That done, he stepped out into the roadway. The dead soldier’s brimless service cap lay there, knocked off his head when McGregor hit him. The farmer picked it up and put it on. A lot of soldiers in town would probably not be wearing theirs, but he wanted to look as much like one of them as he could.
Into Rosenfeld he went. He didn’t stand out on account of his age: the Yanks had conscripted men who looked older than he did. Plenty of them were carrying this or that. One was giving a piggyback ride to a laughing woman waving a whiskey bottle. McGregor knew Rosenfeld’s two or three whores by sight. She wasn’t any of them; the Americans must have brought her in from some other town.
“Hey, pal, whatcha got in the box there?” a soldier asked.
McGregor had known he might get that question, so he had an answer ready: “Beer for Colonel Alexander.” The colonel named for his son was fictitious, but the soldier wouldn’t know that.
“Reckon he could spare a bottle or two?” the fellow said.
McGregor shook his head. “He’d skin me alive.” The U.S. soldier grimaced, but went off instead of trying any more wheedling. The Americans were more submissive to their officers than McGregor remembered being from his own days in uniform. Comes of having Germans for teachers, he thought.
He found a spot opposite the sheriff’s station Major Hannebrink was using as his headquarters. Lights were on inside; the Yanks arrested their own men as well as Canadians, and were probably hauling in lots of them tonight.
That thought had hardly crossed his mind before Hannebrink came out to stand on the porch and look around, hands on hips in indignation at the chaos victory was creating. He saw McGregor, but didn’t recognize him. After a couple of minutes, he shook his head and went back indoors.
“Now,” McGregor muttered to himself. If he couldn’t do it now, he’d never do it. He staggered across the street toward the sheriff’s station, suddenly acting much drunker than he had before. He got down on hands and knees by the wooden steps leading up to the porch where Hannebrink had stood, as if about to lose whatever he had in his stomach. He knew he wasn’t the only man in uniform doing that. When he thought-he hoped-no one was paying him any special notice, he shoved the box under the steps.
He got to his feet. Nobody shouted, What are you doing? or, What’s in that box? or even, Wait a second, buddy-you forgot something. After that, he had no trouble walking as if he were drunk. He was drunk, drunk with relief.
He got out of Rosenfeld and made his way back to the bushes where he’d hidden. Once there, he put the dead American’s clothes back on him-an awkward job-and got into his own shirt and overalls and shoes. He took the man’s billfold and stuck it in his pocket. With luck, the Yanks would think one of their soldiers had robbed and murdered another.
He was tying his shoes when another American wobbled up the road past him. Several of them-he didn’t know how many-were farther from Rosenfeld than he was. If any of them saw him, he might be in trouble. Instead of getting up and starting along the road, he crawled away over grass and dirt, then got to his feet and made his way north and west across a field: whatever he did, he was not going to leave a trail that led straight back toward his farm.
When he came to a little rill, he threw the American’s wallet into it after taking out the banknotes. He stuck those in his pocket and splashed along in the rill for a couple of hundred yards. If they set dogs on his trail, he wouldn’t give the beasts an easy time.
Not long after he came out, he kicked a stone. He lifted it and stuck the dead American’s paper money under it. With luck, the money would never be found. If the empty wallet was, it would make robbery look more likely.
“Thank you, sweet Jesus,” he whispered when he found a road. The wheeling stars gave him the direction he needed to head home. On the hard-packed dirt, he’d make good time. He wouldn’t leave much in the way of tracks, either.
He’d been walking almost an hour and a half when a bang louder than any of the sporadic rifle shots came from the direction of Rosenfeld. He made a fist and thumped it against his thigh. He had no way of knowing whether Major Hannebrink was still at his post when the bomb went off. Sooner or later, he’d find out. Even if the major had gone, he’d still hurt the Americans. He could console himself with that-but he didn’t care about consolation. He wanted vengeance.
Going down back roads and sneaking across the well-traveled highway east of his fields after a line of trucks rattled past, he got back to the farmhouse as twilight was beginning to stain the eastern horizon. He still had a full day’s chores ahead. By the time he finished them, he’d wish he were dead. Right now, he hoped someone else was.
Maude was making coffee in the kitchen when he came inside. “Well?” she asked. It was as close to a direct question about what he did when he went out at night as she’d ever given him.
He came close to giving a direct answer, too: “It worked. I wasn’t there, though, so I don’t know how well.”
“All right.” His wife looked him over. “Go change your clothes and bring the ones you have on downstairs. I’ll wash them. Set your shoes by the stove first.”
He bent down and felt of them. They were still damp. “Good idea,” he said. He sighed as he pulled off the shoes. “Feet are tired.”
“I’ll bet they are,” Maude said. “Go on, now. I’ll have coffee and eggs waiting when you come down again.”
By the time he’d changed and splashed water from the pitcher on the chest of drawers onto his face, Mary and Julia were up, too. Julia sliced bread for him, to go with the fried eggs Maude set out. “You look tired, Pa,” she said, which was not a question at all but at the same time was.
“Everything’s all right,” he replied, an answer that said nothing and at the same time quite a lot.
Mary’s face glowed. “Does that mean you-?” she began, and then abruptly stopped, as if she did not want to hear what it meant. Arthur McGregor only shrugged. With food and coffee in front of him, he didn’t want to think for a while.
He went out to work in the fields. When he looked back toward the farmhouse, he saw the overalls and shirt and socks and drawers he’d worn the night before out flapping on the line. The breeze was strong. They would dry quickly.
In the middle of the afternoon, a green-gray Ford parked between the farmhouse and the barn. McGregor didn’t notice it till the soldiers who got out fired a couple of shots in the air. That brought him in at a shambling trot that told him just how worn he was.
Three privates in green-gray surrounded a tall, skinny U.S. captain McGregor had never seen before. Without preamble, the officer snapped, “Where were you last night?”
“Here at home in bed,” he answered. He felt drunk with joy now, and had to work hard to make sure it didn’t show on his face. If he’d failed, Major Hannebrink would have been the one to bark questions at him. But sending sullen looks toward the occupiers wasn’t hard, not even a little. “Why? What are you going to try and blame on me this time?”
“Somebody set off a bomb in Rosenfeld,” the captain said. “A lot of good men died. Somebody’s set off a lot of bombs in this part of the country since your son received military justice. A fair number of hostages have died on account of them, too.”
“You Yanks have murdered a lot of people in this part of the country besides my son-including those hostages,” McGregor returned. “I don’t love you, but I haven’t bombed you. Major Hannebrink turned this place upside down trying to show different, but he couldn’t show what wasn’t there.”
“Major Hannebrink is dead,” the U.S. captain told him.
“I’ll not shed a tear,” McGregor said. Again, he had to remind himself not to exult. “I wish I had settled him, but I didn’t.” That lie came easy. He’d had lots of practice using it. His conscience, which had once sickened at any untruth, troubled him not at all.