Love is a Wounded Soldier

by Reimer, Blaine

  Harvey and I both listened intently as she talked, very entertained by her accent, and she admitted hearing us speak amused her, too. She thought we must both be from the same state, since we sounded the same, and Harvey and I couldn’t help but laugh. Harvey was from Michigan, and I found it hard to believe someone couldn’t differentiate his clipped Yankee accent from my southern drawl.

  Harvey and I had little in common, aside from being in the Rangers. He was younger than me, single, and seemed afflicted by the thought that he had a bag of wild oats that desperately needed to be sown before he went to war. It appeared Eastleigh would be the lucky recipient of most of the sack. He could be found at one or the other nearby drinking establishments whenever possible, helping shore up support for the perception by the locals that our American troops were nothing but whiskey-drinking, bar-room-brawling, skirt-chasing ruffians. As much disdain as I held for his indiscipline in the evenings, I admired him for the times he showed up the next morning, when I knew his head was throbbing and his eye was black from the previous night’s fisticuffs. He never once slacked or fell behind in training, and refused to let on that he was feeling poorly. He was smart enough to know he was the administrator of his own affliction, and that his senior officers possessed little sympathy for self-afflicted ailments like hangovers.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t see what possible good could come from me joining the boys for a night on the town. With the exception of one time while we were still Stateside, I never frequented the pubs.

  With little else to do in my down time, many of my evenings were spent with Claudia and her son, Clifton. There were some small things around the house that were in disrepair since her husband had gone, so I straightened a door and fixed some leaky plumbing, and saw to a number of other minor repairs.

  When Claudia was done her day’s work, we’d sit at the table, sip a cup of tea, and she and Clifton would ask me questions about America and listen, enthralled, as I told them about the people and places of the USA. Sometimes I felt sheepish, telling them things I’d only read in books and hadn’t seen for myself. I vowed if I made it home alive I would travel to all the fascinating places and meet the magical-sounding people I spoke of.

  After Clifton went to bed, Claudia and I would sometimes talk for an hour or more alone. It was nice to talk to a woman. I missed it. Talking to her was a welcome change from the same superficial, mostly crass conversations I could expect from my male colleagues.

  “Why do you never go out with Harvey?” Claudia asked one evening a few weeks after we were billeted there. I had to think about that.

  “Well, mostly because my pa was an alcoholic, and I saw how much he hurt my ma. And me. If I stay away from liquor, hopefully Ellen will never have to deal with the same nonsense my pa dealt my ma,” I answered. I could feel the dormant anger begin to stir inside me, and I quickly tried not to think about hurtful memories. “And, it would be a waste of money,” I continued. “Ellen needs every cent I can send her.”

  “She’s a lucky woman, Bobby,” Claudia smiled at me, admiration in her voice and eyes. “I wonder if she even knows what kind of prize she has!” I could feel my face get a little warm. She laughed when she saw me ill at ease.

  “You have no idea what a good catch you are, do you Bobby?” she teased. “Handy, dependable—and a strapping good-looking bloke, too!” she bantered. “I’ll bet the letters Ellen sends you are brimming with lonely adoration, aren’t they, honey?”

  I smiled as though agreeing, but couldn’t bring myself to verbally affirm it. My quickly inflating male ego began asking questions, and I allowed the seed of discontent Claudia had planted to grow. Sure, Ellen said she loved me and missed me, but did she voice the same level of appreciation for my magnificent and many positive attributes that Claudia did? Did she ever even compliment me on anything? I didn’t know if I could think of one thing, and it miffed me just a little that she couldn’t be bothered to laud me for at least one of my innumerable qualities that appeared so obvious to the perceptive Claudia.

  “Shall we listen to the radio?” she interrupted my grumbling mind.

  “Oh, yes,” I agreed, always eager to hear the latest BBC reports on the war. We retired to the living room.

  “I’ve been meaning to move the two-seater closer to the radio, but it’s too heavy,” Claudia commented, motioning to the loveseat.

  “I was wondering—” she began, but I picked it up before she finished speaking and moved it several feet nearer to the radio.

  “Thank you!” she beamed. “There’s some strength in those arms!” she gushed, giving my upper arm a long, firm squeeze. I grinned and nodded knowingly, already past the point of feeling the need to be modest about being a rather evidently superior representative of manhood.

  “Sit,” she said, gesturing toward the loveseat. She turned on the radio and adjusted the dial to get rid of the static.

  “I’ll get something to drink,” she said, leaving me to listen alone. It was a quiet night in the news. Claudia returned with a bottle of wine. It looked homemade.

  “I’ve been saving this. Tonight seems like a good night to open it,” she smiled, putting down two glasses and popping the cork before sitting down on my left. I was perplexed. Had I not pointed out earlier that very night that I didn’t drink?

  “I’m not really a drinker, ma’am,” I excused, not wanting to refuse hospitality, but also not wanting her to feel snubbed if I didn’t eagerly imbibe.

  “Aw, drink!” she encouraged with a smile. She raised her glass, and I reciprocated.

  “To us!” she toasted. My face betrayed my bewilderment.

  “To allies!” she clarified, and we drank. I gingerly took a sip. The wine tasted acetic and dry to me. I couldn’t fathom anyone drinking the stuff to satisfy their thirst. My second sip was more an exercise in bringing the glass to my lips than drinking.

  “You don’t like it?” she asked, her lips pouting girlishly

  “It’s alright,” I lied. “I just don’t know if it’s my thing,” I replied, trying not to ruffle feathers or offend her.

  “Sometimes it takes a little time to acquire a taste for it. Your second glass will be better,” she assured me, leaving me wondering how much of the stuff I’d have to drink to satisfy her. “It’ll help mellow you out,” she smiled, and winked.

  We listened to the war reports for a half hour or so, making small talk in between. I managed to down only a little more than half my glass, and hoped I wasn’t committing some egregious British faux pas.

  “Are you done with yours?” she asked after she set down her empty glass.

  “I reckon so,” I responded, trying to gauge if I’d slighted her.

  “It’s not for everyone,” she smiled. She stood, turned off the radio, and put on a record. She corked the wine bottle, picked it and the glasses up, and left for the kitchen. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tapped my toe along to the big band music.

  “I’ll just slip into something more comfortable. I’ve been in this all day,” she startled me slightly as she walked through the living room and down the hall to her bedroom. I nodded blankly.

  I glanced at the clock. It was getting late, and I was feeling drowsy.

  Claudia returned, and she laughed when she saw the look on my face.

  “It’s just a nightie!” she chuckled, and I felt like an innocent, blushing boy. It was a nightgown, perhaps, but not my mother’s nightgown. It certainly wasn’t the neck-to-ankle flannel affair I associated with the word nightgown. It was cut high on the bottom, low on the top, made of slinky white satin, edged with lace.

  She couldn’t be . . . No, why would a respectable married woman . . . I recalled every suggestive nuance of our interaction that night, and my instinct told me I was right in suspecting an ulterior motive on her part. I silenced that feeling and demanded it fall in line with the more seemly thought that she was just a woman in need of some companionship and conversation. It would be ungentlemanly of me to ab
andon her simply because some of her actions appeared to be a little untoward.

  Her hair, which was usually pulled back plainly away from her face, was let down, falling like strands of burnished copper over her neck and partially exposed shoulders.

  She sat down, more beside me than across from me this time, tucked one leg under her body, and stuck the other straight out. It was long and sleek. I smelled perfume. She rested her right elbow on the backrest of the loveseat and leaned her head against the palm of her hand.

  “You look sad, Bobby,” she chided, twisting a ringlet of hair around her finger.

  “Just tired,” I smiled weakly.

  “Aw, it must be hell on you, being gone from home so long,” she sympathized soothingly.

  “I guess it’s not the easiest thing on a fellow,” I had to agree. She nodded understandingly and leaned forward to pull down the hem of her gown. Her loose neckline drooped, as though inviting my eyes to follow the trail of freckles down to her exposed chest. They didn’t need to be asked twice. Keeping my head positioned away from her, I allowed myself an askance look at her displayed wares. I was starving for what she had. I quickly averted my eyes as she sat back up slowly.

  The phonograph hissed and popped quietly in the background as it played songs with fuzzy edges. “Who Wouldn’t Love You?” a snappy, swingy Kay Kyser tune was playing now. Claudia tapped her soft, fleshy lips with her finger in time to the beat. Her ring finger was vacant.

  “Edwin has been gone so long, I don’t know if I’ll know him when he comes back,” she sighed dolefully. “If he comes back . . .” Her painted lips trembled.

  “Really, sometimes I feel like I’m already a widow! I’m so alone!” she said, looking as though she was near tears.

  She leaned her head against my chest. I didn’t know what to do, so I put my arms around her stiffly like I was embracing a porcupine. She wrapped her arms around my neck and leaned her head on my shoulder.

  “I get so lonely,” she sniffed.

  “Now, now,” I consoled, patting her back with my open hand more like I was smacking a horse than comforting a woman.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up and wiping away the two tears she’d produced.

  “You’re so kind,” she fawned with an adoring smile. I released her, but she stayed close.

  “You know, Bobby,” she spoke in a low, confiding tone, then paused. “It’s been soo long since, um . . .” She halted again and looked down coyly. She brushed her lips against my ear like she was sharing a priceless secret, and continued in a whisper.

  “Since I’ve been . . . invaded,” she finished with some military insinuation, keeping her body near me, but moving her head back to look me brazenly in the eye, as if driving her statement through my pupils and into my brain with her gaze. She was a master of explicit innuendo and direct suggestion.

  As if gauging the hesitation I showed as weakness, she struck like a cobra. She pulled my head toward her and rooted her lips in mine. Oh, how I wanted her! My resolve was a castle of sand, and I allowed her hand to guide mine over the heaving swell of her chest and the flat of her belly. Her other hand played with the chain around my neck as each of her kisses dragged me recklessly closer and closer to the point of no return.

  Clink. She probably didn’t even hear it. But I did.

  Clink clink. As she toyed with my chain, my dog tags clinked against my wedding band, which I also kept on the chain. Even as I continued kissing her, my thoughts were now not on her kiss, but on a promise I’d made to Ellen, a promise to be faithful that I’d almost forgotten.

  Clink! It wasn’t a clink to me anymore. It was a clang. A thunderous peal from a gong. A clashing of cymbals! What was I doing?! I wrenched my lips from hers with the strength it would have taken to pull them from a vise.

  “No!” I almost shouted. She looked startled and dismayed.

  “But I want you, darling!” she said forlornly. “Don’t you want me?” she looked at me with pleading puppy dog eyes.

  “No,” I lied firmly, still trying to sell myself on the notion.

  “Well, you sure seemed to a minute ago,” she pointed out, looking down where my khaki pants appeared ready to split the seams.

  “The tail is wagging, but the dog is barking, and I’m not sure which end to believe,” she jested, a little mockingly.

  “I’m married. You’re married,” I stated the obvious. “You know it’s not right.”

  She laughed, as though I’d just mentioned some trifling obstacle.

  “Bobby, honey, do you know how far it is to North Africa?” she quizzed me with a patient smile.

  “Not precisely,” I admitted.

  “About the same distance it is to America. And that was a long ride, wasn’t it, sweetheart?” she smiled patronizingly, and waited as though it would take me time to grasp the import of what she’d just said. I just shrugged.

  “No one will ever know!” she said in an intense whisper, grabbing my leg and shaking it. “It will be our little secret. Our very scrumptious secret, you handsome young devil!” she smiled and drenched me with a come-hither look.

  “Now come to bed,” she said with authority. I tried to avoid looking at her as I stood to leave.

  “I’m going to bed, but not with you. I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing.

  She switched from demanding back to pleading, salaciously moaning the words she spoke as though she were being tormented. “Please, darling! I love you!” she entreated to my back.

  Mounting the stairs, I hurried to my room, like Joseph fleeing Potiphar’s wife. I shut the door behind me and held my breath as I listened to see if she was pursuing me further. It was quiet, so I let out my breath and breathed fast and deep.

  I lay on the bed. My head rushed. My body was a torn battleground, exhausted from the clash of chemicals and character, a struggle of want and will. The taste of her kiss lingered on my lips, but I didn’t have the willpower to wipe it off. I liked it! I wanted it! The lust in me was enraged that I had rejected her. The frustration in me built, and I felt like driving my fist into the wall. I hated myself for wanting her, and I hated myself for not having her. There was no decisive feeling of victory or defeat. All I felt was the inferno of desire I’d allowed her to fan up in me. And I hadn’t let her put it out! I ripped open the front of my pants so hastily the button popped off and milked my vexation into a puddle in my hand.

  Claudia wore a sad face the next day. I wondered if she was trying guilt me into reconsidering having a fling.

  After that, as soon as supper was done, I made a habit of retreating to my room.

  It was hell the first few days. The taste of her breath and the feel of her firm body pressed to mine seemed to be all my mind wanted to think about. She’d started a wildfire in me I just couldn’t put out. It didn’t help that she was pining for me, and I’d left her rejected and burning. Or so I thought.

  Several days later, Harvey never made it up to his room for night. He might have been coaxed into playing a late night game of checkers with Claudia, but if that was the case, it was a rousing game indeed. The walls were simply too thin for me to give him the benefit of the doubt. He moved into her room the next day. I felt foolish. The proverbs that I’d practically memorized as a boy stood up in my mind and shouted, one by one, “Fool, fool, fool!” I’d been that simpleton the proverbs talked about ceaselessly. I should have seen Claudia coming a county away, and just fled. Like an ox to the slaughter, I’d turned back just before the hammer fell. I felt terrible to think that I could have destroyed my marriage, or at least had to live with a dark secret.

  By the time we left the promiscuous Mrs. Harrison’s place, her failed seduction was a dot in my rearview mirror. Her affair with Harvey seemed to have mellowed out any hard feelings toward me, and in the end, we were quite civil again, almost cordial.

  It took a while, but in time I had a genuine feeling of triumph. I was still glad to leave.

  Table of Contents


  SEVEN

  WAR!

  The summer of 1943 passed like a fence beside a train. Each day was a post, a marker that blurred by, indistinct from the one before it or the one that followed.

  Our training seemed to be endless. We were kept on the move, training on the Cornish coast, then in Scotland again. We were pushed further than we thought we were able one day, and the next, we were pushed even further. Our legs were lean and muscular, our sinews strings of leather, and our chests full and stout like oak casks. We proudly wore the rainbow-shaped, red and blue patch that boasted “29th Rangers” on the shoulder of our “Ike” jackets. It was a mark of distinction. We were faster, stronger, smarter, better. We were an elite fighting force that could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with anyone in the world. We were the 29th Rangers.

  ~~~

  It was a huge disappointment for me when we were told the 29th Ranger Battalion was to be disbanded in October of 1943. While we knew the unit had been formed with the intention of eventually sending all men back to their original companies, most of us felt we would lose effectiveness outside of the Rangers. It seemed to me I could be much more useful serving alongside men that shared my rigorous training.

  The boys in our old company were happy to see Johnny and me return. We got plenty of ribbing about having come back down to dwell among “mere mortals” like them, and we would pretend the training we did with them was child’s play, feigning boredom and yawning when we took our long hikes through the godforsaken moors of Devonshire.

  Shortly after rejoining my company, I was promoted to Staff Sergeant. It was a daunting advancement. I was flattered, but questioned whether I had the necessary experience my new rank usually required. Johnny Snarr became a Corporal about the same time, so it seemed our training as Rangers had something to do with our newly elevated status.

  As Staff Sergeant, I assisted First Lieutenant Floyd Stavely in leading our platoon. The phony confidence I forced myself to exude became genuine self-assuredness as I became comfortable in my new role and position of authority. The doggedness I demonstrated in training to my men was less a reflection of my own fortitude than a determination not to fail in front of the platoon. Most men can comfortably fail in solitude. Few can fail before their comrades without shame. I was to learn that most medals would not be won by valorous men, but rather, by men who were so shit-scared of looking weak, they went to dramatic lengths not to let down their comrades.