I’ve chosen to take the suggestion on the WEP Challenge 2023 page and write a story about the underpinning issues of  World War II. This story is about survival in a harsh time, and the sometimes humorous vignettes behind war.

I’m not publishing this to compete this time, but only to participate in WEP, something I wish I could do more often.

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The German Goose

 

Sarge and Private Martinez were the first in the Jeep to spot a dark grey spiral of smoke in the  distance. Even if it could be dangerous, smoke meant warmth, and if the four men were lucky, a chance to taste food that didn’t come from a C-Ration can.

In silent agreement they turned onto the dirt road they hoped would lead them in the direction of that smoke. In less than a mile, they stopped in front of a German farmhouse, and the four of them, their guns out, crouched low and made their way to the front. 

Sarge pressed his ear against the door, listening. Only silence came from inside. But the aroma of freshly brewed coffee meant someone might be behind that door, armed and waiting. 

He gave Private Martinez a signal to circle to the back before he shoved open the door and ducked to the side, expecting bullets. Moments after, the back door crashed open and in a few seconds Martinez called the all-clear.

Inside, an enameled coffee pot sat steaming on the stove. The oven was hot to the touch, waiting for a pan of unbaked biscuits on the table. Whoever, had been here only moments before, must have fled when they heard the Jeep approaching. 

The GI’s wasted little time in shoving those biscuits into the oven and pouring themselves the first real coffee they’d tasted in months. Pulling the wooden kitchen chairs close to the stove, they sipped the black brew and anticipated the taste of hot, freshly baked biscuits, something they’d thought a lot of while they slogged through mud or huddled under dripping helmets in the cold rain. 

For these Recon Scouts, fighting the war had been more about dodging German soldiers than shooting at them. Serving under Patton’s Black Cat Division, they’d spent most of the time behind enemy lines reporting the German troop movements, the number of tanks, and the location of artillery. After keeping out of sight, staying warm was their first priority. Real food was never far from their minds. They slept in spurts during the day or whenever it seemed safe, so they’d forgotten what it was like to not feel tired. 

When they’d devoured the last biscuit, they added a chunk of wood to the stove to keep the heat up in the kitchen. They were about to pour another cup of coffee when the honking of a goose stopped them. When they looked out the window, a large gray bird was waddling from the barn to the side of the house. These men had communicated silently with each other for over a year—a nod, a quick hand gesture, eyes signaling a direction to go. One look at that bird, and none of them needed more than a nod before the axe next to the stove was in hand. Not long afterwards, the goose was in the oven.

How blissful it was to be at a hot stove, sitting in a chair, sipping real coffee with the expectation of eating a fat roasted goose. They couldn’t have dreamed a better dream than this. And it lasted about ten minutes.

At first, the sharp explosions of rapid gunfire came from a distance, but their trained ears picked up the hum of aircraft. There were two planes heading their direction. Messerschmitts? The hum of engines came closer. P-47s. Maybe their own.

Whoever those fighters belonged to, didn’t matter. They couldn’t stay in a German farmhouse that might be strafed, but they weren’t about to miss out on that goose or that coffee. Sarge grabbed the almost-roasted bird out of the oven. Martinez the coffee pot. The two men in the rear took charge of the delicacies, and they sped off to find a safer spot.

It was three days before they located another place they could make a fire, finish roasting that bird and warm up the coffee. There would never been another goose or another pot of coffee that measured up in flavor, and none of the GI’s tired of telling the story, so it became part of each family’s folklore, embellished a bit here and there, but essentially what happened that day in April 1945.

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Some kisses bring delight, others disaster.

1,016 Words

Once dawn gave way to morning, Mel built up the courage to reenter the bedroom. She pushed open the door enough to peer inside. The rumpled bed. The nightstand with a half-full glass of water. The night light still switched on. Everything as it should be.

But everything wasn’t as it should be. Just when she thought she’d put that terrifying experience behind her, it had come at her again last night, and she’d slept on the couch, shivering. Even with the heat turned up, the chills never stopped. 

She hated to call Abagail, but her best friend was the only one who’d listen and not freak out.

Abigail must have run after Mel’s call because she barged into the kitchen within three minutes of hanging up, and she lived half a block away. 

“That was… not a call I… wanted this morning.” Abigail panted, out of breath. “I thought this had stopped.”

“I know. Sorry. I didn’t have anyone else—”

“Don’t be sorry.” Abigail took her hand and held it tightly. “I’m making some coffee, then you’re telling me everything.”

With the steamy mugs in front of them, Abigail began. She tried to choose her words so that nothing sounded exaggerated or outright stupid. Yet her first start was both. And she shook her head, “Let me try that again.” 

She needed to recall the nightmare in the right way. No, it hadn’t been a nightmare. But if it had really happened, the events of last night wouldn’t come in jumbled dream-like snatches or have blank spaces. 

Mel straightened her back and clasped her hands around her coffee mug. “It was a little after midnight. I’d been reading. Nothing scary. A cozy mystery. When my eyes wouldn’t stay open anymore, I turned off the light, but with the full moon, the bedroom didn’t go dark. I decided to pull down the shades, or I’d never sleep.”

Abigail nodded encouragement.

“I went to the window and…” Her heart drummed inside her chest and she stood too quickly, knocking the edge of the table and sloshing their coffee onto the cloth. “Oh, God. I can’t…I—”

Abigail wrapped her in her arms and held her. “I think we should call the doctor.”

“No!” Mel wrenched free. “I can’t do that.”

“He helped before.”

“It was terrible.” The locked doors. The silence except for her sessions with the psychiatrist. The gauzy drug-induced days. 

Abigail led her back to the table. “Sit. Talk to me.”

Mel took a breath then released it. “He was there, outside the window. Then he was in the room, and it was the same as that night.”

“Did he attack you?”

Mel closed her eyes, but that only made the image of the man more vivid. It was better to stare into Abigail’s eyes, focus on the friendship they held. 

“Yes, but this time I grabbed the lamp and I hit him. Hard. Again and again.”

“So you drove him off.”

“No.” Mel swallowed the bile that came into her throat. “I killed him.”

Abigail took her hand and walked her into the bedroom. “Mel, look.”

“I know there’s no body. But last night there was.”

“Honey, I know you believe that. And I understand why. You’re out to change what happened two years ago, but you can’t in real life, so you try to do it in your dreams. Drake’s gone, Mel. His killer’s in prison.”

Abigail had been with her from the time Drake was been shot, through her repeated calls to 911, and her psychotic meltdown.

“Come and spend tonight with us. Then as much as I hate saying this, I think you have to move. It’s this house. That bedroom.”

Mel nodded. “I know.”

Early that evening, Mel packed an overnight bag. She’d agreed to take Abigail up on her offer and stay with her. She needed sleep before she made any decisions about selling and moving. Bundled in her heavy sweater, she stepped outside into the moonlit night. The stark shadows from trees and bushes stretched across the sidewalk. 

She’d passed her driveway when the crackle of dry leaves underfoot brought her to a halt. She froze, then with dread pumping blood into every part of her, she turned to look back. A shadow stretched toward her, nearly touching her toes. As it advanced, it crept up her legs and across her chest until it blotted out everything.

She cringed when it spoke. 

“You led me on, then when all I asked for was one kiss, you refused.”

Fear lodged in her throat, shut down her ability to move. She could’t scream for help. She couldn’t run. This time it wasn’t a nightmare. This time he was inches from her. She was sure of it.

“I wouldn’t have hurt you. I wouldn’t have killed Drake, but he had a gun. It was your fault it happened.”

It had been a flirtation. Yes, she’d encouraged him, but then said no. Her marriage was too important to risk. He’d refused to leave. Drake came home from his meeting and found her struggling in his embrace. The fight. The gunshot, and the blood. Those memories stalked her and refused to let her find peace. She’d made a stupid mistake and she’d paid for it again and again. She was so tired. Let whatever this was facing her, engulf and end her. Please.

Abigail’s voice was suddenly in her head saying what she’d been saying for two years. No means no, Mel. Don’t forget that. 

 Mel finally found her voice, tentative as it sounded. “But I said no.” The shadow slid back. She’d made it retreat if only small distance. 

You will regret forever, Abigail had said so often, but you must forgive yourself or you’ll never be free of him.

Then for the first time since that night, the words she’d been unable to say came with the force of conviction. “It wasn’t my fault!”

The shadow melted into nothing, and the moonlight came down around her, clear and bright.

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I like to explore mistakes by one person that ripple out into the lives of many and linger to haunt those that make the mistakes. Poor Mel. Riddled with guilt, she’s alone. Her husband’s dead. She can’t erase the part she played in what happened that night. And I have a hard time believing this will be the last of her nightmares/visitations.

I’ve always enjoyed slice of life stories and especially ones with quirky characters that leave me wondering about who they are really and what might happen to them after the story ends. I thought I’d have some fun and try to create one of those SOL stories of my own.

I’m not a fan of “respelling,” but I did some here because it seemed to fit and it was short, so I didn’t have to endure page after page of talkin’ and outta.

So….drum roll…here’s

The Lynching

About the time the sun hits the top of the mountain–yep that’s the best time to set the trap. He’ll be comin’ from the east and won’t see a damned thing round the bend. By my calculation he”ll be just about smack under the Buzzard Tree and blind as a bat.

Duchane got himself duded up for the occasion. New hat and new hardware rope slung over his shoulder. Kenny Dumont brought his pa’s shotgun, but I know the kid don’t have the sense to aim the thing let alone pull the trigger. Before I left the house, I tucked my Bowie knife into its sheath just in case three against one with surprise on their side wasn’t good enough. Can’t never be too careful when you’re out to string a man up. I’m sure he won’t cotton to that idea at all.

“Gotta take a leak Bart. Here, you hang onto the rope.”

Duchane’s bladder’s about the size of a grape. I take the rope, but that means if that bugger comes while Duchane’s playing bear in the woods, I’ll have to change up the plan. I should’a called on Newt for this job. He might be seventy, but he’d pee his pants before he’d sabotage a planned attack like this one.

And sure as I’m my mama’s best boy, here comes that weasel Barney Treamont. I can tell the way he sits his horse, he’s already had a few hours at Josie’s Bar. Well, that there’s something else to make all of this a lot easier.

Treamont’s sort of leaning over his horse’s head like he’s having a heart to heart with her. Nice horse. It’ll be a good one for Nell. Kind of elegant looking, but gentle. Treamont was never a rider, so all his horses were good and broke to the saddle before he threw his leg over ‘em.

Where’s that Duchane? “Kenny.” I keep my voice low and motion the boy close. “We got to change up the plan. You take that side of the road. I’ll take this one. Don’t point that damned gun at anything you don’t aim to shoot.”

“Got it.” He crouches and makes it behind a boulder at the edge of the road about the same time Treamont comes around the bend.

The pinched-faced little weasel blinks into the glare, and I grab him by the leg and pull him off his saddle.

“What the…” He has a loud, kind of twangy voice that always grates on my nerves. Now that isn’t enough for me to want this waster gone. It’s for Nell that he needs his neck stretched.

She’s had a rough go from day one in this world. Her mama dead before Nell took her first breath. Then there’s the fact that she didn’t come with a head for doing much of anything except feed, water, and nurse animals. Nell could pull a dying filly onto her feet before any vet I ever called to the barn, and every cow gave her double the milk. She talked to ‘em and there were times I swear they talked back to her. That made it hard for people to understand her, and it made it darned hard for me to raise her proper. I done my best, but a girl who’s not right in the head is more than a handful for the likes of me.

Treamont’s squirming under my boot. His eyes got that panic in them, but I’m not sorry for what I’m about to do. Nell must ‘a had some of that panic when he did that thing to her. She never said, but when she forgot to close the hen house door that night, I knew she was hurting. Nell never forgot to care for our critters. They was her family.

I’ve got the noose around Treamont’s neck when Duchane clomps his way outta the trees. “I got his hands,” Duchane says like I need his help now.

Kenny’s aimed his pa’s shotgun at the sky, so the most he’ll shoot is a duck late to the marsh. But he’s forgot what he’s supposed to do.

“Kenny! Get. His. Horse.  Over here.” I’m used to handling slow thinkers, but today my patience is wearing thin.

“What are you doing?” Treamont’s sober enough to notice the itchy rope against his throat, but Duchane’s got his hands tied behind him, so all Tremeont can do is twist his head and shuffle his feet.

“We’re hanging you, Treamont. And because I’m a Christian sort of man, I’m going to do two things.” I hold up one finger. “I’m going to let you say a prayer to ask for forgiveness.” I held up the second finger. “And I’m going to tell you why you’re dying.”

My sheets aren’t as white a Treamont’s face. He looks downright bleached.

“I’ve done nothing to harm you, Bart McKinny.”

“That’s not what my Nell tells me.” Now, the truth is Nell talks about as much as a gnat, but I seen Treamont coming outta my barn, straw poking up in his hair. And I seen Nell follow him, her top done up so the buttons don’t match. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck, and I can add up what I see real fast. “You de-filed my girl.”

No way did I expect Treamont was going to bend over laughing the way he did.

I’m about to give his scrawny butt a good kick with my boot when he straightens up and says, “Your Nell jumped me. But I’m not complaining. I was coming to you now to ask for your blessing. I want to marry Nell.”

If I was a thrashing machine, my gears would be stripped. My Nell married? There are miracles in this world. I size up Treamont again. Not much bigger around than a twig, a short neck that only just let the rope fit under his chin, a real disappointment in the man department, but he might be just right in the Nell husband one.

“Here, let me help you outta that rope contraption.” I tug the noose from over his head, and Duchane unties his hands. “I’d be pleased to give you my blessing, Treamont.”

I pat him on the back until his color’s more natural and Kenny finally leads Treamont’s horse under the Buzzard Tree. Treamont’s still kind of shaky, but he gets back up and rides away a lot faster than I ever seen him do before.

Me, Duchane, and Kenny stand there scratching our chins, kind of feeling the let down of not having Treamont’s lynching to talk about over our beer for the next twenty years.

But the sun disappears behind the next peak, and long shadows from the mountains creep across the Buzzard Tree. Those shadows remind me of a story about how revenge stretches across a lot of years always trying to even up a score.

“Probably wasn’t a good idea to do Treamont in,” I finally say. “How about we get some cold ones at Josie’s?

The lamplighter coaxes the gaslight to life, and its soft glow pushes back the night. I watch from a distance as waiters ready the tables and customers arrive. Once the cafe bustles with laughter and conversation,  I step out of the shadows and onto the terrace.

The regular customers are in their places sipping aperitifs when I pass through, rippling the air and disturbing pungent trails of cigar smoke. On the way toward my favorite table near the cafe entrance, some of the men glance at me, but these are only brief eye contacts. They sense I don’t belong here. I can tell from the way they pull back at my passing. The women, their hair piled high in the fashion, criticize me with side glances. I touch my own hair, a  self-conscience reflex. I’ve tried for their elegance, but it’s not so simple to mimic them, even though I’ve worked hard to do it.

The waiter knows me now. He’s at least welcoming and I detect a warm sympathy in his eyes as if recognizing broken hearts is part of his cafe duty. I’m enchanted by the way he drapes his small white towel over his arm, bows slightly, and then greets me with a melodious, “Bon Soir, Mademoiselle. L’habituel?”

He doesn’t look sour at hearing my badly accented French when I tell him, “Yes, the same.” My French vocabulary and syntax are university perfect, but I can’t conceal the rhythm of my native Dutch. That’s why I never speak to anyone except this waiter while I’m here. The curled lips of annoyance ruin the moment. I came to enjoy a sip of fine Cognac, this golden mood of Arles captured long ago by one of my most famous countrymen. 

The waiter sets my drink in front of me and I inhale its rich aroma. As I lift the Cognac to my lips, a man steps across the cobblestone street and heads my direction. I take in a sharp breath. Lars. How has he followed me? I didn’t think it possible, but he’s striding my way, an anachronism in his jeans and T-shirt. His wiry body, his determined expression plucking at old memories I’ve struggled to tuck into the past. 

Without asking my permission, Lars takes the chair across from me. “You can explain this, I suppose?”

That’s Lars. So direct. No preamble. “I can explain it no more than you can.” I sip from my glass suddenly needing fortification. “How did you get here?”

“By watching and doing what you did. Staring at the picture.” He glances around, uneasy. “I assume you felt the pull of it until stepping through was unavoidable.”

“Yes. That’s how it is.”

 He settles his stare on me again as if he’s finally taking in the way I look. “Is this a cape?” He reaches his hand toward me, but I duck out of reach. “And your hair. What have you done to it?”

“That’s none of your business.”  I speak lower, but my voice has sharp edges that were honed by my bitter breakup with Lars last year. He made it clear that marriage and children were off the table. And when I was quite honest and told him that marriage and children were what I needed to make my life complete, he left our bed without a word. The next day he took back his ring. We continue to work as archivists together, but the rancor never lessens between us. “There’s no crime in my being here. I’ve finished my work. The museum’s closed. I’m on my own time, if I’m not mistaken, so I can dress any way I wish.”

The couple at the nearest table whisper to each other and point at Lars. “You’d do better to try to fit in,” I tell him.

He smiles. “You’re right, of course. And anyway I like your period look.” He leans across the table and his breath brushes my cheek. Too close. “There’s nothing wrong in admiring the art, but invading it…that’s unnatural.”

“And your arrival isn’t?”

He ignores my question. Another of his traits. “And I’m sure this isn’t  the first time,” he says.

 I push slightly back in my chair and look out across the cafe terrace, sad that Lars has found me, sad he’s stolen this pleasure from me. Hasn’t he stolen enough from me already? 

It troubles me that I’m not the only one who can come to this cafe. It was so special—my reward after a day of looking at beauty from the outside. I could for a short time slip inside and be at one with a great creation. I could rub against the soul of the artist himself. His loneliness a comfort for my own. 

“Well,” Lars says. “Am I right? You’ve come before?”

“Yes. I come often. I’d stay if I could.” I hold my cell phone so no one can see it and check the time. I have only a few more minutes before I have to leave.  

In my early visits, I discovered I had a precise ten minutes to live in this world that Van Gogh conjured onto the canvass. Staying longer agitated the cafe customers, and even the waiter grew restless. The starry night turned threatening. “Leave,” it commanded. “You don’t belong here.”

“Sophia.” 

Lars says my name in that soft way he used to and puts his hand on mine. “I followed you because I was curious, but now that I’m here, I know I followed you for a different reason. I’ve been thinking about us, about how I miss being with you.” He glances at our hands. “Like this.”

The warmth of his touch brings back other moments we’ve had together, and I can’t pull away.

The waiter hovers at our table, the bill in hand. “Le addition, Mademoiselle.” He glances at Lars. “Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.”  With a subtle nod in my direction, he leaves.  

Since his French extends only to simple phrases, Lars looks to me for a translation.

“It’s from The Little Prince.”Love does not consist in looking at each other, but rather in, together, looking in the same direction.”

I slip my hand free from Lars, and mouthing “Merci” to the waiter,  leave a generous tip before stepping onto the cobblestones.

 

 

 

At four in the morning in a place called the Sahara, I pulled myself from bed and walked out of my camp into the starriest and most silent night of my life. I expected to meet several other travelers, but all of their camps were dark. I was sure they must have gone ahead. So I followed the carpeted trail to where we were to meet the camel drivers. The camels were there. The drivers were there. I was the one estranjero.

And so I went out across the soft, sandy breasts of the Sahara, the lone traveler from the other side of earth. It was Omar, his camel, and me—a strange company come together in this twinkling of starlight.

There are two things about this trek that were exquisite—the sense of unlimited space and silence.

The only sounds I could hear were my own breath, the soft crunch of the camel’s hooves into the sand and nothing more until…Anubis.

He came at a run from out of the dark. Ahead. Around. Behind. Unbridled canine joy. A Berber dog not to be left out of this new day soon to come

 

 

 

 

 

Getting on and off a camel is not something you do without some thought, but mine was smallish, and we agreed to a gentle rise and descent which suited him and me perfectly. While he nestled in the cool night sand, I trekked up to the top of the next dune and waited with Anubis for the sun god to arrive. And when he did, I held him in my hand, so grateful for his coming even if he dimmed the stars.

I was only there for a few hours, but those hours are millennia in my mind. I stood looking out over an ancient sea and into an infinite sky while Anubis laid his paw across my leg and we stared into the distance together.

 

On our trek back to camp, I looked over my shoulder. Our footprints—Omar’s, the camel’s, Anubis’s and mine had all crisscrossed this place, but the sand was already shifting in the stir of morning desert air. Soon those footprints would be gone and our brief time together would be erased, not even a hint of this remarkable experience would remain…except for here.

FCA