“Me? About what?”
“About being a veteran. About the First World War.”
“To fifth graders?”
“It’ll be the whole school and parents are invited too. It would mean a lot to Jeffrey.”
“I’m not much of a speaker.”
“Baloney. You’ll do fine and Jeffrey will be thrilled. It’s three weeks from this Friday. I’ll drive you.”
Our artillery had been bombing that line for six days and nights, trying to smash the German barbed-wire entanglements, but they hadn’t made any impact…
The result was that we never got anywhere near the Germans. Never got anywhere near them. Our lads were mowed down. They were just simply slaughtered.
—W. H. Shaw, British Army.
THE STAGE was much brighter than I had expected and I had to squint as I sat in a chair near the podium waiting to be introduced by an extremely tall and thin and dire-looking principal named Mrs. Pertosi, who smelled distinctly of Play-Doh. I regretted immediately not bringing my cane. But at least I could hold on to the podium. I pulled out my small notebook from my breast pocket and scanned it, making sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, then glanced down at my fly.
“And now it’s my pleasure to introduce a very special friend of Jeffrey Fields from Miss Meyer’s fifth-grade class. At the robust age of eighty-one, Mr. Patrick Delaney is still going strong some sixty-two years after defending our nation’s values in the First World War, which, in case some of you have forgotten, was the one that came before the Second World War.” Scattered laughter.
“Let’s all extend a big hand to Mr. Delaney.”
The applause was louder than I had expected, which felt good. I stood slowly and headed toward the podium, careful to watch my footing. I shook Mrs. Pertosi’s hand, which was large and damp, and then grabbed on to the podium with both hands to balance myself. The microphone, too high at first, was too low after Mrs. Pertosi’s adjustments. I stooped toward it. “Thank you, yes, thank you.” The room hushed, except for a low drone of coughs and sneezes.
“Well then, war.”
Looking out at all the faces turned up toward me I searched for one I could lock in on, but they all seemed to homogenize into an indistinguishable mass teetering between curiosity and boredom. The stage lights felt warm and excessively bright and I wondered if they were magnified through my glasses, which I’d forgotten to clean.
“Well, perhaps the first thing you should understand is that—contrary to popular belief—the First World War was not conducted in black and white.” Laughter. “Nor, as I try to tell my grandchildren, was my own childhood.” More laughter.
“It’s actually an important point, if you think about it.” Silence. “Maybe some of you have seen old footage of the war. Let me assure you that we did not march that fast.” A few laughs.
“It was early 1918 when I landed in France. The war had been going on since 1914, when Germany invaded Belgium and France for all sorts of complicated reasons. And it was, well, it was like nothing I had ever imagined. Certainly not like the books I’d read with glorious saber charges and all that.”
I felt a stabbing pain in my abdomen.
“There is an old saying that hatred for an enemy increases with distance from the battlefield, and even though we felt the Germans were our enemy, I think that’s true. A Frenchman named Marie-Paul Rimbault once wrote, ‘There’s nothing so like a German soldier in his trench than a French soldier in his. They are both poor sods and that’s all there is to it.’ And I can tell you another thing: a dead German soldier looks a hell of a lot like a dead American.”
The faces remained unmoved. Just coughing and the creaking of wooden seats.
Silly, isn’t this Daniel, me standing up here trying to put things into words. I’m no good at this. What should 1 tell them? That war is bad? Well, we can’t have Hitler running the show now can we? That even winning is not that much fun? That war is the best foundry for friendships? That’s an interesting point, isn’t it? That if only war didn’t kill it would be the best thing to happen to most people, showing them how much they need each other, how important every moment and every friend is. But then the war took those friendships away. Shall I tell them that, too? Shall I tell them how war strips everything down to its elemental beauty and horror, so that you can behold every nook and cranny of the human soul? But how?
There was a large blue pitcher of water on the podium and I poured myself a glass, which was difficult because when I picked the pitcher up it felt unexpectedly heavy and the ice cubes came tumbling into my glass much faster than I had anticipated. I used both hands and when I finished I took a sip from the glass and thought of what to say next. When I leaned back toward the microphone the sound system made feedback noises, which stopped when I tapped the microphone with my finger.
“There is one thing that scares soldiers more than dying and that’s being forgotten. Maybe it’s different now but I don’t think so. When World War II started, the War Graves Commission from the First War still hadn’t finished accounting for all the dead. Well, if you ever go to France you’ll see all the cemeteries and monuments, the dead from one war right next to another. It’s quite something, to think that a soldier from the Second World War could take cover behind the headstone of his father who fell in the First War.
“But you’re probably more interested in what the war was like from a soldier’s point of view.” I took another sip of water. “Well, believe it or not it was awfully boring at times. There’s a great deal of marching and waiting around and just trying to keep comfortable. We were in trenches most of the time. Sort of a technological stalemate. Why, a person could walk from the North Sea to Switzerland without poking their nose above ground. The first gas attack—by the Germans—was during the Second Battle of Ypres in April 1915. Caused terrible panic. The first tanks were used in September 1916 by the British during the Battle of the Somme. But it was really the artillery and the machine gun that ruled the day, though dogfights were something to watch.
“But maybe I should tell you about the stretcher-bearers. There was this young fellow… now what was his name?”
I stopped again and sipped more water. My face felt hot and I wondered if I could ask that the lights be turned down. Was that Jeffrey down there in the front? I looked for Sarah but couldn’t find her.
“Let’s see, where was I? Well, there were different types of gases. Chlorine gas. Phosgene gas. Mustard gas. There was nothing to do for the victims but watch them suffocate. Maybe the best way to tell you about the effects of gas is to read a passage from something I’ve brought along.”
I searched my coat pockets twice before finding the piece of paper folded in an inside pocket. I opened it and laid it flat on the podium, pressing the creases with my palm. “It was written by a nurse. She wrote:
“‘I wish those people who write so glibly about this being a holy war… could see a case—to say nothing of ten cases—of mustard gas in its early stages—could see the poor things burnt and blistered all over with great mustard-coloured suppurating blisters, with blind eyes… all sticky and stuck together, and always fighting for breath, with voices a mere whisper, saying that their throats are closing and they know they will choke.’”
I folded the piece of paper and placed it back in my jacket pocket. When I looked out again I could only see the lights. I felt dizzy and leaned hard against the podium.
“The first day of the Battle of the Somme was the bloodiest day of the war. The British alone suffered some sixty thousand casualties. Can you imagine such a thing? Rows of men fourteen miles long walking shoulder to shoulder into German machine-gun fire? The hospitals were so swamped that thousands of wounded were sent across the Channel to Britain without even having their wounds cleaned. The trains—endless gray trains—pulled up to Charing Cross and Paddington stations in London, full of the wounded. And over at Victoria Station, well that’s where many of the men began their journey to the front, hundreds of
thousands of them waving good-bye to loved ones. If you go there you might stand still for a moment, close your eyes and then look for the sea of khaki on the platforms. Try to see their faces, if you can, and then look at the faces of their mothers and fathers and wives and children. During the war the stone archway there became known as the Gate of Good-bye.”
I paused and pulled a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe my forehead. “Did you know that on the eve of World War II more than three thousand British veterans of the previous war were still confined to mental asylums? No you didn’t, did you? And even now, around Verdun, some ten million unexploded shells still sleep in the soil.” I took a few steps back, struggling to maintain my balance. “Well, what else can I tell you about the war, about being a veteran of the war?” I wiped my forehead again, slowly folding the handkerchief before returning it to my pocket. Then I looked out into the white lights and felt a tremendous sadness that made it difficult to talk.
I can’t make them understand, Daniel. I can’t make anybody understand. Maybe you could have but I can’t. I never have been able to. Except for Julia. She understood.
I steadied myself and cleared my throat. “You probably didn’t know that I’m the last of them, did you? It’s true. All gone but me, an old cracked vessel that holds their lives frozen in my memory. But after me?”
I took another sip of water and then felt another sharp pain in my stomach as I gripped the podium. There was lots of coughing and throat-clearing, or maybe it wasn’t that. I listened closely, closing my eyes to hear better.
“Who’s out there?” I squinted into the lights but could not see. “Daniel?”
“Mr. Delaney?”
“Is that you, Daniel?”
“Mr. Delaney?”
“Our artillery hadn’t destroyed their entanglements. There was just no way through.”
“Sir, please?”
I stepped back, turning my head to listen. “Daniel, are you in the wire?”
“Please, Mr. Delaney.”
“Daniel’s in the wire.”
“Please, sir.”
The sudden wet warmth in my pants. Blood? Have I been hit? Oh God.
“Come sit down, Mr. Delaney.”
I SPENT all day writing notes of apology to Jeffrey and Sarah and the school but nothing sounded adequate. Maybe tomorrow the proper words will come. Right now I must sleep.
“IT’S BEEN two weeks since I last got a letter from my mysterious friend,” said Sarah, holding her clipboard up to her chest.
“Maybe he’s not well.”
“Wouldn’t he tell me? I hope he hasn’t lost interest.”
“I don’t imagine that.”
“If he was ill I’d want to help him.”
“Yes, of course you would.”
“Funny how important his letters have become to me. Can you miss someone you have never met?”
“Oh, I think so.”
“Well then I miss him.”
ON THE FOURTH day I saw her. She was sitting at a cafe near the Arc de Triomphe drinking coffee and sketching on a small pad. She looked up as I approached and smiled.
“Julia.” I ran toward her and hugged her, feeling my eyes water as I held her and kissed her head, which she buried in the crook of my neck. “Thank God.”
“I had to come,” she said, whispering into my ear.
I pulled back from her and looked into her eyes, then hugged her again. After a moment we sat down. When the waiter came I ordered white wine for both of us.
“Can you stay for a while?” I asked.
“A few days.”
“Spend them with me.”
“But what about—”
“She’s off sight-seeing and shopping a lot with her sister.
I can get away, for a few hours at least.”
She studied my face, then looked down. “I didn’t know if I should come, but I had to.”
“I waited for you every day.”
She smiled and caressed the side of my face with the back of her hand.
When the wine arrived I took a long sip and pulled out my cigarettes, offering her one. She took it, then put her other hand on mine as we watched the pedestrians stroll by. Then she said, “You never told me how Daniel died.”
I finished my glass and set it down gently, then took a deep breath and began slowly, not looking at her: “We were attacking—it was like a seesaw: attack, retreat, counterattack—anyway, there were about five hundred yards between the lines and our sector was to break through at a point softened by our artillery. ‘Get the machine gunners and it’s a walk over,’ that’s what we were told.” I poured myself more wine and took a drink.
“Daniel didn’t seem nervous. He never did to me, but I was terrified. Most of us were. This was the big push. No stopping. ‘The armies of France are depending on you,’ that sort of thing.”
“And?”
“We couldn’t do it.”
“You couldn’t break through?”
“We couldn’t find any openings in the German wire.” I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another one.
“Did… ”
“It’s not an unusual story. Happened all the time.”
“Did you see Daniel?”
“He was right next to me when we went over the top.” I remembered his face; the strange look in his eyes and how he had just started to say something when the whistle went off. What was he going to say?
“He was always right next to me, like he was looking out for me.”
“And then… ”
“We were up and running. All of us. There was so much noise and smoke. Things were flying around. Like a tremendous storm.”
“Did Daniel get to the wire?”
I looked at her, then turned away.
“None of the boys had a chance. They were just cut down.” I heard my voice breaking.
“Did you see Daniel?”
“I saw Daniel.” I was whispering now.
“He was dead?”
I paused, staring up toward the sky.
“Please tell me the truth. It’s all I have left.” She was leaning forward now, holding my hands in hers.
“He was caught in the wire.”
“He died in the wire?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure.”
I nodded.
“And how quickly did he die?”
“Not quickly enough.”
“You could hear him?”
“Yes, I could hear him.”
She buried her head in her hands.
After I paid the bill we got up and walked to Notre Dame and lit a candle. Then we sat near the back and looked up at the stained glass windows and wished to God we still knew how to pray.
“WHO IS SHE?” Martin was standing over my sketch pad, which lay open on my bed.
“Who is who?”
“Who is the woman you keep drawing?”
“Oh, her.” I gestured toward the unfinished charcoal portrait of Julia, which I had drawn the day before. “Just a woman.”
“There is no such thing as ‘just a woman,’” he said, picking up the picture to examine it closely.
“Okay. It’s somebody I once knew.”
“Why do you keep drawing pictures of her?”
I shrugged.
“She’s very pretty.” He gently placed the pad back on the bed.
“She was much prettier than that.”
“Want to tell me about her?”
I thought about it for a moment. “What are your plans for the day?”
“Plans? I don’t have any plans. My schedule is wide open.” He grinned.
I spent the rest of the day telling Martin all about Julia.
THE UNEXAMINED life may not be worth living, but are we sure the examined life is? After nearly a century of scrutinizing my life with forensic intensity, I have my doubts.
It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting at my desk, writing, thinking, puzzling over things; an old tea drinker reading
his last cup of leaves, desperate for revelation. Through the window I can see Howard and Martin playing croquet. Helen crosses the lawn quickly, as though in pursuit of somebody. I draw the blinds, then turn to a fresh page of my journal.
Julia once asked me to what extent I felt I was really my true self in public, and all I could say was very little. She said it’s a pity what a gap there is between our public and private selves, probably the loneliest piece of no-man’s-land in the world, she called it. Then she told me that she was devastated the first time she realized how far apart everybody really was, even close friends.
“What about you and Daniel?” I asked.
“I think we were as close as two people can get, in the time we had.”
“Was it close enough?”
“It was close enough.”
And that’s what we all long for, isn’t it? To connect, if only momentarily, clasping hands across the chasm, which is why drinking buddies at the bar seem almost love-struck as they fall over each other in rapid and raucous agreement; why friends and lovers whisper in intimate code, attempting to bridge the divide with ropes and pulleys and secret handshakes that belie their permanent solitude.
Maybe not being ourselves is what kills us, sometimes decades before we die. Daniel understood that. So did Julia. And they saved me from that, didn’t they? But then they left me.
I open the blinds again and peer out. Martin and Howard are bent over, tugging at a croquet wicket. Helen stands nearby, vigilant. Suddenly she looks at my window and points, a big smile surging across her face, then heads toward the building. I quickly put my journal away, hurry into the bathroom and shut the door.
WE MET the next day at the Eiffel Tower. Julia was standing at the bottom waiting for me. We climbed up to the third platform before stopping to look out over Paris.
“What did you tell Charlotte?” she asked, after catching her breath.
“I told her I wanted to explore some military museums—she would hate that—and that I was meeting Page for dinner.”
Losing Julia Page 27