Free A Midnight Clear: A Novel by William Wharton Page B

on the pile of dirt.
    “By the way, Father, I forgot to give the password. Tell them it’s ‘cold—witch.’ Have Gordon phone it out to Miller.”
    I’m wondering if Mundy will catch on. He was already in junior seminary at thirteen, so things like that can pass right over his head. Normally we get our password from division but they can’t give it on the radio so we’ll make up our own.
    “Don’t forget, Father; ‘cold—witch.’”
    He’s started down the hill.
    “Yeah, I got it, ‘cold—witch.’ ”
    I watch him pick his way downhill, his shoulders hunched, his woolknit cap on his head, his helmet hanging in the crook of his arm, rifle sliding off his other shoulder. Mundy hates wearing a helmet more than anybody I know. He might also be prime contender as squad’s sloppiest soldier.
     
    Then I’m alone. I sit there on the pile of dirt; I’ll spread it in a few minutes. The scope’s on a bed of leaves beside the hole. I tuck it into my belt inside my field jacket; it’s best to keep a scope warm; then the lens doesn’t fog up next to your eye.
    Father’s not careful enough; he isn’t as afraid of dying as the rest of us. If I could believe the same things he does, or says he does, I wouldn’t be afraid to die either; I’d walk around playing hero, bucking for paradise. It worries me he’ll make some dumb mistake from not thinking and get himself killed.
    I shovel all the dirt back under pine trees and pile pine needles on top. I crank the phone and tell Shutzer I’ll phone on the hour; I’ve borrowed his watch. I can tell the game’s already started: Stan talks to me as if I’m interrupting; I’m only the war now, getting in the way.
    It’s beginning to fall dark fast; the reddish parts of deciduous trees are drifting toward purple; shadows under the pines are almost blue black.
    I pull out my scope and scan the opposite hill. Near the bottom I pick up a fast-running stream. There’s a flat, gray rock above, with water fanning lightly over it. Just below, between the rock and stream, I spot movement!
    The light reduction in the glasses is tremendous and I’ve started shaking so it’s hard to hold still. I slide down into the hole and brace my elbows on the parapet.
    There’re three small deer browsing on moss at the base of that overhanging rock. One looks straight at me, long ears twisting to pick up sound. It can’t possibly see this far and there’s not enough light to glint on the lens.
    I tuck the scope back in my belt and pull out my 2B pencil along with an opened, trimmed, flat K box.
    I try to sketch what I’ve seen, the magic moment, but can’t make it. My memory isn’t strong enough and trying to put all that on a small gray surface is beyond me. It’s partly because it’s so far away, so much sky, mountain, forest; partly because I’d been expecting something else. It’s hard to transmit the joy of peace, even with a drawing.
    I pull out my scope again and continue scanning the hill, trying to imagine I’m actually walking over there. I traverse the road but it’s getting so dark I can’t see much. I can just pick out Miller down by the bridge. He’s smoking and there’s a glow when he takes a drag. It looks as if he’s writing. Maybe we’re in for another puzzle, or, better yet, one of his poems. He writes poetry about all kinds of things but mostly about machinery. Words like camshaft, universal joint, differential, drive shaft, overhead shims, dual carburetor or even piston displacement are music to Miller.
    I search out a little K ration four-pack from my field jacket pocket, duck down in the hole and light up. I’m down to only three a day but when I’m cold and scared it’s hard resisting. The cigarette companies thought up a sharp deal giving cigarettes to young soldiers. They’ll have us all as lifetime customers when the war’s over. (That is, if any of us are alive.) It’s one of Gordon’s best arguments.
    I take a deep drag; it makes the