Any Known Blood

by Lawrence Hill

  Langston had it clear. He knew exactly what to do. He hollered, hurled invective, articulated every syllable, got everything right up to the point where the men marched north again thirty yards. Got them turned around 180 degrees. He got them south, as required, fifteen yards, didn’t forget to turn them side by side. FIRE. Damn. Damn of all damns. There went his career. There went his stripes. He forgot to get the men down on their knees! He tried to recover. Innovated. Improvised. HALT. Return weapons to side. One knee. Weapons out. FIRE. But he saw the examining officer make a notation in his book. Saw that he’d blown it. Saw his future evaporate. The parents of Rose Bridges would be a hard sell, but they’d never let her go to an army private.

  A day went by. Private Barnes, his best friend, tried to comfort him. “It was the smallest of errors, man. Don’t you worry. They saw you recover. That proved you had brains.”

  But Langston knew better. He knew he was in trouble. That night, he went to see Lieutenant Wright. Langston rapped on the door and was ordered in and asked his business. “You saw my error in the field, sir.”

  “What about it?”

  “I know how gravely it will compromise my chances. And I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.”

  “What does that mean, you can’t let it happen?”

  “I have excelled in every element of my training, sir, and I know you won’t contest that.”

  “But you didn’t excel at drill. Nice maneuver after your mistake, but you committed an error, as you said yourself.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot accept the blemish on my record, sir.”

  “In a war situation, you could have had those men killed.”

  “I want another chance, sir. I want it and I deserve it. Give me another map, sir, and another chance. Make it harder, if you like. Judge me solely on the harder test. But I’m requesting that test. I’m requesting it tomorrow.”

  “I’ll consider your request.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Langston got the word that night. Lieutenant Wright woke him in his bunk. “You’ll have your chance, Private. Tomorrow morning, before breakfast. We’re waking up the men half an hour early so you can do this, Private. You’re going to have some surly soldiers on your hands. Good luck.”

  “May I have permission to leave the barracks, sir?”

  “When?”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “What for?”

  “Collect my thoughts, sir.”

  “Permission granted. It is 23:10 hours. I want you back in your bed at 00:45. That gives you five minutes to get dressed, ninety minutes to get collected. Good luck.” “Thank you, sir.

  Langston throws on a coat to hold off the chill of the September night. He walks out into the drilling field. It won’t do. Too close to the barracks. He has some hollering to do. Beyond the field, and beyond the artillery range, half a mile from the barracks, there’s a deciduous forest. They’ve had physical tests in there. He has had to pull himself up ten yards of rope, climb up on an oak branch, take another rope, swing like a madman to another branch, land there, and climb back down to the ground on another rope. And do it all under two minutes. He’s had to prove his skills with a compass, locating a package under two feet of earth with nothing more than a sheet of compass directions. He’s had all sorts of tests in that forest. There are oak trees, willows, birches, and maples. Tonight, the trees will be his men.

  He imagines the map and the instructions. They’ll be harder, this time. This time, they’ll really try to throw him. Something new. Yes, something new. Drill the men for attire, it will say. Find one man in error. Bawl him out. Total humiliation. Eject him from the group. Then, thirty-five yards north. Twenty east. Ten south. Revolve 45 degrees to the west. Knees. Weapons out. Fire. Reload. Fire again. Weapons back. Up. Twenty north. Weapons out. Fire. Reload. Fire. Reload. Fire.

  Langston imagines all those orders. He stands straight, stiff, and marches up to a young oak. His face is five inches from the bark. The tree is barely thicker than a man’s neck. Langston grimaces as if he means to strangle it. Here comes the hollering. Hollering so that his spittle hits the bark. “Polish your boots this morning, Private? … You call that polished? … Why is the right toe scuffed? … Don’t look down while I’m talking to you! … Right toe is scuffed, and what’s with this button? … This one! … Are you a soldier of the American Army? … Do you mean to defend the lives of American women and children? … Do you mean to defend their lives with a button hanging by a thread? …” Snap. He rips a dry twig off the oak. “Toe scuffed, button off — you’re a disgrace to the American people, Private…. Let me hear you say that: I am a disgrace to the American people…. Yes, a disgrace. Say it again…. I am a disgrace to my family … to my future wife … to my future children…. The whole world will know of my disgrace in the American Army…. Get out, Private. You don’t deserve to be with these men…. Get to your barracks this instant, Private, and I’ll deal with you later. OUT! … THIS INSTANT!” Langston finishes disciplining the oak tree. Now he zeros in on four birches planted side by side. “WHAT ARE YOU MEN SMILING ABOUT? SOMETHING MAKE YOU PARTICULARLY HAPPY THIS MORNING? NO? GOOD!”

  Now, to every maple and willow within the sweep of his arm, Langston hollers: “March. March. March. March, I said. Halt. Around, forty-five. March, twenty paces. March, march, march, halt. Around, forty-five. March, march. Halt. Around, forty-five.

  Knees. Weapons out. FIRE. Reload. FIRE.”

  Langston doesn’t use up all the time the lieutenant has allotted him. For one thing, he doesn’t want his voice to be hoarse in the morning. For another, he has sensed that someone is watching him in the woods. It must be the lieutenant. Actually, it’s two men. The lieutenant and his sergeant, surely. Langston mustn’t appear underconfident. This is just a routine test. With twenty-five minutes to spare, Langston finishes his drill, puts the trees at ease, dismisses them, and jogs back to the barracks. On October 15, 1917, Langston Cane became one of 639 officers to graduate from the colored officers’ training camp. He was among the 204 men to make second lieutenant.

  Langston proposed to Rose Bridges on a finely graveled path along the Potomac River. He was wearing his uniform. She found him awfully striking. Years later, she recalled that she would likely have turned him down, had it not been for the uniform. She had the presence of mind to impose certain conditions:

  First, he would consent to having their children baptized in a Catholic church, and would never become an A.M.E. minister.

  Second, he would respect her desire not to have children or to become pregnant before she finished her current senior year at Howard.

  Finally, he agreed to keep the marriage secret to all parties until Rose had determined the appropriate moment to break the news. If the people at Howard University learned that she had married, they would expel her.

  Langston accepted, so she accepted. They eloped two weeks later. With Langston on a two-week pass, and Rose executing a flawless alibi, they escaped to Philadelphia and were married by a Baptist minister. In a fine resort paid for by Rose, they spent one long and sleepless weekend together. Rose insisted — absolutely insisted — on coitus interruptus. Langston didn’t mind. Rose had accepted him. She had taken his ring (although it would be pocketed when they left the resort). Man and wife. She loved him. That was all that mattered. They returned from the seventy-two-hour honeymoon, holding hands throughout the train ride from Philadelphia to D.C. “How about if I escort my wife home?” he said.

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “We won’t tell them anything.”

  “I know we won’t tell them anything. You’ve already solemnly and soberly agreed to that, Langston Cane.” “Yes, I have, Mrs. Cane.”

  “Then just let me get home from the bus station.” “How about if I accompany you to the end of your street, then.”

  “All right, Mr. Cane. That, you may do.”

  Rose was to graduate on May 4
, 1918. They broke the news to her parents one week earlier. Rose had finished all her studies, passed all her exams. The graduation was just a formality. She had already bought the gown.

  Rose left home one evening after supper, wearing a pink dress with white trim. It was tight around the bust and firm around the waist. She had asked her mother to button it up for her, but provided no explanation for her outing, other than that she’d be back shortly, and wanted to see both parents then.

  “She looks as if she’s off to a prom,” Hazel Bridges mumbled.

  “Or somebody’s wedding,” Loretta said.

  Rose returned one hour later with Langston. He was in uniform. They hadn’t seen him since the overnight stay a year earlier. Loretta and Mrs. Bridges made all the necessary exclamations about the attractiveness of his uniform. Dr. Bridges exhaled deeply.

  “Mother, Daddy. Loretta, would you come over here, please?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Loretta!” Rose said sharply. Her younger sister came to sit with them. Mrs. Bridges stood and waved her hand at Langston. “If you have the intention of asking —”

  Rose cut her off. “Mother, let me speak, please.”

  Dr. Bridges supported her that far. “Yes, please, Hazel. Sit down. Don’t leap to any —”

  “Mother, Father, Loretta: Langston and I eloped and married two months ago.”

  Loretta gasped. Dr. Bridges shook his head in slow amazement. He stood, slowly. “I don’t know whether to slap you or to kiss you,” he said.

  Rose pouted. “Slapping might get you into trouble with my husband.”

  “Well, I don’t exactly condone the means, but I must offer my sincerest —”

  “Oh, come here, Daddy.”

  Father hugged daughter. Son-in-law watched mother-in-law keel over. Faint. Drop dead — or so it seemed — on the floor. She did a professional job of it. Almost hit her head going down.

  “Look what you’ve done to mother,” Loretta screamed. “Oh Loretta,” Rose said, “settle down. Where are the smelling salts?”

  Langston — on Dr. Bridges’ insistence — stayed for dinner. Mrs. Bridges stayed in her room. Loretta stayed away, for the most part. That left Rose, her father, and her husband to spend the evening together. They ate scalloped potatoes and crab cakes. They drank brandy. They had pecan pie and French vanilla ice cream and all took second helpings. But Langston was not invited to spend the night. Langston got his shipping orders the next month. He was to sail for France in June 1918 as a second lieutenant in the 368th Regiment of the Light Infantry Division of the American Expeditionary Forces.

  “Your mother wished me luck,” Langston told Rose as he prepared to board a train at Penn Station in Baltimore. “She said I had a handsome uniform. But I know what she is praying.”

  “Shush, baby.”

  “She’s praying I come back in a box.” “I said shush.”

  “Don’t worry, Rose. The Langston Canes are moving targets. We don’t get hit.”

  “I hit you, Langston. I hit your heart.”

  “Yes, but I let you in close. No Germans will have that chance. And your mother won’t either. Don’t let her poison your mind, Rose.”

  “You sound just like her. Don’t let him poison you against Catholicism, Rose. Don’t worry about me. Just keep your head low.”

  “Don’t worry about my head. I’m going to write you every day.”

  “Fine. But please keep your helmet on.”

  “Not every letter will get through, but if I write you every day, you should get at least one a week.” “Watch out for snipers.” “Don’t even think of such things.”

  “Be brave, but don’t be stupid, my darling. Go on overseas and shoot some Germans and come back to me just as soon as you can.” “That’s the woman I married. My little girl. My Rose. Give me one more kiss.”

  “I don’t want to start feeling sad again. You’d better go. The train is waiting.”

  “One little kiss. Just one peck on the cheek.” “Oh, all right, you big baby. Here.”

  Chapter 12

  I ALREADY KNEW A LOT OF WHAT I came across in Millicent’s box on Langston the Third. But I’d never seen any letters before, and never imagined anyone had kept them.

  June 20, 1918

  My girl!

  Did you get the card I wrote from New York? I’ve been writing you daily on this rig, but my little stack of letters won’t be moving anywhere until we land. We’re scheduled to reach England tomorrow, stay put briefly, and then move on to France.

  You’ll never guess who I’m sailing with. Philip Ryan, brother of Ed Ryan, who led me to that fateful party at your parents’ home. You may recall the party I’m speaking of. Philip is a grand fellow. He, too, made second lieutenant. Great to have him around.

  Our mood is pretty good. We’re constantly on the lookout for subs. We’re going to win this war, no doubt about that, but you can’t be too careful with the Germans. Sometimes one of the Deutsch subs gets in a lucky shot and sends a thousand love letters to the bottom.

  If I don’t hear from you regularly, I’ll start writing you poetry.

  Regards to everyone, most particularly your affectionate mother (smile).

  Your boy,

  Langston III

  July 15, 1918

  My boy,

  Your letters are few and far between, and then suddenly the postman delivers four on one day! It’s enough to make me “knock him upside his head,” as the expression goes, but I suppose it isn’t his fault.

  I’m spending July and most of August with your parents, at their summer home near Harpers Ferry. Most charming. In the evenings, after dinner & dishes, your mother and aunts and sisters all sit out on the balcony in their Sunday finest, regardless of the day of the week. The women even put on makeup. There’s nothing to do but watch horses, buggies, and the occasional car go by, or look at the cows in the pasture across the road, but sit there they do, all evening, drinking lemonade and iced tea in their very finest. All I brought were a few simple print dresses.

  I’ve never seen so many pies. Apple, peach, cherry, lemon — I hope you don’t expect me to cook as well as your mother!

  Waiting, as always, to hear from my boy.

  Your loving wife,

  Rose

  August 17, 1918

  My girl!

  Just today received your letter from my folks’ summer home. Don’t eat too many of those pies! I want my wife slender and delectable, as always (smile).

  Something strange happened the other day. We’re in France. I can’t tell you where. We’re in trenches, and suffice it to say that I’ve just settled in. Lovely conditions, as you’ve no doubt noticed from the scraps of miscellany stuck to this paper.

  Anyway, here I am, as green as the other recent arrivals, and am on guard duty while the others try to sleep or at least close their eyes.

  It’s midnight, or later (I’ve just checked my watch and the last time I looked it was 23:50), and in the fog and the darkness I see a large, bulky form — I swear it’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen — stepping into our trench.

  “Halt,” I call out. These are our warnings. One “Halt,” and if the response isn’t immediate and satisfactory, let it rip. I let it rip. I have a.45 automatic clipped to my belt. Six bullets fit into its magazine and a seventh goes into the chamber. I empty all seven bullets into the body, which lumbers, lumbers, just won’t stop coming, and finally crashes down into the trench.

  It’s a donkey. A damn French donkey, loaded with French wine and bread. Donkey blood everywhere. Wine everywhere. Bread crumbs for every rat in the French mountains. The French, over in the next trench, were really irked. My buddies gave me a real ribbing. But I know the deal now. The French use the donkeys all the time to deliver supplies. Someone might have warned me.

  Best wishes to my folks, if you’re still with them.

  Yours, as always,

  Langston III

  September 15, 1918

 
My boy!

  I hope you’re out of that trench by now! But in case you aren’t, you need a basic lesson in language and geography. You’re in France, I believe. So if any more of those poor mules come your way, try “Arrêtez” before “Halt.” Silly man! Didn’t you take French at Fort Des Moines?

  Your loving wife,

  Rose

  Sept. 18, 1918

  My girl,

  We’re in a town in the Vosges Mountains.

  I was telling you about my buddy, Philip Ryan. He was having some fun the other afternoon. (Something your faithful never does!) Appears he was passing an hour or two with the willing wife of a sheep farmer. Farmer came home. Philip, trousers half on, took a dive out the bathroom window. Gets back to our lodgings, covered in sheep s——.

  Hope these missives aren’t getting too bold for you. Can’t help it.

  I think of you every day. Have your snap in my pocket, but it’s awfully wrinkled. Send me another, when you can.

  Love,

  Langston III

  October 1, 1918

  My girl,

  All the men are blue. I’m doing my best to cheer them up, but it’s an uphill drive.

  Philip Ryan got hit by a German sniper. Shot twice in the leg. We’re hoping he makes it. He had to lose the leg, to cut out the gangrene. We lost six fellows in an awful fight the other day. I came out okay. Scratches, nothing more. Miss you terribly. They say we’ve nearly won this thing. But when you come across the enemy, he still fights.

  I’ve become proficient with a gas mask. Think I’ll bring one home in case your mother makes a stink when she sees I made it through this war. I could do with some hot water. Ticks and other bugs have it in for colored boys’ hair. I’ve a mind to shave my head. But you might not like that. Tell you what. I won’t shave my head, but I’ll grow a mustache on the boat home.