The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 3): Lost Time

by White, Samuel Ben

  "What makes you think you know all this? You've watched me for what, a week now?"

  Bronwyn hesitated, then said, "My major was in physics but one of my minors was in psychology."

  He laughed, a forced laugh, but a laugh, "And that qualifies you to get inside someone's head?" He turned to walk away.

  This time, she caught up with him, "That day you landed that Comal 34 in the dirt, you walked away mad. Once you could walk, anyway. You weren't mad because you'd crashed the plane, you were mad because you had lived through it! Anyone else would have just ditched and floated to ground by chute, but you had to try to kill yourself in the guise of saving the plane."

  He stopped and faced her and asked accusatively, "If I'm such a scary person, Lieutenant, how come you seem mad that I'm leaving?"

  She hesitated, then said, "You want to know the truth?"

  "Sure."

  She took another deep breath, then said, "Because you, Avery and Mulchahey are my family. We went through something back there at Crockett that few people ever have to go through—especially together. I'll be honest Captain," she said the title with added venom, "And you can say it's a woman's thing or whatever, but I don't like having my family taken away from me.

  "It's happened too many times," she mumbled as she began walking away from him. At a loss for words, he just stood there and watched her go.

  Beneath the tallest ocotillo plant she could find, she sat down. An ocotillo, with it's long thin shoots and almost non-existent head, provided almost no shade against the hot morning sun. And after her walk—though less than a mile—she was already bathed with sweat.

  But she had to sit down near something and the ocotillo provided the only possibility. She had always done this. Back in Tyler, even as a little girl, when sad or angry she'd go to one of the trees in the park near her house and just sit beneath it. Then she'd pull at the grass or doodle in the dirt or, sometimes, just cry. Then, after a while, she'd stand up and go back home or back to school and be basically OK. From her psych classes, she knew it was her form of release. Some people got in fights, other people yelled or went shopping or drinking. She went and sat under a tree. Rarely, after she had become a teenager and such moods came upon her, she went to the movies because there she wasn't forced to think.

  So the ocotillo didn't provide much shade, if any, but it was a plant and it was the biggest thing she could find. She sat under it cross-legged with her hands tightly clasped in front of her and her head bowed and she tried to doodle in the sand. But she just couldn't force doodling, so pretty soon she was doing what she had known all along she would probably do once she found the right spot: she cried.

  She thought back to her days at A&M, as one of the first women inducted into the officer corps, and she remembered being taught not to cry. The school had not taught that curriculum and the upperclassmen hadn't taught it, but her fellow female candidates had done their best to teach it to each other. They were going to be as good as the men in every way and part of that was going to mean turning off their emotions and fighting like men. It had seemed like a good idea at the time and, sometimes, had actually seemed to help her in her pursuit of her commission and academic excellence.

  Now, though, it just seemed senseless. She was a woman and every woman knew that there were just some times when you had to cry. She wasn't entirely sure this was one of those times, but she knew once she got started that she couldn't stop and she didn't really want to stop, either. So she let the tears flow and the sobs come and tried her best to figure out or deny why she was crying. She didn't make much headway in either direction.

  Sunday afternoon all but one of the survivors of Crockett, including Carter and Whitey, had gathered at the train station to see Kerrigan off. Many of them would soon be shipped out to other posts—in fact Davies had already received orders for Lafayette—but Kerrigan was the first to go and it was a bittersweet moment for all of them. Aside from Carter—who had been Kerrigan's wingman—and Whitey, who had grown up in the same small town as Kerrigan, albeit a couple grades behind in school—none of them knew him very well. Yet they all felt like they shared a special bond. A bond that they knew would never be broken but on this day was going to begin to weaken.

  Kerrigan saluted them each in turn, then shook hands with each of them as well. A couple gave him quick hugs and many were coughing to disguise the lumps in their throats. No one was enjoying this parting. Neither were they enjoying the certainty that there were many more to come. In each person's mind was the question of who would be the last "Crocketteer" left at Marathon. While everyone wanted to stay, no one wanted to be the last one left, either.

  Neither was anyone mentioning the one obvious no-show at this farewell though everyone present was dying to ask the same question: "Where's Lieutenant Dalmouth?" She had flown her regular patrol on Saturday and Major Sherman had seen her in the officer's women's barracks early Sunday morning, but she was AWOL from this meeting. As they talked about it, no one had seen her at the chapel service, either—an event that had become quite well attended since the recent escalation of hostilities.

  Kerrigan had worked his way down the line, which had brought him last to Whitey. Leaning on crutches now and trying his best to get command to let him go back to work—he did most of his best vehicle work lying on his back, anyway, he had told them—Whitey smiled and said, "Soon's this war's over, you can find me sitting on the front steps of the bank, drinking one of those lemon phosphates from the drug store."

  Kerrigan nodded and said, "I'll be there. We'll get your brother and Olan King and James Strain and some of those guys and go play some football on the courthouse lawn." He smiled and said, "Remember that time those yahoos stole that slot machine out of the back of the diner and the owner tried to get your brother to go after 'em?"

  "I'll be glad to be back there," Whitey nodded with a laugh, remembering the story—and several othrs. "Reckon things'll have changed much?"

  "Things never change in Haskell. You know that."

  The train whistled then and the conductor called out, "All aboard!"

  Kerrigan nodded to them all and stepped up onto the train. He stood on the platform looking out on the desert scenery he had hated so long and now didn't want to leave. He realized then that it was never the desert he had hated, but the tour of duty he was stuck with while in it. The conductor stepped down to pull up the wooden step, only to be halted by a voice shouting, "Wait!"

  Suddenly, a red-haired ball of fire was jumping up onto the platform between cars and throwing her arms around Kerrigan. Before he could even begin to return the hug she was explaining, "I was just going to go out into the desert and sulk but then about five minutes ago I realized if I let you go without saying goodbye I would hate myself forever."

  Kerrigan finally returned the hug, with a little trepidation. Lt. Dalmouth didn't have an ounce of fat on her, but neither would she have been called petite—even with her lack of height. His thoughts about how fit and muscled and solid she was were all just poor ruses to keep from admitting to himself how nice it felt to hold someone in his arms again. Even someone, he remarked to himself with an odd sort of bemusement, who was so sweaty.

  The reality of time and place soon made itself known as the conductor said, "I hate to interrupt, officers, but we need to get moving."

  They broke off the hug with a pair of militarily precise nods and Lt. Dalmouth looked up at Captain Kerrigan and said softly, "Goodbye Jason. I'll be looking for you at—at that Crockett reunion when the war's over."

  "I'll keep my eye out for you, too." He hesitated, then added with a smile, "That red hair's, um, kind of hard to miss. But, uh, I will miss it. Goodbye, Bronwyn."

  She started to turn away, to go down the steps, then suddenly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. It was somehow as if she had thrown her whole being into the kiss and planted one on him that was the culmination of every good thought she had ever had. It had happened so quickly, though,
he was unable to generate a response before she had broken off the kiss and descended the steps to be replaced by the ascending conductor. The conductor gave the signal to the engineer and the train began to labor its way away from the train station. Kerrigan looked until the station was out of sight but was never able to catch another site of the red-haired lieutenant. She had somehow disappeared just as instantaneously and mysteriously as she had appeared.

  "Your girl?" the conductor asked, a smile on his face.

  "No, uh, just a friend."

  "If I had a friend who looked like that and kissed me like that, I think I'd want her to be more than just a friend."

  After jumping off the train, Bronwyn noticed for the first time that all the rest of the Crocketteers were standing there watching with either looks of humor or dumbfoundedness on their faces. At this realization, her face turned so red the freckles almost disappeared and she burst through the crowd at a run and ducked through the depot.

  Sergeant Davies found her with her head against the wall of the depot. At first she thought she was crying, then she thought maybe she had hit her head against the wall—on purpose. Not knowing for sure whether to say something or leave it alone, Davies finally walked over and asked, "Lieutenant? Are you all right?" When Bronwyn didn't reply immediately, Davies added, "Or should I just butt out and mind my own business?"

  Bronwyn straightened up, put her had on, and then turned to Davies. She finally smiled and said, "I'm all right. Nothing like a little abject embarrassment to get the week off to a good start, huh?"

  "Embarrassment? For what? A little breach of military protocol?"

  "Oh, the military aspect is only the tip of the iceberg, Sergeant." Bronwyn looked at her watch and asked, "What are you doing this afternoon, Sergeant?"

  "Nothing planned, ma'am. Do you have something in mind?"

  "Well, I know we don't know each other hardly at all, but we've been through Hell together and, um, what would you say to a little girl talk?" Adding a smile that was genuine—unlike the earlier versions—she added, "One fiery red-head to another?"

  "I would like that, ma'am." It was a surprise to Davies, not just because she didn't know the lieutenant well, but because the lieutenant had come across as such a tough-as-nails officer that it was easy to forget she was a woman. So this offer had struck a chord with Davies because she, too, had not always felt she fit in with the other girls, owing to her love of sports.

  Bronwyn started to take a step, then turned and said, "First thing, Sergeant. For the duration of this conversation, you're going to call me Bronwyn and I'm going to call you . . . whatever your first name is." Blushing, she put a hand on Davies shoulder and said, "I'm sorry. I don't even know your first name."

  "No one does. I never cared for it, myself." Seeing that the Lieutenant wasn't going to let go of her shoulder until she revealed her first name, Davies finally shrugged and said, "It's Raejean. Rayjean Elizabeth Davies."

  Bronwyn removed her hand and asked, "If you don't like Raejean, it seems like you've got a lot of possibilities to work with. Jean. Elizabeth. Liz. Libby. Beth. Tell you what. You tell me what you want me to call you."

  "You know," Davies said after she had thought a moment, "I always did kind of like Liz. But the teachers always just called me what my papers said so I never really thought about changing it."

  "Then, Liz, let's go over to that diner I saw in town and have some girl talk." Smiling again, she added, "Of course, if this were real girl talk—like we used to do in school—we'd go back to one of our bedrooms and do each others hair."

  "Oh, please no," Liz laughed. "I'm a barber all day long. The last thing I want to do is someone's hair."

  The diner was too hot, so they had taken their iced teas and slices of pie out to a picnic table at what passed for a city park across the street. It was flat and bleak and the grass looked terrible and Bronwyn had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't a whole lot prettier before the war. There were some rusted swingsets and a slide that looked like it ought to be condemned on which children who needed tetnus shots were playing.

  "You know," Liz said as she played with a bite of pie, "I promised Private Clark that I would do her hair as soon as she was able to sit up. She had this really pretty face and I knew exactly how I'd do it. Kind of part it in the middle and curl it under at the shoulders and give her some bangs. Might've made her look a little bit younger, but I think it would have been really cute on her."

  "Private Clark. Was she the one that, um, with the broken back?"

  "Yeah."

  "Sorry I never met her. She must have really been something to have survived under that pile of debris like she did. I would have been scared to death laying under there."

  "Yeah, I have nightmares that it's me under there. Then I have more nightmares about watching her die. I think I knew when she died, but I just didn't want to admit it."

  Bronwyn nodded but, not wanting to continue much further down this road, asked, "Do you have a boyfriend, Liz?"

  Liz smiled and held up her left hand, showing off the ring. "My fiance just mailed me this ring this week. I had a cheap, costume one I used to wear, but he sent me this one just this week. Can't imagine how he found it, what with everything going on. Or how much it must have cost him."

  "Congratulations! Where is he?"

  "Somewhere in France. He couldn't say where. But he's supposed to be on leave next Christmas and we're going to get married. We've known each other since second grade." She chuckled and added, "Hated each other all the way up until senior year."

  "What changed?"

  "We got stuck on a science project together." Laughing again, she queried, "Who would have thought that romance could blossom among the remains of a fetal pig."

  "Oh gross, Liz!" Bronwyn injected with a laugh. "That's disgusting. So what, you have special memories of him now every time you eat bacon?"

  "Yuck!" Liz replied. "To tell you the truth, I couldn't eat any pork for a long time after that. But anyhow, we started dating and, just before he got shipped out, he asked me to marry him. I said yes, then joined up myself just to have something to do until he gets back."

  "Do you, um," Bronwyn hesitated, looking at her food for a few moments, then continued, "Do you—I mean, I guess it's reality—but do you wonder about him not coming back? Wonder what you'd do?"

  The smile disappeared as Liz shrugged, "I guess that is the reality of war but, well, I don't believe in planning for the worst. If it happens, I guess I'd find a way to live with it, but I'd rather plan on getting married and what we're going to name our kids and everything. Truth be told, I could be the one who doesn't come back."

  "You mean you might not marry him?"

  "No, I mean I'm in the military now, too. And even though I'm a barber, I was on a base that got bombed out of existence. I sent him a telegram telling him I was OK, by the way. 'Cause I knew he would hear about the base and have no idea I was one of the lucky thirteen."

  After a few moments of eating their pie in silence, Liz asked, "What about you?"

  "What about me?" Bronwyn returned, truthfully not clear on what Liz meant by the question.

  "Well, um, what about your love life? Are you in love with the Captain?" At the flush in Bronwyn's face, Liz quickly said, "Sorry. It's none of my business. I just was making conversation and I thought maybe that's why you wanted to talk—"

  Bronwyn held up a hand and said, "It's all right. I, um, it is what I wanted to talk about, but I, um, don't know what I want to say."

  "That's all right. We don't have—"

  Bronwyn shook her head again and said, "I've got to talk to someone." Forcing a smile she said, "And if you can't talk to your barber—and you don't drink—who can you talk to, right?"

  "Right," Liz nodded with a laugh.

  "Well, Liz, how do I—how did you know you were in love with—you didn't tell me his name."

  "Robert. His name's Robert."

  "How did you know you were in love with Robert?
" Trying to lighten what she was afraid was about to become a serious moment, Bronwyn added, "I mean, how did you know it wasn't just the formaldehyde the pig had been soaking in?"

  Liz laughed genuinely, then answered seriously, "I never thought of that. No, seriously. There is that . . . 'ushy-gushy' feeling at the first. But I think—at least for me—that I knew I was in love when those feelings started leaving and I still wanted to be around him. I mean, those feelings aren't entirely gone, but they're replaced by, um, better things. Longer-lasting things. It's like love stopped being a feeling and started being, well, my whole being." She shrugged helplessly and said, "I really can't tell you how I know I'm in love but I can tell you I am."

  "How do you know—when did you know—that Roger loved you?"

  "Robert. Same answer. I just do." She looked up nervously and asked, "Am I allowed to ask why you're asking all this?"

  "This is girl talk. You can ask anything." Bronwyn laid down her fork and, after a bit, responded, "I don't know. Maybe it's just a crush. Lord knows he's never done anything to show me that he feels the same way. So maybe it's just schoolgirl silliness."

  "Do you feel silly?"

  "When I'm around him? I sure do." She chuckled, a forced laugh, then said, "I feel so stupid. Maybe it's just because we've been thrown together this past week. Maybe it's just some schoolgirl thing. All I know for sure is that I just embarrassed the heck out of myself and I don't know if the bright side is that I'll probably never see him again or if the downside is that I'll probably never see him again."

  "Well, you can be sure of one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "After that sendoff he's never going to forget you."

  As the sun had set on the eastbound train, Jason thought back to the first time he had ridden a train. It had been August of 1941, the summer before Texas entered the war. He had been a nineteen-year-old college student about to start his sophomore year at Tech—studying to be an engineer—and he and his new bride had ridden the train to Fort Worth for a short honeymoon before taking up residence together in Lubbock that fall.