The Single Solider: a moving war-time drama

by George Costigan

  The men had no idea the Allies had liberated Athens, that Tito and his partisans had entered Belgrade, or the France they were walking to was all free. But Arbel could sense in the eyes of the Mayors and the people of the villages and the farmers who housed them that the boil of Hitler was lanced. These people had no fight left in them. The hate so obvious in the youth on the streets of Ludswigdorf had gone. It might still be there, but it was private now. Good. It should be burnt. Razed like his autumn tares. Hope Ardelle remembered to do them...

  Jerome and Madame Valet sat on the bench. Still there was everything to be said. They talked around the unspeakable for days. Until.

  “Jerome, I want you to do something for me.”

  “That would be a pleasure, Madame.”

  “Go and see your mother.”

  Silence.

  “I could have asked you to come to Church with me...”

  “That would be easier.”

  “To pray for Gaston’s soul...”

  Silence.

  “I don’t believe in those prayers, Madame.”

  “No, neither do I anymore. But I believe your mother has prayers.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And I think Zoe should know her grandmother.”

  “I don’t.”

  Silence.

  “I’ve intruded perhaps; but you owe me something, Lacaze, and that’s what I would like. There are too many holes in this commune.”

  Silence.

  America. The eternity of Loss flooded him.

  An awesome noise approached them. Tanks. They dived, sprawling, into cover of the trees. No swastikas. These had stars on their side. American. Another. Another. An army. The men stood. Walked back towards the road. Each tank had a man sitting up top. When one saw Arbel and the men he threw packs of cigarettes from his tank-top turret. Spread his fingers in a ‘V’ and turned his thumb up when Arbel copied him. Arbel, pointing West, his voice rusty, shouted, “Vive La France!” The soldier threw his thumb up again and passed them, going East to make war.

  They were 200 kms from the French Border. They could be in France for Easter. Maybe.

  Of course someone noticed the grave had been disturbed. The Curé came.

  Jacques opened the door and the dog sniffed at the priest while the Curé tried not to smell Jacques.

  “I told you when your Mother died, that God still has work for you to do.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “God does?”

  “Of course. Ask Him.”

  “I have.”

  “He must answer, Vermande. That’s His Work.”

  They learned their home-land was free of Germans.

  From the Germans who were feeding and housing and helping them.

  The same Germans who, some of them, clearly hated them.

  For their nationality. For the arbitrary geography of their birthplace. As if that were anything to do with one single person walking the planet.

  Fuck God’s work.

  Let Him do it.

  The Germans aren’t coming back. And neither are they. Not from America.

  Other Americans threw chocolate bars, cans of explosive sugary drinks, and pink bubble-gum that Claude said tasted like inner-tubes. Figeac, the garagiste, asked how he knew what inner-tubes tasted like. Then he tried some and agreed. They walked home.

  Claude learned how to blow huge pink bubbles. When one popped and they had to dig the gunk out of his filthy beard he abandoned the gum on a post saying Dornstetten 13 kms.

  Jerome, in lieu of doing as Madame Valet asked, began to drink. And think. And then drink to stop the thinking. And eventually to re-start the thinking.

  America. She could have waited in Spain. Waited and come back – but no – America.

  He went down to the caves, brought back his heavy headed axe, stripped the bedding from his bed – the bed they’d loved in, the bed his son was born in – and hacked the oak to matchwood. The dog went out.

  America.

  Arbel rode ahead each day to charm or demand room, roof, and food for his friends. They all walked together till he rode ahead and they would meet him – and rain, snow, sleet or starry sky – he provided.

  Jerome crossed a threshold.

  He drank in the café. With shivering, fawning Chibret and Duthileul in his window corner. He had shot Gaston Valet out of here and taken his place. Some club.

  America.

  Gone. For ever. Eternity. This whole life.

  What’s it worth now? What’s it for? ‘God’s work..!’

  He stood. A man with a heavy-headed axe in his hand. His life in splinters.

  ‘Stay Living.’

  Black, black joke. Die.

  Yes.

  I can’t.

  But this – and every single possible moment to come – this can’t be Living.

  ‘Stay living.’

  Not worth living. In this. Torture.

  Sara and Zoe and Jerome and Arbel and Ardelle and I’m so jealous and so angry and so empty.

  What’s to live for?

  Meet someone else? He almost laughed. All tears dried now.

  Mother, wife, son, blood, love, gone.

  ‘It’s a Mortal Sin, suicide. There is no forgiveness.’ I told mother once.

  I don’t care a fig for forgiveness – just an end to this. Do it.

  Hang yourself. Here.

  What if Ardelle had to find me? Good. Serve her happiness right!

  See! See? Not fit to Live. Not Fit.

  The well. Don’t think. Don’t think. Act.

  Don’t think any more.

  The axe dropped. Clattered on the floor. The dog followed him out of the house.

  Ardelle watched him pull the bucket up and lay it on the ground. Watched him take off his jacket.

  Watched him climb on to the open mouth.

  Sit on the ledge. Swing his feet into the stone moss-green black hole.

  She screamed.

  Push forward and be gone. Push forward, man!

  Look down – look how deep and still it is. See? Your head’ll hit the sides and you’ll be dead before you drown.

  Peace. All over.

  Gone. Peace.

  “Jacques!!”

  Name of the father and the son and – you can’t say that – you can’t. Those are words He gave us...

  Don’t. Don’t think. Stop! Stop thinking. Just push.

  The dog barked hard.

  “Jacques! No!!”

  It’s Life. Ignore it – it’s done.

  America. Push!

  “Your son, Jacques – your son!”

  What?

  Nothing. Nothing. Push now for Peace.

  Ardelle enveloped him in her peasant’s arms and pulled them both crashing to the ground.

  The clock struck in the village. Quarter to something.

  Jacques’ head clanged. It passed.

  A deep grey pain replaced it, thudding behind his forehead – a drum – pounding. Speaking.

  “I know. I know. I know. I know.” He lay his head on the grass. Cool. Needs cutting. Graze a beast. America. Simone.

  “Jacques?”

  He turned his head to his name and he lay in Ardelle’s arms in his garden.

  Her hands moved to hold his face, hold his eyes.

  “He can never hear his father killed himself. You may not do that. Nothing can ever be that bad.”

  He studied her eyes.

  "I know, Jacques.”

  “I see... that you do.”

  “Good.”

  She loosened her arms and their bodies moved an inch apart.

  “I know,” she said again.

  He waited.

  Silence in the garden.

  The dog approached them low.

  Silence.

  “I’ve been a bad friend,” he managed.

  “We’ve both had troubles.”

  They moved a little more. Enough.

  “You all right?
”

  “Yes. No. You?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Ardelle sat up, looked at him and a charge of maternalism fired through her.

  He sat up a little. Then lay back. His head did hurt. “Come and eat,” she said.

  “I need to sleep.”

  “Come and sleep,” she said. Their eyes locked.

  “Come and be with me.”

  As they walked up the steps to her door his hardness was full. “Are you hungry?” she said, at the table, her back to him.

  In his silent answer she turned to look at him.

  He shut the door and she sat on the bed and unbuttoned her blouse. He stood watching.

  “This is need,” one said.

  “I know,” said the other.

  Their bodies lay together again – locked again – now naked eyes and arms and legs.

  “Don’t make me pregnant,” she said.

  “Then I must stop.”

  “Stop then,” she said and moved him out of her and taking him in one hand and his balls in the other she squeezed and held and squeezed and held till he pumped himself, arching, gasping, out. She was amazed how long it took for his thing to empty.

  “Need is good,” she said, softly watching his eyes as his bliss diluted with shock towards shame.

  “Need is good,” she repeated.

  She held him still, limpening in her hand. Jacques looked into her square, plain face. “What about your need?”

  Ardelle’s eyes widened.

  “I don’t know...”

  His hand found her and she gave a short gasp of surprise before her groan deepened, her spine arched and her breasts rose searching for his mouth and she gasped at his kiss and her thrusting urged his farmer’s fingers harder and as he bit so gently at her nipple so one kind need flowed with the other.

  He slept in her bed and she brought both herds in and milked them, fed his dog and the sad straggly chickens and made thin soup.

  Arbel would not judge her badly.

  No-one would. Unless Jacques did.

  He didn’t.

  He slept through the evening, through Ardelle’s undressing again and putting her night-gown on and wondering what and if and getting into bed and chastely turning her back and he slept through her not sleeping and through her sleeping and through her wakening, too.

  You needed that, she thought. And she laughed in her kitchen at her first little joke in two years. A smile. He’s coming home. He’s walking home. My fool. My man. He won’t judge us badly I’m sure of that.

  And I needed that, too. No.

  It was the news you’re alive – you’re living – you’re walking home – that was what I needed. It gave me enough to answer his need. Enough joy to spread. Yes.

  I wouldn’t have done that before. He’s been here a lot and never thought of that, I’m sure. It’s Joy that released me.

  To betray my husband. To love my friend.

  To be unfaithful. Yes. Guilty.

  No. I won’t regret it. I’m not sorry.

  I didn’t want to...

  Well, when he was – when we were – then I did want to – I was happy to.

  How can something good and warm and loving be wicked? Was it? It didn’t feel so.

  Confession? Oh no.

  Ardelle knelt on her kitchen floor.

  You saw, so you must have judged. You know why. You saw me sin.

  But Lord – when he bit my nipple, and when he made his mess – that was the best of the sin, Lord.

  His eyes opened. “Coffee?”

  “Yes. Please. Ardelle.”

  He was dressed and at the table when she poured it. “Thank you.”

  They sat.

  She wanted, she needed his eyes. There they were. Read them, Ardelle – and now say it.

  “I’m not sorry.”

  “No. I’m not sorry,” he managed, “I’m shocked.”

  And his eyes lowered.

  “She’s only been gone – how long is it…?”

  Ardelle stated, “Neither of them would judge us badly.”

  He thought about that.

  “No, they wouldn’t.”

  They took a mouthful of coffee.

  A quiet began. Their quiet. “The dog...”

  “Fed, waiting for you.”

  “The beasts…”

  “Done.”

  A beat of time.

  “I should go home.”

  “Yes.”

  He finished the coffee. Had to think about standing. He stood. “I’m going,” he said.

  “I’m here for you.”

  “Yes. I know. Now.” He looked at her. “I didn’t before.”

  “We must get on,” she said and stood.

  “Did I have a coat?”

  “No.”

  He opened the door and looked across at his farm. Duthileul’s farm. His chest heaved. She turned him and kissed him on each cheek.

  “I’m here for you,” she said.

  Jacques went home. The dog leapt to greet him.

  He squeezed deep into the dog’s head, running the warm skin, rolling it through his fingers.

  He looked at the well. The herd.

  The garden.

  The house, the empty house. The future, the empty future. I’m hungry.

  He ate with Tayo in the empty house. What does this mean?

  Me and Ardelle..?

  And Arbel coming home. And America.

  Now what is life? Now who am I? Now what do I do? Now what am I for?

  Arbel thought of Ardelle not as she had been when he’d left, nor as she might be when he got back, but as she would be when they would one day both be sixty. Thickened, sturdy, steadfast and with him. And he walked towards that.

  14

  Sara lost her temper when he slouched in yet again from the Tabac.

  “Go and see her! Do as you were asked! I don’t want a drunk putting my daughter to bed. Maudlin and mean in the head.”

  “Our daughter,” came the feeble riposte.

  “Don’t make me laugh. I’ll go and drink all day tomorrow shall I? I’ll sit and maunder and you,” she laughed at the thought, “you can dress and feed and clean up after, entertain and amuse our daughter. One whole day. Yes?”

  “I could do that,” he snapped.

  “Done! Where’s my drinking money? Or do you have a tab? Just sign my married name, shall I?”

  “I can’t talk to my mother...”

  A cold silence filled the room.

  “You could kill Gaston Valet – and I make no judgement on that – you can face his widow, you can walk and talk with her and you can’t talk to your mother!” His wife dripped scorn. “What are you teaching your daughter?”

  “She’s too young to know what— ”

  “Shut up! Shut up, Jerome. What do you know about children? You know nothing! Nothing.”

  The child stirred, turned, mewled in her bed. “Shh...” said Jerome.

  Sara exploded.

  “I will not ‘Shh!’ If she wakes you’ll deal with her. And I’ll go and drink and I’ll go and talk with your Mother – and she and I will have the talk about Pride that neither of you have the humility or the humanity to admit to or manage.” She leaned a hand on the table, panting a little. “She needs to be taught about Grandparenting as much as you need – agh! you’re two peas from the same stupid pod.”

  Zoe woke. Whimpering, but wakening, too.

  “Deal with that – and give me some money,” Sara demanded, holding out her hand. “Give!”

  Jerome handed her coins and a note and with a martyr’s tread, went to his daughter’s bedside. He heard the house door close, hard.

  “Shhh – there, there – it’s just Mamma and Pappa having a row. Shh. All over now. Shh.”

  Of course the child woke, crying solidly.

  “Please, Zoe – it’s all right. Where’s your dummy? Eh? That what you want?”

  Zoe hadn’t had a dummy for a year and more. She squalled, a little
frightened now.

  “Oh, Zoe, please – forget it – it’s nothing. Please now – Daddy needs to think – you just go back to sleep now, yes?”

  Zoe sat up.

  “Where’s Mamman?”

  “Drinking.”

  “I want a drink.”

  “Water?”

  “What’s mamma drinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Go and see, silly.”

  “Well – we can’t.”

  The child’s eyes, bleary till now, cleared instantly. “Why?”

  “She isn’t here.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s gone out.”

  “Why?”

  “She – wanted to.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh! She’s gone out for a walk. O.K.? She’ll be back in a minute.”

  “You said she was drinking.”

  “Yes. Outside.”

  “Why?”

  “Zoe! Does it matter?”

  The pair of them stared at each other. “I want Mamman.”

  Negotiation was finished.

  “Why?” tried Jerome, pleased for an instant.

  “Because I do.”

  “Why?” His confidence evaporating.

  “Because.”

  “Would you like some milk? Shall I warm up some milk?”

  “No.”

  He scoured his empty mind. “Shall I read you a book?”

  “I want mamma.” Her eyes began to fill.

  “She’ll be back in a minute. Shall Daddy cuddle down with you? Eh?”

  “No! I want Mamman.”

  “Because I’m no good? Is that it?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t mean that.”

  “I want Mamman.”

  Jerome looked at his daughter.

  “Right! Fine. Come on then.”

  And he lifted her sharply out of the sleep-warm bed, hoisted her into his arms and walked through the house.

  “Mamman, right? Fine. Pappa isn’t good enough. I completely agree.”

  He opened the door with his free hand and the night air covered Zoe’s bare arms instantly with goose-pimples.

  “Cold, isn’t it? Still want to go and find Mamman?”

  The child, though frightened by this tone and the cold, nodded. He looked across the square at the dimly-lit Tabac. What if she weren’t there? What if she had gone to his mother’s? Oh shit.