Once an Eagle

by Anton Myrer

  Damon raised himself on his elbows and said: “Do you honestly believe that? That there will be another war?”

  Caldwell looked at him calmly and nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “—But that’s impossible! After all the slaughter—after all this …” He waved his hand down the bleak white corridor, to include the supine figures, the limbs in traction, the amputations and drainage tubes and frames and sandbags, and beyond that the cemeteries, the barracks and dugouts and tents, and beyond them the vast gray wreckage of France. “No!” he said hotly. “After this things will be different. These gay little international disputes will have to be settled by—compromise, adjudication, something … It’s got to be!”

  “I wish you could be right about that.”

  “It’s got to be! There’s no other answer, no other way.”

  The General paused a moment. “It’s a time to think that, to believe that with all one’s heart; I know …” He leaned forward on the creaking camp stool, holding his wounded hand in the good one. “Sam: do you honestly believe people are going to stop being greedy and resentful and full of pride and prejudice? Do you think they will quit hating and fearing—do you think the lordly heads of government are going to abandon their methods of seizing and holding power, of gaining advantages over their neighbors? Why should they change? What should cause them to abhor the only rules to the game they know? And even if they were to do so, do you believe for one minute their own citizens would let them get away with it?”

  He paused, his lips curved in that mournful smile. Damon, lying back again, watched his quick, perceptive eyes and felt the force of that high intelligence, that purposeful equanimity of view that saw so clearly the limits of hope and wisdom; and beyond that the possibility—no, it was more than that, it was a hard obligation—for a man to be all he could be within those implacable limitations … He knew Caldwell was right and for a moment it filled him with the blackest terror. He closed his eyes.

  “To think,” he murmured, “to think that a vicious bastard like that Benoît would again have the chance—a chance to … ”

  “Yes: he’s a butcher and an incompetent, and you are right to hate him. But for all that he was doing the best he could. Same with Foch: blindness, awful failure of imagination … But what about our auto makers back in Detroit, who couldn’t be bothered with the war, who couldn’t interrupt their profits long enough to produce the tanks we needed so desperately at Soissons, at Malsainterre? What about them? Stupid old Benoît doesn’t look so bad alongside that …”

  Damon clasped his hands together. Then what’s the sense in it? he wanted to shout. What the hell are we all hanging on for? Why face any kind of future at all? But he said nothing. He was bleak with desolation, his mind in a turmoil; he did not know what he thought.

  “The thing is, so much of it has been handled incorrectly,” Caldwell went on in his even, thoughtful voice. “General Pershing was talking to several of us the other day. He’s a hard man, he’s too dogmatic, too arbitrary in some ways, I know. The spit and polish in the billets, this silly Sam Browne belt business. But he has that faculty for cutting through to the essential thing, the kernel … He’s convinced it was all handled badly: the surrender. Which ought to come as no surprise, I suppose—the war was abysmally conducted so I guess there’s no reason to expect the peace to be very different. Foch should never have negotiated with the civilian leaders at Compiègne; it should have been Ludendorff, Hindenburg, von der Marwitz: the army. The army should have surrendered—or else we should have gone on across the Rhine to Berlin and taken those iron hinges off the Brandenburg Gate. As the song says. Maybe that’s a little extreme, but in the main he’s right. Because the army is saying now they weren’t beaten in the field—that the home front, awash with defeatists and Reds, betrayed them.” He paused again, musing. “It gives rise to some hard thoughts. Especially hard to contemplate this winter. General Pershing believes it will have to be done all over again one day.”

  Damon was stunned. He looked wildly around the ward, dropped his eyes. All over again. Done all over again …

  Caldwell had leaned forward and put his hand on Damon’s shoulder. “And if that day comes—and God help us, it will come—the country will have need of people like you, Sam. Immediate and deadly need. Because it’ll be the same thing all over again. I saw it in Tampa in ’98: three hundred freight cars without a single bill of lading. Winter uniforms—for a jungle war with Spain!—worthless canteens, tons of beef already putrefied. At Siboney they dumped the horses overboard—and expected the terrified creatures to swim three miles to shore. You saw a little of it at Hoboken and St. Nazaire. It seems to be our history: we are indifferent, unprepared—then all of a sudden we’re shocked, roaring with righteous wrath, ready to rush off into battle with our pants down …” He paused. “Only the next time will be worse. Planes will fly faster, tanks will travel farther, guns will shoot faster and more accurately than they have this time. The surprise attack on the unready nation will be the hallmark of the next war. And if there aren’t men of your caliber ready and able to take charge of things when that day comes, it will go very hard with us. Very hard indeed.”

  Caldwell bit his lip and chafed the gauze paw with his fingertips to warm it. “I’m no good at speeches. George Marshall says I’m too verbose, too overintellectual, my expressions aren’t forceful enough.” He smiled. “Perhaps I ought to take lessons from Raebyrne.”

  Damon looked up eagerly. “How is old Reb?”

  “Raising several kinds of hell. Zimmerman made him a sergeant. I think it’ll be a disaster, but it’s his decision, not mine. Raebyrne’s becoming a kind of doughboy legend in a whacky, incorrigible sort of way. I got him and Tsonka DSCs for their work in the Ridge action and pinned them on them both in a full-dress divisional review. Shook hands with Reb and asked him what he was going to do when he got home.” The General grinned ruefully. “I shouldn’t have asked him that. He looked me right in the eye and said loudly: ‘Major, first off I’m going to stand this little old rifle under the downspout at the weather corner of the old homestead. And every morning I’m going to step outside and watch the rust close over the bore.’ ”

  “Old Reb,” Damon murmured.

  “Yes. Pungent. My entourage had considerable difficulty maintaining the proper gravity during the rest of the awards and decorations. And of course that isn’t all. Reb seems to be imbued with the idea”—Caldwell shot a precautionary eye in the direction of Miss Carmody, who had entered the ward—“that availing himself of prophylaxis is a sign of effeminacy. I believe I’ve disabused him of it.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Quite simple, really. I borrowed some photos from Hugh Young of syphilis victims in various stages of disintegration, and let him study them for a while. They make the leper colony on Molokai look like an Atlantic City beauty contest. Hugh omits no details. Then I followed that up by telling him that if he got it every child he sired back home in Flat Lick would have two heads and he would have to cut one of them off himself, immediately after parturition. That apparently did it. Another two weeks and I’ll have him delivering continence lectures to the regiment. In any event, I’m told the Beloved Tarheel now goes forth well sheathed.” He lowered his voice discreetly, and Damon saw Miss Pomeroy coming toward them, bearing a large platter of fudge.

  “General, won’t you have some?” she entreated him radiantly. “It’s still warm.”

  “Gladly, thank you.” He made a courtly little bow and took a piece. “Sweets from the sweet. Couldn’t I stay on here until I’m fully recovered?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Warrenton, who had awakened, “—maybe the heartless creature will spend more time up here and less with the poor, downtrodden enlisted men.”

  “But I’m always available!” Miss Pomeroy protested—and then blushed enchantingly as half the room roared. “Still, it would be delightful to have a general in the ward,” she reflected. “We’ve
never had one.”

  “I can imagine,” Caldwell answered drily. He popped the piece of gooey brown stuff into his mouth and winked at Damon. “Does outclass beet sugar over hardtack fried in bacon grease, Sam. Pretty cushy.” He watched Miss Pomeroy’s progress through the ward, licking his fingers. “Well, we’re a grand and glorious nation, but it strikes me we’re all a little naïve—we think if we pick the other fellow up and dust him off and shake hands, we can all wander into the corner saloon and tell one another what swell guys we are. A pleasant view of the world, but a touch sentimental. Now you take Wilson: he’s an intelligent man, a cultured man—there aren’t many of them left around these days—but look at these Fourteen Points. Does he really think the heirs of Talleyrand and Bismarck and Palmerston are going to turn overnight into a bunch of Tibetan lamas oozing mystic brotherhood at every pore? … ”

  He brushed the front of his blouse with one hand and sighed. “Wonders are many, and none is more wonderful than man … speech, and wind-swift thought, and all the moods that mould a state, hath he taught himself … Without resource he meets nothing that must come; only against Death shall he call for aid in vain … Beautiful isn’t it? I used to know it all, once, the whole passage. God, it’ll be nice to get back to some of the important things in this world, and stop worrying about the dark forebodings of G-2 and the whereabouts of ammunition dumps and misfiring on one’s boundaries.” Rising, he shrugged into his overcoat and buttoned it clumsily, staring down into the courtyard, where three nurses were pushing patients in wheel chairs. “It’s over … Now everybody wants to race back home and make a million dollars. And there’ll be precious little talk of the war or the army until the big, hot holidays, when they’ll suck in their bellies and get into their uniforms and strut down Main Street behind the band. And stand perspiring in front of the bandstand beside the town hall and listen to some red-faced fool rant on for three-quarters of an hour about that last full measure of devotion and valorous sacrifices on the field of honor. And that’ll be all they’ll remember. Until the next time …”

  He turned away, turned back again. He seemed loath to go and yet ill at ease, uncertain; Damon had never seen him this way. Then he slapped his gloves against his thigh. “Well, I’ve got to head for Neuilly and try to track down that headstrong, tempestuous girl of mine.” He stepped forward and took Damon’s hand in his left. “Good luck, Sam.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good luck to you. And thank you for going to all the trouble of coming by.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Caldwell turned away, turned back again, caught in this strange indecision. He placed himself so that his body blocked Warrenton’s view of them and said in a low voice: “Sam …”

  “Yes, General?”

  “Sam, our paths may diverge now, perhaps for good. I shall be sorry, if they do … I want you to know I’m proud of you. You’re all I could have wanted in a son, if I’d been privileged to have one.”

  “Thank you, sir. I wanted to say something a good deal like that, myself … I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to me to have served with you. To have known you.”

  Caldwell cleared his throat. In a different voice he said, “Sam—think about it, will you? Don’t do anything hasty. Think about what I said just now. You’ll never make a banker, you know. Why go through life suspecting everybody’s motives? That’s what you’ll be—a spider sitting in a web, accumulating capital: a prudent soul … Sam, you’ll make a terrible banker.”

  Damon grinned. “You’re probably right.”

  “Think about it, Sam. You were made for better things … There are far more ignoble ways to pass one’s days than in the service, believe me. Promise me you’ll give it some thought.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Good.” The General moved off down the ward with his quick, vigorous stride, nodding now and then to a recumbent figure and finally to Miss Pomeroy, who gave him her most refulgent smile. Then he was gone.

  From the facing bed Herberger said: “Who’s the big brass, Damon?”

  The Captain put out his cigarette. “The best officer in the entire Anus End Forward, that’s all.”

  “So that’s how you picked up all those shiny medals.”

  “That’s how.”

  “Some guys just can’t resist playing drop-the-soap with the higher echelons …” Herberger gave a sleepy wink. “Say, how’s about a nip from that bottle?”

  “Damn it, Herberger, don’t you ever miss anything?”

  “Not when it comes to booze. When it comes to booze I’m a walking Marconi set. What do you say?”

  Damon grinned at him. “Come and get it.”

  “Aw, now don’t be a dog in a manger.”

  “What’s this, what’s this?” Warrenton said brightly, swiveling his head in the hard white plaster collar. “Unlawful possession of grain neutral spirits in the wards? Calls for an investigation.”

  “All right, all right,” Damon said with resignation, scratching at his chest. “I’ll get Breckner to peddle it around.”

  Well, it was true: there were far more ignoble ways to pass your days than the way George T. Caldwell had. Down in the courtyard a boy sat in a wheelchair—a young, guileless face like Brewster’s, or Morehead’s or Dickey’s; the winter light played along his throat, the curve of his cheek.

  It was impossible it could come again!

  But if it were to come again there would always be the Dickeys and Brewsters—fearful, trusting, uncertain, looking for the glance, listening for the calm, easy word of reassurance …

  12

  Cannes was another world he could never have imagined. A clear cameo world with the great blue dream mountains of the Esterel across the water, and a liner lying at anchor in La Napoule like a pretty little vanilla-frosting decoration. The sun was bright, the air was cool and clear, like spun glass, and on La Croisette everyone was out strolling. There were Englishmen with round red faces and cloth caps, and Russian noblemen who had been gambling all night, with waxen faces and tight pearl-gray jackets and silk cravats; there were American aviators in wasp-waisted tailored uniforms, their overseas caps worn at perilous angles, there were British color sergeants limping ponderously, with cold, white eyes, there were one-armed French staff officers with monocles and the faces of overbred greyhounds … and everywhere, surrounded by the men, were women wearing fur pieces that hung luxuriantly from their arms and shoulders: women with complexions like marble and dark, mysterious eyes, and a golden assurance in their incomparable beauty that bore them along like mist. The world of dreams was strolling along La Croisette in 1919 …

  Damon would walk one hundred paces and then stop and sit down on one of the settees facing the sea and rest the leg; wait ten minutes and then get up and go on again, fighting the twinges, the pins-and-needles burning and the thick, massive ache that sank into the hollow of his groin. He could walk almost all the first hundred yards without using the cane now; which was a distinct improvement. Farther along, on the little trampled stretch of beach some fishermen were playing boule and he paused, watching. An old man with heavy white mustaches made a beautiful soft throw: the stone ball, rolling leisurely, curled out around two others and came to rest four inches from the cochonet, and players and onlookers murmured in admiration as the grognard turned away. His big, dark fingers were curled as though they still held the ball. There was a brief consultation among the players and a young fellow with wild black hair and long sideburns ran forward several steps and threw—a hard throw that hit the old man’s ball and drove it ten feet away. There was a burst of excitement and the young fisherman flung back his head and laughed, and spat on the sand. The old man’s face was perfectly expressionless.

  Damon walked on, along the Quai St. Pierre, resting more frankly on the cane now, riding up over it, his elbow locked. Out on the seawall two men in faded blue jackets were fishing with bamboo poles from the rocks, and a French sailor was strolling with his girl, their arms clasped around each other, their head
s just touching. The pompom of his cap was like a bright red carnation. The girl laughed once, and turned, flinging her hair back—a slender face and large, mischievous eyes; and Damon, reminded of Michele, started and then looked away.

  Michele.

  At the end of the wall he sat down again and watched the water. It was fretted with a feathery, iridescent quality that ceaselessly shifted: now it was like metal, now like dust, now like a strangely pulsing oil. Below the surface seaweed swayed in long, dreamy scarves against the stone.

  Michele … well, she had got her wish—part of it anyway: he’d had plenty of time to suffer, and think about it, and suffer some more. Lying in the long, still ward reading or staring upward, sleepless in the small hours, struggling against the need for morphine, watching the slow garnet arcs of cigarettes of fellow vigilants, he had reflected on all that had happened to him and to ten million others … and hadn’t got very far; though he’d tried. Experience was valuable only if one imbued it with meaning, drew from it purposeful conclusions. The fact of the matter was he had never thought—he had acted, swiftly, intuitively; now he must school himself to think, think soberly and well. What conclusions, then, was he to draw?

  War: war was not an oriflamme-adventure filled with noble deeds and tilts with destiny, as he had believed, but a vast, uncaring universe of butchery and attrition, in which the imaginative, the sensitive were crippled and corrupted, the vulgar and tough-fibered were augmented—and the lucky were lucky and survived, and they alone … And was that all? Was there no truth behind this—didn’t the just cause triumph, the good deed resound to heaven?

  He raised his eyes to the gay little forest of masts of the sloops and yawls in the marina, the dancing movement of blue and yellow figures on their white decks. No: there was no such truth. The mightiest battalions, the most lavish and efficient supply trains won the day, and Roland in the rocky wilderness of Roncevalles could wind his horn until his eyes popped out of his head …