, strawberry.” The three soldiers bent with laughter. The cleric was first to somberly order the others to get on with the task at hand.

“Are you going to tell the guys when we get back, Junior?”

Taylor smirked and bent over another body.

When all the bodies had been inspected, with one letter and one official-looking paper found, the Canadians got their shovels and started the job of burying the bodies in pebbly, shallow graves. It was hot, sweaty work, but they found a rhythm to the digging and finished as long shadows played across the ground. Taylor was surprised she could work alongside the others, her muscles not complaining any more than Mac's.
Must be all that ditch-digging I've done.

Mac and Taylor bid goodbye to the Padre and picked up their pace to catch up to their unit, which had moved ahead almost to the farmhouse Taylor had observed earlier. Dropping down beside Whitey, who was lying prostrate in a long, deep ditch, Taylor whispered, “What's up?”

“Able sent some scouts up to the farmhouse, and they haven't returned. We think there's a gun emplacement up there, and somehow the scouts were overpowered without a shot being fired. Sarge says we wait until dark to scope it out.”

“Psst!” A hushed voice teeming with anger said, “Whitey, Junior! Get out of that ditch this minute. A mortar hits there, it will run the length and take you two with it. Haven't you boys learned anything yet?” Sarge's face was mottled a dark red.

Meekly, the soldiers vacated the gully and found a nearby depression.
Now that's the Pops I know. Always yelling if you don't do things the right way. I suppose it will save our lives. Guess he's justified.

The soldiers settled down for another long wait. Taylor took advantage and slept. She was tired after all the digging and hadn't eaten anything since that morning when she'd had some black Italian bread harder than the rock she sat on to chew it. Dipping it in tea hadn't helped much.

Taylor awoke feeling tired, with stones embedded in her side.
What I'd give for a nice hot shower. These clothes haven't been changed in weeks by the smell of them. At least everyone else smells just as bad. No one will be calling me names over these clothes!

A tap on her shoulder told Taylor it was time to move forward. Sarge indicated by hand which direction Taylor, Whitey, and Mac should go.
A wide circuit around the building. Yeah, we know the drill.
The three silently crawled forward to the north side of the structure. Taylor could barely see other Allied soldiers in the dark doing the same on the south side.

Mac had taken the lead, with Taylor close behind, Whitey in the rear. It was slow going and difficult not to make noise, dragging themselves over the rocky terrain. They stopped frequently when they thought they had been too loud.

About ten feet from the farmhouse, Taylor saw a flash of light from an upstairs window. She grabbed Mac's boot in front of her. Mac turned his head slightly. Taylor gestured to the window and put her fingers to her lips to indicate smoking. She hoped Mac could see what she was doing. Mac nodded his head, and they crawled up the last few feet as stealthily as possible, hearts pounding. Whitey was right behind Taylor, bumping into her occasionally. Mac raised a hand to stop and indicated a door on the side of the house. Taylor shook her head and pointed to a window beyond the doorway. The three advanced until they reached the window.

Pulling himself up, Mac, the tallest of the three, peered over the sill. He gave an all-clear sign as he lowered his body to the ground. The three rested against the house, deciding what to do.

Whitey pointed to the doorway, a couple of feet back. He made a quick wiping motion with his hands, suggesting they rush the house. Taylor put up a finger to get them to wait a minute. From around an old flower bed, she picked up a rock the size of her fist and made a throwing motion at the door. Mac and Whitey nodded their heads in agreement. Taylor signalled Mac to take the right side of the door and Whitey to take the left. She stood in front of the door and swung her arm back into a pitch that would have done a junior leaguer proud. Releasing the rock, she followed through and watched it thump the door loudly. Taylor threw herself into the flower bed near Whitey.

The first sounds from the house were heavy boots pounding down stairs. The door opened bit by bit, and a rifle barrel jutted out. Mac jumped up and grabbed the rifle so hard he pulled the enemy right out of the house. Whitey whacked the guy in the face with his rifle butt, and the German collapsed with a grunt. Mac dragged the unconscious man over to the flower bed where Taylor sat amazed by the quick, silent, bloodless work.

More heavy footsteps descended the stairs inside, with whispering in German, “What is happening?” The soldier came to the wide-open doorway and leaned out repeating his question. Taylor leaped up out of the dark and hit him with the butt of her rifle. The man staggered and reached for his sidearm, but Mac jumped him and beat him on the back until Whitey slammed his rifle into the German's jaw. He fell solidly. Mac dragged this latest capture to the side, and the three waited long seconds to see if anyone else would appear.

When no other sounds emanated from the house, Taylor slowly crouched forward, moving toward the doorway. Rapid shots rang out from behind her, hitting the low, tiled roof above her. Pieces of roof tile and wall stucco struck her, driving her down to the ground. More shots blazed around her and then nothing. Mac was the first to her side.

“Junior, Junior! Are you hit?”

“We got the third bugger over at the woodshed. He must have been out taking a piss. How's Junior?” said Red running up to them.

Taylor lifted her head slowly, blood streaming from her face in several places. “I don't know. I'm bleeding. Does it look bad?”

Sarge appeared from out of the darkness. He knelt beside Taylor, glowered at what he saw, and pulled her to her feet. Shaking Taylor by the shoulders, he growled, “Get the fluff out, soldier. You've just got a few scratches. Wipe your face off.” Sarge stomped away, muttering something about stupid head wounds looking worse than they were. Taylor wiped as told, using Alma's handkerchief once again.

“Hey, that's the shrapnel you warned us about, Junior,” said Whitey.

“Hit by building material is hardly shrapnel,” said Mac.

“Look in here, men. I just found Able's three scouts. They didn't do as good as Junior,” said Red. “You did know what was going to happen, Junior. Able's loss and us hit with shrapnel.”

Pops didn't tell me I'd be the one hit. And it wasn't quite shrapnel. His memory must have deteriorated. Oh, well, it's almost worth it if Whitey and Red are convinced I have some psychic ability. Will I ever make Pops a believer?