Free Standing at the Scratch Line by Guy Johnson Page A

Shots began to ring out along the track as snipers began to take their toll on the German soldiers who struggled to pump the handcar along.
    The steady drumming of the Vickers echoed over the ridge. Big Ed was following orders. On the ridge behind him, LeRoi heard Professor’s Springfield fire at a measured pace. Across the tracks he heard the lieutenant shout, “Cease Fire! Cease Fire!”
    A couple of the German soldiers, lying near the tracks, were struggling to sit up. One actually pushed himself erect to a sitting position. LeRoi aimed one of his Lugers at the man’s head, but the voice of the lieutenant stopped him.
    “Hold it there, Tremain! I ordered cease fire!” The lieutenant and a Negro soldier named Ike Evans were crossing the tracks, walking toward the injured Germans. “We are not savages, Tremain! Just because we’re at war doesn’t mean we have to act like we’re from the jungle!” With a wave of his hand, McHenry sent Evans to check on the Germans. “If I have to speak to you about this again, I’ll have you up on charges. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Yes, sir,” LeRoi responded, thinking that he’d rather shoot the lieutenant than the Germans.
    Two shots rang out and Evans fell over backward and hit the snow with a grunt. The seated German had a smoking Luger in his hand, pointing directly at the lieutenant, who was twenty feet away. The German laughed and blood dripped out of his mouth. He coughed and raised the gun. McHenry stood transfixed, like a hare caught in the gaze of a snake.
    The German hesitated and did not pull the trigger, perhaps savoring the power of the moment. His delay saved McHenry’s life. LeRoi had been waiting for the German to shoot the lieutenant. When he didn’t, LeRoi got impatient and shot the German in the head. He also shot the other German, who was still moving, and then slowly swung the barrel in McHenry’s direction. He was seething. Evans had been in his induction group.
    “Good shooting, Tremain,” Sergeant Williams said, slapping LeRoi on the back as he came running out of the trees. Williams kept running until he reached the spot where Evans was lying. Williams stooped quickly, checking for vital signs, but there were none. André, following the sergeant, trotted past LeRoi, and said,
“C’est bon. Très bien!”
    Slick came walking down the tracks from the depot. He was talking loudly. “Some shootin’. I saw you from the top of the depot. Boy, you was smokin’! I wonder if there is some kind of medal in all that? They probably don’t give medals to colored folks, huh?” Slick’s voice was loud and his tone was taunting. He had seen LeRoi save McHenry’s life. Now he was testing how far he could stretch the lieutenant’s gratitude. Slick walked up to LeRoi with the upturned palm of his hand stuck out to be slapped, as if he and LeRoi shared some private joke.
    LeRoi looked from Slick’s face to his hand, then back again. “You always stirring shit, ain’t ya? You always try to drag in somebody else too. Let me tell it to you straight.” LeRoi popped the magazines out of his Lugers and checked the rounds as he spoke. “I stir my own shit and I choose whether I’m gon’ jump in it or not. I don’t need no extra.”
    “You awful high and mighty,” Slick sputtered. “I saw you was ready to kill Mr. Charlie. You ain’t fooled no one but maybe the fool himself. How come you just got to ignore my hand? Just pretend like you didn’t see it? That ain’t right!”
    “You’s the one pretendin’,” LeRoi answered. “You was signifyin’ at the lieutenant the whole time you was talkin’. You wasn’t talkin’ to me. That’s yo’ shit. Then you want to pretend that I was part of it. Like drag me in without me havin’ no say at all? You the one that’s wrong. I cut you slack ’cause you’s a bunk mate, but you usin’ up my patience!”
    “Ah, man, you always take things the wrong way. We supposed to be tight! You’s way too