“It's right down on Fourth Avenue, darling. We can hop a cab and be there in five minutes.”
“I'll see it when it's up in Ithaca, Peter.”
Upon our return home, I lost no time in getting to the store for I wanted to see what progress had been made in my absence. It was still my dream some day to own a very large place—; an elaborate place with a long fountain and red-leather stools and a well-stocked drug department with several clerks in white coats to wait upon customers.
After a cursory inspection, I started home again. Anita had warned me about being late for supper and I had lingered quite a while with Doc Turnbull whom I had chanced to encounter. I hurried along down State Street at a good clip.
It was already growing dark as I passed the railroad station. The lighted windows of a halted Pullman stretched like a string of yellow beads far down the track. The train was preparing to creep out, bound west; its engine snorted at ever decreasing intervals. The few passengers who had alighted passed close to me, sweating beneath their burdens of satchels and valises. They were all headed in the direction from which I had come.
“Travel,” I chuckled to myself, “is not all it's cracked up to be. Moving all the time, packing and unpacking, sleeping in cramped quarters, trying to keep the dust out of your eyes and ears.... They can have it. I'll stay here.”
One of the passengers looked very familiar and as he approached me he saluted me with a cheerful wave of his hand. I squinted in his direction.
It was Leo Carpenter.
You can imagine what conflicting emotions took possession of me as I continued toward home. Since my marriage I had not thought of him, so busy was I in accustoming myself to a wedded state. Leo was something out of the past—;a smoked cigarette, a match which had flared for a minute and then been extinguished.
And while Anita, of course, had not forgotten his existence, I was certain that she had dismissed him from her thoughts. That she no longer cared for him, she had proven to me by the solemn act of marriage.
Yet, because we lived in a small community, we would have to rub elbows with him often. It was a delicate situation and I was at a loss to know the proper attitude to adopt. That Leo and Anita had been engaged was common gossip; if we avoided contact with him it would seem as though we were afraid of him. On the other hand, if we accepted him as a friend and allowed him to call at our home, there might be malicious rumors circulated that he still loved her and intended, if he could, to win her away from me.
Naturally I expected Anita to bear him a grudge and refuse to have anything to do with him, but when I informed her that I had seen him, she evinced no anger. Indeed she gave no sign that it mattered one way or the other except that her hand shook a little as she cut me another helping of pie. She offered no comments.
Neither did I ask her for any. Anita, I reasoned, would be capable of deciding what course to pursue. As for myself, comfortably assured of my wife's devotion, it did not matter how we treated Carpenter.
There were two reasons, though, why I wished we could be friends with him. First of all, I felt sorry for the fellow. He had lost what I had won. Then, too, there was the store. Doctor Carpenter was a very good customer. Like old Doc Turnbull, he brought me all his prescription work. That trade alone netted me five hundred dollars a year and, in the event that Anita decided to feud, he would be forced to trade at Cavender's.
The evening after his arrival he came into the place. I could see by his face that the news had reached him. He looked pale and tensely drawn and not at all the dapper man-about-town. Of course our marriage might not have been the cause of it all. He was in mourning clothes. I remembered about his father being ill.
He came straight to the prescription counter with his hand outstretched. “Congratulations, Pete,” he said quietly. “I wish you all the luck in the world. I know you'll make her happy.”
I hardly expected that he would be such a good sport about it. In his place I knew that I would have been absolutely miserable. But then I remembered that he had never loved her—;or so it had struck me. “Thanks, doctor. You bet I will. I suppose it was something of a shock to you, eh? So sudden and all that!”
“Yes. But that's the way things happen, you know. Suddenly.”
I looked at his black suit. “I'm sorry to hear that your...”
He interrupted me before I could get any farther. I could see that he wanted to change the subject. “Hmm. Store looks nice, Pete. But what are you going to put in that big empty place?” He indicated the long, bare strip where I intended to install my fountain when it arrived.
“Secret, Doctor Carpenter. Come in next week and see for yourself.”
But he never did see it. Within a week, Carpenter closed up his big house on the Heights, dismissed all the servants, recommended Doc Turnbull to many of his patients, and enlisted in the army. Although I enlisted shortly after, I never saw him again until a few weeks ago—; September 9, 1937 to be precise—;in his handsome New York City residence.
I bluntly admit that I am cowardly by nature; yet, despite this, I was not drafted into the army. I volunteered. This is not a boast but a statement of fact which, I presume, sounds paradoxical. But I have met many like myself at the front who, listening to martial music and the stirring speeches of wartime orators, could not resist rallying to the colors. During many a night in muddy French dug-outs I wondered at this rash act of mine. Volunteering had been so unlike me. At length it dawned on me that I had done it to impress Anita.
This seems to me to be the most logical reason because I have always tried to impress her. I would never have dreamed of confessing my timidity to her and, if she were still alive, I would not be confessing it here. I remember that whenever a situation arose which required firm handling, in her presence I would handle it firmly—;instead of the meek attitude I took when there were no witnesses. I am referring now to the incident of the iceman, shortly after we were married. The man had gotten into an argument with Anita over a late delivery. The food in our ice-chest had spoiled and the tongue-lashing the man received provoked him. He began to shout back at her insolently. I forced myself to step in and ordered the fellow from the house. Curiously enough, he obeyed. As he stood hesitantly in the open door, I shouted: “Get out of here and don't come back!” After he had closed the door, I added ferociously for Anita's benefit: ”... or I'll dust off the furniture with you, you worm!”
All the eligible men in Ithaca were enlisting. Even students from up on the hill and married men who were exempt. Although in my heart I knew that I would make a poor soldier—;being much more valuable at home, keeping people fit—;I was afraid that my reticence would be noticed. I took to circling an entire block to avoid passing the enlistment office on Seneca Street where a pretty town girl was drumming up recruits. However, it did not matter so much what other people thought of me, as long as Anita did not feel ashamed.
One day when I came home from work I thought I'd test her. I figured that her face would give her away if she really thought me a coward. I mentioned the fact that I contemplated joining up.
She did not throw her arms around my neck and beg me not to go as the wives in plays did (and as I had hoped she would do). She merely nodded her approval and said: “Good idea, Peter. Uncle Sam needs everyone. I've been thinking of joining the Red Cross. And don't worry about the store,” she went on quickly, “because that lame Murphy boy has just graduated as a pharmacist. He can look after things until you get back. The war can't last much longer now that we're in it.”
I saw then that there was no getting out of it. I silently cursed myself for having left myself wide open. “But how do you know that Tom Murphy...?”
Oh, don't worry, will you? He said he'd be only too glad to....” She stopped in embarrassment. As my eyebrows went up in surprise, she rushed on, “Oh, I knew you'd want to enlist sooner or later. So I thought I'd sound him out before Ray Cavender thought of it.”
The following day as I stood in line before the r
ecruiting office she waited to one side. I remember that she was smiling—;not broadly, but only with the corners of her mouth—;as though something amused her. I think that she might have suspected my meek spirit and half-expected that I would make a break and run for it before it was too late! Of course, I did no such thing; although I don't mind admitting that I would have liked to have done so—;and probably would have, had I not foreseen the disgrace resulting from such an act.
So I signed the enlistment papers with a great show of unconcern, easily passed the physical examination, and rejoined Anita at the curb. As we walked down Seneca toward North Albany where young Murphy lived, my chest swelled with pride and my knees felt curiously weak.
“Well. Peter,” smiled Anita, “you're in the army now.”
“Yes,” I replied.
A few days later I received orders assigning me to Camp Mills, out on Long Island, for training. I was to leave immediately. At the station many of the men were hoping that their wives would not cry. Something told me that Anita would not; but I was not so sure about myself....
Anyway, late 1917 found me in France, a very bewildered apothecary armed with a rifle in place of the familiar pestle. And a more peculiar soldier never buttoned an ill-fitting uniform blouse over a quaking heart. My quiet garden and the lake now were replaced by a filthy trench, a sea of mud, tangled wire and the grim, ploughed furrows of war.
I will not bore you by going into a long dissertation on the causes, results and horrors of international strife. More capable persons have tried it before me to no avail. To the young, the exempt or the uninitiated, war seems an adventure, a thrilling episode during which one has the rare opportunity of becoming a hero. If that is so, all I can say is that it was a thrill and an adventure I would prefer not having again. And I am certainly not alone in this.
Oh, yes, I can understand the quickening of the pulse whenever a flag goes by and how handsome the boys look in their khaki and steel helmets. But it is easy to feel heroic at home, far from the awful front, surrounded by friends and pretty girls. I think that if recruits were allowed one day of fighting before finally electing to join the army, no country would be able to raise troops.
But this is not a war story; it is a confession, if you wish to call it that, of what led me to commit the crime of which I am supposed to be guilty, and the war plays no part in it with the exception of two incidents. One of them is the shell-shock I suffered; the other I relate here.
In my company were three men to whom I became very much attached. Two of them—;Carter and Mullins—;were privates like myself. The third was a huge fellow by the name of Wilkinson, my platoon sergeant. War and the ever-present threat of death can forge close friendships, even among people from different walks of life; but, I maintain, pinochle can forge closer ones. We played through more than seven months of front-line fire—;the four of us—; and it helped. At first I could not keep my mind on the cards with the low rumble of the big guns and the occasional screams of the German “minnies” in my ears; but when I saw how unperturbed the others seemed, I felt ashamed to flinch and soon I became almost as hardened to sounds as they were.
Strange how four men can get together and become friends with no more in common than a ragged deck of cards! Carter, in peace time, was a shoe salesman; Mullins, a landscape gardener; and Wilkinson, a policeman on the Yonkers force. Only infrequently did they mention their professions. Carter once delivered a long and obscene monologue on the subject of his regulation shoes. “I think they put hobnails on the inside, too!” he grumbled. Mullins once or twice commented briefly on the ravished landscape; and Sergeant Wilkinson, or “Sarge” as we called him, never felt at home with a Springfield. At those times when we had to mount the firing-step, he would pop away with his treasured police revolver. I would stand beside him, firing round after round, hoping that I was not hitting anyone.
For war or no war, the world safe or unsafe for democracy, I could not bring myself to want to kill anybody. Pointing a gun at a person and pressing the trigger was still murder to my way of thinking. The knowledge that I was legally entitled to do it did not seem to make the slightest particle of difference. I did not hate anyone. Why should I kill?
Perhaps this was not a very patriotic attitude to take. Maybe I should have taken a certain pride in killing off my country's enemies. But I couldn't help feeling that the enemy ranks contained many young men like myself into whose unwilling hands guns had been thrust. My own life, up until the war broke out, had been spent in trying to relieve pain, not to inflict it. But when I broached this subject, the Sarge sniffed. “Either you fill their bellies with lead or they fill yours. Take your pick.” I solved the problem by keeping carefully out of the line of fire whenever possible and by trying to miss each shot it was my military duty to fire.
One night in October, a second lieutenant came into our dug-out and asked us to volunteer for a wire-cutting detail. “If you don't make too much noise, there shouldn't be any trouble. The Boche are in Exermont, drinking schnapps and eating pigs' knuckles and sauerkraut. I haven't the foggiest notion why this wire must be cut unless we're going to attack... but orders are orders.”
The Sarge nodded affably and asked, “Is it all right with you guys?”
Carter reached for his shoes without a word. Mullins, in disgust, threw his cards face-up on the table. “You would have to come in now and bust up the first decent hand I've had in a month!” he grunted to the lieutenant.
I hesitated a second. Venturing out into no-man's-land was something I was not particularly anxious to do. But I felt four sets of eyes turn my way. I tried my best to appear unafraid of the task which, I knew very well, was within my province to refuse. “Oh, hell,” I said flippantly but with trembling lips, I'm afraid. “Why not? I could use a breath of air.”
A shallow attempt at bravado but no one seemed to notice.
A few minutes later the four of us squirmed over the trench parapet and wiggled toward the wire entanglements. Luckily it was very dark and the enemy opposite us were firing Very lights only once in a great while. Notwithstanding, I was terribly frightened; so much so, that when I caught my wrap-arounds on a strand of wire, I lost my head and yanked them free with a loud ripping noise. Carter, Mullins and the Sarge flung themselves face-downward on the soggy ground and lay still. I quickly followed suit and heard Wilkinson cursing me roundly under his breath. But when nothing happened, we resumed our cautious crawling. My heart was pounding so hard against my chest that I felt certain it could be heard by anyone within a mile of us.
When at length we reached the wire we had been instructed to cut, the four of us went into a whispered conference on our bellies. “You go off to the right, Thatcher,” the Sarge muttered between his teeth, “and get into a shell-hole. Keep your eye peeled. For Chris' sake don't go to sleep. The Heinies may have a party out, too. Mullins, you mosey over to that stump on the left. Carter and I will tackle the wire.”
I was very glad to crawl into that shell-hole, believe me; and while I didn't like the idea of being separated from the others, I was infinitely grateful that I would be out of danger if shooting began. However, no sooner did I flatten myself at the muddy bottom of the hole when I felt something rub against my knee. Squinting into the inky darkness, I drew my trench-knife, believing that I might have to kill a rat. At that moment someone decided to fire up a light.
I was lying beside a German private!
He seemed as surprised as I was. We gaped open-mouthed at one another's uniforms. Terror froze the blood in my veins for an instant; then it galvanized me into action. I suddenly became conscious of what I held in my hand and, as he muttered something guttural, I drove the trench-knife deep into his neck.
When you took up this book you expected a confession. Well, now you've got one. That deed, in my own estimation, was a murder. You disagree? It was self-defense? It really wasn't anything of the kind. He had no weapon in his hand; neither did he show any sign that he meant to attack me.
But you still think I was right in killing him? I'm sorry, but I don't understand such reasoning. If only someone would explain it to me! Killing Anita who deserved to die—;that was a crime? Killing a boy whose only fault was having been born in Germany—;that was not?
Twenty years have passed since that awful night and this outrageous misinterpretation of justice still remains to plague my logic. I have asked everyone—;priests, convicts, judges, cops —;but no one seems to know. Well, never mind.
Ten short minutes seemed an eternity. I lay beside the man I had killed, waiting for some signal from the Sarge. The enemy were firing many more Verys now and that, I suppose, was the reason for the delay. I tried to keep my eyes off the corpse but it was a difficult feat in that small area. In my hand I still clutched the knife and, as light after light went up, I stared horrified at the sticky blood that covered my hand up to the wrist. I tried to wipe it off on my pants.
My three comrades found me that way. The Sarge looked down at the body and then patted me on the shoulder. “Nice work,” he said in a whisper. “You got him in the right place, kid. There was a Fritz party out tonight. This guy must've been a look-out. We saw 'em in time. If this baby had opened his yap, we'd all of us be pushin' up the daisies now.” Then he callously began to search the dead man's pockets. “Got to look for maps and stuff,” he explained. “Of course, he ain't carryin' any. He's only a buck from the rear rank. But he might have a stogie on him or a pack of butts.”
The next morning while I was shaving, I remembered that I had taken a life. I peered at my reflection in the steel mirror, wondering how much the deed had changed me. I knew that I had changed inside... but outside I looked the same.
On the night of October 4, 1918 we made our bid for Exermont. I should say, they made their bid; for I deserted.
Deserted in the face of the enemy. Say it. Go ahead, I don't care. I had had enough of the war. But before you condemn me, imagine what might have happened if everybody had followed my example. There would have been no more war. There would have been nothing left to shoot at.
Double Jeopardy Page 4