“Did I tell you that you were finished? Get down and finish the job!” Dick shouted, getting extra marks for realism by making the veins pop out on his face. Leroy hooted and clapped his hands as he anticipated the story’s ending.
“Yeah, I want them shiny like fuckin’ mirrors. I want to be able to see the bottom of my pecker when you’re done,” Dick sneered, looking down disdainfully at his feet with his arms crossed.
Leroy’s glee was contagious, and I had to stifle a fit of laughter to deliver the punch line.
“So—so Johnny says, real calm-like, like he always did, ‘Well, captain, I can shine them into mirrors, but it’d take a goddamn magician to turn ’em into microscopes!’”
Leroy was already wiping tears from his eyes by this point, Dick was bent over in hysterics, and the laughter I’d dammed up rolled down my cheeks before becoming lost in my beard. I saw the scene so vividly in my mind, and laughed even harder.
We were just beginning to settle down, when Dick gasped, “Any—anyone else need a shine?”
“Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!” Leroy sobbed, and once again we laughed until our bones turned to jelly.
Suddenly, my emotional pendulum swung, and the tears I laughed were ones borne of sorrow, as I thought of all the good times I’d had with Johnny. Good times that really hadn’t seemed like good times until that particular moment. And so I laughed even harder, because I was just too sad to cry.
Many of the lads patronized us with bemused smiles, not really understanding what we found so funny. Others allowed a tolerating chuckle one affords a grandfather who recounts a story that he finds so much more entertaining than everyone else.
As our laughter subsided, I dug out a hanky and wiped the tears of laughter and sadness that mingled on my cheeks. Dick blew his nose loudly. “He was a hell of a good man, Sergeant,” he assured me as the emotional roller coaster I was on entered the long, dark tunnel of melancholy.
“Sure was,” Leroy agreed.
I nodded my head thoughtfully, my eyes fixed on the hill of soil that covered Johnny’s grave. A slight breeze laid an icy hand on the back of my neck. I shivered.
“Would you like some brandy, Sergeant?” a quiet voice guided my mind back from the land of the dead. I looked up to see Private Haney offering me the brown bottle.
“I’d love some,” I said.
Table of Contents
ELEVEN
HOME!
Guilt. It became my companion. Not a companion I desired, but a companion I felt I deserved. I felt guilty that I’d allowed Johnny to remain in action despite the obvious signs that his mind was worn out. Remorse consumed me when I thought about how low he’d been brought. Regret wracked my mind when I thought about the little girl he’d hurt. It wasn’t his fault. I had raped that girl. I had killed Johnny. I should be dead. But I wasn’t, and so I was left carrying a burden of guilt, paying for a dead man’s sins.
By the end of March, 1945, we could feel the German Reich begin to cave in on itself. Hope was no longer merely a mirage shimmering on the horizon. Men began to allow themselves to dream once again of home and a life after war.
Even I had moments where hope and optimism were able to cool the guilt and grief that afflicted my mind like a raging fever. But those moments were brief, because no sooner would I allow myself to think of home, and peace, and Ellen, that I’d be reminded that if I reached the light at the top of the well, I would have done it standing on the bodies of Johnny and a thousand other men. And it was that thought that made my guilt inescapable.
~~~
“Looks like the war is over for you, Sergeant,” a cheery voice shouted above the sound of the wind and a diesel engine. I looked up at a strange face through one eye, wincing as the vehicle I was riding in hit a bump. It seemed I hurt everywhere.
“Where’s my eye?” was the first thing I asked. The stranger laughed.
“Right where it’s supposed to be, it’s just swollen shut. You’re damn lucky, too! You came this close to losing it!” he said, using the narrow space between his finger and thumb to show me how fortunate I was.
I thought about nodding, but just blinked my good eye and tried to recall how I’d gotten to where I was. My last memory was of me riding in a jeep, then a boom, a flash, a scream and then nothing.
“Yes, sir, you sure were luckier than that guy!” the chatterbox continued, pointing beside me. I tried to turn my head and look, but the pain was too much. I closed my eye.
“Who—” I labored, “who is it?”
“Um, let me see.” I heard the voice move from my right to my left. “Yeah, looks like a sergeant. Uh, Johnson. His name is Johnson.”
“Aw, fuck,” I sighed.
Pain hit the side of my face with a brick bat. “Morphine,” I mumbled. We hit another bump and I passed out again.
When I awoke, I was staring up at the drab green roof of a tent. Turning my head slowly, I rolled my eyeball around the periphery of its socket. Someone lay on a stretcher beside me. Somewhere nearby, someone else let out an agonized moan. After a few moments, I figured out I must be in an evacuation hospital. I stared back up at the tent roof. My mouth was parched. Pain ran its claws down the side of my head and neck. I gingerly took my hand and felt the bandages that swaddled my wounds. It’s over! Thank God!
“Ah, you’re awake!” A smiling nurse stood over me.
“Could I get some water, please,” I asked weakly.
“Certainly!” she said, and left to fetch me my water.
I’ll bet she’s disappointed a few fellows, I thought wryly to myself. She seemed like a nice girl, but was homely and rangy-looking as a longhorn—not exactly fitting the description of the pretty nurse I’d heard so many lads fantasize about when they talked about getting their million-dollar wound looked after.
She brought my water to me and helped me sit up. I took the cup with shaky hands, and she helped me guide it to my mouth. Water ran down my chin as I drank greedily. After I’d drained the last drop, she wiped my mouth with the corner of my blanket.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, as I carefully lay back down.
“Never been better,” I managed a feeble smile.
“Well, you’re lucky to be alive,” she said, “you came within a half inch of getting your jugular cut.”
“What’s the nature of my injury?” I inquired. She picked up a paper I assumed to be my chart.
“Says you sustained shrapnel wounds to the right side of your head, neck and shoulder as a result of mortar fire.” She looked up cheerily. “No broken bones, just a lot of torn up skin and flesh.”
I remembered now. We’d been ambushed.
“Will I be in here long?” I asked hopefully.
“Here? Not long. We’ll be shipping you off to a hospital in England before the end of the week,” she said as she made a notation on my chart. I blinked as if I had a clue as to when the end of the week was. England, I thought, as she prepared to give me a shot. England will suit me just fine.
~~~
Weeks later, I was sitting in a hospital bed in England, thumbing through an old copy of Stars and Stripes. It’d been a painful stretch, but the doctors told me my wounds were healing nicely.
I tried to keep myself occupied as much as I could by chatting with my fellow patients and reading stale copies of magazines and newspapers. But the yearning to go home kept hijacking my thoughts, and so even when I tried to read, I found myself spending more time staring out the window than actually reading.
Finally, home seemed to be within reach. Peace seemed attainable. Rest no longer seemed like a far-fetched fantasy. It was rest that I needed. Rest for my body, rest for my mind.
I pushed back the tears that threatened to break through at the corners of my eyes as I thought about the things I’d seen. It was Ellen that I longed for, because I knew Ellen would understand. She’d understand when I woke up screaming at night. She’d understand when I’d jump at every noise. She’d understand when I’d feel
like crying at the drop of a hat. She might not know the reason, for I didn’t know if I would ever be able to speak of the things I’d seen, but my heart was confident things would be alright when I reached her arms.
My thoughts were interrupted by a loud voice in the hall.
“The war is over!” I thought I heard the voice say. I tilted my head and held my breath a moment.
“The war is over!” the voice announced distinctly. A second later, Nurse Jane popped her head into my room.
“The war is over!” she smiled before continuing down the hall to spread the good tidings. I heard whoops and laughter as the news spread.
The war is over, I mused. Part of me wished I was with my men in Germany instead of sitting on a clean bed in England. I could only imagine the feeling of relief and accomplishment that the men that had survived must be feeling.
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I thought fondly of the camaraderie that I’d enjoyed with my men. I wondered if they were thinking about me in the silences between the jesting, horseplay, and laughter. Or, if in the quiet moments, a sober cloud hung over them as they contemplated the fallen, and the awfulness of the things they’d seen. Did they, like me, dread that they would be eternal spectators to the endless theater of death that their minds had become? Did they fear they would never stop waking up in the middle of the night drenched in a cold sweat?
No, the Germans have been beaten, and we’re going home. But our war is not over.
~~~
“Just a few more,” the nurse encouraged me with a smile.
I gritted my teeth as the doctor yanked at another stitch with all the finesse and tenderness one usually associates with a blacksmith. The nurse winced as the doctor manhandled another one. It was obvious she would have preferred to personally remove them a little more gently.
“There you go,” the doctor grunted as the last stitch came free.
My neck stung. I took my hand and ran my fingers lightly over my scars.
“Could I see a mirror?” I asked the nurse. I had yet to see myself in a mirror since being wounded, and was only able to see the scars on my shoulder.
“Certainly,” she replied, leaving the room and coming back with a small, handheld mirror.
My heart pounded as I nervously grasped the mirror by the handle. I took a deep breath and brought it up, turning my head to the side and looking at it out of the corner of my eye. It looked as bad as I’d feared. A long red scar ran down the side of my face, looking like Pharaoh’s plagued Nile with a dozen tributaries. My neck and shoulder looked no better. I slowly lowered the mirror.
“Well, I guess I should have entered some beauty contests when I still had a chance,” I tried to joke, but my lips were trembling. It made me feel silly and vain that I was fighting tears.
I rubbed my mouth with my hand to hide my emotion as I handed the mirror back to the nurse. Her eyes were clouded with tears. She’d probably seen thousands of worse cases than me the last few years, but she just didn’t seem like the type of person that could lose the ability to empathize.
“You’re in the wrong business, miss,” I said with a quivering half-smile. She questioned me with lifted eyebrows, as though her voice was indisposed at the moment.
“You care too much,” I answered. She nodded with a sheepish smile, as though acknowledging a besetting sin, and left the room.
Gad, you’re ugly! I made an opening remark to kick off a personal pity party that would last all day and well into the night.
“You’re lucky you’re already married. You wouldn’t have a chance with a face like that!” a demon whispered gleefully from his perch on my scarred shoulder. I lay down on the bed, suddenly feeling tired. He was right. It would be embarrassing for me to walk down the street now. But as much as that bothered me, what began to gnaw away at me was thinking about how Ellen would take it. Would she be embarrassed to be seen with me in public? How could she possibly be attracted to me now? Would she even love me anymore? After all, it had been four years since I’d left home. Four years! It seemed like an eternity! I’d changed so much, inside and out, that I wondered if she’d even know me anymore. I hardly knew myself.
Night fell, and still I lay awake, thinking about it. I thought about how Dick Johnson had died in the mortar attack. I’d been the lucky survivor.
Lucky! Maybe he’s the lucky one, I mused, trying to ignore the screams from a patient down the hall.
Thinking it might help if I wrote Ellen a letter, I found my lighter and used its light to search through my things for pen and paper. I found some paper, but no pen, so I waited until a ghostly figure tiptoed quietly into the room to check on Patrick, a patient in my room with shrapnel wounds far worse than mine.
“Nurse!” I whispered. She didn’t respond.
“Nurse!” I called in a low voice.
“Shhh!” I heard from across the room.
She finished what she was doing, and stopped by my bed on her way out. “Have a little patience!” she scolded in a whisper.
“Do you have a pen I could borrow?” I whispered.
“For what?” she asked.
“Writing a letter,” I replied.
“Don’t you think it’s a little late for letter writing?” she questioned as she pulled a pen from her pocket and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Now don’t be disruptive,” she admonished as she turned to leave.
Patrick began groaning in his sleep, and she went back over to attend to him. I ignored the hubbub, put my sheet of paper against a magazine, turned it to take advantage of the faint light I had, and began writing a letter to Ellen.
Dear Darling,
I’m coming home! I am ecstatic to see you again, but I dread you seeing me.
You see darling, my war ended a little earlier than it did for some of the other fellows. In March (of the exact date I am not certain), I was riding in a jeep in Germany, and we were ambushed. We got hit by mortar fire. Two lads were unhurt, a good friend of mine was killed, and I received some ugly wounds to my shoulders, neck and face. I’ve recovered well here at a hospital in England, but I must warn you my scars are quite terrible. I saw them for the first time today, and have spent the whole day fretting about them. It will take some adjustment for me to feel comfortable in public, and I won’t blame you at all if you find it embarrassing to be seen with me.
Please be patient with me, my love. I have witnessed terrible things that I just haven’t had the heart to tell you, and quite frankly, I think you’d be better off if I took those memories to my grave without sharing them. You may find many things about me that have changed. But the one thing that hasn’t changed is how much I love you. In that respect, I am the same man you kissed good-bye on the platform in Gatlinburg, what feels to me like several lifetimes ago.
I long for the strength your love has always given me, because I’m feeling weaker and less sure of myself than I’ve ever felt before. My spirit is spent, my soul malnourished, and my will to live has been sustained only by the memory of you, the beautiful life we’ve had together, and the promise of the future.
Even as I write you, my spirits have lifted. I feel like a fool for doubting your love when I think back to the days when we were together. You have always been my bedrock, the one person I could share everything with, count on no matter what, rely on to soothe me regardless of how angry, hurt, or bitter I was. And that’s why I feel driven back to your arms like a moth to a flame.
Nonetheless, consider yourself forewarned that the husband that is returning to you may not look like the one that left you. But also know that I love you more than ever, and I crave your love. And Lord knows, I need your love more than ever.
Till we walk hand in hand again,
Robbie
P.S. My leg was wounded on D-Day, but I never received proper medical attention for it. Just something else I never told you.
Writing the letter was the therapy I needed. I fell asleep promptl
y.
I never did end up posting the letter, as I was discharged the very next day, and I knew the odds were good I’d reach home before the letter did, so I held onto it. Still, putting my thoughts down on paper did a world of good to ease my troubled mind.
~~~
One eye peered at me over the seat beneath a stack of brown curls. I ignored it. Slowly, another one joined it. I looked up quickly. They couldn’t have disappeared faster if the curly little head had gotten bopped on the top with a post pounder.
I’d intentionally chosen a seat on the right side of the train, so that my scars would face the window instead of the aisle, but apparently I hadn’t done enough to avoid calling attention to myself. A little girl about four years old sitting in the seat ahead of me kept staring at my face with wide eyes.
One eye reappeared. Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed playing peek-a-boo with a youngster, but today, I felt like I was part of a freak show, so even having a child stare at my scars caused me embarrassment. I tucked in my chin and turned my head.
“Daisy, stop staring! It’s not polite to stare!” her ma reprimanded her. She looked back to apologize.
“I’m sorry sir, she just doesn’t—” her voice trailed off as I turned my face to look at her, “have—any—manners,” she ended slowly. It took her a moment to remember her own as she stared at my face.
“That’s quite alright, ma’am,” I said, trying to smile understandingly.
“It’s—it’s the uniform,” she explained, obviously flustered. “She’s not used to the uniform.”
I smiled and nodded as though agreeing that the tot’s fixation on me had nothing to do with my torn up face. She turned back, red-faced, and scolded the child again quietly.
She looked back at me. “Thank you for your service, sir. You’ve done our country proud,” she smiled.
I nodded my head as a teenage boy sitting across the aisle from me piped up excitedly.
“Did you see much action, mister?” he asked eagerly, as though priming the pump for a good war story. He leaned forward in anticipation.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 24