A Good American

by Alex George

  By springtime, Frederick was unrecognizable. Clean-shaven now, his face had lost its cherubic rotundity. His gut had vanished. An alien matrix of muscle grew across his chest and shoulders. Every evening he lay in his tent, shivering beneath threadbare blankets, and wrote to Jette, a single candle his only source of light and warmth. After a brief report on the day’s activities, he would return to the old familiar themes as the cold seeped into his veins. Night after night he scribbled pages of explanations, arguments, and justifications. He wrote until his fingers were too numb for him to continue. The next morning he would take the letter—the envelope still unsealed for the censor’s eyes—to the postal tent.

  Not once did Jette write back.

  As 1918 wore on, Frederick grew tired of the endless drills and exercises. He was ready for real opponents, not just the villainous figments of his commander’s imagination. Finally his unit boarded a train east, to New York City, and one fall evening the liner George Washington set out from Pier 17 of the South Street Seaport. Frederick stood on the deck, watching the lights of Lower Manhattan twinkle into nothingness, and bade America good-bye.

  The atmosphere on board the ship was celebratory. The men were part of the largest military operation in American history, and they were proud of it. None of them had fought in a war before. The George Washington made slow progress across the ocean, cautiously tacking one way and then another to avoid enemy submarines.

  Frederick spent hours alone on the aft deck, gazing at the trail of churning white water that the ship left in its wake, edging its way back to old horizons. The moment he had stepped on board and felt the swell beneath his feet, memories of the voyage on the Copernicus rushed up in ambush. Retracing that journey alone, there was nothing to do but gaze back toward the family he had left behind.

  When the ship arrived in France, the quayside at Brest was lined with crowds waving French and American flags. A brass band played and pretty girls blew kisses at the soldiers. A man with a huge wicker basket over his arm stood at the front of the crowd, handing out freshly baked pastries to the disembarking troops.

  Frederick stared at the ground beneath his feet. The soil of mainland Europe: he was back where he had begun, ready to make good on a debt that nobody had asked him to repay. In that cheering crowd of strangers, he had never felt so lonely.

  Many of the soldiers were directed immediately onto waiting trains to begin their journey to the front. Frederick’s platoon was not due to depart until the following morning, and most of the men disappeared into the town, looking for excitement. Frederick carried his canvas bag to his appointed lodgings, sat down on his bed, and wrote another letter to Jette.

  The following morning the platoon assembled at the train station. The soldiers waited on the platform, stifling yawns, their young faces drawn with exhaustion and pleasure. Frederick listened as they exchanged stories. The women of Brest had welcomed the Americans into their homes, and then into their beds. The men bragged to each other about their conquests, oblivious to the reason for the women’s hunger: their own husbands had already been killed in the war they were now heading toward.

  Frederick spent the day watching France unfold outside the train window. By mid-morning most of the men had fallen asleep, exhausted by the exertions of the night before. The carriage was silent but for the rhythmic clatter of the wheels as they pounded across the dilapidated rails. In the fields, children and women dressed in black toiled beneath the warm sun. A sea of purple thyme lapped up against the railway lines. As evening fell, they passed close to Paris. The train swept eastward through densely packed forests, dark with shadow. Hours later, they arrived at their destination, a deserted railway station illuminated only by a pair of dimly glowing gaslights. The soldiers peered out at the darkness. They remained on the platform for an hour, unloading equipment. A wooden cart piled high with apples had been left by the station entrance. In minutes all the fruit had disappeared into pockets. The clock above the platform read half past midnight by the time the group had assembled into long lines of men, guns, and horses. Frederick’s bag felt heavy on his back. The procession shambled off into the darkness, led by two officers on horseback. Frederick was near the front of the line, among the infantrymen. The only sound was the thunderous tattoo of a thousand feet as they fell on the tarmac of a deserted country road.

  After two hours, it began to rain.

  The soldiers pitched their tents in a forest of closely packed spruce trees just as the sun was rising. The thick canopy of branches offered some respite from the rain, but by then it was too late. Frederick’s uniform was sodden and cold against his skin. He could not remember ever being so wet.

  They marched for five nights. Days were spent under the cover of woods or in abandoned farm buildings. Soldiers collapsed where they stood, grateful for the oblivion of deep-boned exhaustion. As the journey went on, the line became a ragtag congregation of listless, wandering souls. Each man walked with his head lowered against the incessant rain, alone with his thoughts.

  As the convoy approached the front, they marched through a landscape of dead trees, the fractured bleakness punctuated only by the grim ruins of abandoned towns. The weary clump of marching feet echoed off the walls of half-destroyed buildings. The streets were empty, save for armies of feral dogs, thin-ribbed with hunger, which yowled at the passing soldiers. The men walked by, dead-eyed with exhaustion.

  On the last night, they passed a bedraggled line of captured Germans marching in the opposite direction. The prisoners’ uniforms were muddied and torn. Their hands were shackled in front of them. Frederick stared as the captured men shuffled by. Someone muttered Amerikanisch, the word fattened with fear and loathing. Frederick’s heart was suddenly awash with sorrow. He was the enemy now.

  At the front, they underwent final training to an unending chorus of explosions and gunfire from two or three miles farther north, a faint but persistent echo of death. There was little laughter now. That night in Brest seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Frederick’s unit was stationed in the southwest corner of the Argonne Forest in northern France. The battlefields of Europe were soon to fall silent, washed in the blood of a generation. By then the Germans knew that they were going to lose the war, but the tail of the dying beast was still lashing out, as fatal as ever. Enemy troops had scattered into the devastated countryside. They were savage, mutinous, and interested only in saving their own skins. Nobody wanted to be the last man to die. The United States First Army had been assigned the task of mopping up final pockets of resistance.

  On October 13, in the first light of morning, Frederick finally stepped into the theater of war. His unit crept through the trees, the last of the year’s leaves beneath their boots. The forest was softened by a fragile white mist. Every cautious step took them farther into enemy territory. They approached the first German post on their knees, inching silently forward, suspecting a trap, but all that remained was a devastation of barbed wire and broken concrete, deserted and desolate. The men wandered through the camp. A blackened pot still hung over the charred remains of a burned-out fire. It was the only recognizable thing in the place. Everything else had been broken into a thousand useless fragments.

  The pattern repeated itself as the day wore on. Each camp they encountered had been abandoned with increasingly destructive fury. By the time the sun began to set, the men knew that there would be no Germans waiting to surprise them. Frederick could not help but be disappointed. He scoured the barren trees, still hoping for a glimpse of the enemy.

  The leader of the unit was a carpenter from Joplin named Daniel Jinks. He was the only one of them who had a map. Their instructions were to spend the night in the forest, but when Jinks announced that there was a church nearby, the decision was unanimous, and they veered a mile or so off their projected course. When they arrived at the squat stone building, they saw that they were not the only ones who had been tempted b
y the promise of a night beneath a solid roof. Outside the church’s front door, an American flag had been raised on an improvised pole. Soldiers leaned against the wall, rifles at their feet. Some smoked, others hungrily chased the last scraps of rations around their canteens. A row of small windows spanned the length of the building, warm with light from inside.

  Candles were lit the length of the church’s nave, casting shadows across the whitewashed walls as the night stole in. Soldiers sprawled across the pews. Some men faced the altar, cleaning their guns. One or two were writing on scraps of paper, squinting at their words in the half-light. Others knelt or bowed their heads in prayer.

  At the far end of the room a man was playing a piano, surrounded by a handful of soldiers. Frederick recognized the tune. It was an aria from The Barber of Seville. He walked toward the music. The piano player was a major—and, like Frederick, older than the other men. He wore thick glasses. Frederick watched for some minutes, and then joined in.

  Ah, ah! Che bella vita!

  At this, the pianist’s face broke into a smile. He nodded at Frederick, inviting him to continue. When they had finished the Rossini, the pianist suggested some other pieces. It wasn’t long before Frederick was up to his old tricks, striding up and down in front of the piano and gesticulating as he sang. The soldiers applauded, egging him on, grateful for the distraction from what tomorrow might bring. Frederick was happy to oblige. He hadn’t sung a note since he had left Missouri. Now the joy of music coursed through him again. He hardly saw the men in front of him. He was performing for a private audience of three, half a world away. He sang his heart out.

  Finally the major closed the piano lid, and waved away the protests of the soldiers. “You men need sleep,” he cried. He smiled at Frederick. “You have a fine voice.”

  “Thank you,” said Frederick. “You play very well.”

  The man shrugged. “I do all right. It’s nice to find someone who can sing.” He gestured at the men. “You would have thought a bunch of Irish Catholics from Kansas City would have been good for one decent singer, but no.”

  “You are from Missouri?” said Frederick.

  The major nodded. “Born and bred.”

  “I, too, am from Missouri.” Frederick beamed.

  “You don’t sound as if you’ve been there long.”

  Frederick frowned. “My accent is strong, yes. But I am an American citizen, and proud of it.”

  The pianist held up his hands. “I don’t doubt it. I’m sorry. That uniform looks good on you, soldier.”

  Frederick saluted. “Meisenheimer, Thirty-fifth Division.”

  “Truman, Battery D.”

  The two men shook hands and were silent for a moment. “Have you been in France long?” asked Frederick.

  “About six months,” replied the major. “Long enough to be sick of it. I mean, don’t get me wrong. France is a grand place for Frenchmen. I don’t blame them for fighting for it. But I miss home.” He looked at Frederick. “You seem a little old for all this.”

  Frederick stood up taller. “I volunteered,” he said.

  The pianist slapped his thigh in pleasure. “Me, too! But I wasn’t just too old.” He pointed at his glasses. “I had to cheat on the eye test. Memorized the chart.” He chuckled softly. “Right now, there’s nowhere else in the world a man could want to be. I’m proud of my country, proud of what it stands for, and I’m ready to fight for it. Not that my girl quite saw it that way,” he added. “Here.” He pulled a photograph out of his tunic pocket and offered it up for Frederick’s inspection. “I’m going to marry her when I get home. Heart of gold, but a tongue of acid.” He pulled a rueful grin. “Not afraid to make her feelings known, that one.”

  Frederick nodded. “My wife is the same. She could not understand why I had to come.”

  “You wait,” said the major. “She will. One day people will look back and realize that this war was the most important struggle the world has known.” He looked around him. “God knows how many of these men will make it through tomorrow, or the next day. But we’re here for a reason. You and me, we’ll be able to look back when this madness is over and say, we were there, we did our bit.” He glanced at his watch. “And now I must make sure my men get a good night’s sleep.”

  Frederick nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I have missed singing.”

  “You’re good at it. Don’t ever stop.” The major removed his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. He pushed them back onto his nose and winked at Frederick. “Che bella vita, eh?” The men shook hands warmly.

  What a beautiful life.

  Frederick found an empty pew, pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil from his kit bag, and wrote his daily letter home in the flickering candlelight. When he had finished, he folded the letter and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He stretched out along the hard wooden bench, and was soon asleep, borne into peaceful oblivion on the crest of all those rediscovered melodies.

  The following morning Daniel Jinks led the unit back into the forest to continue their journey eastward. By mid-morning they reached the decimated remains of a small village. The townsfolk had fled months ago; the place had been used as a supply point for munitions and supplies for enemy troops to the west. The retreating Germans had destroyed as much of the place as they could. Frederick picked his way through the charred, cratered landscape that remained. He was in an irrepressible mood: music’s flame had been reignited inside him, and he vowed to follow the pianist’s advice. He wouldn’t ever stop singing. Not again. He had spent the morning working his way with relish through the repertoire he had abandoned. As the unit made their way through the village, Frederick was singing the finale of Così Fan Tutte, gamely playing all the principal characters at once. He was not paying attention to the job at hand, and his overcoat got caught on one of the coiled lines of barbed wire that crossed his path. Still singing, he stopped and tried to pull himself free. His tugging only made matters worse, ensnaring the material more. Realizing that he was going no farther, he bent down to extricate his coat.

  Such a big man, out in the open, momentarily still: Frederick was still singing when the hidden German sniper drew a bead on the back of his head. The sharp crack echoed through the empty streets.

  Peter Kropp had been the postmaster in Beatrice for more years than anyone, himself included, could count. He had been enjoying a quiet retirement until his successor was conscripted in 1917. With the post office standing empty, Kropp was pressed back into service. He had been delighted to be back in his old job, until the telegrams began to arrive.

  Now he walked somberly through the town, his hat held against his chest and his head cast down.

  Jette had been standing at the window of the sitting room, gazing out at the street. When she saw the old postmaster hesitate at the gate, her world slipped silently into the long shadow of heartbreak. And then she was hurrying down the path to intercept the bad news, wanting to keep it out of the house. She wordlessly took the envelope from Peter Kropp’s unsteady hand. A cold wind swept down the street. Jette’s fingers curled tightly around the yellow square of paper as she dropped to her knees.

  FOURTEEN

  On the evening of Peter Kropp’s visit, when there were no more tears left to shed, Jette took Frederick’s letters down from the mantelpiece. She fumbled with the first envelope, the paper stiff after months over the fireplace. Frederick’s handwriting was uneven, jagging sharply across the page. He had been writing on the train to Kansas City. My grandmother sat in an armchair by the fire and began to read.

  As the night wore on, the sweet, funny man she had loved so dearly disappeared before her eyes. The early letters were full of tentative explanations and gentle pleas for understanding. But soon Frederick’s new world had crowded in. His tone became more brittle, less willing to consider alternative views. Jette had read on in sadness as she watch
ed the army sink its teeth into him. He filed reports of drills, mess hall politics, and military exercises. His letters became excruciatingly dull. Frederick was no longer interested in anything except the conflict that awaited him. He was eager to baptize his love for America in the blood of strangers. As she read, it felt as if Frederick were being killed all over again, each new letter a fresh bullet.

  Her grief was too immense to hold on to. After so long without Frederick, waiting for precisely this news, she could only reflect numbly that today was really no different from yesterday. She was still alone. The yellow telegraph had announced a different fatality—the death of hope.

  That evening, Jette returned to the Nick-Nack and served drinks and smiled, just as she always did. She listened to the men sing their songs. She told nobody what had happened.

  For days she grimly batted away the news. The most dangerous time was in the mornings, just after she awoke. In those first unguarded moments of consciousness, truth lurked, ready to pounce. It’s impossible to know how long Jette would have continued to bob along in this limbo of deferred grief had it not been for the letters.

  As it turned out, Jette had been wrong to fear the day when the postman approached with empty hands. Frederick’s missives from Europe took weeks to make the long journey home, but news of his death had traveled faster, by official communiqué and telegram. And so after he died, Frederick’s letters continued to arrive, a second slow creep toward the sniper’s gun.

  At first Jette was grateful; here was proof that nothing had really changed. Now, though, she tore open each envelope as soon as it arrived. Frederick was writing from northern France, just behind the front, waiting for his turn to fight. He wrote the date at the top of each letter. It was this slow countdown to the silence that she knew was coming that finally pulled Jette out of her denial. His words were strictly finite now.