Chris Offutt - No Heroes - A Memoir of Coming Home

I had good shoes at that time and I walk all night long and morning comes, very cold — actually, unbelievably cold. But we walk. I keep myself going. I walk, I walk, I walk. The sun comes up and the Germans are gone. No guards. They left us during the night. We are a whole column of idiots walking alone.

One of the guys is a German prisoner and he knows the area. He said there’s nothing ahead, no city anywhere. We have to go back the way we came. So we walk back. No sleep, no food, no coat. We walked all night, now we’re going back. We passed hundreds of dead. There were two brothers with us all the time. They wouldn’t walk without holding hands and that’s the way they fell asleep. They survived the whole war and froze to death holding hands a couple of hours before the war was over. We walked out seven thousand, we came back three thousand. We came back like sheep to the SS.

They corralled us against the river. The valley is very narrow. We’re deep in the Alps. The Callevendo. I saw them putting up machine-gun rests.

The German prisoner says we have to get out of here because they gonna shoot us. He gave me a sleeping bag made out of paper covered with tar. I swam the river at night with the help of that German fellow. On the other side, we took our clothes off, we climbed into the sleeping bag because we were wet, put our clothing out to dry, and that was it. I didn’t want to get out of the sleeping bag. That night was full of stars, a beautiful starry night. The biggest starry night I ever saw. I slept for three days.

Everything was crashing for the Germans, so they gathered us together in Leipzig. Only Jewish women. A thousand of us. We started to walk on the road. They were shooting everyone who could not make it. We arranged it so three people walk in a row, and the one in the middle was sleeping. We were walking and dragging the middle one, then we exchange places. That’s how we sleep. Dragged.

We marched at least a week, day and night. They were throwing us some bread sometimes. Whoever could catch it, ate. I did. I was lucky. They were in a hurry because the Russians were already on the back of them. I had the feeling that we would be killed very soon. It was a long walk and no stopping at night. It was very cold.

The soldiers were talking and I understand German. They were marching us to the Elbe to drown the whole bunch of us. They didn’t want to leave signs of what’s happened in the camps. They wanted to drown every one of us.

We march in farm country. There was haystacks, lot of straw. I decided I’d rather let them shoot me than I should walk like this. Me and two others go in the hay. The dogs went all over the place sniffing, but they didn’t sniff us. The whole regiment passed by us and they left. It was so silent, the only time it is silent in the war.

First time in my life I decided to run away. The whole time I am in camp, people are pushing me. They said, you go this way, so I go this way. If they want to kill me, they kill me. I am offered, I am here. Do what you want.

We slept in the hay and when we wake we hear Russian soldiers. We came out, holding each other. They give us food, give us a place to sleep like human beings and some clothing. We walked to a train under their protection.

When I come out of the straw, I couldn’t believe it. It was something that you can’t explain. Can’t describe. I can stand up and nobody’s killing me. I am alive. It’s like the best song or the best music or the best art or the best anything. I am standing there and breathing the free air.

Each spring MSU gives a small award to an Appalachian writer. I had been nominated the previous year but members of the English department had protested that my work was of insufficient quality. The last winner had published many mystery novels. This year my supporters prevailed and an award luncheon was scheduled. University protocol required me to include department colleagues, the dean, and any academic alliances that were ready to go public. I departed from convention and invited people from Haldeman, including my childhood buddies Faron and Roy. In forty years we had never seen each other dressed in fancy clothes. Each of us wore a sports jacket, our best jeans with a belt, and shirts with collars and sleeves.

“Goddam, Chris,” Faron said, “you look like a Christmas turkey — plumb full of shit.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and you look like a pup who shit on the porch.”

“Well, boys,” Roy said, “both of you all look like shit that took a shit.”

Many of the people had not seen each other in a while. A few had never been on campus before. I chose a table in the corner near the kitchen, leaving the places of honor for my guests.

The kitchen staff served shrimp cocktail as an appetizer, which I took as a form of culinary flattery. Unfortunately, I am allergic to shellfish and set mine aside to wait for the main course. A few others were doing the same. The staff cleared the table and began bringing sponge cake and coffee.

Rita leaned to me and said, “That’s it?”

I glanced around the room at everyone else frowning in hasty conference with their tablemates. I told the kitchen staff that my kids wouldn’t eat shrimp and asked for large turkey sandwiches, which I surreptitiously slipped to Faron and Roy.

The president of MSU gave his song and dance about the award and I stepped forward for the five-hundred-dollar check.

“Thank you all for being here,” I said. “It has meant a lot to come home as a teacher because so many teachers have made a big difference in my life. Some of you are here now. One isn’t, my favorite teacher, Mary Alice Jayne. She taught me to read. I’d like to donate this check to the Rowan County Public Library in Mrs. Jayne’s name. I’d also like to request the money be spent on children’s books.”

The Haldeman people clapped, their eyes damp. Never before had someone given university money to the county with such alacrity. A few days later Frankie the librarian called me to arrange for official paperwork. She took me in her office, where she told me that she wasn’t sure how to handle the check because it was the largest donation the library had ever received. Hearing that, as we say in the hills, just broke my little heart. She said each book would receive a small card pasted in the front that said it was given in the memory of Mary Alice Jayne. She asked if I wanted my name on it and I declined.

I left the library and passed a man walking with a familiar gait. I stopped the car and Harley got in as if he was expecting me.

“Hey, Harley,” I said. “Want a ride?”

“No, I just need me a little rest is all.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I broke up with my girlfriend and the car went, too.”

“What happened?”

“Well, she got to where she was wanting me to do things all the time. I couldn’t live my life and be with her. Treating her good wasn’t enough. Know what I mean?”

“That’s why most people break up, Harley. They want to control the other person.”

“I had enough of that at home. If I want that, I can go back to the house.”

“I know.”

“She thinks so much of her own hide, she’d gut herself just to keep it.”

“Still not drinking?” I said.

“No, I had me what they call a slip right here lately, but I’m all right now. They said I’m in with a rough bunch, but I don’t know no others.”

“You know me, Harley.”

“You’re rough as a cob, Chris.”

“You sure I can’t run you somewhere?”

“I don’t have nowhere to go right now. You reckon they’d let me stay at the jail, you know, for old times’ sake?”