A Serious Lucky Streak

The barn smelled of its occupants—a cow, a pig, half a dozen piglets, some chickens, and a swayback horse whose eyes stayed shut as if sleep might come if he insisted.

There was also the sweet-sour tang of fermenting hay kept for the winter. They weren’t bad smells. Farm smells. Smells that carried Willie back to a day years before, when his parents had taken him on a bus to the Catskills. They’d visited a farm, picked apples, and eaten hot donuts.

That felt like forever ago.

A farm, a barn, they were good places. They might be safe places. He breathed in the rich air from his perch in the loft, burrowed into a dry pile of hay, naked but for the sweat-salted blanket he’d found in an empty stall. There were more holes than blanket.

Willie had managed to get some sleep until the lone rooster crowed. He pushed aside the hay and listened. All he heard were the animals shifting on the dirt floor, the piglets suckling. He was alone for now. A good thing. A farmer would be coming, he supposed, if only to open the barn door. Better to stay low. Who knew whose side the farmer was on?

From his little cave, he wrestled into the too-big uniform he’d stuffed with hay. Damp but drier. Another small blessing. He was on a lucky streak. The clothes had shed most of the stench from his scramble over the muddy field two nights earlier. The stench of fear. The mud made it impossible to tell cow flops from ground until he crawled through them. At least they didn’t explode.

There were those gray trucks on the road that skirted the edge of the field. Gray was not his color. His preferred color was olive drab. Drab said it all. It was an ugly color, but right now it would be beautiful. Maybe the gray ones were searching for men like him. Maybe not. Either way, trucks were to be avoided. Anything with an engine was to be avoided if it was painted gray. There was a war on, and only the bad guys drove gray things with engines.

Beyond that overly fertilized field was a copse of trees that promised decent cover. The trees ended at a small river. Willie waded and drifted downstream, ducking his head whenever he thought he heard something. If there was anyone, they didn’t see him, and the cold river washed away most of the filth clinging to his uniform. Yet another good thing.

The chickens were pecking in the dirt outside the barn. Willie watched them scratching away, squawking if one came too close. He wasn’t that hungry. He should be hungrier. I bet my stomach has shrunk, he thought. The scant rations he’d taken off the others wouldn’t be missed. Who’d eat them now? Willie hardly knew the guys lying in the snow.

He’d been talking to the tall one standing next to him, a huge guy from Michigan. An older guy he was. Well, he looked older. They all did now. You don’t get this far without it showing. The winter. The war. They’d run into the woods when the firing started—the ones that didn’t get hit. The few who didn’t get hit.

Willie dropped when he felt the punch in his shoulder. It wasn’t a bullet. It was the guy from Michigan, or it could have been Minnesota. Yeah, it was Minnesota. He’d kept saying you betcha. The Minnesotan had been hit. He fell, headfirst, into Willie, knocking him flat. That was the start of Willie’s lucky streak.

Willie just played possum, this real dead guy hiding him, keeping him warm. The guy from Minnesota was his blanket—a warm cover until the warmth left his body. Poor guy. Willie took the K rations the guy had in his jacket.

There wasn’t much anyway. No, those rations wouldn’t be missed. Who’d eat them anyway? Taking rations off a dead body felt wrong, but not as wrong as taking personal stuff—rings or watches and such. He hadn’t done that. He wouldn’t. Unless they came off a German. Anyway, what good would it do? You can’t eat watches.

Water wasn’t a problem, not after his swim, not with the melting snow around. If he was desperate, Willie could drink from one of the streams that ran next to most of these country roads. But he was avoiding the roads. Instead, he’d stay well within the forests, or up on the ridges, keep an eye on any traffic. And an ear out for barking dogs.

He’d been hearing plenty of dogs. They sounded huge. They probably were tied up, he figured, at farmhouses, or watching over flocks in the fields. He figured they probably didn’t know what they were smelling. Hell, until he reached the barn, he hadn’t known what he smelled like, but whatever it was it wasn’t good. Death, maybe. Maybe that’s why the dogs hadn’t chased him. Maybe the sheep smelled better than he did. It was almost funny.

The farm was dead quiet when he saw it. Willie figured—hoped—it was abandoned. If so, he could get cover, maybe a fire. A lot of these places had something useful: a blanket, food, a gun. Something.

He’d almost opened the front door—his hand slowly pressing the ancient handle—when a breeze lifted a wisp of smoke from the chimney. Then he smelled something else: the animals, the manure—both. Willie wasn’t a farm boy. He backed away from the cottage and slipped into the barn.

Henri Bertrand had seen him—the soldier in a wet uniform, slipping into the barn. An American. He could tell right away. Americans always looked strong, well-fed. When they’d slogged down the road a few days before—through the mud, the Germans on their tail—they somehow looked confident, as if this war were a lark.

This tired-looking fellow didn’t look like he’d missed too many meals. That bothered Henri for a moment. I hardly have enough for me. The Americans that had been in the area in the last few weeks were decent enough. They hadn’t bothered him. They didn’t need anything. One fellow on a passing truck had even tossed him a pack of cigarettes after Henri saluted.

He’d smoked one, and it was wonderful. Henri hid the rest when the Boche rumbled back in their tanks. They’d have taken the cigarettes and maybe shot him for good measure. And here he had thought the war was over!

Bertrand noted the soldier was alone. No rifle. No pack. Nothing. He considered going to the barn, calling out, offering food, something warm. Maybe in the morning. Approaching a man at night—someone trying to hide—wasn’t wise, not with all the fighting. There were more Boche around now than at any time since the war began.

They were all pigs, animals. They’d been taking from him for almost four years—his prized Belgian Blue cattle, the sheep, the chickens, and most of the eggs from the few hens they didn’t steal. And they took the milk, the cheese, the butter. He barely had enough for himself, let alone any guests.

What did he have left? A dozen scrawny chickens—and it was winter; they hardly laid at all. One old cow, nearly dry. A sow and the few piglets he’d managed to hide in the forest. And his ancient horse, with maybe one or two years of plowing left in him. The Germans had taken the rest.

They were all thieves. They always had been. These were the worst of a bad lot—young, arrogant, always screaming, shoving, waving their guns. Nasty SS pricks.

He had no guests now. There were no refugees anymore, and there wasn’t enough food anyway. There were those Jews a few years back, hiding with him before moving on to who knew where. They’d offered him things—jewelry, old francs, and thanks.

He hadn’t demanded it, but why refuse? They’d come knocking at night, pleading to stay a bit. He gave them precious food. He didn’t tell the Germans when they came to steal eggs. Letting them stay had been dangerous. A little something seemed only fair.

Then there were the locals who needed a place to hole up. He didn’t know what they did, but they had guns and were up to no good. And what was “no good”? Fighting the Boche was plenty good.

Once they brought in an Englishman—a flier, he supposed—whose French sounded like a Parisian snob’s. One night, they’d taken him away too, just like the Jews. Henri didn’t know if any of them were safe somewhere. It wasn’t his place to ask. He hoped so. But then he had his own life to live.

Willie peered through the cracks in the barn walls and watched the old farmer toss grain to the chickens pecking in the muddy paddock. The farmer stared at the barn for a moment. He might have smiled. A cigarette hung from his lips. He took deep inhales, smiling for sure. Willie put his hand in his breast pocket. It was an instinctive and fruitless gesture. The SS-Rotten Führer had taken his cigarettes—and his lighter—when Willie was captured. Rottenführer. Rotten Führer. Apt name. Willie had almost laughed when he heard it. He tried to breathe in the smoke the old farmer exhaled. He could almost taste it.

Willie considered approaching him—asking for food and a smoke. He had a ten-dollar bill stuffed in his sock. Far too much for a smoke and a meal. The farmer wouldn’t have change anyway. Maybe a couple of meals and a few cigarettes. Coffee would be good, too.

The thought of coffee woke him. He wondered if he’d ever taste it again. This farmer wouldn’t have any; hell, the stuff the army gave him had been good enough for a roll in the hay with that pretty girl in France. Or maybe that was Belgium, too. GIs didn’t pay too much attention to borders. This was Belgium. He was sure of that. If he had coffee, he could trade it for cigarettes. And the farmer already had cigarettes. He wished he had coffee.

That farmer put a bag of something over the horse’s muzzle. The barnyard was quiet; Willie could hear the thing chewing. Oats, he assumed. Horses ate oats, right? If they could, I could. Oatmeal. Just add water and simmer. The cow would have milk. Cream, even. Maybe he could get some from the farmer. Maybe he liked Americans. Most did—especially when Americans had things to give away. Willie had nothing to give away.

The horse spilled oats, and the chickens pecked whatever hit the ground. The farmer walked back to the house, smoke curling from the chimney. A warm house, Willie thought. Maybe the guy was friendly to Americans. Maybe. Hadn’t that old Belgian bitch pointed out their position—with what was left of his unit—to those SS scum? People couldn’t be trusted. You never knew.

The farmer turned back to look up at the barn. He may have smiled—hard to tell from the distance. He had a bushy mustache that made him look like an ancient Jerry Colonna. His eyes were popped open wide. Surprise? Kindness? Fear? He was looking straight at the barn.

Straight at the crack. Straight at Willie. He lifted his hand holding the pitchfork—almost a wave. The start of a wave. Maybe the weight of the thing kept his arm down. He had another hand, though. He could have used the other. It was a threat, decided Willie.

Farmers and pitchforks. The old man walked slowly back to the house, slipping now and again in the muddy slush. Not much of a threat. I could take him, Willie thought. He watched as the old man returned to the paddock and led the ancient horse to an even more ancient cart.

The farmer struggled with the heavy bags, lifting those onto the cart. They sagged with whatever was inside. After each lift, he leaned against the cart, eyes closed, hand to his chest, gathering himself before continuing on.

He heaved the last one off his shoulder and it split open, potatoes spilling out. Dirty, yes, but food. The old man gathered them back into the bag, then paused and looked once more toward the barn. His eyes squinted in what might have been a smile. But the mustache hid any confirmation. He lifted two potatoes in the air as if hawking them in a market.

Then the old man did an odd thing. He tilted his head to one shoulder, then the other, holding as if trying to touch each ear. He may have pointed his chin toward the house. Or maybe he just had a crick in his neck. He left four potatoes at the top of the stone wall that bordered the paddock. Then he led the horse down the lane, the cart creaking behind them.

Willie watched all of this through the crack in the barn walls. What was the old man playing at? Willie repeated the gestures, tilting his head to each shoulder, and feeling the relief of crack. He, too, had a stiff neck. He had to smile at that.

When the cart was nearly at the larger lane, hardly a road, Willie went down. Could he eat raw potatoes? He didn’t know and didn’t care. On the ground level of the barn, he saw three eggs in boxes that served as the chickens’ nests. He took one. These he could eat raw. He cracked one and poured it into his mouth.

Funny, but that made him hungrier. He ate a second and then the third. Then hid the shells in his pocket.

He was about to slip outside for the potatoes when he heard the truck. He opened the barn door a crack to see a truck stop and two Germans jump from the back. They stopped the old man. He gestured toward the barn, then moved to the cart and hefted the sack of potatoes.

More spilled out. The Germans laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. The old man held two up, using the potatoes as clumsy pointers toward the burlap sacks. One German shrugged and stepped aside as the farmer carried the bag to the truck.

Willie thought he heard the word schnell. Faster. He knew that. He knew that from the SS rotten scum who kicked them into the field.

One soldier reached into his tunic and brought out a packet of something. Cigarettes. He lit one for himself and the other German, then offered a third to the farmer. The old man nodded in appreciation and tucked it into his coat. This time Willie was sure the old man was smiling.

The Germans looked up toward the farm—the house, the barn—as the farmer made peasant gestures with his arms. Were those gestures an apology? A plea? The soldiers just nodded and unslung their rifles.

The old man’s arms were flying about as they talked. Again, he pointed to the barn and the Germans glanced directly at the barn doors. The old man walked quickly now to the back of his cart and carried the rest of the sacks to the truck.

When done, one of the Germans handed him another cigarette, lit it, and stepped back.

The old farmer rested an arm on the bent neck of his horse. He lifted the cigarette in a small gesture toward the Germans and took a single long drag.

Another German, an officer, climbed from the back of the truck and barked something. The old horse jumped when the German shot the old farmer. Then he shot the horse, too.

That officer shrugged at his startled men and yelled again. They got back into the truck and drove away. A couple of other trucks rumbled past. A tank, too. None slowed as they passed the dead farmer and his old horse.

When it got dark, when there weren’t any more trucks, Willie walked down to the lane. He picked up some muddy potatoes. They’ll do, he thought.

He also reached into the farmer’s jacket and extracted a single cigarette. Sonofabitch. A Lucky Strike.

Willie slept in the cottage that night, up in the loft. On a feather bed. With a real blanket. Just before he fell asleep, he smoked the cigarette. Yessiree, he was on a serious lucky streak.