A Soldier's Place

by Thomas Hodd

  “We’ve got three things we can do here,” he muttered to the dog. “Get a job, catch a southbound freight, or find some money, and to begin with we’ll strike off finding any money.”

  Lanterns glowed beside a concrete mixer and building materials, and Green walked faster. A warehouse was being enlarged and there might be work he could do.

  “Any chance of a job here?” he asked a man near the lights. The man held up a lantern. “Where you from?”

  “West and north. How about it?”

  “No.” The man put the light down. “I thought you was somebody else. We only take men that belong here. No outsiders can get a job in this country.”

  “Grub and sleeping’s all I’d ask for a few days?”

  “No use. You don’t belong here.”

  They stood, Green gazing at the streetlights and conscious of the other’s scrutiny. Then the man spoke again, and kindly. “I’m the watchman here and it’s warm down in the boiler room. Want to rest there?”

  “Thanks. I’d be glad to. We’ve been on the move all day. Any freights going south?”

  “Freights? Don’t you know the railways have put on special police this month? Steer clear of trains unless you want trouble.”

  “Well, I’m glad you told me.” Green wearily followed the man to the rear of the building. “Here you are. You can use that cot and welcome. Which way you from now?”

  “West of here. I was working on a farm all summer and had a stake to take me south, but some guys ganged me last week and took every cent.”

  “Say, that’s bad! Nothing you could do?”

  “Nothing. I wouldn’t know one of them in daylight. My dog tried to help me and they nearly killed him. His hip’s still swollen.”

  “There’s all kinds of guys on the roads now.” The watchman shrugged. “But the police are picking them up and taking them to camps. You don’t want to hang around this section.”

  When he had gone Green removed his socks, washed them in hot water from the boiler and dried them by the furnace. Then he slept soundly on the rough cot.

  It was breaking light when the watchman aroused him. “Give us a hand, will you?” he asked. “It’s starting to rain and I want to get the new cement covered.”

  Green hustled briskly for half an hour and the watchman insisted that he accept half a dollar. “It’ll get you something to eat,” he said, “but don’t stop here to get it. You’ll get picked up.”

  At noon, in a railway culvert, Green and the dog finished their bread and sausage. They ate it cold because there was no dry fuel with which to make a fire. It was too chilly to rest long and by night Green was utterly worn, footsore, and stiffened with cold. They came to a small town, and he read its name on a signboard: “Lappan.” At the outskirts he paused to look in a restaurant window. It was a small place with only one waitress and there were no customers. A stove in the centre held further appeal. It would be warm in there and they might be able to rest a long time.

  Weariness was ground into Green until his marrow ached. He ordered beef stew and ate it slowly, feeling its warmth circulate through his aching body. He cooled the coarser lumps of meat and fed them to Sarge. The waitress, sharp-eyed and attentive, stirred the fire.

  “You look chilled,” she remarked.

  Green prodded his brain to respond. He knew the girl wanted to find out who he was and where he was going, and he felt that he could remain in the place as long as he dallied with her small- town curiosity. “I’ve come a long way,” he said.

  He had a second plate of stew and mashed potatoes and vegetables, then deep-dish apple pie and coffee. He was very hungry. He fed Sarge rolls dipped in the stew, and the girl smiled.

  “I’ll bring him a bone,” she said.

  Green thanked her and, speaking slowly, told her of his being robbed and the manner in which the dog had tried to defend him.

  “Wasn’t that tough!” she sympathized. “I knew by your look that you’d had hard luck.”

  She brought a big, knobby bone and put it under the table. “Your dog’ll be all right under there with it,” she said. “There won’t be anybody in.”

  “No?” Her tone caught him. “Why won’t there?”

  “Haven’t you heard? There was a holdup in the next town last night and a guy was killed. They’ve got the two men who did it cornered in some woods over the river tonight, and everybody’s gone to the bridge. They’re sure the police will bring the men in that way.”

  “I see.” The warmth had loosened the tight lines in Green’s face and he had relaxed. The girl took away his dishes and he reached for a paper that was on the windowsill, and began reading. He didn’t want to talk further.

  The newspaper was old but he didn’t mind. One bit of news was as good as another to him. Nothing mattered that happened outside his world. Then he tensed and almost spoke aloud.

  He looked around. The waitress was eating her own supper and had not heard him, so he re-read the filler on the editorial page.

  “John Green, of Lappan, Scott County, still believes his soldier son will return. The boy enlisted in ’16 and went overseas with the Canadian forces. He was posted ‘missing, believed killed,’ after the battle of Passchendaele, and no further information was received by his parents. They were living on the Pacific coast at that time, but removed to Lappan after the war and resided there. Mrs. Green refused to believe that her son was dead and until her death, two years ago, kept a place for him at her table and a room ready for his occupation. Mr. Green, now in failing health, maintains his custom his wife established, and their faith has never failed to stir the emotions of those who visit the home. ‘He was a good-looking boy,’ Mr. Green told a reporter last Armistice Day. ‘He was red-headed and left-handed, and we called him Bill’.”

  Green looked down at the dog. “Some guys would try and ring in there,” he muttered. “I’ve got red hair and I’m left-handed, and there must be hundreds of Bill Greens. But you and me stays on the level, no matter if we get picked up.”

  “Were you saying something?”

  Green started. He had not noticed the girl come over. Then she looked at what he had been reading.

  “My gosh!” She saw his name on the haversack. “Is your name Green?” He nodded.

  “And—you’re red-headed. Were you in the war?” She was quivering with excitement.

  “Don’t get stirred up.” Green shook his head. “I’m not that boy. I’d know it if I had people like that.”

  “What do you mean—you’d know it? Don’t you know who you are?” The girl dropped into the seat opposite him.

  “I know I was in the war.” Green felt that he would have to talk to get her calmed. He thought, too, that if she were real interested she might tell him where he could find work, or a place to stay overnight. “All I remember about it, though, was being in a trench. That part like one flash you’d see of a picture, and no more. There were coloured sandbags tumbled in a corner and an officer lying on them. I guess he’d been wounded. Beyond the trench there were shell explosions every second, and whistles were screeching. The officer was yelling at me to get him a drink, but I wasn’t looking at him. I think the Germans were coming over and I was watching, ready to shoot. That’s all I can remember, but I know I saw that.”

  “And you don’t know about any of the rest of it? I mean about something hitting you? Or your being in France?”

  “Not a thing. Only what I’ve told you.”

  “Then you must have got hit on the head?”

  “Likely I did. I can’t remember.”

  “But what about afterward, when you came home?” She was avid for every word.

  He drew a folded sheet of cheap paper from his pocket and opened it. “This is all the proof I have of anything.”

  The writing on the paper was cramped and the words were queerly spelled:

/>   To Whom It May Consern. This is to testifie that Wm. Green has worked for me six years and is a stedy reliabul man. He don’t use likker and he dont show temper. All the falt he has is being slow when hes thinkin and that aint mutch. Hes a good man. Sined J. Johnson. Sept.6, 1931.

  “You must have worked for him?” The girl was flushed with eagerness.

  He nodded. “But I don’t know where. There’s thousands of J. Johnsons. Four years ago they told me I was Bill Green. I was struck by a car in a town out west and had concussion of the brain.

  They told me at the hospital that a man had looked at me and said, “He’s Bill Green. I know him. He’s a war veteran. He’s worked over in our State ever since the war.’ Nobody thought of finding out who he was, and I hunted for six months after I got well but I couldn’t find him. It was when I got well that I knew everything. I can’t remember back of being hit by that car.”

  It seemed a long bit of talking, but he had to have some place to stay for the night and he had held her interest.

  “Then how do you know you’re not their Bill Green?” Her eyes were shining. “Wouldn’t it be marvellous if you were? You’ll have to go and see them.”

  “Where?”

  “A little house up the lane on that street to the left. There’s only Mr. Green and his niece from the east. She came to help when Mrs. Green was sick and she stayed. They say she has no people of her own.”

  He shook his head. “All I’m looking for is a job.”

  “They’d be awful glad to have a man,” she went on. “It’s a good farm, everybody says, but it’s all run down as they can’t afford to hire help. You ought to go and see them tonight.” She was very eager.

  “You don’t get it,” he said slowly, putting the folded paper in his pocket. “I said I wasn’t him, and I know, see?”

  “Look—oh!” The girl sprang up. “Here she is now. She brings us eggs.” The girl was at the door before Green could interfere.

  “See this man, Miss Green. He was in the war and he’s red-headed and his name’s Bill Green, and he can’t remember anything.”

  Miss Green handed her basket to the girl. She was of the slender but capable type, he saw. The night chill had made her cheeks red and she was good-looking in profile, with grey serious eyes and the curved lips usual with impulsive persons.

  For a moment she stood, gazing at him, the colour draining from her cheeks.

  “Are—you—Bill?” Only her lips said it as she walked toward him. She could not articulate. He stood and faced her. “No, not the one you mean, Miss.”

  “Her name’s Margery, Miss Margery Green,” vouched the girl, watching them. “You sure?”

  Her lips were trembling. She was scanning him with such intentness that she was unaware of it. Her colour returned, then ebbed again. She went on speaking.

  “It doesn’t seem possible—after all these years—but….”

  She looked at his haversack, and sank to the seat that the waitress had occupied. He sat down opposite her.

  “I wish she hadn’t told you that.” Green was tired again, achingly tired. “She’s made all this fuss for nothing.”

  “But you look as if you could be. I mean, I never saw their Bill, but he had red hair and was…”

  The door was swiftly opened and closed. Two men had entered and as Green saw them he guessed who they were. One man was hatless, with his black hair wet-plastered to his head. Their shoes were sodden and sounded queerly on the floor. Both men had been soaked above the knees, and their faces were yellow-pale, their eyes desperate.

  “All right, sister.” One of them pointed to the table next to where Green and the woman sat. “Rush it. Ham and eggs. Double order. And coffee. Get moving.” He spoke jerkily in a sharp nasal fashion from the side of his mouth and he had an automatic pistol in his hand.

  “You two,” he nodded at Green, “just stay stuck where you are and say nothing.”

  The other man had raced on tiptoe to the kitchen. He called back through the order window. “Okay here, kid. Fix that phone.”

  The waitress brought a glass of water and a small plate of rolls and butter to the table. She was goggle-eyed with fright.

  “Hell! I don’t want water. Get the ham and eggs. Step on it.” The man by the stove snarled his words. Then, watchful, he stepped backward until he was beside the telephone on the wall. He ran his fingers upward to the cord, gripped it, and wrenched it loose.

  “All set,” he called back to the kitchen. “I’ve fixed the phone.”

  Outside, a car drove by, not going very fast. The man stood where he was, watching the others. When the car had gone he stepped over to the stove, turned and stared outside, peering into the night. Then he glanced back to where he had been standing, and to the tables. Green saw his eyes quicken with a thought.

  “You two move,” the man snapped, “and sit here.” He indicated the table, which the girl had made ready for him. It was in plain view from outside, while their seats were obscured by the stove. “Move!”

  The waitress, cowering by the order window, motioned with her hands, pointing to the table. She was deathly afraid, and showed it.

  Green’s face darkened with a rush of blood. Inwardly, he refused the order. He had been indifferent at first, content to take the easiest way out of the situation, but a glance the woman had given him had knotted his muscles. She was pale and tense, watching him, and he understood the questioning in her eyes.

  He held out his hand to her. “Come on,” he said. “He wants us to move.”

  For a heartbeat she seemed unable to summon strength, then her fingers gripped his and she got up. He hesitated, burning with a desire to answer her queries, and as they stood another car went past.

  “Scram over!” The man cursed them. He crowded behind Green. “You want me to move yuh?”

  Then he tripped and almost fell into the seat. Sarge had ducked between his legs in an attempt to follow Green. “What in hell!” he gritted. “You—” He kicked savagely at the dog, his way blocked, ducked under the table again.

  “Get from here or by—”

  The big greasy bone Sarge had been gnawing was kicked out on the floor in front of the stove and Sarge gave a yelp of fear.

  Green had turned back to get the dog, and Sarge’s yelp fused all his impulses. He launched himself recklessly in headlong football style, diving straight over the table at the man.

  His attack was so unexpected that it almost won. The man yelled for help and his cry was cut off as Green’s head butted into his face. But the report of the automatic crashed in Green’s ears and he felt a terrific blow on the shoulder. Then he had gripped the fellow’s gun wrist.

  They pitched from the seat in a fury of action, and as they writhed Green heard the automatic drop to the floor. The sound spurred him. He swung the man off his feet, twisting him over, and they crashed down, the man under. The back of the man’s head struck the floor with a sickening thud and he lay without fight, inert.

  “Watch out!” It was the waitress, huddled by the wall, who screamed.

  Green tried to scramble quickly but his head was swimming. The sound seemed to come from a great distance. His shoulder had numbed and he didn’t want to move.

  He saw the second man come running from the kitchen, kicking the swinging door open, crouching as he ran, his gun arm half raised. “What happened, kid? What happened, kid?” The fellow kept shouting it crazily.

  The stove was between him and the men on the floor. He swerved to avoid it, raising his arm to shoot. Then, in a stride, his legs shot backward. They swept from under him so violently that his body was whipped over. He had stepped on the greasy bone.

  He crashed headfirst, his body arched. His legs flung high and flailed over. The impact was heavy. Green, partly raised and getting the gun near him, tried to hurry. An enormous tiredness was sagging him, pull
ing him down.

  He saw the second man moving feebly, saw him sitting up, face and eyes vacant, as a woman’s hand snatched up the gun that had been knocked from the fellow’s hand.

  A quick thrust of admiration throbbed through Green: the woman had nerve. “Goo’ stuff,” he applauded thickly.

  He saw the man scrambling to his feet as a rush of cold air came from the door. He saw men plunging into the restaurant. Their presence made him realize that the waitress had reached outside by way of the kitchen. Then he was conscious only of the taste of blood, salty in his mouth, where the man had struck him, and of a warm, firm arm that was holding him from dropping back to the floor.

  “Bill—oh, Bill!” a voice was sobbing in his ear.

  ***

  Green knew he was in bed. He was aware of it for some time before he opened his eyes, but he did not hurry about anything. It was warm between the sheets, and restful. His shoulder ached but no one had bothered him with questions. He wouldn’t have to travel for some time. Then he looked up. A nurse had stopped beside his bed.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Green?” she asked.

  “Where’s Sarge?” he said weakly. “Where’s my dog?”

  “Miss Green is looking after him. He’s perfectly all right,” she said. “She has your haversack and the dog is guarding it.”

  Green relaxed. That is a fine idea, having Sarge watch his haversack. It would keep him contented.

  Then he twitched. “My shoulder?”

  “It’ll be all right now. They’ve got you fixed up grand. All you need is quiet and rest. Just rest and rest and rest.”

  Green shut his eyes again. Very well, he would rest. He didn’t want to talk. As long as Sarge was all right, nothing else mattered. He was glad Miss Green—Margery, was looking after him. He liked the name, Margery. She had pluck, he remembered. She had grabbed up that gun from the floor in the nick of time.

  When he roused again they brought him something to eat. The nurse waited on him as if it were a privilege. She was nice, he reflected, but not as intelligent looking as Margery.