Their Bit
Page 2
first time left him horrified and heartbroken. He stopped visiting.
He also stopped reading the papers.
"Blimey," Corporal Cogswell thought, "does this pitiful excuse for a man, much less an officer, really think he has a chance with the likes of Vera bleeding Lynn?"
"Mind the shoulder, corporal," the colonel said.
"Traction's a little tricky, sir." Try nonexistent, you old walrus, he thought. Although the jeep's nose was pointing straight down the road, the corporal had to struggle to keep the wheels alternately caromed at a forty-five degree angle left and right to maintain some semblance of normalcy; doing this while constantly shifting in order to maintain speed would have been tricky for someone blessed with four hands. Cogswell had to contend with the standard two, and was gradually losing the fight. Waves of mud rose, constantly threatening to swamp the jeep's occupants.
"There, there, just topping Winfield Ridge. There she comes," the colonel almost shouted.
"Thank God," the corporal thought. "Just a few more yards and we'll begin climbing ol' Winnie. Road should smooth –
After a while, Benny shamed himself for a coward. Oh he still kept up his correspondence; and when a soldier returned home and dropped by his modest cottage, he was always gracious and set out tea and biscuits. Sometimes the soldiers chatted about Benny and his career, such as it was. Rarely did they steer the conversation to the war. When they did, he listened intently. Sometimes during these narrations, when some particular horror became too much, they broke down. Benny was quick with a grandfatherly pat, assuring the soldier that he was home now, and there was no need to continue.
1944 rolled in, and the war rolled on. While it was clear that the Japanese were on the run it was equally obvious that tough fighting lay ahead. In Burma, Japanese hopes were still buoyed by the possibility that an offensive toward India could result in the Indians overthrowing their British colonial masters. To this end, the Japanese set their sights on an attack toward the border towns of Imphal and Kohima. The fighting had been straightforward and bloody. Now the Allies prepared to counterattack and push the Japanese back through Burma.
This "forgotten army" contained many of the same soldiers, now veterans that Benny had seen off two years earlier.
Benny, now eighty, pulled every string, called in every last favor, to be there to see the lads off. Not at some debarkation port, but there, at the front. At first, just as two years prior, he was told that it was out of the question. Benny made the argument that he fully understood the risks involved, and who else in the entertainment industry, he asked, even wanted to go? He cornered every member of the Australian parliament he could find to make his case. He showed them the stacks of correspondence from the past two years along with press clippings from his hospital visits. One member of the parliament, who had been a lifelong fan, finally ascertained to his satisfaction that Benny was of sound mind, his request genuine. He gave the go-ahead and made the arrangements.
On a cargo plane loaded with canned fruits and vegetables, Benny LaBean flew the circuitous route to northern India.
An angel's hand stroked his face and sang. He couldn't see her, but she sang quite beautifully. Corporal Cogswell felt his body dip and rise. "Odd," he muttered. "What was that soldier? What – oh for heaven's sake what is his name?" "Cogswell ma'am. Corporal Cogswell," said a disembodied distinctly British voice. Oh well, so much for heaven.
Cogswell opened his eyes. Vera Lynn might not truly be an angel, but she was the closest he'd seen in a long time. Seeing him awake, she smiled and leaned over him. He could smell the fragrance of jasmine in her hair. "Corporal Cogswell, can you hear me Corporal?" He struggled to say something, but his tongue felt unnatural, swollen. Miss Lynn's first aid training came to the fore. The water from the canteen was tepid, but to Cogswell it tasted colder than any pint he had ever quaffed. God! She is beautiful. Little wonder the colonel-The colonel!
"The colonel?" he asked, surprised how strong his voice was. He turned his head quickly realizing he was on a stretcher on the back of a jeep.
"Shhh, quiet now corporal. You've been wounded in an explosion. Apparently some Japanese infiltrators mined the road. You're safe now," Miss Lynn said.
Cogswell closed his eyes beginning an inventory of limbs. Vera Lynn had seen this reaction before. "You're all there Corporal. Trust me. Just a mild concussion along with nicks and scrapes." She spoke so sincerely he did believe her. Nevertheless, he continued satisfying himself, sending and receiving acknowledgements from toes to fingers. Again he opened his eyes, his question lingering.
She matched his stare. "I'm sorry Corporal. The explosion was on his side. It threw you out, but he – he didn't make it." She let this sink in before going on. His wallet was destroyed in the blast. The only thing we could salvage was this." She laid a circular tin on his chest. "We're heading back to the rear until the road is swept. A few days comfortable bed rest and you'll be good as new. I'll come around to see you, if you don't mind?"
He was smiling, had been since she mentioned the part concerning the colonel. "Mind," he said absently. "No, I don't mind at all. Here Miss Lynn," he said returning the tin of moustache wax. "Here, I know he would've wanted you to have this."
On down the trail they came. Some passed him by with barely a notice. Some offered a smile and a brief hello. More than a few lingered. Among them many pen-pal veterans, and among these small handfuls, men that he had either seen in hospital recovered and back once again as front-line soldiers and two that had taken tea at his home.
"We've form a kind of club among ourselves," a gaped-tooth soldier informed him. "We call ourselves LaBean's Boys. Even had us some membership cards made up, last time we got down to Calcutta. There's about fifty or so members in good standing, meaning they're still standing, if you know what I mean," he said with a wink. "So we're what you'd call an exclusive club. Not even the hoity-toity who ran the show before the war, and'll probably end up running things when it's all over can get in. Less of course, they been through the fires, met you, either by letter or in person. Those that's had that honor are gold club members." He fished his card out of his wallet, and held it up for Benny's inspection. "We appreciate all you've done to keep our spirits up old boy."
The lieutenant at Benny's side motioned with a slight nod for the soldier to move on. "Not until the Showster with the Moster gives us one of his funny ditties. Come on Benny. I see you've brought your uke. Give your boys a tune to send us off."
Benny smiled, trying to contain the tears that threatened to spill over. "Sure boys," he managed to say, "I brought Maureen just in case. I'm sure she still has a song or two in her. We'll be proud to play for you."
Benny LaBean played. The soldiers trooped by. Some held out membership cards nodding with pride that they were LaBean Boys. Benny played and sang, one song, then another and another, until the last soldier disappeared from view.
Copyright 2011 © Corbert Windage
Now, enjoy a sample of Harold Fleenor's new novel from Accio Books
"The Valor Road"
The Valor Road
by
Harold Fleenor
Copyright 2011 © Harold Fleenor
The Harrison Traditional School no longer exists.
The building is still there; but its original purpose – to educate, like the innocence of its former students – is gone forever. In its place stands a testament, not just of brick and mortar, but also of beliefs, both forming a crucible that withstood a tempest of fire and blood. Perhaps it is because of that knowledge, a certain dignity emanates from those scarred gray stones that scores the subconscious.
The nearest town –Schonefield, lies barely five miles below the Canadian border. The town still retains the flavor of its original founders, which some current residents privately refer to as "survivor modest." Humbled by the surrounding majesty of God's handiwork, no building in downtown proper stands taller than two stories. Each one reflects the utilitarian nature of it
s builders. Squared with modest facings, some whitewashed; proprietary shingles embedded deep in the masonry, a necessary concession to the occasional gusts that blow in from the Rockies like a punishing wraith. Main Street, actually dual one-way streets separated by a wide city park medium, allows both residence and tourist an opportunity to retain the expansive atmosphere while still permitting local business a clear shot to catch the eye, and hopefully the dollars, of the temporary visitor. The park, though aesthetically pleasing, nevertheless gives the first time visitor a strange sense of spatial dislocation. It's as though the sure encompassing vastness of the state was, by design, scaled to the miniature of an Edenesque creation. The town overall appears almost as a bad afterthought, weak and scattered, an abandoned Babel. The penalty assessed for such folly, as if divined by heavenly fiat, that what was once small and compact, now stand condemned, not only to separation, but also to suffer an eternity of illusionary drifting apart. Even the addition of what the locals refer to as 'the burbs' appear no more substantial than planets orbiting a dead star.
Geography has been kind to the area. Both the eastern Ksawra Mountains and the Canadian Rockies drain their potentially devastating winter melt into two rivers. The Tabak River, which flows through Schonefield, and the