Souvenir Read Free Page B

Red handed Big Ned the binoculars. Ned Warren and Ned Kelleher were a team, and it was obvious which was Big Ned and which was Little Ned. Big Ned handled the Browning Automatic Rifle, a 16 pound monster that looked like a BB gun in his big, beefy hands. Big Ned was the strongest guy in the platoon, a Michigan lumberjack who almost split the shoulder seams of his field jacket. A jagged scar ran from his left ear across his cheek, the result of either a faulty chainsaw or a knife fight with an Indian from Mackinac Island, depending on how much Big Ned had had to drink. When he drank too much he could be a mean drunk, and no one dared ask if the knife fight story was true or not. Little Ned was the ammo carrier for Big Ned. In addition to all his own gear, he had to carry an extra ammo pouch for the BAR, which could eat up rounds in no time flat. Little Ned was a small guy, but appearances weren’t everything. There was wiry muscle on every bone, and Little Ned could walk lighter than any man in the squad. His union card said he was a structural steel worker, used to climbing up I and H columns floating far above city streets and bolting steel beams with a spud wrench. Little Ned was great with tools, and could fix a jam in the BAR faster than Big Ned could get his trigger finger mitten off.
    “OK,” Big Ned said.
    “That fallen pine is a little exposed, Red,” said Little Ned, not arguing, just pointing out a fact.
    “Yeah, but you can crawl down to it, dig out a little snow, and fire from underneath it. It’s good cover, don’t worry.”
    “I ain’t worried about getting there, Red,” said Little Ned, looking out at the field and not bothering to say the obvious. He saw Red was right. They could crawl through some brush easy enough. The pine had toppled over from the edge of the tree line, and lay at an angle, facing away from the machine-gun nest. Broken branches held the tree up just off the ground, and they’d be able to fire through a narrow slit between the frozen ground and the trunk. But if all hell broke loose…
    “I got two smoke grenades,” Red said, willing himself to speak slowly and calmly, as if explaining to a kid that a shot at the doctors wasn’t going to hurt. “When I throw them in front of you, haul ass out. Everybody gives covering fire. Understood?”
    “Yessir,” said Miller, the newest replacement.
    “Shut the fuck up, asshole,” said Hank Tucker. He had been in the line three weeks now, and considered himself a veteran, since Marty had told him he’d be a combat vet if he lasted three days. “What if some goddamn Kraut heard you call Red that? Jesus!”
    “OK, Tuck, simmer down. You and Shorty take Miller here and set up just above Big Ned and Little Ned. Jake, get Clay back up to the tree line and watch our left flank. No surprises, OK? When I fire, we open up on that position, find out what they’ve got out there. Smoke is the signal for you guys to clear out, plenty of covering fire. Got it?”
    “Sure, Red, OK,” said Tuck. “C’mon, Shorty.” Shorty was six foot barefoot, and walked with a permanent stoop, the result of his intense desire not to get shot in the head simply because he was the tallest guy in the squad. It might happen anyway, but he hated the idea of some Kraut seeing his helmet bobbing along over a hedge or stonewall somewhere and sending a slug through it, while the other guys, who had it easy at five foot eight and less, walked on without a scratch. Miller followed, miserable. Everyone else was paired up, he was odd man out. All he could do is hope for another replacement to come along, so he could call him a dumb sonovabitch, and take him under his wing, dig foxholes together, complain about the chow and the Army like the other guys. Give each other nicknames, too. Failing that, maybe one of these guys would get killed. Or maybe he would. He was so cold, and lonely, he didn’t even care that much. If it were quick, anyway.
    Jake made sure he kept