Gerry Coyle's Christmas
By
Susan M. Ballard
Kirby slammed the BAR down onto the rickety table and swore loudly enough to rouse the rest of the squad from their slumbers, as was his intent. Ever the one to require an audience, he had one now and from the looks on the faces of the men he'd so rudely disturbed, a less than happy audience.
"What's goin' on, Kirby?"
"Yeah, just 'cause you had ta go out in the middle a the night don't mean you gotta wake us all up at the crack a dawn!"
"Cripes sake, Kirby, pipe down, will ya?"
"Yeah, well that's easy enough for you ta say!" Kirby shrugged out of his field jacket, shaking snow off onto the floor and Littlejohn who hadn't been quick enough to his feet to escape a good dusting. Gloves, helmet and wool cap followed. "I'm sick an' tired of that Corporal Coyle – actin' squad leader my ass! Goose-stepping little Nazi wanna be's all he is! Always gettin' me to do his dirty work! Just tell me, what have I done to deserve bein' picked for every cold, boring lousy detail in this man's army? Huh? Well?"
Caje was first to answer. Lighting up a cigarette, he drew the acrid smoke into his lungs, slowly exhaling into the chilly air. "To be honest, Kirby, you bring it on yourself – always wise-crackin' and mouthin' off. Coyle might be a royal pain, but you egg 'im on every chance you get. You can't help it. It's what you do best."
Snickers made the round of the squad members accompanied by nods of agreement.
"Sorry, Kirb old buddy, but Caje is right. You don't wanna be singled out by Coyle, you'd better keep a low profile." Billy Nelson stretched, searching through his pack for a toothbrush which he used to good effect, dry.
"Like you, huh, kid? Soon's Coyle pokes that red head a his in here lookin' for a patsy, Billy Nelson finds a nice hole ta crawl into." Kirby's face darkened. It really was no good arguing with the guys. They were right and he knew it. His big mouth had gotten him into more than one scrape. It was likely to get him into more before this man's war was over.
"Sour apples, Kirby, plain sour apples," was Doc's comment. "I understand how you feel, though. We'll all be happier when the Sarge gets back."
"When'll that be, Doc? I heard he was gonna be laid up for at least another week, maybe two." Caje finished his smoke, grinding it out on the stone floor. He shivered. "Wouldn't mind bein' in a nice field hospital, clean sheets, pretty nurses and plenty a wool blankets and hot coffee, gallons a hot coffee!"
"Now this isn't gospel or anything," Doc's voice automatically went to a whisper, causing all the men to gather closer, "but yesterday afternoon I heard Captain Jampel tell the lieutenant Sarge was coming back today or tomorrow – against doctor's recommendations. Something about Sarge wanting to spend Christmas, such as it is around here, with his men."
"That sure would make things easier on me," Kirby said. "I'd like ta see ole Sarge put Coyle in his place. That would make my Christmas the best ever…well, at least the best since Mary Kay Johnson gave me…."
Groans and jeers stopped Kirby's recitation of his best ever Christmas and just in time. In through the door, along with frigid air and a gust of snow, stalked acting squad leader Coyle, followed by Lieutenant Hanley and a pale, but smiling, Sergeant Saunders.
The returning non-com's welcome home was boisterous and sincere, none being quite as boisterously sincere as William G. Kirby's. Touched as Saunders was, he knew there had to be a good reason why everyone was so over-the-top happy to see him. Naturally he figured it had something to do with his temporary replacement, one Corporal 'I want your job, Saunders and I'll do anything to get it' Coyle.
The red-haired, freckle-faced kid from south Boston with his street-wise attitude and rub-everybody-the-wrong-way personality was a thorn in the side of anyone having the misfortune to deal with him on any sort of regular basis. Given the least provocation, say the temporary command of the squad, Coyle turned bossy, arrogant dictator with visions of god-hood. As much as Chip Saunders wanted to spend Christmas with his men, he wanted to be present to avert the mutiny he was certain would come if Coyle was left in charge. If clean sheets and a soft bed meant seeing one of his men court-martialed for taking Coyle to task, well, it just wasn't worth it.
With the sergeant seated on the only sturdy chair in the cold drafty burned out building that had once housed a fine bakery, his curious men clustered close about, Saunders began pulling items of great interest from what seemed a bottomless pack – much like Santa unloading goodies for the wide-eyed innocents to whom he catered.
First came oranges – large, ripe and fragrant, one for each man; followed by packs of cigarettes, chewing gum, combs, razors, toothbrushes, cans of toothpowder, red and white striped candy canes and lastly, a bottle of very fine, nicely aged Port. Christmas had come at last, even though it was a couple days early, and couldn't have been enjoyed more had the participants been small children instead of fully grown men, longing for a taste of home and the feeling of family – enjoyed by all save one – Corporal Coyle.
Coyle stayed aloof. Over in the corner he'd taken for himself he sat among scattered pieces of gear watching the others cavort and act silly, a gloomy expression on his boyish face. "Bunch a damned kids is all," he spat as he listened to endless drivel of Christmases past with toys, gifts, good food and family; things taken for granted by most, never experienced by some.
It wasn't long before Saunders noticed the corporal's absence. Tucking an orange into the sling which supported his wounded right arm and grabbing up a handful of other goodies from the table, the sergeant walked over.
"Merry Christmas, Corporal." Saunders held out the handful of treats. All he got for the offer was a look of stony indifference.
"Well, at least take the orange. It's not like we get much fresh fruit around here." Again Saunders was met with silence. Shrugging, he dropped the treats onto Coyle's blanket and tossed the orange. Acting out of reflex, the corporal caught it.
"Look, Coyle, I don't care if you celebrate Christmas. If you'd rather be alone, well that's okay with me, too, 'cause there are times I feel the same way myself. But my two cents' worth is this – you'd find your time here a whole lot more pleasant if you'd join in with the other men. At least make the attempt – you don't have to fit in. A little spirit of the season would do you a world of good. The well-being of this squad is important to me, the squad and all the men in it, you included. Don't do me any favors – do one for yourself – think about someone other than Corporal Coyle for a change. You'd be surprised at how good it'll make you feel."
Even in the dim light it was easy to see Coyle's complexion redden. "Kirby spill his guts to you? Tell you how I made him do all the dirty details while you was away? Is that it, Saunders? If it is, just come out and say so. Don't beat around the bush with all this Christmas crap!"
It was Saunders' turn to be angry, but he held it in check. "Kirby told me nothing." He paused a moment, rubbing at the ache in the wounded shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Corporal." Saunders turned and walked back to the party.
Coyle held the orange in one hand. He meant to drop it onto the blanket with the rest of Saunders' gifts, but the smell of it intrigued him. Lying back, he gave the fruit a gentle squeeze, releasing more of the scent, tropical and sweet. Closing his eyes, the hand holding the orange tucked beneath his chin, he thought of a beach, clean white sand, warm water, pretty girls in brightly colored swim suits like so many flowers and he having the choice of the bunch. The dream continued on and on and for the first time in what seemed years, Coyle was totally at ease and content.
A hand on his shoulder shook him out of his dream and back into reality. "We're being shelled. Roll out and saddle up!" It was Saunders.
Coyle grabbed up his rifle and helmet and at the last possible moment, he stuffed the orange inside his shirt and zipped up his jacket. There was no time for anything else. Beneath his feet the ground trembled as artillery rounds landed within the city. Closer and closer they came and he barely made it out of the building before chunks of ceiling began falling in. Behind him, making sure everyone had gotten out, was Saunders, Thompson slung over his left shoulder. "Move it, Coyle!"
Soldiers streamed from the stricken city like so many mice from a sinking ship in a mad dash to safety. Exploding shells lit the sky and men's thoughts were no longer on home or family or Christmas, but on survival.
Coyle found himself pulled roughly over the stone wall that marked the city's limits where he landed nearly on top of Littlejohn, who swore soundly and pushed the intruder off. "Where's the Sarge?" the big man asked and suddenly all eyes focused on Coyle.
"Why the hell you all lookin' at me? Last I knew he was right behind me! I ain't his keeper!"
"No, Coyle, you're nobody's keeper but your own. Ain't that so?" Kirby replied, muttering, "Selfish bastard."
For some reason known only to himself, Coyle decided to let the slight pass. He hunkered down in the relative safety of the stone wall, head on chest and waited. Saunders had been right behind him. What the hell happened? Well, that wasn't Corporal Gerry Coyle's problem, now was it? From beneath his shirt where the orange sat close to his body, the heat released more of the fragrance which wafted up like faint perfume, threatening to send the corporal back into the pleasant stupor of his earlier dream. Yet something intruded into the peace; bothered and fretted after him.
Sitting up he watched from the relative protection of the stone wall. Pushing his helmet down and gathering his legs beneath him, Coyle sprinted up and over the wall.
"Hey, where the hell you goin', Coyle?" Caje made a grab for him, but the corporal was too quick. Dodging and weaving, he soon disappeared into the smoke and carnage of the ravaged town.
"Probably forgot his pay back at the bakery or somethin'. Seems I recall him sayin' if anybody came near his pack he'd break both their arms!" Kirby scratched an itch beneath his wool cap. "Yeah, that's probably it. Wonder if he'll make it back before them krauts start pouring in. Artillery's just about finished."
Sure enough the firing had stopped. Next up would be troops, lots of them, flushing the town.
"Somebody needs to go back and check on Saunders." Billy Nelson looked up and down the line of smudged tired faces. All agreed and all volunteered.
Out of breath from a brisk run to and from Company, Lieutenant Hanley crouched behind the wall with his men. He put a stop to any thought of heroics. Voices overlapped and rose as Hanley shook his head in the negative. "I said nobody goes!" he bellowed. Silence reigned. "He'll turn up. He always turns up…just like a bad penny." The officer hazarded a slight smile at his own joke. It broke the tension as the men around him nodded and grinned.
---
Saunders fell behind the squad, but not far enough behind to loose sight of them. An artillery shell landed close by, the impact lifting the sergeant up off his feet and slamming him, wounded shoulder first, into what remained of a brick wall. He lay there for God only knew how long, dazed, hurt and semi-conscious. As the smoke cleared stars were visible in the clear night sky. It was so beautiful and suddenly so still. Saunders understood what that meant and he forced his protesting body up. On his feet, the sergeant realized he was now very much alone but that wouldn't last long. Already he heard the sound of hob-nail boots on brick paved streets, "Krauts."
Saunders faded back into the shadows of the destroyed building at his back and brought the Tommy gun around in position to fire, left-handedly. In his present condition he hoped the recoil wouldn't knock him off his feet. He waited.
The sound of boots coming from the direction opposite that of the advancing Germans caught Saunders' attention. A smallish figure in a GI uniform trotted past. Saunders hissed, "Coyle! Coyle!"
The corporal turned and darted back into the shadows.
"What're you doing here? The krauts are all over the place." Saunders whispered.
"Forgot somethin' is all! I just forgot somethin'. No need to make anything out of it!" Coyle pushed his helmet back and looked up at Saunders.
"Too late now. The krauts are flushing the building next door!" Saunders flattened out against the wall at his back.
Coyle followed the example, watching the sergeant closely. Saunders looked worse than he had earlier – coated in white brick dust-turned pasty from a roll in the snow, like a fish ready for frying, a bleeding scrape along the jaw line and shaky, about ready to collapse. Worst of all, the white sling that cradled the sergeant's right arm was a dead giveaway, damp and soiled though it was, a surefire target for even a half blind kraut, though Coyle could hardly figure why that concerned him. Worrying about someone else was a novelty.
"You know, Saunders," Coyle confided, not deterred by the sergeant's warning glare to be quiet. "You know, I never had a Christmas present before…before this morning when you gave me that stuff. Never had anything at Christmas but a drunk old man who maybe didn't beat on me or my old lady…if we was lucky." Coyle actually allowed a small smile to crease his face. On him it looked sadly out of place. "The only orange I ever had I stole from a vender down on Allen Street…smelt like coal oil; tasted worse. Maybe that's 'cause I stole it. Didn't smell nothin' like this one." Coyle patted his breast where the fruit was secured. "Remember when you said 'I should think about somebody besides myself for a change?'"
Saunders nodded.
Coyle darted out onto the street, boots making a slopping sound in the half frozen muck and causing every German within hearing range to zero in on his retreating back; several opened fire. Much to Saunders' amazement, Coyle escaped down a darkened street, his desire to draw the Germans away from the wounded sergeant supremely successful.
The next day Saunders saw the cost first hand. Coyle lay in a hospital bed, tubes sending blood and fluids into the bullet-ravaged body. However, when he noticed Saunders at his bedside, the corporal smiled. This time it seemed completely natural.
Saunders returned the gesture, settling his own aching body onto a camp stool at Coyle's bedside.
Both soldiers seemed reluctant to speak, Saunders because he didn't know how to begin and Coyle because he lacked the strength, yet it was Coyle who spoke first.
"When I told you that sob story about Christmas, about me never havin' a present an' all…that was a lie. I had presents…plenty of 'em." Coyle paused to gather strength. "I'm an awful liar, Saunders," he admitted.
"Yeah, you really had me goin' there, Corporal. You really pegged me for a sucker, huh?" Saunders lit a cigarette and put it to the corporal's lips.
Coyle inhaled, smoke wafting from his nostrils and a contented expression appearing on his face, "Yeah, the biggest." Coyle refused another drag on the smoke and suddenly he paled and his breathing increased. He reached toward Saunders, but then allowed his hand to drop back onto the cot.
"Remember when you said I wasn't to do you any favors…that I should do one for myself…how I'd feel all the better for it?" Coyle's gray eyes lost their usually guarded edge, giving way to an openness Saunders had never seen in the youngster before – as if Gerry Coyle was a little kid again, innocent and truthful. "Well, Saunders…I feel better now."
---
One orderly drew the blanket up to cover the dead boy's face while the second packed away the corporal's effects. "Funny, the things a soldier values…look at here…this kid for example." In his hand the second orderly held an orange – no longer perfect, its skin marred and broken, but the scent of it sweet heady perfume, "Funny, huh?"
"I'd like to have that." The voice from the doorway caused both orderlies to turn around.
"What…this orange?"
Saunders nodded.
"You can have it, Sarge, but there's plenty more; oranges, cakes, cookies…for the party tonight." The sergeant appeared not to have understood so the second orderly added some clarification. "A party tonight for the wounded men…today's Christmas!"
"Oh…" Saunders leaned against the door jamb almost as if his legs had grown too weak to support him, "Christmas." His gaze focused on the blanket-covered body of the young corporal.
"Did you know him?" The orderly walked over, handing the sergeant the orange, if indeed he still wanted it. The non-com took the fruit which he tucked into his sling.
"Nobody knew him, Private," Saunders replied. "I don't think he even knew himself."
"Well, Merry Christmas to ya, Sarge." The orderly turned back to his work, missing the non-com's whispered reply.
"Merry Christmas…Corporal."
END