Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  “Okay,” Ward said, nodding his head. “Okay.” His brother’s world had come crashing down, and he had not been here to help him. “So these Dodgers people—they’re wrong, right? There are other teams that will want you. I’m sure of that, Gene.”

  “When I came home, I tried to play a game with the Egyptians and my ankle gave out my first time up to bat,” admitted Gene. “It was damn embarrassing—and painful, too. Everyone turned out to see me. They expected one thing, but they saw something else.”

  “Is that it?” Ward asked. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so, Gene.” Ward didn’t know what else to say, so he patted his brother twice on the shoulder and watched as he continued feeding the chickens. His brother, the best catcher baseball could have hoped for, was limping through chicken shit and throwing grain on the ground. Ward felt like crying himself.

  “Is Gene okay?” Ward asked his parents after he stepped through the back door, kicked his shoes off, and made for the kitchen.

  Allie looked at John, who answered for them both. “I don’t know, Ward. He just needs to get that game out of his system, that’s all.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen anytime soon, Pop,” Ward answered. “He thinks the only reason he was put on this earth was to play baseball. Pop, let me tell you, I never paid much attention and only caught a few of his games, when he was about 10. But after seeing him play in North Africa, I can understand why he would think that.”

  “I know, Ward,” John replied. “I saw him that day with the scout, Frank something or other. Gene was mighty good.”

  Ward looked back and forth between his mom and dad. “He needs to play ball, somehow. He has to.”

  “Ward,” his mom began, speaking softly as she wiped down the counter around the sink. “Sometimes the mind and heart are willing, but the body just isn’t able. Gene needs help adjusting. I’m not sure that kind of talk is going to help him.”

  “Do you really think he’s never going to play ball again—ever?” Ward asked.

  “You are not going to help the situation talking like that,” his father said sternly. “No one else in this town is feeling like they’ve gotta play baseball. He’s a man, now. He’s been to war. He’s home, alive, and it’s time for him to go on with his life. It’s as simple as that. Feeling sorry for him is only going to feed the problem.”

  “There’s no problem, Pop,” Gene said as he walked in from the porch. Ward winced when he saw his brother. “I think in the future, any discussion about me … should include me.” Gene walked through the kitchen and into the living room.

  “Mom, why don’t we get an early supper on the table and give Ward and Gene the first good meal they’ve had together since the beginning of the war?” John suggested. Allie nodded and headed for the ice box.

  It’s just like old times, Ward thought as he finished eating, finishing off the white beans and ham and homemade cornbread. He wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin on his plate. “Mom, you have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed about your cooking. And you know what? It’s even better than I remembered.”

  Allie smiled. “You have no idea how I missed feeding my boys.”

  The dinner conversation had been nothing but small talk—Ward’s trip home, what had happened to so-and-so, the price of baby pigs.

  Once the girls left to do their chores, Gene turned to his brother. “Hey Ward. Wanna go down to Bruno’s and see everyone?” Gene asked.

  “Sure, just let me go change out of this uniform.”

  Gene shook his head. “I think at least once, everyone needs to see Sesser’s war hero in all his splendor. A war hero has an image to live up to, don’t you think, mom?”

  Allie nodded in agreement. “He sure looks handsome. Can you believe I never got to see Gene in his uniform … not even once?”

  “Go put it on Gene! If I’m wearing mine, it’s only fair that you should wear yours,” Ward insisted.

  “I left it,” Gene sighed, shaking his head as he helped his mom clear the table.

  “Left it where?” asked Ward.

  “When I left the VA Hospital in Brooklyn. I just walked out with the clothes on my back and left it there. The only thing I brought home were my dog tags.”

  “And his Purple Heart,” John added. “He brought that home too.”

  “Well if Gene’s not wearing his uniform, I’d feel like a peacock in mine. Let me go change and I’ll be right back. I’m out of the Army. Once I take it off, I’ll never put it back on again, and I’m taking it off right now.”

  “Ward, that’s exactly why you need to leave it on for your triumphant return to Bruno’s!” Gene exclaimed, grabbing Ward by the arm and ushering him toward the door.

  “Wait! What’s the big deal?” Ward asked, pulling his arm away from Gene. “Just let me change.” Ward’s patience was beginning to wear thin.

  “Ward, just humor him. He’s proud of you and wants to show you off,” John lectured.

  A sheepish look crossed Ward’s face. “Well, all right. One last night in the uniform. I guess that can’t hurt. Let’s go.”

  The brothers were walking toward town, headed for Bruno’s, when Ward observed. “I bet that old place hasn’t changed. I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I missed that old dump. Is that picture of the Alamo still there?”

  “Yeah, it’s there,” Gene answered. “Nothing’s changed. The picture frame has the same dust on it from before you left.” He laughed. “In fact, there’s a few added layers on top!” Gene slowed to a stop. When Ward realized his brother was no longer by his side, he stopped too and looked back. “Why would you ask about that, of all things?” Gene wanted to know.

  “You mean the painting of the Alamo?”

  “Yeah, it’s been there for twenty years—at least.”

  Ward suddenly looked distracted, his thoughts far removed from Sesser. “When I was in Germany, Gene, there was this little village,” he began slowly. Gene thought his voice sounded detached, as if it was not his own. “I opened my big mouth to General Patton and he asked if our tank would take the lead in the attack. What could I say? So like an idiot I said sure. As we rolled slowly into town, the Krauts were everywhere—everywhere, Gene—firing with everything they had.”

  Ward stopped and took a breath. It was only then that Gene realized his brother had his own demons. “Keep going,” urged Gene. “What happened next?”

  “We saw another tank ahead. It had come in from another direction. Part of a three-story building had collapsed on it, so I jumped out of the tank—ours was jammed up and couldn’t move anywhere—and started digging out the crew.”

  A sudden realization hit Gene. “Was that John Brown’s tank?”

  “Yeah, it was. Can you believe it? But what was odd was when John and his crew had climbed out.” Ward looked around, as if worried someone else would hear. “We ducked behind what was left of a stone wall … I’m not sure, it might have been a rubble pile. Anyway, that’s not important. Gene, we were standing there, and not 50 feet away were a dozen Krauts, some in windows, some standing on the open street, all spread out. They were firing rifles and machine guns, MP-44s, I think they were, at the tanks and some infantry guys who were covering us. It was weird because they were ignoring us—like we were invisible.” Ward stopped for a moment and shook his head, remembering how close death had come to touching him. “I know standing here in Sesser that this sounds a bit nuts, but all I could think about was the men in that painting, standing behind the walls of the Alamo and waiting to be killed. It was the safest place to be at that time, but only for a short time—you know what I mean?”

  Gene nodded vigorously, enthralled with the story.

  “I kept thinking about that painting, Gene. I knew how the Alamo ended. All the good guys were killed. The rubble or wall, or whatever the hell it was we were standing behind wasn’t going to protect us for long, just like it didn’t p
rotect Crockett, Bowie, or Travis. So I grabbed John by the collar and we started running back to my tank. All I could think about was that I didn’t want to end up as the subject of a painting in some bar—one of many guys who were killed doing something stupid.”

  Gene nodded slowly. “I understand, Ward. I mean, I didn’t see combat like that, but I think I understand what you mean. Running back to your tank. That’s when you were hit, right?” Gene asked.

  “Bastards shot me twice. Once in the ass, and again across the back. A few weeks later they got me again, just for spite, a few inches above the back wound. Nothing that serious, though.” A smile crept across his face.

  “What? What’s so funny about being shot?” Gene asked.

  “Damn Nazis weren’t fast enough to shoot me in the front!” Both brothers laughed. Gene grabbed him by the arm again and started moving him along.

  “Gotta keep moving,” Gene said as they headed down Main Street. “We don’t want to be late!”

  “Late? Late for what?” Ward asked, but Gene remained silent until they stopped in front of Bruno’s.

  “We’re here,” he said with a smile. Gene knocked on the door before announcing in a loud voice, “Let’s go in and see if anyone’s here!”

  Gene pulled the door open and the crowd jammed inside erupted into cheers. A stunned Ward stood there with his mouth open, reading the sign hanging above the dusty old Alamo print: WELCOME HOME WARD!

  John Brown walked out from the crowd and handed Ward a beer. “Hello, buddy. We both made it back. Here’s the beer I promised you.”

  “We did, John. We did,” Ward responded with a smile, clicking his glass against John’s. “Pretty cheap payment for pulling you out of that tank.” Both men laughed, stood there awkwardly for a moment, set their mugs down, and embraced.

  “I wouldn’t be here if not for you, Ward,” John said gripping his friend tightly.

  “You think you’d still be stuck in that tank?” replied Ward. “Someone else would’ve dug you out.” Ward was flattered, but obviously uncomfortable with John’s expression of gratitude.

  “No, it took a heroic son-of-a-gun like you to jump out of your tank, run down the street—under heavy fire—dig us out, and then pull me back to safety. Not to mention the fact that you got shot twice.” John stepped back. “You saved my life, Ward Moore, and I’ll be forever grateful. Thank you.”

  Dozens of other patrons swarmed around the pair welcoming Ward back to Sesser. “Bruno!” shouted Ward. “You still keep your tools under the back counter?”

  Bruno nodded from behind the bar, drawing draft beer as fast as he could pour them. “Sure, why? You want to build something tonight?” Everyone laughed.

  “Nope. I brought a souvenir home for you. Can you bring me a hammer and a few nails?”

  Bruno shot Ward a puzzled look, filled the mug the rest of the way, closed the tap, and turned around to find his hammer. When he handed it to Ward with a pair of nails, the former soldier walked to the wall at the far end of the bar. The other patrons fell silent as they watched Ward closely in an attempt to figure out what he was up to. Ward examined the wall, rubbed a spot with his hand, and turned back to face the crowd.

  “What?” Bruno yelled. “What are you up to?”

  “No good, I bet!” someone else yelled. Laughter followed.

  Ward smiled and reached in his pocket. He pulled out something red, held it up to the wall, drove a nail through it, and stepped back. The bar erupted in loud cheers. He had nailed to the wall a black swastika on a white circle, sewn on a swath of red cloth.

  “I don’t think that murderous Hitler ever waved this!” Ward shouted. “But I got it from his birthplace. There’s one thing I know for sure!” Ward paused, the crowd waiting quietly for the punch line so obviously coming. Ward yelled at the top of his voice, “That bastard will never wear it again!” The crowd cheered as it rushed toward Ward. Everyone wanted to shake his hand and buy him a drink.

  “Ward Moore … let me get a look at that Silver Star!”

  “T-Bone Mygatt! How are you?” Ward asked, glad to see his old friend. “It’s just a Bronze Star.”

  “Well, it’s a pretty medal, and well deserved. I am swell, just swell. I was in the South Pacific. Got home a couple months ago. I’ll tell you, I missed this old bar and town. I guess there really is no place like home.”

  Ward Moore was home from the war and Sesser had a genuine war hero. Through it all, Gene remained in the shadows, proud of his older brother. This was his night. His triumphant return.

  By the time he was polishing off his third beer, Ward had picked up enough bits and pieces about what Gene had been up to over the past year to worry him. Gene wasn’t the same brother he’d left in Sesser when the war broke out, and he certainly wasn’t the same sailor and ballplayer he’d seen in North Africa. When he spotted Gene across the bar standing alone staring at the old Alamo print, Ward picked up his beer and joined him.

  “Hey, little brother.” Ward put his hand on Gene’s shoulder. He lifted his mug toward the painting. “Here’s to you, gentlemen. I now know what it felt like.”

  Gene looked at Ward. “What are you gonna do now?”

  Ward shrugged and took another gulp from his lukewarm beer. “Not sure. Maybe open a bar. I was thinking about Benton, but maybe Mount Vernon. I thought about it all the time I was over there.” Ward smiled and asked, “Where’s Jamie Reid? She still in town?”

  “Yeah, she’s working over in Benton, I think,” replied Gene. “She asked about you when I saw her last.”

  “She wrote me two letters, and then I never heard from her again,” Ward said with a wistful sigh. “She married yet?”

  “Not unless she got hitched since last week.” Gene smiled. “You thinking about looking her up?”

  “Maybe. She still pretty?” he asked, shooting his little brother a sideways glance.

  “Yup.”

  Ward motioned to a small table and the brothers sat down. “Let’s get back to you, Gene.”

  Gene waved a hand in objection. “Ward, my problems are so small and trivial. I can’t play baseball. I really realized how trivial it was when you were telling me about saving John’s life. So many people died or were seriously injured. Remember that red-headed kid from Mount Vernon who always wanted to play ball but could never hit? I hear he is in the nut house—they call it shell shock or something. Just completely lost his marbles.” Gene lifted his mug, took a long drink, and set it down again. “How can I complain about two screws in my ankle, which I got trying to slide into home plate!” He lowered his voice when he realized he was yelling. “I’m helping Pop on the farm now.” Gene paused and glanced over at John Brown. “Your new biggest fan over there offered me a job at his service station. I’m in demand. Don’t worry about me. You’re home, all is as well as we could have hoped for, really.” Gene lifted his eyes and stared at the old print he had looked at hundreds of times before.

  Ward was once again left with nothing to say. “Gene, I’m not good with words, you know? I’m so damn sorry. You were the best. I never realized that until I watched you play in Africa. I know now I cheated myself out of years of good times by refusing to walk to The Lumberyard and watch you play. I can be a stubborn mule sometimes.”

  “Well, I’ll agree with that!” Gene nodded. Both laughed in response. “It could be worse.”

  “You’re damn right it could be worse. I saw too many dead men. Trust me, it could be much worse.”

  Gene offered a crooked smile. “I guess that’s one way we’re different, Ward. You look at your life now and say you wouldn’t want to end up the subject of an old picture hanging on the wall of a bar.”

  Ward, Gene, and John “Pop” Moore (from left to right) on the porch of the small Moore family house on the corner of Matthew and Mulberry in Sesser, Illinois (circa 1946-1949).

  “So?” Ward furrowed his forehead.

  “I would trade my life for that,” Gene continued, pointing to an em
pty space on the wall across from the painting.

  Ward shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “That’s where my old uniform hung while I was away. Had I died during the war, it would still be hanging there, and everyone here would remember me for who I was, not what I am. Now, I’m no different than anyone else, only I have a limp.”

  “No way, you’ll never be like everyone else,” Ward replied, setting his mug down and pointing his finger at Gene. “You’re a Moore, and that’s something to be proud of. You’re my little brother. Your father is John Moore. That alone makes you special.”

  Instead of answering, Gene stood up. Ward followed his lead, and the brothers embraced. “I’m damn glad your home, Ward.”

  “Me too, brother. Me too.”

  Three weeks later, Ward moved to Benton, secured a loan, and eventually opened his bar. He also married Jamie Reid. Their firstborn was a son. They named him John, after “Pop” Moore.

  Chapter 29

  The Letter Arrives

  Mornings in Sesser were unlike mornings anywhere else Gene had ever been. The early sky, the air, the sunshine of Sesser, invigorated him. Perhaps it was all about being home, surrounded by family and friends.

  Another spring had arrived. Gene walked out the back door of the small home at Matthew and Mulberry on his way to the barn. The old screen door made a sharp cracking noise as it shut behind him. For a moment it reminded him of the sound a bat makes when hitting a ball. He sighed and looked across the state highway and the green fields beyond. The mist had settled gently, as it often did, between the rolling hills, whose peaks rose and fell like some sort of giant serpent, its back glistening in the morning sun. The morning was particularly beautiful. He took a deep breath of fresh air and exhaled. Although Gene hated farming, he could not help but feel the comfort that only home can provide.