Reluctant Warriors (36 page)

I gotta think a this mission
, he thought. But instead all he could think about was
running.
I've always run away from my problems!

A smile came upon his face as he remembered the good days in his childhood in Fenwick,
West Virginia.

Most every day I went ta my grandparents' place up the road. Pop was gone three hundred
or more days outta the year as a long haul trucker. For ten years I went to their
house and they cared for me. They didn't have anythin', poor clothes, poor educations,
and didn't speak so well. Later, when I went ta boot camp and talked ta guys, I found
out how plain and poor we were, and it hurt a lot. I'm a sergeant now and I need
ta act and talk better. The Swede's helpin' me. For a long time it made me hate anybody
who I figured came from any money. Grandma had no nice furniture or dishes,
he thought
,
just a few knickknacks she prized and that plate with ‘Chicago World's Fair, 1926'
painted on it.

The young soldier, who had missed most of his childhood, hit himself hard in the
face as he sometimes did.
Sometimes I hate who I am.

Finally, he had another thought. For a change he felt superior, almost.

I have somethin' more valuable than any ol' money! My grandpa taught me about the
woods from the time I was a little shaver. All right, so I didn't have those cars
or the big house, or even any folks. But I know how ta survive in the woods, and
that's worth a lot in this war. I know all kinds a things those rich guys didn't
know
, he thought, trying hard to convince himself.

A.C. was a little man, retired from the coalfields after twenty-five years under
the ground. He'd say, “Obey the rules of the woods and you'll be fine. The first
is ta
listen.
And when you think you've listened, then really listen! If you can
hear animals, birds, that's a sign you're alone.”

He smiled, then would not allow himself another thought until he took his grandfather's
advice and listened to the sounds about him: water dripping off trees, the rustling
of squirrels in the leaves on the ground, a bird piping faintly somewhere close.
Good. That meant there wasn't likely anyone nearby.

He thought again of his grandfather. He loved me. He was always good to me.
“Chip,”
he'd say, “look. And when you've looked, look again! Mother Nature'll tell her secrets
if you've a mind ta notice her clues. Animals that have passed by, man's passin'
by, and man's waste. The clues'll be there.”

The old man's voice came to Wiley so clearly.

“When you shoot at somethin', shoot ta kill. We don't shoot no animals fur fun but
ta sustain ourselfs. You shoot it, you use it, just as The Creator intended. He put
animals on this Earth for our use. It's a Bible rule,” he'd say, “not ta waste what
God gives ya.”

Wiley took off his knit cap and ran his hands through his matted hair.
Then he died
a black lung disease at fifty-nine, and my life began goin' bad. Fifteen peoples
came ta the funeral. Essie stood by the grave and wept slow tears. Was that all a
poor man is worth, that only a few peoples would come ta your burial? I'll bet a
rich guy would have lots of peoples come.

He had much hatred washing about in his mind. It started with his malicious father,
but it included people in general because they had not attended his grandfather's
funeral. It was also for himself, for running away and not seeing that his grandmother
had been properly buried. Finally, he hated Germans because he had seen them act
superior to American soldiers and because they had killed so many of his friends.

He saw his grandmother cooking in the kitchen.

She was a heavy woman used to usin' lard in most everything she cooked. After Grandpa
died, sometimes his pension wasn't enough and she made lard sandwiches for us. I
ate what I was given and thought nothin' about it. Now, I'm ashamed. I never saw
it then, the large folds a fat under her arms, and the heels of her shoes, worn down
from age and her weight all worn out. She had trouble gettin' around because of her
leg. She would smile at me, stroke my hair. “We'll get by,” she'd say, “The Lord
takes care a the meek.”

So, I'm one of the meek? I'll show 'em. I'll show 'em all.

And he had the same image in his head he always had of what he would do to his father,
if he ever met the man again.
He'll try ta hit me and I'll block that blow. He'll
be so surprised! I'll look him straight in the eye. Then I'll smash him in the face!

His body tense, Wiley thought again of his grandmother.

Eight months after A.C. died, one winter's day, she lay down for a nap in the bedroom,
and then she died. I was fourteen. I'd gone out ta the shed ta chop some firewood.
I sat a long time after comin' back inta the house, watchin' her from the other room,
wishin' that she would wake up. But she didn't get up as she always had. She didn't
move at all. I got more afraid as it got dark. I lit the lamp and went over ta her
bed. I looked at her face. It scared hell outta me ta see her lips were blue. I knew
she was dead. My world had ended. Pop'd beat me. Whenever he returned, he'd get drunk
and know that neither A.C. nor Essie would be there lookin' over his shoulder. There
was nothing ta restrain him.

I'd thought about what would happen if Grandma died for a long time. I picked up
my coat, a coupla little things along with a dime I had hidden away, and went out
the door and ran. I knew Pop and the sheriff were pals. I knew if I stayed around
town, the sheriff would find me and bring me back, and I'd be beaten all the harder.
I'm so sorry I didn't go ta her funeral. I was just acting out of my instinct for
self-preservation, like an animal.

That was the first time I ran ta save my life. That first time I ran from Fenwick
all the way ta Summersville, twelve miles. In North Africa, once on a mission behind
the lines, I ran twenty miles ta get away from some A-rabs. Now, here I am, at it
again.

Wiley touched the flesh near his right shin. The old knife wound an Arab had given
him still felt tender.

That was the first time the little .25 Colt had saved his life. The Arab hadn't seen
the weapon. Wiley could remember the surprised look on the guy's face when he'd shot
him.

He felt for the little weapon in his pocket, and it was there. Feeling it was always
a relief. He pulled it out and whispered to it: “I'll never part with you as long
as I live. You're the only thing I got left from Grandpa.”

In the vast number of long hours he had spent by himself overseas, the scout had
convinced himself that the gun was the only thing left of his family. He'd told Captain
Redding and others that he had to send money home to his family. But the truth was
that he had no real family, just the Gregorys in Columbia, South Carolina, whom he'd
met during Basic Training.

He carefully looked down the road in both directions. Nothing.

Summersville had taught him a lot. He'd learned to get by on his own. In his two
years there, he'd never seen anybody he'd known before. After a few nights sleeping
in doorways, he'd gotten a job in Linus Campbell's hardware store as the stock boy.

Campbell had taken a dollar a week out of the young Wiley's pay so he could live
in a room in the back of the store. It didn't even have a window, but Wiley hadn't
cared, because it was his! Nobody came there to beat him up. He'd had a bed of old
grain sacks, an old chair someone had thrown out, and an oil lamp. At night, he would
sit reading an old newspaper or magazine and feel like a king. Sometimes, he'd dream
of seeing some of the places the magazines pictured. He'd stolen to have enough to
eat, but mostly he'd gotten by. His schooling ended with eighth grade, but that wasn't
bad in West Virginia.

What had affected him the most was the prejudice. In 1938, the last year of the Great
Depression in the coalfields, West Virginia was as yet untouched by the influx of
contracts World War II would bring.

Everyone kept ta their own kin
, Wiley thought.
Outsiders weren't welcome. I learned
ta be tough in just protectin' myself. Boys came by ta tell me I wasn't
wanted in
Summersville, and many a fight followed. I wasn't very big then, but I held my own.
I still do.

Having heard and seen nothing, the scout rose, put the carbine over his shoulder,
and headed off in a westerly direction. His watch read 1558. He forced himself to
think of his mission.

“I've got just four hours before dark ta find that shitty, goddam plane,” he whispered,
beginning to hate the thing. “Whether I find it or not, I'll have ta travel all night
over new ground ta get back.”

He stopped walking. “First the damn rain and then I was stupid an' had ta use those
damn mines. I don't think this will work.”

He had a strong feeling that the mission was blown. “That's cost me about six, seven
hours. I can't make that up. I could just . . . stay here in these woods. In a few
days, the Army'll would come up. I got those chocolate bars. I could . . . aw
shit!
”

He started walking again, boots squelching in the mud.

Slowly, he worked his way back about three miles to an area just north of where he
had seen the farms. The terrain was a mixture of dense forest and farms. He studied
each farm through his glasses, seeing the people come and go with their chores but
no signs of the downed plane or enemy troops. He was lucky in not happening upon
any natives. He only saw one dog, which did not even offer to bark at him.

Wiley went on farther west. A little after 1800, he came to another country road.
The roadsides had good cover, and in less than a minute he was ready to cross. There
was a cleared area on the other side, with what looked like a good path from it leading
into the woods beyond. He hurried across the road toward it. He took one step on
the other side of the road into the cleared area and froze.

Something was wrong! He stepped back, stooped in plain sight at the edge of the road,
and listened. He heard a bird, then another, but it made him feel no less tense.
He looked around. The cleared area was about the size and shape of a football field
end zone. It had brush in it and a few small trees but was mostly open.

Again he hesitated, stooped, listened, and looked. The scout puzzled as several seconds
passed. Finally, it came to him. There was a smell . . . a very faint smell . . .
of lubricating oil!

Wiley looked at the ground. Though he could see nothing obvious, he knew instinctively
what it was.

A minefield! Mines are made in factories by machines that use oil ta cool the metal!
Look at that ground, it's not right. It's . . . messed up just a little. They almost
fooled me.

He smiled, thinking:
I wasn't taken in by those creeps, but I know full well that
no soldier survives a hundred such chances. Maybe they'll get me the next time and
blow off my leg or put a bullet into me. You just never can tell.

He walked around the cleared area and picked up the path he'd seen on the other side.
He was very close to the area Major White had pointed to on the map.

He spent the next hour and a half looking for the plane.

At a few minutes to 2000, he sat down against a large tree, wondering what he would
do next.
I crisscrossed this damn area in every direction from where White pointed
on this map,
he thought
. This is hopeless. It's less than an hour from dark! I'm
maybe ten miles from my people and I got ten hours. No damn plane.

Again Wiley thought of not even attempting to go back to his lines. He had some rations
and the chocolate bars. He could last for a while.

He looked up through the trees, a sour look on his face. He could see a long way
to the west. “What's
that?
” he said in astonishment. “Maybe, just maybe.”

He stood up but then could see nothing. The opening through the trees was very small.
Only by sitting in the one place was he able to see anything at all. All he could
see was the top of a tree that was somewhat bare.

“Maybe half a mile, hard ta judge.” He looked at it a long time through his glasses,
trying to find a landmark near it. There was nothing, just the battered top of a
tree. He started walking in that direction.

As soon as he began to walk, he began to doubt that he'd seen anything. “Could be
wind damage,” he muttered to himself.

He took out his map and noted where he thought the tree was. It was well out of the
area he was supposed to search and somewhat lower in elevation. Soon, the ground
began a slow decline that continued for many hundreds of yards. With forty-five minutes
of light left, he hurried.

It was a careless way to go about this, but there was no other way. This was his
last chance to pull off the mission and get the information back in time.

Perhaps he hurried a little too quickly in the next fifteen minutes. Suddenly, he
found himself within fifty feet of two German soldiers pacing back and forth on guard
duty. He dove to the ground. Slowly, he lifted up his head and found the two soldiers
still slowly pacing, unaware of his presence. In full view behind them, about thirty
yards off, he saw something.

It was the plane!

He could see that it had burn damage, but the light was too poor for him to tell
very much. The light was going.

Wiley thought:
I have ta act! I have ta act right now!

He took his .45 from the holster and quickly screwed in the silencer. Then, he slowly
crawled forward, his eyes glued to the two Germans in between glances at the ground.