Once an Eagle

by Anton Myrer

  He sipped at his brandy. Damon found himself studying covertly the slender, delicate face, drawn now and yellowed from illness and strain; the high forehead and fine straight nose, the eyes whose bemused, undeviating gaze seemed to behold the world in all its folly, all its avarice and violence and self-deception, and still go forward resolute and undismayed … Feeling a soft little wave of affection, Damon looked down. Dev had told him he could always pull people with him, that no one could say no to him. Was that true? It was terrible if it was: he didn’t want to have that kind of hold over people. But here beside him stood a man who could exercise far more than will—who inspired others by the force of his intellect: by his wit, his compassion, his imagination, by his early and all-embracing wisdom … If I could have a father again, this is the kind of man I’d want, he thought.

  The Colonel sighed and dropped his hand from the heavy drapery beside the window. “I suppose I’m becoming a misanthrope,” he said gloomily, staring. “A Diogenes who doesn’t even need to take up his lantern and start combing the town. I’ve always hated the breed: it’s easy enough to mock life. Tommy says I’m getting to be a morbid old man—and she’s only been reading my letters. She says I don’t know what trouble is—she’s working in the fracture ward at Savenay and I daresay she’s right. It can’t be the jolliest kind of duty for a high-strung, willful girl. She’s so emotional! I can’t imagine where she got it. My parents always had themselves in hand, and the Sawtells were dull as dishwater. Even Cora was sort of subdued; very sweet, very dear, but—well, subdued …” He sighed again, and Damon shifted his feet respectfully. He knew the Colonel had lost his wife some years before, that he had an only child, a daughter named—incongruously—Thomas; that was all he knew.

  “God knows, she’s had a hard time of it,” Caldwell went on. “Cora’s death was a fearful blow to her—she was so little: it must have seemed as though the sky were really falling, like Chicken Little. I know it did for me. And then I didn’t know what to do with her. My sister took her for a time, and Cora’s sister Marilyn, and she didn’t like that much better. And all that time I was trudging around from Schofield to Leavenworth to Tientsin to Monroe … I should have made a home for her: a real, honest-to-goodness home, full of nine-to-five regularity and salary raises and neighborhood children she’d have grown up with, found a boy she could have married … ” Abruptly he snorted. “Forgive me, Sam. It’s the kind of afternoon when all your sins come back and perch on your soul like vultures, picking and tearing …” He turned and gave the Captain a swift, quizzical look. “Two hours ago General Liggett asked me if I wanted the post of assistant divisional commander.”

  Damon’s jaw dropped in spite of himself; the idea that a man who had just been given the post of ADC in one of the three finest divisions in the AEF could be standing there by a window pondering over parenthood and human destiny and the American zeitgeist, filled him with amazement. “Why—congratulations, sir!” he stammered. “You’re going to take it, of course …”

  The Colonel nodded. “Yes: I’m going to take it. I imagine I’ll do as good a job as the next man, maybe a little bit better.”

  “And it’ll mean a star for you—maybe two of them.”

  Caldwell smiled. “Yes. I suppose so. I’ll become a crabbed, unapproachable old fool, eating like an epicurean and wrangling with the French brass every afternoon. The prerequisites of power.” Outside, the trucks had ceased, and there came now the ponderous wooden sound of boots on cobblestones, men marching in cadence, and now and then a high, sharp cry of command. The Colonel turned again to the window and watched the infantry moving past: a muffled, shapeless frieze in the rainswept dusk. “Yes. Every old soldier dreams of that day when he will put a star on his shoulder: it would be dishonest not to admit it. And it usually occurs—when it does—as the result of a war. And yet”—and he squared around to Damon suddenly, pointing back down toward the street, his face stamped with a terse, almost wrathful concern—“I swear to you I would give it all over and gladly, without one second’s hesitation, if those men out there were heading the other way, toward St. Nazaire and Marseille …”

  “I know you would, sir,” Damon said; but the Colonel was staring out into the rain again.

  “Deliver us from sentimentality!” he exclaimed softly. “When we win this war—and we’re going to win it now, in six weeks or less—do you know what old Foch, that master strategist, has in mind? He plans to use us all as labor battalions, to rebuild the villages in Champagne, Picardy.”

  Damon’s head went up. “They wouldn’t dare …”

  “Don’t bet on that. I had it from no one less than General Connor himself. Yes. Coolies. Because things are getting back to normal, you see. It’s no longer Save us! Our backs are to the wall. The Boche aren’t at the Marne anymore.” He set a fist firmly in his cupped hand. “They don’t respect us. And they don’t respect us because we don’t properly value ourselves—and that is because we refuse to accept the bloody world as it is …” He walked up to Damon and stood in front of him in an attitude of affectionate menace. “Don’t freeze on things, Sam. Like those muffinheads over at Bombon. Promise me you won’t let your mind atrophy. Self-righteousness. It’s the occupational disease of the soldier, and it’s the worst sin in all the world. Yes! Because it spawns arrogance, selfishness, indifference. We may not be seeing so much of each other for a time now, what with one thing and another … Don’t let the weight of things numb you. Read, think, disagree with everything, if you like—but force your mind outward. Promise me that.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.” Damon nodded slowly. “I will, Colonel.”

  Both buildings—they had together formed a country inn—had been demolished, but the fountain and well miraculously remained intact. Raebyrne and Tsonka were lowering the bucket while the others crowded around them, their canteens in their hands. The rain had stopped. Clouds kept streaming overhead, shouldering each other powerfully off to the west; rifts appeared here and there—and then, low on the horizon the sun broke through, a whirling red disc like the eye of a madman, and flooded everything in the courtyard with a fierce crimson hue. To Damon, sitting on the stone steps in front of the nonexistent inn, studying the map with Lieutenant Zimmerman, the men looked stained with blood: their faces, their hands and weapons and canteens were bathed in it, indelibly. He watched Genthner recoil a step and heard him mutter: “Jesus …”

  “What’s eating you, boy,” Raebyrne demanded, “you of the opinion it’s full of tadpoles? Damn good chance.”

  “Look at it—look at the color of it …”

  “You poor ignorant city boy—that’s sunshine!”

  “It’s bad,” Santos muttered. “A Jonah.”

  “A what?”

  “A sign—an evil sign.”

  “Look,” Tsonka declared, “if there’s one with your name on it, it’ll find you if it has to turn the latch and open the door.”

  The light increased, grew still more violent under the bank of clouds. The wind was cold. A big gray car was coming along the road from Apremont, rocking powerfully on its springs as it eased its way in and out of the holes. Its windshield held a placard with three white stars on a red field. At the edge of the courtyard the car slowed and finally stopped.

  “Man, just look at that wagon,” Tsonka said. “That’s the way to fight this frigging war: from the backseat of a staff limousine.”

  Raebyrne gave a long, low whistle. “When I get back home I’m going to get me one of those chariots. Hood so long I’ll have to back up two, three times to turn a corner. Just cavort around, proud as Lucifras. I guess you know it’s going to be the vee-hicular wonder of the world.”

  “What’s it going to look like, Reb?”

  “Why, it’s going to be a Clee-o-patra’s barge on diamond wheels. Going to have a pull-out bar stocked with sour-mash bourbon, and a double-size foldaway bed, and a flush toilet that plays ‘Good Morning, Mister Zip-Zip-Zip’ every time you pull the solid-gold cha
in handle. And a wireless connection to the old homestead out at Flat Lick.”

  “Where in hell is Flat Lick?” a replacement named Wilts wanted to know.

  “Son, you don’t want to have to ask that question of your old squad leader. It’s spang in the heart of Swain County, in the shadow of Big Smoky. And that’s nothing less than God’s country in the morning …”

  An officer had got out of the car and now was walking briskly toward them: a tall man with a white, handsome face, a captain, wearing an immaculate uniform and riding boots, and carrying a swagger stick capped with thirty- and fifty-caliber shells that sparkled as he moved. The eerie light fell on him until his face and body glowed ruddily; he seemed to materialize out of its scarlet aura, take shape from it. He stepped inside the wrecked iron gate and encountered the company runner, a boy named Nugent, who had just come into the courtyard and was yanking his canteen out of his belt.

  “Where is your commanding officer?” the captain asked him.

  Nugent was having trouble unscrewing his canteen top; all his desires were focused on the bucket Tsonka was holding. “I don’t know,” he answered carelessly.

  The officer’s eyes flashed. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” he said sharply. “You don’t know what? Is that the way you reply to an officer?”

  “No, sir!” Nugent was stunned by this immaculate apparition that had appeared out of nowhere and was now so furious with him. He started to salute with his right hand, which was still holding the canteen—recognized the impropriety of that and tried to shift it surreptitiously to his left hand and in his confusion dropped it. It clattered on the worn stones. He bent over to retrieve it.

  “Stand at attention when I’m speaking to you!”

  The command froze Nugent erect again; he stood there rigidly, too paralyzed to salute, his eyes wide and bulging. Some of the men around the well had turned apprehensively.

  “Now”—the Captain slapped his swagger stick against his pressed breeches—“where is your commanding officer?” But Nugent had been struck dumb. “Are you a complete imbecile?—answer me!”

  “He’s right over there, Captain,” Tsonka called to him from the well, where he was still filling canteens. “Near the front stoop.”

  The tall man turned slowly and stared at Tsonka; there seemed to be no expression on his face. Then very deliberately he walked toward the men at the well. Tsonka, watching him approach, paused, and the rest of the group gave way. There was something unsettling in this officer’s manner, his long white imperious face now a deep crimson from the unnatural light, his cold amber eyes; the replacements fluttered nervously.

  “You people come-to-attention!”

  The group around the well stiffened one by one, with varying degrees of reluctance, until finally Tsonka lowered the bucket and dropped his arms to his sides. In the stillness Raebyrne’s voice came very clearly, drawling: “Fer Chrahst sake …”

  “That’s enough! You people had better learn some military courtesy,” the Captain said. “Discipline is entirely too lax up here. When an officer asks a question he expects to be answered in a smart and respectful manner.” And he passed his eyes over them one by one—a gaze neither spiteful nor indulgent, only severe.

  It’s his voice, Damon thought, watching; his voice. It was incisive enough, it was pitched neither too high nor too low—but something about it was wrong; it lacked—it lacked human vibrance. Faintly metallic, disembodied, it was like a field order translated into sound; it had no flaws. Damon got to his feet, holding the map in one hand, and said: “May I help you, Captain?”

  The officer swung around with that same deliberate, imperious air; nodded, and moved briskly up to him. “Are you in command here?”

  “Yes.”

  The officer nodded again. “Massengale, First Corps staff. I must see your regimental commander at once.”

  “You passed him,” Damon answered. “Colonel Weyburn’s CP is in Dammartin, about half a mile along the Thièvremont road.”

  “I see.” Massengale’s eyes were running distastefully over the line officer’s filthy, torn trench coat, the Chauchat slung around his neck, the cartridge belt and enlisted man’s haversack. “You are an officer …” Damon nodded. “Where are your insignia of rank?”

  Without taking his eyes from him Sam carefully removed his helmet, reversed it and held it so that the Captain could see, nearly effaced by mud and a maze of scratches, a large yellow lozenge. “Here.”

  Massengale’s lips parted in a frosty smile. “I believe that’s contrary to regulations, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is,” Damon answered quietly, “but to tell you the truth I don’t give too much of a damn.” He leaned around Massengale and called, “All right, boys, as you were”—and before the staff officer could say anything he went on: “Is it your custom to keep weary troops standing needlessly at attention, Captain? That’s contrary to regulations, too—as well as being downright bad manners …”

  Massengale’s face became very smooth and long; his gold eyes glinted. “I find discipline in your command very lax, sir. Very lax indeed. You must remember that discipline is one of the cornerstones of morale. And morale is to all other factors as four is to one.”

  Damon bit his lower lip. Beside him Lieutenant Zimmerman was standing worriedly, now and then sniffling; the gang around the well were listening openly to the exchange. He rubbed one hand against his thigh. He felt a towering, raging disgust for this person before him—this immaculate, well-fed prig from staff with his cold, forbidding manner, who quoted Napoleon and could be the emissary only of more bad tidings, of carping disparagement and impossible demands. Holding his voice very level, he said: “Captain, my men have just come from seventy-two hours in the line and forty more in close reserve, during which time they have been under almost constant shell fire. They are tired and hungry and thirsty and they deserve a good rest. Aside from that, their morale is as good as that of any outfit in the American Expeditionary Forces, and perhaps a little bit better. Now if you will kindly take both yourself and that disgusting Packard out of my sight I’ll try to go on with my map reading.”

  The bucket had stopped in midair; he heard Zimmerman draw in his breath. Massengale’s lips came together, and two faint white crescents leaped into place at the corners of his mouth. He snapped his swagger stick under his arm and produced a leatherbound notebook and a slim gold pen from his blouse pocket—a gesture so automatic it had become effortless. “I was willing to overlook the utter absence of military courtesy in the troops of your command, and your own unpardonable appearance, as the unfortunate products of conditions in the field. But I cannot brook any such insolence as this.” He pointed the heel of the pen toward Damon. “Not to me, you understand, but to that authority I represent. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Your name, rank and organization, please.”

  “With pleasure. Samuel A. Damon, Captain, Baker Company, Second Battalion. Serial number 03012.”

  Massengale started, the pen stopped writing. “You’re Damon? Night Clerk Damon?”

  “That’s right.”

  The staff officer’s face underwent a swift little quiver of transformation—broke all at once into a frank, utterly charming smile. “I stand corrected, Captain. The error is mine. Completely.” He replaced the notebook and pen. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course. Of course it does.” Drawing off his glove he offered his hand to Sam who took it, puzzled. “Anyone with a record like yours would have no disciplinary problem. That’s axiomatic.” He lowered his voice perceptibly. “It’s just that since the German peace overtures General Bannerman has become concerned about a letdown in the morale of the front-line troops. Their will to fight. He has specifically directed that unrelenting pressure be kept on the enemy forces in the field.”

  “Unrelenting pressure.”

  “Those are his words.—Well, I’ve
got to be getting on. It’s been a pleasure to run into you, Damon, even under circumstances as—irregular as these. No hard feelings, I trust?” The Nebraskan shook his head. “These are days of tumult, I know. Days of tumult and tension. I’ve been missing out on a good deal of sleep myself.” He smiled again—that lively, charming smile that made him look like a much younger man, and slapped his breeches with his swagger stick. “Somebody’s got to be the monster from Staff, you know—drive around with changes of orders in a disgusting Packard …” With an airy wave of his gloved hand he turned to go.

  He wants it to go on, Damon thought; he gripped the handle of the Chauchat. He doesn’t want it ever to be over. He loves it.

  “—Wait,” he said suddenly. “What change of orders do you have for us?”

  “Oh.” The lean, handsome white face was smooth and remote again. “You are to pass through the Seventy-second and attack on the Delambre-Sylvette Farm line. Oh-ten-hundred hours tomorrow.”

  “… the Mont Noir?”

  “That’s it. Good luck, Damon—I know you’ll have it! I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

  “Sure.” Somberly he watched Massengale stride briskly back to the staff car and get in; the big limousine pulled away, swaying in the slick mud of the road. The company gazed after it like a horde of ragamuffins on the fringe of a society wedding.

  “Well, it’s a drôle war,” Sam murmured to Zimmerman. “The word is drôle.”

  “Yes it is, Captain.”

  “See what a help a Medal of Honor can be?” Zimmerman was looking at him uncertainly, not knowing whether to laugh or not, and he chuckled wryly. “That’s all right, everybody’ll get one if it goes on long enough …”

  The sun had vanished behind the layers of sullen dark cloud; it was going to rain again soon, he could smell it in the wind. The map was fluttering ponderously in his hand.