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Authors: Julie Johnston
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whispered something like, “This would be fun if I wasn’t so scared I’m gonna crap my pants.” I tightened up, too, because the same thought crossed my mind. Even so, it was a bit like the cops and robbers me and Coop used to play. Coop was always a robber
.
We were in what was left of a small French village, where our job was to flush out a nest of enemy soldiers supposedly guarding a small munitions dump. It was one of those nights when the moon looked like a big silver dinner plate, justhanging up there. I was shaking like mad and couldn’t stop. That’s when I accidentally nudged an empty tin can, and it rolled down a grade and bumped against a stone wall
.
Immediately, gunfire rattled and whizzed over our heads. It was coming from a bombed-out schoolhouse. I’d given away our position. My first thought was that I’d be court-martialed and imprisoned as a liability. My second thought was that prison would be a whole lot safer than this place. We kept low, slithering along, our faces nearly in the dirt. But at least we knew exactly where the enemy lurked
.
We crept forward when we saw clouds tarnish the moon. We were half protected by an overturned vehicle and some household goods left behind by refugees making their escape. Just then, a dog jumped out of an abandoned car and barked at us. Our sergeant was lying low behind the tank, but he lured the dog to him, silently. I guessed he wanted to quiet him with a tidbit of something he pulled from his pocket, a moment of kindness in the face of battle. A second later, he grabbed the dog and slit its throat. Such is war
.
Enemy fire rattled at and above our cover, but we moved stealthily forward. Everyone looked away from the bloody dog. Defazio silently threwup. The clouds drifted and we were close enough to see the Germans’ faces
.
“Jeez, they’re just kids, some of them
,”
the sergeant whispered. He passed me his binoculars
.
Some of them looked younger than me. Could have been me and Coop and Tom Klosky back in about grade eleven. “They don’t look dangerous enough to be Nazis
,”
I whispered
.
Somebody muttered, “Worst kind. Hitler Youth. Learn to kill in kindergarten.”
On the order, we threw our grenades. I have to confess, I took the precaution of half-closing my eyes to avoid seeing the inevitable. We fell back to take cover behind a pile of rubble before whatever stores the Germans had were blown sky-high
.
Can’t finish this. We’re on the move again. More later
.
Mother rests the iron on its end and sighs. “Son, why are you
doing
this?”
“Doing what?” He sounds like a sulky kid.
“You’re being sarcastic and sullen. You’ve changed. I want my old Jamie back.”
He put the paper down. “What do you mean, I’ve changed?”
“You used to be a polite, loving son.”
He snorts. “That’s what war does to you, I guess. You’re ordered to throw grenades into the midst of a bunch of schoolboys and blow them sky-high, and the next thing you know, you’re being rude to your mother.”
“Jamie, stop being so difficult!” I say.
He scowls into the newspaper. I scowl at my cornflakes. Mother, tight-lipped, is busy filling her clothes-sprinkling bottle at the sink. I feel like throwing my cereal bowl through the window to relieve the tension. If Jamie doesn’t say something, I’m going to whack him on the head with my spoon.
“I miss my war buddies, I guess,” he says. “I miss the camaraderie, even the taunting and teasing.” The atmosphere improves. He nibbles on a piece of toast.
“You still have friends here,” Mother says.
“It’s not the same. I miss the sweaty smell of fear we all had, and the way we felt lucky and reckless at the same time when we came away from a battle, more or less whole. Once we found a small goat ambling along a road, and we slaughtered it on the spot. We put it on a makeshift spit and cooked it over a fire.”
My mouth drops.
“How barbaric!” Mother says. She folds her
.
We were in what was left of a small French village, where our job was to flush out a nest of enemy soldiers supposedly guarding a small munitions dump. It was one of those nights when the moon looked like a big silver dinner plate, justhanging up there. I was shaking like mad and couldn’t stop. That’s when I accidentally nudged an empty tin can, and it rolled down a grade and bumped against a stone wall
.
Immediately, gunfire rattled and whizzed over our heads. It was coming from a bombed-out schoolhouse. I’d given away our position. My first thought was that I’d be court-martialed and imprisoned as a liability. My second thought was that prison would be a whole lot safer than this place. We kept low, slithering along, our faces nearly in the dirt. But at least we knew exactly where the enemy lurked
.
We crept forward when we saw clouds tarnish the moon. We were half protected by an overturned vehicle and some household goods left behind by refugees making their escape. Just then, a dog jumped out of an abandoned car and barked at us. Our sergeant was lying low behind the tank, but he lured the dog to him, silently. I guessed he wanted to quiet him with a tidbit of something he pulled from his pocket, a moment of kindness in the face of battle. A second later, he grabbed the dog and slit its throat. Such is war
.
Enemy fire rattled at and above our cover, but we moved stealthily forward. Everyone looked away from the bloody dog. Defazio silently threwup. The clouds drifted and we were close enough to see the Germans’ faces
.
“Jeez, they’re just kids, some of them
,”
the sergeant whispered. He passed me his binoculars
.
Some of them looked younger than me. Could have been me and Coop and Tom Klosky back in about grade eleven. “They don’t look dangerous enough to be Nazis
,”
I whispered
.
Somebody muttered, “Worst kind. Hitler Youth. Learn to kill in kindergarten.”
On the order, we threw our grenades. I have to confess, I took the precaution of half-closing my eyes to avoid seeing the inevitable. We fell back to take cover behind a pile of rubble before whatever stores the Germans had were blown sky-high
.
Can’t finish this. We’re on the move again. More later
.
Mother rests the iron on its end and sighs. “Son, why are you
doing
this?”
“Doing what?” He sounds like a sulky kid.
“You’re being sarcastic and sullen. You’ve changed. I want my old Jamie back.”
He put the paper down. “What do you mean, I’ve changed?”
“You used to be a polite, loving son.”
He snorts. “That’s what war does to you, I guess. You’re ordered to throw grenades into the midst of a bunch of schoolboys and blow them sky-high, and the next thing you know, you’re being rude to your mother.”
“Jamie, stop being so difficult!” I say.
He scowls into the newspaper. I scowl at my cornflakes. Mother, tight-lipped, is busy filling her clothes-sprinkling bottle at the sink. I feel like throwing my cereal bowl through the window to relieve the tension. If Jamie doesn’t say something, I’m going to whack him on the head with my spoon.
“I miss my war buddies, I guess,” he says. “I miss the camaraderie, even the taunting and teasing.” The atmosphere improves. He nibbles on a piece of toast.
“You still have friends here,” Mother says.
“It’s not the same. I miss the sweaty smell of fear we all had, and the way we felt lucky and reckless at the same time when we came away from a battle, more or less whole. Once we found a small goat ambling along a road, and we slaughtered it on the spot. We put it on a makeshift spit and cooked it over a fire.”
My mouth drops.
“How barbaric!” Mother says. She folds her
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