Tide King Read Online Free

it. Sometimes it confused Stanley, and when he slept for brief periods and woke, he thought he was at his parent’s house, down the hall from the leaky faucet.
    â€œStay here.” Johnson’s arm would grab for Stanley’s ankle as Stanley began to push forward through the brush.
    â€œThe sink is fucking leaking,” Stanley waved him off, before Johnson yanked and Stanley fell down into the bed of pine needles that covered the forest floor.
    â€œI would die to get out of this forest,” Stanley said as they ate the last of their bread and coffee. The supply lines inland were farther away, their rations fewer.
    â€œI would die for dry socks.” The mud and fog lay on them like a film. In the dark undergrowth, the men rubbed against the trees and each other like ingredients in a stew. Where were the Germans? Surely not as stupid as the Americans, Stanley thought, burrowing through the forest, their tanks and artillery and Air Force stalled by the dense formations of trees and rough terrain. The Allies were all alone.

    Stanley peed in the snow. The cold air crept into his open pants and ran down his legs. Before he could even finish the German shelling of the tree canopy began again, and Stanley crouched and hugged the spruce in front of him without even pulling up his zipper. Around him, splinters from the trees rained down like daggers, along with hot metal. Ennis had looked like a wooden porcupine when they pulled him back behind their lines a few days before. The shrapnel in Ennis’ chest had been bad, and he and Johnson, trapped in front of a patch of machine guns, pressed themselves to the snow and needles and mud for hours, Ennis between them, moaning for his mother.
    Three days earlier, the First Division had discovered the Germans, hidden and waiting for the Allies to amble past the river, when their eyes were tired of the undulation of snow and trees, when their bodies were cold because, in anticipation of quick victory, the Allied brass had not thought to ship winter clothes to the front. For weeks, as the Northern chill swept in, Stanley and Johnson and the others had measured their boots against dead men’s, their inseams, their chest sizes, looking to replace their wet, worn clothes with ones slightly drier, slightly cleaner. Stanley wore two shirts other than his own, each caked and itchy with medals of blood.
    Stanley crawled on his hands in the red and brown snow back to the slit trench he had dug with Johnson earlier that afternoon. They had covered the opening with tree limbs and hoped it would protect them from the shrapnel and wood. Inside, they were asshole buddies, sitting back to back, or asshole to asshole, chest high in the hole, branches and snow over them as they watched for movement beyond their line.
    â€œYou all right?” Johnson asked as Stanley shivered against him. After nightfall, it became frost. The dead men stuck to the earth.
    â€œI think I’m going to have the runs something awful.”
    â€œWell, go have them the hell out there.”
    â€œYou just want me shot at.”
    â€œJust go behind that tree over there. I’ll cover you.”
    â€œFuck you.”
    â€œI’m joking . Just be quiet.” Johnson’s hands felt frozen to his carbine. He would give his left hand, purple and granite under his glove, for a cigarette. He felt the pressure of Polenksy’s back leave his, a creeping cold between his soldier blades, as Polensky turned around in the trench and squatted, helmet under his ass.
    â€œYou know, we should have a code word, a personal one, in case one of us leaves the hole.” Johnson tried to talk over Stanley’s sounds. A cigarette would go a long way to blunt the smell. But smoke could be seen at night. Rot, shit, and death smelled day and night, as assessable as air.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with the company’s password?”
    â€œNothing. I just thought it would be good if we had our own.