The Scrounger
July 7, D-Day + 31
"No one has ever become poor by giving"
The battle for St. Fromond was won within three hours. The German HQ was destroyed and the surviving garrison of the SS Panzergrenadiers surrendered. Around a hundred men walked over to the Americans, their hands high in the air. The 3rd Battalion of the 116th Regiment had pushed through the town and were advancing down south. The battle had ended about two hours ago, the wounded were taken care of and the dead Americans were moved out of the village, while some of the dead Germans were being piled in organized lines outside the town and the remaining still littered parts of St. Fromond. The victorious Able Company had earned a few hours rest, and many of them were certainly taking advantage of it: eating their rations, cleaning their weapons, massaging their sore feet, and a good number of them were sleeping. Yet one soldier was on a mission of the utmost importance and didn't allow the thought of rest to stop him.
The MPs were already in force within the area and were busy moving out all the prisoners back to the beachhead. One young MP private was tasked with escorting twelve Panzergrenadier prisoners back to the rear. He had them marching single file, spread out about two yards apart. He kept himself positioned near the middle of the outside of the file with his rifle at the ready.
"Hold it! Hold it!"
The young MP private turned around and halted the prisoners. A soldier was jogging towards the MP, judging by how hard he was breathing, the MP figured the soldier was running all the way from St. Fromond, which was 250 yards away.
"Thank God you stopped, private." The man said, catching his breath.
The MP noticed the Technician Fifth Grade chevrons and patch on his arms "What is it, corporal?"
"These prisoners, they, uh… have anything useful on them?"
"You came running all the way just for that information?"
"Yeah, I did. Now please, man, answer my question, anything useful on 'em?"
"Oh, I don't know, I didn't shake them down, my sergeant did that. He didn't find no maps on them or—"
The corporal groaned, "Damn it, man. I'm not talking about useful stuff for S-2; I'm talking about useful stuff for the dogfaces."
The private's eyes narrowed, "Useful stuff like what?"
"How about like cigarettes, booze, dirty pictures, pocket watches, pocket knives, you know what I mean?"
"Like I said, I wasn't the one who shook them down. So…"
The corporal looked over the twelve SS soldiers. "Where are these guys going anyway?"
"Back to the rear to be interrogated probably. Then they'll head back to the beaches and out of France to either England or America."
"What's your name, private?"
"Ian Foss."
"Foss, huh? Well, I'm Santiago. Mind if I search them?"
"Well, you can, but my sergeant already did that."
Santiago smirked, "Just to be sure."
Foss watched on as Santiago methodically patted down the Germans, whose hands were still on their hands. Santiago was patting down and rubbing down their bodies, he even patted down the inseam of their trousers, much to the prisoners' chagrin. He checked each of their wallets, looked at some of their personal pictures, and stopped when he got to a sergeant. From what Foss could see, the photo had a beautiful woman on it, bearing her luscious legs at the camera in a pose reminiscent to American pinup girls. Santiago nodded with approval.
"Very nice, this will go for a lot," he said to himself.
"She is my wife." The German sergeant grumbled in perfect English.
"That so?" Santiago replied. The GI placed the wallet back in the sergeant's breast pocket, but kept the photo and placed it in his own. Santiago patted the German on the shoulder, "Well, you are one lucky man."
Santiago moved to the next German and patted him down and reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. The packet was green and was labeled "Eckstein" with a large number "5" in the middle. Santiago smiled wildly and counted eight cigarettes inside; he kissed the packet, and winked at the glaring German.
"Hey, don't be mad, Jerry. Ain't nothing personal. Tell you what, since you're such a good sport about this," Santiago removed a single cigarette from the pack and placed it in the man's breast pocket. "I'm gonna leave one for you." He patted the pocket lightly and smiled at the German.
Santiago turned back to Foss, "Alright, Foss, that's all I got."
Foss didn't know what exactly to say, so he just nodded and ordered the Germans to keep moving. But after the file of prisoners took eight steps, "Hold it, Foss! Hold it!" Santiago said.
"Now what, corporal?"
Santiago grinned, and approached the last German in line. "Looks like we got a Sneaky Pete." He crouched behind the German, undid the laces in his left boot and dug inside the man's shoe.
"What do we have here?" He pulled out a small beige-tinted flask with the flag of Imperial Germany printed on it with screaming eagles on both sides of the flag. "Nice looking flask, Fritz. Very nice looking flask. This is Germany's old flag, right? An antique… must be a family heirloom… No wonder you wanted to keep it." Santiago turned back to the MP, "Hey Foss, your sergeant's shakedown is for shit."
Foss was stunned, "H-How did you know? How could you tell?"
"Simple, it's the way he was walking. You didn't see it? He was dragging that foot slightly slower than the other, maybe it was a limp, but he wasn't grimacing in pain. So I took a look at his legs and I spotted that small bulge in his boot. And there I spotted it."
"Incredible…"
"Ain't I?" Santiago smiled. He shook the flask, and it was three-quarters full. The German he took it from gave him a seething look of murder. Santiago uncorked the flask and took a whiff, then a sip. "That's smooth, brandy?"
Santiago shrugged and placed the flask in his bag. He took a step back from the prisoners and nodded with content. "Danke sehr you Deutsch dummies." And with that he did an about-face.
"Here ya go, kid." He handed Foss $15 dollars neatly folded and crisp. Foss's mouth fell.
"Fifteen bucks?! Really? Th-Thanks! B-But why?"
"Well, you did stop them for me and allowed me to search them, although you didn't have too. It's just my thanks, Foss. Ya see I'm a procurer of the needs of GIs, I try to get what I can. And…" He leaned in close, "If I can have eyes and ears everywhere, well… If by chance we happen to see each other, I hope you would be able to help me out."
"Ye-Yeah, of course! Thanks, Santiago! You're a real pal!"
Santiago nodded and made his way back, grinning that he got three hot items and a new pair of eyes among the MPs.
Technician Fifth Grade Miguel Santiago, a 20 year-old Portuguese-American, the unofficial official scrounger of Able Company commenced his stride of pride. He was one of the few original men of Able Company to not be from Maryland, Virginia, or Washington, DC. Hell, he was the only Able man to be born and raised off the mainland of the U.S. When his family immigrated to the United States, they didn't land in New York like most immigrants; no, his family sailed to the islands of Hawaii where he spent most of his life.
The youngest of seven children, he was always interested in making an easy buck; ever since he was small and his family often required every little cent they could earn. So upon being drafted into the Army and joining the Infantry, Santiago became fascinated with the bartering and gambling life of soldiers, it was incredible how much men could make by trading with others.
Yet it truly began for him on D-Day, when Santiago miraculously avoided the MG fire on his landing craft by jumping over the side; stumbling on shore amidst the bullets and carnage. He was there when MacKay ordered the charge to the shingles and was there when the remnant of Able Company climbed the bluffs. He was right beside Smitty the country boy, as the Americans were preparing to attack the trenches on top the bluffs. A Kraut suddenly popped up from the trench with a pistol and started firing at Smitty, hitting him in the side and shooting his right pinky finger off. As Smitty fell in pain, Santiago instantly brought his rifle on the German and put four bullets into his chest.
Santiago jumped into the trench and pulled the agonized Smitty in with him to keep him safe and called for a medic. Out the corner of his eyes, Santiago noticed the type of pistol the German had. A Luger pistol. A goddamn Luger—the most prized pistol in the war. He heard many a man always saying how they'll trade their left nut just to get a hand on a Luger pistol. He even heard rumors that if the Germans caught an American with a Luger, they immediately executed him.
A huge grin grew on Santiago's face. He seized the pistol from the dead man's grasp and seemingly forgotten about the hell of D-Day surrounding him. He even showed the wounded Smitty, saying, "Look at this, Smitty! Look! The bastard had a Luger! A Luger!"
Smitty forced an irritable smile through pained teeth, "Well I'm so happy I dun got shot by that thang!"
A grenade exploded close by, bringing Santiago's attention back to the war. He placed the Luger within his pocket and went on fighting on Omaha Beach. The day after the Invasion, a lull occurred in the fighting and Santiago was tasked with running back to the beach to fetch more ammo. As he spoke to the officer in charge and watched as a jeep-filled with ammo careened on the dirt road back to Able Company; he overheard a few supply officers bellyaching how they missed the battle and the souvenirs they could have sent back home as "proof" they fought and conquered the Nazis. And one name of such a grand souvenir that got passed around was a Luger, and how one would pay over $100 bucks just to get it. After a hard day of fighting, Santiago's grin returned.
He talked to the officer, and instantly picked up on this man's background. He came from a wealthy background by the way he walked, talked, and had a huge golden college ring on his finger. Santiago told him that he could find the officer a Luger for $125 dollars, the extra $25 being an "occupational hazard" for going through the frontline. The officer was annoyed at the elevated price, but couldn't imagine going back to peacetime America without something to "prove" he fought against the Germans. The deal was made. Santiago hid away from the officer in the rear for half an hour and then returned with the Luger in hand, and obtained that $125. He received a beautiful epiphany, what else could he find on the battlefield that other soldiers would pay to procure?
And so throughout the battle of Normandy, he fought valiantly with 1st platoon, and on the lulls, he instantly went out scrounging, borrowing, bribing or on rare occasions, steal, anything of use he could get. He would go up to soldiers and ask what they want, and if he could find it, he would barter with them. He would scrounge off of dead Germans, and usually be warned occasionally by his NCOs about booby-trapped corpses, but Santiago just laughed it off. And so after a month, Santiago had currently earned up to $292 dollars in which to buy or bribe his way throughout the entire ETO, his goal was to reach a $5000 by the end of the war.
He had more money at times, but he gave it away as "favors". He followed the Code of the Hustler. If you want people to take care of you, you need to take care of them. Within every deal he made—every deal—he would give them a tip, nothing more than $15, but they would always be thankful and ensured Santiago they'll keep their ears and eyes out for anything for him. During their time in Cherbourg, he paid a supply officer for any tips he could get, and a day later the officer came through with booze meant for battalion staff. When Smitty came back to Able Company when they were in Cherbourg, Santiago made sure to give him $50, for "helping" Santiago start his enterprise with that single Luger.
There were times when he marched on the clammy days of summer through the mosquito-infested countryside of Normandy, that he was encumbered by the things he carried. His back would sweat continuously, his legs would feel like pudding, and his shoulders ached. But he thought about his goal of $5000, and greed always lightened the load.
But just because he made nearly $300 within a month, didn't mean he was the best scrounger out there. He knew he was good, but he knew he wasn't perfect. Some stuff he couldn't find to procure, and if it belonged to someone else, they were sometimes adamant enough to keep it, even if the offer was a hundred bucks. And if someone had something that he didn't, but they were good pals of his, he would recommend the buyer to try his friends instead. Some of the best scroungers were junior officers who had the pull to barter with the higher ranking officers and the rear-echelon. If he had a bar on his shoulders, Santiago's revenue would at least triple. But alas, he just had a Technician's patch on his arm and the stripes of a corporal, even a sergeant would have more of a pull than he would. It also didn't help that he was in the Infantry, always at the front instead of being in Supply. Those men ran the Black Market of the Army; he had to pay off a good number of them to get some stuff for himself. But like all Santiagos in his family, he had to make do with what resources were available to him.
He reentered St. Fromond with a jolly smirk on his face, tossing the pack of cigarettes in the air and catching them like a baseball. He returned to his unit of 1st platoon whom were lounging around in the sun, resting against the low brick wall from the hectic battle they were in mere hours ago. Santiago came back to his squad and stood over the snoozing Corporal Joss Callahan.
"Hey Callahan." Santiago pulled the green pack of cigarettes from his pocket and grinned. "Guess what I found?"
Joss Callahan opened his eyes and smiled hard at the sight. "Son of a bitch, Miguel. You got them! Alright, now give 'em to me."
Santiago flicked his index finger side-to-side with a grin, "Uh, uh, uhhh. Not yet, you know it ain't free..."
Callahan grimaced, "C'mon, Miguel. Can't I get a squad discount?"
Santiago looked offended, "Callahan! Do you know what I had to go through to get this brand?! I had to search through dead Jerrys everywhere, one had his brains flowing through his nostril, another had his chest blown apart, these goddamn fat flies were everywhere around them! If I so much as inhaled, I could have swallowed ten of them! And don't get me started on the stench! Practically every dead Kraut I came upon crapped themselves!"
"Jesus, alright, alright… here!" Callahan dug in his pocket and pulled out eight dollars and gave it to the scrounger, who in turn gave the pack to him. Santiago now had $300 to his name.
"Thank God… I couldn't wait for—" his smile turned to disgust. "What the hell, Miguel?! There's only seven of them in here?"
"Well excuse the hell out of me for finding that brand." Santiago said, taking a seat beside him. "Do you know how hard it was finding that? I should have charged you triple instead of double. It was hard finding that, man! Especially when most Germans rather have American smokes in their pockets than their own."
Sergeant Spencer, who sat beside Callahan, began to laugh, "Seriously Callahan, we got Luckys, Chesterfields, Raleighs, Marlboros, and here you smoking Kraut tobacco, the hell is wrong with you?"
"I once dun tried a Kraut cigarette, tasted like grass buried 'neath a cow pie." Smitty added, who also sat beside Callahan.
"I know, I know, but it's these Kraut cigarettes that got that bizarre kick to them. That unique taste that reminds me of… of… well, I can't rightly describe it, but I like it. It's different, alright?"
Sergeant Spencer shook his head, "No one smokes Kraut tobacco, not even the Krauts. You are so weird, Callahan."
Callahan exhaled the smoke and reclined back against the wall, "Don't care, Sergeant. I got my smoke. Always get what I want."
Santiago chuckled, "Always Able."
Spencer, Smitty, and Callahan replied with a grin, "Always Able."
After five minutes, several men of 1st Platoon gathered around Santiago, all eager to know the score he took.
Sergeant Hernandez was first, and he bore a smile, "Hey estúpido, saw you leaving town, come back with anything good?"
Santiago smiled back and answered in Portuguese, "Nada para sua cara feia."
"Hurting my feelings, Santiago. My face ain't that ugly is it?"
"Your ugly face is the reason we're in a war right now, Hernandez."
Other men gathered around them, "C'mon Santiago, got anything nice?"
"What do you got, Santiago?"
Santiago chortled lowly as he stood himself up and balanced himself on the low wall, "Oh, I got something good for you bastards."
"Wha'cha got?"
Santiago cleared his throated. "Gentleman, I introduce you to the Krautess with the kicking legs! Here's Freida Fraulein!" And he whipped out the photo he appropriated from the prisoner. The men stared and whistled in amazement. Santiago continued, "Now she doesn't talk much, but she doesn't have to. Those legs of hers will do most of the talking. Am I right? And I just know she'll keep you company during those cold, lonely nights in the foxhole."
"Man, she almost puts some of our girls to shame!"
"I know she puts Lazzano's girl to shame!"
The men laughed raunchily and some of them snatched the photo from Santiago's fingers.
"Wow," said a corporal, "I… I would definitely marry her."
"T'hell with marrying," said a private, snatching the picture away, "Goddamn, this is a healthy Kraut."
Santiago took the photo from the men, saying, "Alright guys, let's settle on a price. Starting price—"
At that moment, the First Sergeant walked by and cleared his throat, "Santiago!"
"Oh, uh, hey Sarge."
"Bring your ass over here."
Santiago pocketed the photo to the dismay and groans of his fellow soldier. He followed the First Sergeant. "Yeah, Top?"
Conti kept walking, "Do I seem like the man who loves repeating himself, Santiago?"
"I don't know, Sarge. I'll let you know when my headache goes away." Santiago snickered.
"Maybe that's your brain trying to comprehend its own stupidity."
The smile evaporated. "I apologize."
"That's what I thought. The hell did I tell you about being so damn vocal about what you got?"
Santiago sighed, " 'That it's unbecoming of a soldier'. Geez, you sometimes sound like Hissing Hilberman, Sarge."
Conti grunted. He stopped by the edge of the repaired bridge and observed the town square. "What the hell were you selling that made such an uproar, corporal?"
"Oh nothing special except this little lady." He whipped out the photo, "Check out the gams on her." Santiago swore he saw one of Conti's eyebrows shoot up in surprise on his unflinching face.
"Goddamn it, Santiago," he sighed.
"What, you more of a tits man, Sarge? Don't worry, I'll find you something to your taste," he winked.
"Whatever. If anything, get me some Chesterfields and we'll talk."
"You got it, Sarge."
Conti sighed once more and walked away with the shake of his head. Santiago stayed by the bridge, simply people watching.
Since the battle ended a few hours ago, a small number of French citizens decided it was best to come above ground. And by a small number, Santiago only saw about fifteen. Maybe everyone else was still hiding until everyone that carried a weapon had left the village, especially the "American Liberators." Several of the civilians made their way out of their homes to speak to the Americans, others were busy trying to clean up the rubble. But something there caught his eyes.
He saw two girls; one had to be around ten and the other around thirteen probably. They were moving through the rubble of a destroyed building, combing through the debris and examining their worth. Santiago stopped and paid full attention to the young girls. They resembled each other, perhaps they were sisters? The eldest girl found a briefcase amidst the rubble, and with a rock, bashed open the lock.
The briefcase flew open and clothes popped out. The girls searched through the clothes but it seemed to belong to a man. They pulled out a large gray overcoat and the eldest smiled, and the two ran off down the alley with it.
For some reason, curiosity had grabbed a hold over Santiago. What the hell were they doing? Were they homeless? And why did he care? He saw many homeless Frenchies during this campaign, but, had some of them been children? He could not recall. And why did his heart sink when he saw them? And so he followed them, wanting to make sure he found the answer.
He went down the alley as well and came upon what appeared to be a house or what looked to be what once was a house. The walls were destroyed, the roof was smashed and debris littered what looked to be the kitchen. The only thing standing inside the demolished abode was a wooden table and four wooden chairs. A woman was digging through the rubble, but ultimately relented and sat in a chair, exhaling in exhaustion. She appeared to be in her 40s, her face was covered in dirt, and scrapes and cuts littered her arm. Her right leg was bandaged and she had a cane beside her to help walk. The two girls that he followed ran to her and gibbered in French about the coat they found and gave it to her. The mother smiled at the overcoat and placed it over the shoulder with a slight chuckle. She then looked up and finally noticed Santiago which gave her a startle. The daughters jumped back in surprise as well and fell behind the mother.
He waved, "Uh, bonjour…"
The mother was puzzled, but ultimately said, "Bienvenue…"
"Oh, um, are those your daughters? I saw them running and grabbing debris off the street and I followed them back, I wanted to offer them food if they were hungry and they—"
Their blank stares stopped him.
"Uh, do… you… speak… English?" He asked.
"Uh… My English not best…" she said meekly.
"Oh! Uh… I understand, I will talk slow then."
"Oui."
"Uh…" he wished he had combed more thoroughly through the French translation book that was issued to all soldiers. He pointed to her bandaged leg, "What happened?"
"The battle. American doctor fixed me and left me."
"Okay." Santiago looked around the ruined house, "What happened… to the house?"
"A-American bomb. You attacked here, Germans close to our home, and then bomb."
Guilt pierced his chest like a bullet.
"I'm sorry."
She nodded, yet it seemed to be no bitterness in her mannerism, and he couldn't figure out why. "How did you all survive?"
"Survie?" She asked in French.
"Uh, yes, I guess..."
"We hid below. Basement. When fighting stopped, we came out, and our home was… gone."
"Your daughters?" He pointed to the girls.
She pointed to the eldest, "Jacqueline, she is twelve." She then pointed to the youngest, "Joséphine, she is ten. I am Marie."
"I am Miguel Santiago. Marie, where is your husband?" He saw that she didn't understand, so he pointed to the girls, "Father? Papa? Papi?"
Three of them bowed their heads; the eldest daughter shook her head, and said, "Il est mort."
Santiago didn't need a translator for that.
He needed to move on, "You three are alone?"
"Yes."
"What about your neighbors?"
Once again Marie didn't understand. "Neighbors? You know, people who live around you?" He was motioning his arm circling around like a globe. "People who live around you."
She was sobbing. "They no help. Jacqueline and Joséphine asked if we could stay, and they say there no room for us. Not enough food, they no help us. The bomb took everything we had. We have nothing."
His jaw dropped, his mind raced back to his own neighborhood. Mama… "They wouldn't help you?" he asked.
Tears were welling up in her eyes, "Non."
"Family? Any family… anywhere?"
She wiped the tears in her eyes and sighed, "Cherbourg, we have family in Cherbourg."
Santiago couldn't refrain a chuckle, "That's where we just came from not too long ago. It's a shit-heap back there."
Judging by their blank stares, Santiago realized they didn't understand. "It's destroyed, you know, buildings crumbled," he imitated a building falling down. The mother and daughters' eyes lost some light to it.
She mumbled, "Nowhere else to go, for us."
"Well, we Americans are building it back up." And he imitated the rebuilding, and like that the light returned to their faces. "Cherbourg is far."
"We know, we make journey."
"But your leg…"
"We make the journey."
"How?"
"Nous marchons." She said with determination.
" 'March on'?" He asked with a raised brow. "You mean walk? You're going to walk all the way to Cherbourg?" He motioned his index and middle fingers in the air, mimicking a walking motion. "You will walk?
"Yes."
He shook his head, "No, that's crazy! No! We drove miles down here. You won't make it. No!"
"Nous marchons."
"No march on, no!"
"No choice. We cannot stay here."
He sighed as he buried his face in his hand. His eyes fell on the mother and then to the girls covered in dirt. They were persistent, and if he left them now, they would probably leave immediately. He took a look at Marie's dirt-patched face, her disheveled attire, and bandaged leg; and his mind drifted back to his home.
The family of three followed Santiago out of the town, passing by the hustle-and-bustle of the American military operations. Down the dirt road, he saw an empty supply truck with MPs filing in the back along with several German prisoners. He noticed an MP with silver bars on his shoulders. He exhaled and walked over to him with the family at his back.
He saluted, "Excuse me, sir? Are you in command here, sir?"
The MP saluted back. "I am. What is it, corporal?" His eyes looked over to the family. "What are these civilians doing out here?"
"Sir, I overheard that you'll be taking these prisoners back to the rear and then back to beaches correct?"
"That's correct."
"Sir, may I make a request that you take this family of three with you. They lost their home in the fighting and their neighbors refuse to help them. So they—"
"No, corporal. We can't take any civilians with us."
"I know, sir. But they just need to get to Cherbourg. Look at this mother's leg. They have no money, no food, and they're planning to walk all the way to Cherbourg."
"Corporal, I told you, we cannot take any civilians with us."
"I know you can't, sir. I know, but it's not the whole town, just a wounded mother and her daughters, if you can't take them to Cherbourg, then how about the beaches. Please sir!"
"No! Why the hell do you carry about these people leaving their hometown?"
"Sir, have you ever felt once in your life that you and your family had nowhere else to go? Have you ever felt such despair when your own neighbors view you as subhuman? That pit of loneliness and fear that grips you every night knowing that you would have to wake up to such an isolated fate again in the morning? Have you ever felt that quivering fear?"
The MP's face was shrinking in irritation, "I don't know how many times I can say this, hombre. I'm not taking civilians, and that's final. Now get the hell out of here or I'll have your ass!"
He turned to leave. Santiago couldn't feel the shaking in his hand, "Wait sir! Wait!"
"What?!"
"I can pay you, sir."
"What?"
"I can." That's right, everyone has a price. "Just tell me how much?"
"Are you for real?"
"Yes."
The officer looked Santiago over, marking the determination in his eyes. The MP smiled with a rub of his jaw, "About $100."
"Done."
The lieutenant's eyes widened. Santiago cursed himself. What an amateur mistake. He said it too quickly, now the officer knows he could afford it. He should have said it slower with more uneasiness. Why the hell did he say it so fast?
"Three people, huh, did I say $100, I meant each."
Santiago gritted his teeth, "Sir! I don't have that much."
"Yes, you do, corporal."
"I don't!"
"I bet you do! Getting this eager to let these three leave… Besides, it's more work for me getting three civilians out of here. The cost has to go up."
Santiago grumbled, "Fine, sir, how about $200 for them all."
"Per person, hombre. The price should equal out to $300."
"Sir, I'm talking about $200."
"I'm saying $300, corporal."
"Take a look at them, sir. They're filthy, the mother is cut up, our artillery destroyed their homes and their possessions, and the Germans have been occupying their town for years. They need a better life, sir, please consider that. You're not overcharging me; you're charging them basic necessity."
The officer stared at the disheveled family and peered back at Santiago. Back to the family, and then back at Santiago. "Fine, not $300. I know you have the much, but if you want to be a cheap bastard, fine. Then at least give me $250."
His fists were clenched; by God did he want to smack that shit-eating grin off the officer's face. Was he serious? What the hell was wrong with him?
Santiago sighed, and didn't relinquish his glare from the officer. "Deal." He dug in his pockets and pulled out the money.
The lieutenant sighed in amazement, "Good God, son, how did you come up with this much dough?"
"Are they free to go… sir?"
"Yeah, yeah they are. I'll get my men to help them up." He gave a wink to Santiago, "Thank you, corporal."
"No problem, sir," he said emotionlessly. "With that much, I hope they get a straight shot to Cherbourg."
"We're heading straight to the beaches, but I'll try to arrange it."
Santiago nodded, They better get there too, you crooked bastard… he thought. He faced Marie and with a jubilant smile, he said, "They will take you to Cherbourg."
The mother hugged him tightly and kissed his cheeks. Tears fell down her face, "Tell me again, your name?"
"Miguel Santiago?"
"Oh Miguel, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Merci beaucoup!" She kissed him on his cheeks again, and embraced him like her son. "Merci beaucoup!" And he returned the embrace.
Miguel noticed the MP's back was turned.
"Here, quickly," he whispered. He placed $50 dollars inside her palms. The last of his money. "Use it to buy food and water. Trade with the Americans if you have to."
She kissed him once more. "You are… a good man. Thank you, Miguel. Merci beaucoup!"
The girls hugged him too, "Merci, Miguel."
He felt warmth enveloping him, it was tender and sweet. It has been so long since he felt like this. He patted the girls on the head and smiled at them. The family continued to utter gratitude with water-filled eyes. The MP lieutenant came back with other MPs.
"Alright men, we're taking the family with us. Help up the mother and her children, damn it."
They placed them gently on the back of the truck, and closed the hatch. Marie continued saying thanks over and over, the girls kept on waving at him. The truck's engine started and they drove on down the dirt road until they vanished from sight.
He stopped waving and continued looking at the horizon, as if they were still in his line of sight. Santiago failed to realize he was still smiling, long when they were gone.
He may have lost $300 dollars, but he secured the future of a family of three, or at least he hoped he did. Now his dream of $5000 dollars at the end of the war seemed farther away than ever. But he knew he could earn his $300 back, he was a Santiago, and they always made do with what they had. He thought about his mother, oh how happy she would have been to learn what he had done to help those who were less fortunate. He took a walk back to his squad, the faces of the family still bright in his mind.
"What are you smiling about, Santiago?"
He turned around and looked down, "Oh, I'm not smiling, Cap."
MacKay blinked and smirked softly, "Uh, yes you are, Santiago."
At that moment, he felt the muscles in his face relaxing. Was he smiling the entire walk back? "Guess I was."
"You're the only man here with a smile on his face, the rest of the men are exhausted. Find anything good?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."
"Who are you going to sell it to?"
"Well, it's not real— I'm keeping it for myself, sir."
MacKay shrugged, "Fair enough.
MacKay was reclining backwards against a low wall, his helmet to his side, resting his hair against the brick. He sighed easily as he drunk from his canteen of water.
"What are you doing here, sir?"
A lazy smile formed on his face, "Resting, son." The CO could see the surprise on the scrounger's face. "I may be a Captain, but I still need to rest and recuperate every now and then. Sometimes the silence helps rejuvenate the mind. I am human after all."
"The way you walked out on Omaha, I always thought you were a robot, sir."
That got a good chuckle from the Captain, "If only."
"So, sir, for how long are we going to stay in this village?"
"Not that long, 3rd Battalion is pushing ahead, we probably got an hour and a half before we move out again. And I for one, plan on catching up on some sleep. Why you ask? What else can you scrounge for around here?"
"You'd be surprised, sir… You know, Cap, you did never tell me what you want? I could get you anything; just let me know, sir."
The Captain was silent for a moment, seemingly considering it. He laughed softly, "I'll have you know, Santiago, it's unbecoming of a Commanding Officer to ask his men for something material."
"Oh, so you do want something, you're just too proud to ask. I understand. Just ask anonymously, have someone like Sergeant Conti ask something 'for a friend', and there, I could get you whatever you want, and you can pay me however an officer wants to pay me. Maybe you can give me some fancy cigars? Or maybe trade a flashy pistol? Or how about you give me a jeep and I can find you a nice French woman, sir?"
"You know, Santiago, I wonder about you sometimes." MacKay raised an inquisitive brow, "When are you ever going to stop thinking about yourself, son?"
"Well, sir, that may happen sooner than you think."