Flanders

by Patricia Anthony

  As I stood there, I noticed Dunleavy standing beside me, looking out, too, on all that life. Funny. In the dream I didn’t remember that he was dead particularly, but I remembered real clear the angry way we had left each other. It seemed he had forgotten, though, for he was grinning ear to ear.

  He shook my hand and said in a loud, boisterous voice, “I’m much better now, thanks. Much, much better.”

  There was pink in his cheeks. His grip was strong.

  “Much better,” he said. “I’ll be going now.” And then he walked away. You know what, Bobby? I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.

  Love, Travis Lee

  JULY 17, THE RESERVE TRENCHES

  Dear Bobby,

  I want you to tell Ma something for me, Bobby. Find you a time when the house is quiet and supper’s not waiting and tell her that Travis Lee forgives her. I know she’s been waiting for that a long time.

  See, when Pa was home, it was him who took up all her space. He was so big and she used herself up just surviving, so there wasn’t nothing of her left for me. Then came the fancy goats and scrabbling for the next meal. It was a hard time, and she was too busy for mothering. I want her to know I understand that.

  Also, tell her I understand why she went to spoiling you. Hell, by the time Ma had a minute to herself, I was already too growed up to be loving on. You were perfect: six years old and a cherub-faced hellion.

  I never begrudged you anything; never faulted Ma for not standing between me and the belt. Seemed like growing up, Ma and me were kept as prisoners in the dark. But still, we were together.

  Reason I’m thinking on her is that Riddell is still mourning his mum. You can see it in his face, in the way he walks. He doesn’t talk much lately, doesn’t laugh. Some ways, I don’t think he’ll ever get over losing her.

  You couldn’t ever call Ma gentle or sweet. She wasn’t made as delicate as a wild marjoram flower; but she raised herself a pair of strong boys. Neither one of us will be giving up on life after she’s gone. I want you to promise me something, Bobby. Before this week is out, you tell her thank you for me.

  Travis Lee

  FIVE

  JULY 22, THE FORWARD TRENCHES

  Dear Bobby,

  Yesterday I’d gone to Support to visit the medic. A headache was all it was, remedied easy by an aspirin powder. On the way back I was alone, threading my way up the communication trench, when I turned a corner and came upon a Boche. It took a heartbeat for me to believe what I was seeing. You understand, Bobby? There was a Boche in the trench. A Boche, just standing there.

  He was so young and he looked so lost that I never even shouldered my rifle. He was wounded. There were great blossoms of blood all across his belly, and his helmet was off. I wondered how he had got misplaced so bad, and if he wasn’t scared to death. Then he raised his head and looked right at me. He had guileless brown eyes and a baby face and pudgy hands, so new to the front that he hadn’t had time to get worn thin and hard. Lord God, he was a pitiful sight. Young and sorely wounded. His right hand was missing.

  I took a step forward and he started fading. When he went, he went misty-like. I could see the dirt wall of the trench through him. I called out for him to stop, but I wasn’t quick enough. He was gone.

  I went back to my station at the firebay. I set up my ammunition and rifle and started looking for targets. I missed two easy shots. That’s when I asked the new lieutenant, Blackhall, to send for O’Shaughnessy.

  “Want to pray over your aim, eh, Stanhope?” He laughed.

  “Please get him, sir. And permission to take a short rest period.”

  Blackhall’s a small man with a face like a suspicious monkey. “You’re shaking. That won’t do for a sharpshooter. ’As you been drinking? For I ’ear rumors.”

  “Sir.” And I was near tears when I said it. My voice was unsteady. “Sir,” I whispered, “please call him.”

  Blackhall started barking orders. I sat down on the firestep. I could see Marrs out of the corner of my eye. “You sick?” he asked.

  If I’d tried to answer, I’d have started boo-hooing.

  “Stanhope?” Poor solicitous Marrs. “You all right, then?”

  Pickering’s jovial “It’s that bloody dysentery. Don’t shit here, Stanhope. We’ll make you clean the firestep.”

  Gatlin, one of the new boys, saying, “What’s the matter with ’im?”

  “Dysentery. You want to carry him, Gatlin? I’ll take his top half, you have his bottom.”

  Footsteps boomed along the duckboards and everyone got real quiet. A hand clasped my knee. O’Shaughnessy said, “Travis.” He bent down to look into my face. “Will you be needing me?”

  When I nodded, he took my arm and helped me up. He asked Marrs to take my rifle, for I couldn’t hold onto it no more.

  “Crikey!” Marrs cried out. “What’d the medic say, Stanhope? What’d ’e tell you?”

  Pickering asked in a voice stripped of humor. “You really sick? Anything we can do, Father?”

  O’Shaughnessy waved their questions away.

  We walked, Bobby—walked along the front line and down the trench past where the Boche boy had been. We ended up in Miller’s dugout. It was empty but for the batman. O’Shaughnessy asked him to leave.

  I sat down on the ground and bawled—not caring who might be listening. I cried because I knew it had to be ghosts I was seeing. I cried because I was scared of dying, because I felt so damned sorry for that Boche. I cried for everything, I guess.

  O’Shaughnessy sat down next to me and slipped his arm around my shoulders. The holding wasn’t as good as Ma’s or as the calico girl’s, but it was holding all the same.

  “I hear you can forgive things.”

  “Tell me, lad,” he said.

  “I hurt a woman.” I don’t know why I told him that part, it was a small thing, really. “She didn’t have nothing to do with why I was mad, and loving someone, even a whore, ought to be a happy thing. But I fucked her so hard, sir. It was fury I seeded her with. I squeezed her arms and titties till I bruised her black and blue and she was begging me to stop. When I didn’t, she started crying. I really hurt her. I don’t know why I did it, sir. I been asking myself that.”

  Miller’s dugout smelled strangely empty, no life nor death to it.

  I wiped my eyes. “You going to forgive me, or what?”

  “Are you contrite, then? For both your sins? For ’twas not only the beating, my son, but fornication, too.”

  My shoulders slumped. I was nearly too exhausted to move my mouth. Twenty-three years old and so goddamned tired. “Sorry for hurting her. Yeah.”

  “So there is that much heavenly rejoicing, at any rate. And do you sincerely promise not to do it again?”

  I nodded. My back ached. My arms felt too weak to lift.

  “Well, then! If you were of the Faith, we should have a proper penance.”

  There was a map on Miller’s wall with lines of red pins and lines of blue. Red to the west. So it was us who were bleeding.

  “At least beg for forgiveness, Travis. Can you do that? Apologize to God.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was cool and damp in that dugout. I remembered when Ma would take you and me down to the root cellar when there was a cyclone brewing. There were spiders lurking around the jars of canned corn and black-eyed peas. When Ma’d light the lamp, you’d go to screaming. I thought how nice that was, screaming over spiders, and never having to scream over Pa.

  “He hurt my ma, sir.”

  “Who was that, Travis?”

  “My pa hurt my ma, sir. After I hurt that whore, I went out and started a bar fight. Pa was fond of bar fights, too. I had an uncle always said women turn into their mothers and men turn into their daddies. Do we have to, sir?”

  “I think you needn’t, if you have a mind not to.”

  “I took a thirty ought-six to him.”

  O’Shaughnessy gave a long sigh. “And did you kill him?”

&n
bsp; “No. But I tried like hell.”

  “Ask God to forgive your anger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was safe there in Miller’s dugout, the cyclone brewing.

  “Lad? Failing was not a sin.”

  It’s good to know that, I guess. Miller walked in on us about then. When he caught sight of what was going on, he started to leave. I got up, dusted my pants, and told him O’Shaughnessy and me were finished. I thanked him for the use of his dugout and asked if I could have the time until dinner off. What I didn’t tell him was that I couldn’t shoot nobody, Bobby. Not that day.

  Miller was real nice about it. He asked if I was well, and I told him I was. He asked after you and Ma—he’d heard about Riddell, I guess—and I told him y’all were just fine. He insisted that I take me some cookies. Three big hazelnut cookies. They were so good that I finished them before I ever got back to the forward trench and told Blackhall about the orders. Then I went in and lay down in my cubbyhole.

  We sleep like mud dauber wasps in the dugouts here, Bobby: honeycomb holes in the walls, sandbags all around, a plank over me that my nose nearly touches. Earth to three sides, snuggled up close.

  Marrs came in and asked if I was all right. I said I was. After a while he left me alone.

  I wasn’t all right. I won’t be for a while. I never told O’Shaughnessy the very thing I needed to: about LeBlanc and the way he killed that Boche. Was it really him I saw in the trench, that sapper? Or was guilt just stirring up my imagination? If I was really seeing a ghostie, it sure beats hell out of how I imagined things work. The world is topsy-turvy right now, Bobby, and that scares the shit out of me. One thing, though: All this time I’d been thinking only about the horror of what LeBlanc had done. It took the Boche to make me feel the pity.

  Travis Lee

  JULY 27, THE RESERVE TRENCHES

  Dear Bobby,

  The last night we were forward I woke up to the noise of explosions. I thought we were being shelled until I remembered that we were on the front line.

  Somewhere down the trench I could hear Blackhall shouting, “Fix bayonets!”

  I ran out of my dugout. A bogeyman stood in the dark gully of the trench. His face was blackened, his uniform sooty. He was aiming a rifle at me. He fired, and in the dim glow from the dugout’s door I saw the pale puff from the barrel, heard the bullet go buzzing past.

  Another shadow figure leaped over the parapet. I took to my heels. See, all that time I was thinking the first Boche was a ghostie, Bobby. When I knew for sure he was real, it was too late to grab my rifle. Behind me I heard Pickering’s dismayed shout, “What bleeding luck!” I heard the pop of rifle fire, the crack of grenades bursting. The air went thick with gunpowder smoke.

  I darted around the corner of a firebay, ran through a traverse. Ahead, men had come out of the dugouts and were milling, confused.

  I screamed, “Encroachment! Encroachment behind me!”

  Riddell shouted, “Where were the sentries, then?” and, “Get me my Very pistol!”

  “Help Pickering, Sergeant! Please! Pickering’s back there! And oh God, Marrs!”

  Some of the new boys spooked. They started chucking Battye bombs. Sergeant told them to stop, that they might be killing our own. He got them in line and had the front boys fix bayonets. They went charging around the corner and out of sight.

  Boche in our trenches. Our small contained world coming to an end. There was no place to run from the Germans, so I went charging back toward the encroachment. All around me, men were up on the firesteps, shooting wildly into the dark. Sergeant’s Very lights went up. Flares went up next, bursting like pale green meteors. The firing from our side crescendoed; and with it, the fast steady chatter of the machine guns.

  In the next traverse, a Boche was waiting. I didn’t see him until I was on him, and then it was too late. Before he had a chance to fire, I’d run him down.

  We fell, tangled together, struggling. He fought, but I punched him hard, wrested away his gun. Straddling him, I looked down. He was bleeding from the mouth and grunting something in German. It took me a while to realize he was trying to surrender. He was just a goddamned kid, Bobby. Probably not old enough to grow a good beard.

  “You all right, Stanhope?” From the dark of the corner came Riddell’s bland question.

  I got up, holding the Boche rifle. I grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him up, too.

  “Good work.”

  We were alone in that traverse, just the three of us: the boy with his hands over his head; me holding the boy’s weapon, Riddell holding his. Above us, the flares and Very lights were burning out.

  “Is it over, Sergeant?”

  Riddell was staring at that boy so strange. “Bit of rum luck, ain’t it,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “Foy’s wounded. Tucker and Redding is dead.”

  It happened so fast I guess I couldn’t have stopped him. Riddell lowered his rifle and stepped forward quick, just the way you do in practice. And as if that boy had no more meaning than a straw dummy, he ran him through.

  The German boy looked surprised. His arms dropped, and he grabbed the bayonet so tight that his hands squirted blood. He didn’t have the strength to pull the blade out; and when Sergeant twisted the rifle the way you’re supposed to, that Boche boy made a sound. I don’t guess it was a word. I’ll never know. He dropped to his knees like he was praying.

  A few of the men caught up with us—like me, too late to do much good. The boy was already curled up, holding his stomach. Blood pumped between his fingers.

  “Lucky I come along when I did,” Riddell said. “Else Stanhope ’ere would ’ave got it.”

  The boy died before the stretcher bearer arrived. Everything was all right. I suppose it was all right. Three of our platoon dead, but it was the sentries and not me who got in trouble. They found our own forward sapper with his throat slashed. I reckon LeBlanc has started his own private dirty war.

  Everything’s settled back down, but I’ll never feel safe sleeping in the trench again. I figure no one will. Still, we sleep, we eat, we shit. We pore over and over our letters from home. Days now, and nobody’s said a word about me running, or the way that Boche boy in the traverse died. I sure didn’t dare speak up, for I looked into Riddell’s face real careful that night, Bobby. Sergeant may not know what’s waiting for him at home, but one of his questions has been answered: I don’t reckon it’s love for his mum nor any Elgar sort of duty, but Riddell’s found himself something to kill for.

  Travis Lee

  JULY 29, THE RESERVE TRENCHES

  Bobby,

  I’m asking too much of you? I’m asking too much? Bobby, I don’t want to hear about how things are tough. You’re the coddled one of this family. You’ve nearly always had three square meals a day, as much red meat as you wanted. Always had a roof over your head. So you have to care for the goats and clean up after Pa. So what? You’re the one who asked him in so he could puke on your floor. You’re the one wanted him around so he could shit the bed. If you don’t like it, put him in the goddamned barn. Burn it down, and put him and you both out of your misery.

  Just a word of warning, boy: Don’t you go asking Ma to run the business and tend to Pa, too. You’re fourteen goddamned years old. You’re near six foot tall. Time enough for you to take on life. I was setting fence posts and gelding stock and changing your diapers by the time I was ten. By the time I was fourteen, I was negotiating loans with county bankers by day and plowing their wives at night.

  The Tommies call me “old and bold,” because I can finagle things. I get out of duty when I want, or nick extra rations. I’ve settled in to war just like I did to school.

  I thrive. That’s the secret to life—not dying, the way LeBlanc believes. Poor old LeBlanc thinks there’s no Heaven nor Hell, just a big old Nothing. Seeing as how he relishes killing, I think that’s the after-death choice he’d pick. Sometimes I start to believe in Nothingness, too, leastways when I s
tart crediting my dreams as real and I start thinking about that black place beyond the cypress. But I tell you this, Bobby: Whatever’s out there, Hell or Limbo, I’ll thrive.

  So I don’t want to hear you whining on about how I was supposed to become a doctor and make lots of money to support you and Ma. You got to learn, like I did, to get by. Fact is, after this is over, I’m sending your butt straight out of Texas. Go to California like you’ve always had a mind to, for I’m coming home to kick you out of the house. Then I’ll stay and take care of Ma, the way I always have.

  Ma’s the one who’s worked hardest; and every time I’d come home from school she’d have herself another bad wheezing spell. I talked to Riddell about her, and here’s what he says to do, if it’s not asking too goddamned much: Find her a bunch of Joe Pye weed, hang it up and dry it out real good. Steep a tea from it and make her drink that every day. Make sure you have licorice and horehound on hand; mustard plaster in case her chest starts filling up. Don’t let her have any milk nor cheese nor coffee. Also, she don’t need to be getting out in that hot sun. Please, Bobby, just take care of her a little, just till I can get home. That’s all I’m asking. A mother’s death leaves a gaping hole in you. When Riddell started talking about that Joe Pye weed, he went to crying so bad it’d break your heart. Nobody will ever love him like his ma did. Nobody’ll ever pamper him when he’s sick, or hug him when he’s scared, or make that damned bubble and squeak just the same way. Nobody. Not ever.

  I’ve been thinking: All I got besides Ma is the calico girl, and she’s just this side of a maybe. The idea of being alone scares me worse than shells. So you keep Ma well until I can get home. Keep her safe, for I’m coming soon as the war’s over. No gallivanting around Europe, no more vacations, no more adventure. And when she’s fighting to take her next breath, you do all the things I used to: Boil her some well-water with camphor, rub her throat with eucalyptus salve. Tell her Travis Lee’s coming home quick as he can.