Michael Lister - Soldier 03 - The Big Hello

by Michael Lister

  “Don’t know how they do it where you come from, but over here we don’t take orders from peepers. No matter how much of a hurry they’re in.”

  “I just meant––”

  “I know what you meant, fella, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  “Like I said, we’re in a hurry. It’s a matter of life and death. We’re in search of a missing woman.”

  “There’s blood on your shirt,” he said, tension beginning to constrict his voice even more.

  “It’s mine. My bandage is leaking. I––”

  “Step out of the vehicle very slowly,” he said. “Both of you. Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

  “Listen,” I said. “We don’t––”

  “You listen to me, soldier,” he said, removing his revolver from its holster. “I ain’t asking and I won’t say it again.”

  We did what he said––me moving first, Clip reluctantly following. When we were out, he motioned us to the back of the car.

  “All right, let’s have the heaters,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

  I knew Clip wouldn’t surrender his under any circumstances. It had gotten me into more than a few jams over the past year or so. No matter the situation. No matter the stakes. Clip would never surrender his weapon. Not ever. And it was going to get us killed.

  “Not me,” Clip said. “I got mines off a dead man and’ll be a dead man ’fore somebody get it off me.”

  “He means it,” I said. “I wish right now he didn’t, but I know for a certainty he does.”

  “Well, I mean to take it, soldier. I’m a man means what he says too. I’m gonna get your gun off you. Even if there’s only one way to do it. Ain’t no nigger gonna tell me he won’t obey a lawful order. No sir.”

  “Look,” I said, reaching into my pocket.

  He brought his gun up and pointed it directly at me.

  “Here’s Henry Folsom’s card. How about you call him instead of getting shot.”

  “I won’t be the one to get shot,” he said.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Clip said, his Walther pointed at the cop’s head.

  “What the hell,” he said. “How’d you––”

  As he started to turn his gun toward Clip, I withdrew mine––though not as quietly or quickly as Clip had.

  “Don’t do it,” Clip said to him, taking a step toward him and extending his gun another few inches.

  The cop stopped in mid turn, his weapon pointed in between us. When he looked back at me, his eyes grew wide to see that I was holding a gun of my own.

  “You gettin’ better at gettin’ that out with your left,” Clip said.

  “I stay up nights working on it,” I said. “Soon all the ladies will call me Quickdraw Riley.”

  “They say you too quick with somethin’, but it ain’t you gun.”

  I returned my attention to the cop.

  “We got the drop on you, partner,” I said. “Good thing for you we’re the good guys––”

  “Shee-it,” Clip said. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Good thing for you I’m one of the good guys and mean you no harm. Now, radio Panama City PD. Talk to Folsom and let’s all live a little longer. Whatta you say?”

  “I ain’t puttin’ my gun down,” he said.

  “You will if I tell you to,” Clip said. “Ain’t no coon ass country motherfucker gonna disobey an unlawful order I give.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said.

  “Long as you don’t point it at me,” Clip said.

  “Radio Folsom,” I said.

  He backed toward his car, keeping his gun pointed somewhere between us as he did. Standing behind his open door, he reached down into his car, retrieved the mic, and made the call.

  The dark December night was cold, the wind a bit biting––causing my every aching cell to ache a little extra.

  The flashing lights made me dizzy and the cop difficult to see, and I wondered if he was contemplating shooting at us from the cover of his car.

  In the field the cows lowed––mrurr, mrurr, mrurr––and at least one of them had a bell that clanged dully as it moved about.

  One shuddered and its muscles could be heard shaking, sounding like the low rumbling of thunder in the distance.

  I stepped a few feet closer to the cop and I could hear him talking to Henry Folsom.

  When he finished, he tossed the handset back onto the seat of the car, holstered his weapon, and stepped out from behind the door.

  “Sorry fellas, but I had to be sure,” he said. “You understand. Turns out Captain Folsom’s a good friend of Sheriff Tatum. Good luck with finding the––”

  Just then his head exploded and he collapsed to the pavement, as other rounds began to ring out and ricochet around us.

  Chapter 3

  With only a split second to determine where the shots were coming from, Clip and I both dove in the ditch behind our car, each of us with our backs against a wheel.

  Rounds continued to ricochet around us.

  Glass shattered and rained down on the ground. Divots of dirt flew up. Fence posts splintered. Sparks shot up from the pavement.

  “How many you figure?” I asked.

  “Least two. Too many shots, too fast, too close together to be one. Maybe three. Set up across the street.”

  The lowing of the cows and the clanging of the bell intensified. Mrurr. Mrurr. Mrurr.

  “Keep shooting like this,” I said, “they’ll be out of ammo soon.”

  “Lessen they brought a armory wit ’em,” Clip said. “Think this got anything to do with us, or just about square pants over there?”

  “No way to know for sure, but think if it was just about him, they’d’ve waited ’til we were gone.”

  “Lessen they underestimate who he pulled over out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  We had yet to return fire, waiting for them to run out of rounds or make a move.

  Just then a round hit one of the cows and it bellowed loudly as it hit the ground, continuing to moo and moan after it did.

  “Motherfuck almighty,” Clip said. “Bastards just dropped a cow.”

  “I saw that.”

  “May be time for us to start shooting back, they gonna shoot cows and shit.”

  “Can you see anything?” I asked.

  We both turned slightly to get a better view, searching all around us for sight of the shooters.

  “Can I see anything,” Clip said. “Motherfucker I gots one eye and it ain’t all that good.”

  From beneath the car, I could see the barrel of a rifle in the opposite ditch when the flashing light glinted off it, but that was it.

  “Anything?” I said.

  “Tol’ you I can’t see for shit.”

  He was looking around the back of the car, most of his body still behind the tire.

  “Look like one of ’em ’bout to try to sneak up behind the patrol car.”

  “Got a shot?”

  “Will.”

  “I’ve got a shooter in the ditch down a little ways. Let’s take ’em at the same time. You say when.”

  I turned and lay facedown on the ground, the cold earth damp and bracing on my body, the pressure on my wound making me wobbly even lying down. Reaching beneath the car, I extended my arm and the revolver as far as I could, using the ground to steady my arm, and thumbed back the hammer.

  In the far distance, I could see the first faint hint of headlights approaching from the east.

  “Car coming,” I said. “Need to go as soon as we can.”

  “On three,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything.

  Rounds continue to pock surfaces around us.

  Eventually, he said, “One.”

  I adjusted my grip on the gun. I had never been a great shot and I couldn’t shoot for shit with my left, but my left was all I had.

  “Two.”

  Just aim at the barrel. When the balloon goes up, squeeze o
ff five fast rounds.

  “Three.”

  In my periphery, I could see Clip jump up.

  We both began firing at nearly the exact same moment.

  They fired back at first, then no return fire, then we were out, then nothing.

  “Got him,” Clip said as he dropped back down behind the car. “You?”

  “Can’t tell. Be lucky as hell if I did. Was just firing at the glint of a barrel. Never saw anything else.”

  We waited.

  No shots, no bell, just the lowing of the cows, the hum of the motors, and the mechanical whir and tick of the revolving lights.

  “Hear that?” Clip asked. “Least they shot the one wearing the bell.”

  We waited some more.

  The lights of the approaching car grew closer and closer until it arrived. It slowed but didn’t stop, then sped up, continuing away from us, west, in the direction we had come from.

  In another moment, a car about a hundred feet down on the opposite side of the road cranked and raced away east toward Hosford, its lights only coming on after it was already a piece down the road.

  Slowly, cautiously, we came out from behind the car to survey the scene.

  We had each gotten our man. Clip’s was on the ground behind the patrol car, mine, slumped in the ditch.

  “Looks like you got yours,” Clip said.

  “More likely he shot himself,” I said. “Or one of yours ricocheted off your guy and hit him.”

  “Guess there was a third shooter or a driver waiting in the car. We goin’ after him?”

  I shook my head. “Gonna radio Folsom. Give him the lay of the land here, then continue on where we were headed.”

  And after I spoke with Henry Folsom and he agreed to make everything jake with the Liberty County sheriff and clean up our mess, we did.

  Chapter 4

  Nancy Pippen wasn’t the best nurse I had at Johnston’s Sanatorium, but she was the most vulnerable, which made her the best place to start.

  When her shift ended, she walked quickly and nervously toward her blue 1940 Pontiac Torpedo, scanning the street and actually looking over her shoulder a time or two as she did.

  The nervousness was new. So was the over-the-shoulder paranoia. When I was a patient here what I had observed was an insecure, self-conscious young woman. What she was now went way beyond that.

  She was extremely thin and pale, her long, narrow face jutting down into a pointy chin, her blond, pompadour-styled hair mostly hidden by her white nurse’s cap.

  While Henry Folsom worked on cleaning up the mess we’d made on Highway 20 in Liberty County, Clip and I had come to pay a call on Nervous Nancy.

  Having just pulled up and parked less than a minute before she’d walked out, we’d nearly missed her––something Clip would’ve sworn was my fault because of how little help I had been in changing the two shot-out tires, a process that actually involved stealing one of the tires from the Liberty County deputy’s car.

  When she reached her vehicle and saw me, she jumped.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you recognize me?”

  She squinted a bit, her small blue eyes nearly disappearing. As her gaze drifted from my face to the folded coat sleeve where my right arm should have been, it came to her, her eyes widening, mouth opening.

  Now she looked even more frightened than before.

  “You’re … you crashed your car into … You just disappeared … you’re wanted by the police.”

  Her blue nurse’s uniform was pressed, its white apron immaculate. It hung loosely on her slight frame, but couldn’t hide the way her body shivered.

  The night was dark, the temperature dropping, the blackout leaving little in the way of inadvertent illumination. The street was empty. The only sound was that of the wind––and very faintly in the distance a siren.

  “You cold, or scared?” I asked.

  “Both.”

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” I said. “I’m no longer wanted by the police. I was kidnapped from your hospital. I’ve been through a thing or three lately. Sorry I look so bad, but I’m one of the good guys. I swear it.”

  She considered me a moment, then let her gaze drift around the area as if looking for help.

  “If I were here to hurt you, I could have already,” I said. “I just have a couple of questions for you. Can we sit in your car?”

  She seemed so scared and frail I felt bad for her.

  Hearing Clip walk up behind her, she turned, and as she saw him, she fainted. I caught her as best I could with one arm, then Clip helped me get her in the car.

  ***

  Groggy confusion quickly gave way to startled recognition then fear.

  We had her in the backseat. We were in the front. Clip in the driver’s seat, I in the passenger’s, both of us turned back toward her.

  She started to try to push my seat up in order to get out, but realized how futile it was, then sat back and began to cry softly.

  “Nancy,” I said. “I’m not here to hurt you. I swear. I just have some questions for you. You passed out. We could’ve taken you. We didn’t. We’re in your car. You’re safe. Just answer my questions and we’ll be gone.”

  She didn’t respond, just continued to cry quietly.

  I waited.

  Eventually, she said, “Why is all this happening?”

  “All what?”

  “All of it.”

  “I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific,” I said.

  “Did y’all kill her?”

  “Who?” I asked. “We haven’t killed anyone.”

  Clip looked over at me, both his brows and the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly toward a smile.

  “So many bad things are happening,” she said. “I don’t understand. We didn’t do anything. She didn’t deserve––”

  “Who was killed?” I asked.

  “Betty Jane. Murdered.”

  “She the short brunette nurse with the Boston accent?”

  “Busybody Betty we called her,” she said. “Always gettin’ into something. You know the type.”

  “She was killed?”

  She nodded. “Here in the sanatorium. Stabbed to death. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You saw it happen?”

  “What? No. I caught a glimpse of her when they were trying to revive her. There was so much blood.”

  “Who did it?”

  “We don’t know, but everything happened after you … after the night of your wreck. That’s when it all started. I heard some of the other girls talking. They said it had something to do with you.”

  “What else has happened?”

  “Just strange stuff. It’s in the air. Something’s going on. Everybody’s on edge. Whispering. Speculating. Acting so different. One of the other nurses went missing.”

  “Who?”

  “Doris,” she said. “Doris Perkins. Didn’t show up for her shift one day. Hasn’t been seen or heard from since last week.”

  “You were working the night I arrived, right?”

  She nodded.

  “There was a woman with me,” I said.

  “Yes, Lauren,” she said. “I’m awful sorry for what happened. It was so sad. It was obvious how much you loved her. I can’t tell you how many times you said her name––called for her, reached for her––half-conscious, unconscious, awake, asleep. Didn’t matter. I don’t know what y’all were mixed up in, but I know real love when I see it. Hope somebody loves me like that one day.”

  “What exactly happened to her?” I asked.

  “Well … whatta you mean? She died, mister.”

  “Was she dead when we arrived?”

  “She was in real bad shape, but she wasn’t dead. I heard her moan and say something about a soldier.”

  Something inside me broke open and I felt like I took my first real breath since waking from the coma. I knew I shouldn’t let myself hope, knew how counterp
roductive, even dangerous, to my mission it could be, but I couldn’t help it.

  “She was alive when we arrived?”

  “For a little while, yes.”

  “What happened?” I said. “Tell me everything.”

  “All I know is what we did to you. I was assigned to your surgery. When we took you to the operating room, they hadn’t really moved her yet.”

  “Why do you think she died?”

  “They told us she did,” she said. “When we came out of surgery. I have no idea if they even got her out of the car before it happened. Don’t know exactly what happened to her.”

  “Who would?” I said. “Who was working on her?”

  Her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open in realization.

  “Let me guess,” Clip said. “Busybody Betty and Disappearing Doris.”

  She nodded. Slowly. Deliberately. Devastatingly.

  Chapter 5

  “Wait,” Nancy said. “We had a negro on the ward that night.”

  “Congratulations,” Clip said.

  “No. I mean there was a negro nurse because of it. Army nurse. Brought in to take care of a negro serviceman. It was … Everything happened so fast. And we were short staffed. She shouldn’t have, but it was crazy––she … I saw her helping out with Lauren.”

  It was no surprise that it stood out to her. There were very few negro nurses in the army, but a negro serviceman would require a negro nurse.

  “She wasn’t here long, because he wasn’t,” she said. “He should’ve never been here at all, but it couldn’t be helped.”

  Black nurses were rare, but so were black servicemen. Though many tried to enlist, few were allowed to, especially by the local draft boards run by whites in the South. The general perception by white people in our area was that blacks were disloyal, lazy, cowards, intellectually inferior, unfit to serve.

  For the few actually accepted, they were mostly assigned non-essential roles and menial duties, becoming waiters and cooks, janitors and maintenance workers, and musicians in service bands. Segregation laws and the Jim Crow system in the South meant that white and black servicemen had not “closed ranks” as W.E.B. DuBois had encouraged during World War I. “What’s her name?” I asked.