In the creaky seat, Morgan adjusted his bathrobe and propped his foot on the edge of Frank’s mattress. His leg throbbed like a son of a gun, but he wasn’t about to complain. Every sensation only reminded him the limb was still there. And how close he had come to losing it.
“So what’d they do,” Morgan said, “find out you had the clap at the last short-arm inspection?”
“Not unless I got it from being near Jack.” Frank grinned. “Doc says I got jaundice. Doesn’t clear up soon, they’re talking about sending me home.”
It was then that Morgan noticed his friend’s skin had a yellowish tint, as did the whites of his eyes. “Funny. Thought maybe you had some Jap in ya that you didn’t want to admit to.”
“Yeah, right.” Frank ran his thumb over a wound dressing on his left biceps. “How ya like that? Six months of dodgin’ Kraut ammo and I end up with a faulty liver.”
“Well, it was bound to catch up with you sooner or later.”
“How you figure?”
“From all that communion wine, while training for the minist—” Before Morgan could finish, a cramp attacked his calf. He muffled a huff as he massaged the knot through his rolled-up pajama pant leg.
“What are you doing walking around anyway?” Frank said. “Ain’t you got the sense to stay in bed while you can?”
“Just following nurse’s orders,” he ground out. “Supposed to do a round through the place, till I either get too tired or collapse on the floor.”
“Hope you don’t think I’m carrying you back.”
“Don’t worry. I’m in no rush. The guy in the next bed’s the biggest blabbermouth I’ve ever met.” Morgan sighed as the cramp subsided. “They don’t ship him out soon, so help me I’m gonna take this crutch and discharge him myself.”
Fresh from the replacement depot, “Jabber” had allegedly been shot in the right buttock by an enemy sniper while crouching over a straddle trench to take care of his business. Yet by the twentieth time he’d recapped his dramatic “assault,” Morgan wondered if his million-dollar wound had been compliments of a guy in Jabber’s own unit.
In stark contrast, the bedded soldier to Morgan’s other side was a young, stoic Air Corps gunner who’d survived a crash landing on the French-Belgian border. His bandages indicated that the flesh on his hands had been chipped away after freezing to his gun during the winter bombing raid. Deemed unfit for duty, he spent most days staring at the ceiling, ignoring Jabber’s prattling and a stack of unopened letters from Oregon piled on a chair beside his bed.
Until now, Morgan’s only reprieve from the morale-stifling duo had been brief visits with Evelyn and a run of cribbage victories against Father Bud. In light of his Catholic upbringing, Morgan had tried on several occasions to let his pious opponent win a single round, but not even cheating to tilt the game in the priest’s favor could save him from constant defeat. Apparently, there was no telling whom God was rooting for these days.
“So what about Jack?” Morgan asked Frank, trying for a nonchalant tone. “He still in one piece?”
“Been a while since I’ve seen him. But you know Jack. Always pops up somewhere.”
Morgan refused to consider the alternative. “Another conjugal reconnoitering mission?”
“That ain’t no joke.” Frank snorted. “You watch, by war’s end, he’ll have a hundred kids lined up from Paris to Berlin. All account of dames lovin’ that uniform—and him loving their strudels.”
Morgan chuckled. “Only a hundred, huh?”
“Hell, Ike just waits long enough, Jack Callan could dilute the Aryan bloodline by his lonesome. Then we could all finally pack it in and go home.”
A draft brushed over Morgan’s skin. He pulled the robe collar snug around his neck, rubbed his arms. “Hey, at least he found a better way to stay warm than the rest of our sorry butts.”
“Yeah. By dodging rounds from pissed-off husbands gone home on furlough.”
Morgan smiled, recalling Jack’s story about getting hot and heavy with a leggy Hungarian gal. Supposedly, her blacksmithing father caught them in a stable and chased Jack two full miles with a branding iron. “I don’t get it,” he said. “How is it that we’re in here, and he’s the one without a scratch?”
“Beats me.” Frank shrugged. “Downright miracle, with the smart mouth he’s got on him. But then, same goes for that wiseacre brother of yours.” The sentence stopped in midair, hung like a sheet pinned to a clothesline. No breeze, no sound. The stillness wrung Morgan’s gut.
“Mac,” Frank said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean—”
“Really,” Morgan told him. “It’s okay.”
Frank lowered his eyes to his grip on the magazine, his yellowed cheeks paling. The silence between them screamed for a full minute before Morgan decided they’d both be better off if he exited. As he reached for his crutch, Frank again slugged him with the unexpected.
“He saved my life, Mac.”
Morgan raised his head. A patient’s cough reverberated in the hall.
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Chap. He saved my life.” Frank’s voice was as solemn as his face. “Figured you didn’t know, but he saved all of us on the roof that day.”
The claim didn’t make any sense. How could Charlie’s recklessness be seen as heroic?
“I didn’t know the whole story myself till afterward,” Frank went on. “Right after you dropped off the ammo, Sarge starts screaming for us to clear out. A Jerry tank was about to blast us away. But then a rocket comes shootin’ from the hill and blows the Panther all to hell.”
Morgan narrowed his eyes at the revived image. The tank exploding across from the brewery, dirt and snow, the taste of gasoline.
“After it was all over, a couple of us hiked up the hill. And that’s when …” Frank hesitated. “Well, that’s when we found the two of you.”
Morgan clenched his jaw, veered his attention to the tiled floor. He wanted to retreat now more than ever, but he couldn’t. All he could think about was Charlie expelling his final breath as they lay in that icy foxhole, a gravesite with a charming view that Morgan had not only handpicked but helped his brother construct.
“Doc Gordon was patching you up,” Frank said, “when one of the bazookamen up there came to. A round had ricocheted off a flask in his chest pocket, the lucky cuss.” He cleared his throat, rustled his magazine. “Thing is, I tried to thank the fella for saving our asses. And that’s when he told me what Chap did. Why the guy didn’t keep it to himself, I don’t know. Wiping his conscience, I guess.”
Frank was obviously about to exaggerate, a way of memorializing the deceased. All with good intention, but Morgan wasn’t in the mood for another eulogy. He looked up to stop him. “Rev. You really don’t have to.”
Frank persisted. “From what the guy remembered, Chap wiped out the Kraut who was shooting at him, then grabbed the bazooka. He launched a shell at somethin’ below, just before the fella blacked out.”
If Frank was telling the truth …if that’s really how it happened, Charlie had sacrificed his cover—sacrificed his life—to save the rest of them.
Morgan paced his breathing, the wind knocked out of him. “So what you’re saying,” he managed to say, “is that he saved me too.”
“He saved a whole lot of us,” Frank told him. “I honestly don’t know how it all would’ve turned out if Chap hadn’t come through like that.”
Morgan shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “That can’t—that’s why I—” He tried for a complete thought, but all had fragmented inside him.
“I don’t want to make things worse for ya. Just figured I’d want to know. If it was me.”
Morgan strained to connect any words he could, hindered further by the squeak of a wheel. A nurse trundling a cart. He watched vacantly as she disappeared into the gym, leaving a clear view of a chaplain. Rosary dangling from his hand, head bowed, he prayed
over a heavily bandaged soldier.
“Why?” Morgan said finally, still staring off. “Why would he do that?”
“Your brother?”
Morgan turned to Frank. “God,” he replied, and was surprised at the calm in his own voice. He should have been outraged, yet he couldn’t feel a thing. Like pulling water from a dried-up well, his bucket was empty. He was too tired to even blame himself. He simply wanted answers.
“Help me out, Rev. Tell me there’s a purpose to it all. Otherwise, what are we doin’ here?”
Frank opened his mouth, but then closed it. He slouched into his pillow and said, “I wish I knew.”
Morgan angled his head back, heavy on its hinge. He stared at a spidery crack in the window beside him, too resigned to extend his view past the pane. “You gotta give me somethin', man. Anything.”
Frank blew out a sigh. “My bet is you’ve got more answers than I do, Mac. I haven’t said a prayer or stepped foot into a church since I was a kid.”
One syllable at a time, the statement sank in. Jarred by the implication, Morgan cut his gaze to his friend. “What’d you say?”
“Just that I’m not the best one to ask, is all.”
“No, the other thing. About not being in a church.”
Frank rolled his shoulders. “It’s not like my ma didn’t try. I was just such a terror to get out of bed on Sundays, she eventually gave up.”
“But—what about when you were studying for the ministry?”
Frank’s lips curved up halfway. “Seriously,” he said, “can you picture me wearing a dress and preaching about religious virtues? With all my sins, I’m not sure any church would welcome me through their doors, much less ask me to lead one.”
Morgan gaped as though his trusted pal, Reverend Frank Dugan, had just admitted to being Lucifer himself. Now beyond stunned, he struggled to grasp the second revelation Frank had handed him today. “Then why does everyone think …”
“Listen,” he told him. “Here’s the deal. The day I first met Jack, he asked me about what I did for a living before enlisting. I told him I was a clerk with Baptists—as in a sales clerk for Baptist’s Hardware Store. Next thing I knew, word about me being a preacher had spread all over camp. I would’ve set ‘em straight, but guys started passing me some of their food at chow time. Guess they thought they were racking up extra points with God, hoping for holy help to get them through the war. Figured I was better off keeping my mouth shut.”
Morgan felt a rumble of emotion rising from deep inside, an irrational hilarity moving from his stomach to his chest. He leaned back, balancing his chair on its hind legs, and fought off a smile. “So let me get this straight. You’re not a fallen pastor, just a Brooklyn kid who wanted extra scoops of Army slop?”
Just then, Morgan’s chair crackled and a wooden leg gave out. He plunged to the floor. His bandaged calf struck like a full-swung hammer, sending a wallop of pain through his body. He grabbed his leg, stifled expletives by grinding his teeth.
“Hey, you all right?”
Morgan glanced up at Frank’s concerned face. He was about to reply when his throat unleashed a peal of laughter. He tried to muscle it down, but like being tickled as a kid, the sound belted out against his will.
Frank’s brow creased. “They give you morphine today?”
Morgan attempted to speak, but all that came out was pent-up tension through a stream of chuckles that soon proved contagious. In no time, Frank joined his state of delirium with quiet laughter that steadily grew. They were like innocent kids who had gotten the slap-happy giggles. Yet they weren’t kids—not anymore. And their innocence had been stripped away, one layer after another. So how could they both laugh at a time like this?
The question was a sobering one. But no sooner did Morgan’s smile begin to fade than the answer surfaced loud and clear: Charlie wouldn’t have had it any other way.
“All right, boys.” Evelyn appeared at the foot of the bed. “Keep it down or we’re going to have to separate the both of ya.” A large box hoisted on her hip, she offered Morgan her free hand and helped him up. Once standing, he leaned on his crutch.
“Doesn’t look like you need much spirit lifting,” Evelyn said, “but I believe I have a delivery for one PFC Frank Dugan.” She reached in the box and handed over a medium-sized package. Frank eagerly ripped into the tan wrapping.
“Got one for you too, Private.” Evelyn displayed a similar parcel for Morgan. But still out of sorts, he didn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.
“You sure it’s for me?”
“Sure as a juggler’s box. Unless there’s another Morgan McClain around here who’d like a package from Illinois.”
He answered quickly, “No, no, I’ll take it.”
“Thought so.” She smiled. “How about I leave it on your bed so you don’t hurt yourself on the way back?”
Morgan studied the prop under his arm and ruled her suggestion a wise one. When he agreed, she nodded in reply.
“Just try not to destroy anything else today, all right?” Evelyn winked before continuing her zigzag mail drops.
Morgan turned to Frank. “So whatcha got?”
“Let’s see here.” Frank emptied the box onto his lap and adjusted the contents to lie label side up. “We got peach slices, animal crackers, fruit cocktail. Gum, M&M’s, and a good ol’ box of Cracker Jack.” He cast Morgan a serious glance. “See now why I have to marry this girl the minute I get home?”
“They do say the way to a soldier’s heart is through his stomach, right?”
“Certainly doesn’t hurt.” Frank patted his lean belly. Then he shook his head and said, “Man, I can’t wait for you to meet her. The second you’re mustered out, you gotta come see us in New York.”
“You have my word.”
“Good. ‘Cause we’ll be expecting you.”
Morgan glimpsed the inked heart on Frank’s right arm edging out from his sleeve. “Only question—do I call her June, or Joan?”
“Ah, shaddup.” Frank yanked his sleeve down to cover his tattoo. “I’m getting the damn thing fixed soon as I get outta here.”
Morgan shrugged. “Worst case, you could name your first kid Joan. Assuming it’s a girl.”
“A daughter?” he said. “You trying to give me an early heart attack? I’m working on recovering, here.”
Morgan grinned, then remembered his awaiting delivery. “Listen, I’d better get back before I do fall down and break something else.”
Frank shook the Cracker Jack box, loosening the caramel kernels. “Want a handful ‘fore you go?”
“That’s okay. You enjoy.” Morgan adjusted his crutch. He tried to formulate a way to say thanks—for the details about Charlie, for the laughs, for his friendship. He settled on simply saying, “Happy new year, buddy.”
Frank paused, and responded with a nod. “Yeah, Mac. You too.”
Though Morgan’s return journey to his bed seemed farther than his initial trek, the idea of opening anything from Betty motivated him to charge on.
Dog tired, he collapsed on his mattress, his unmarred leg dangling off the side. He took only a moment to rest before seizing the package from the bottom edge of the bed. Confident his mother would forgive him, he indulged in a ruthless shredding of the wrapping.
He set the dark gray shoe box he’d unveiled onto his lap and lifted the lid. A soft bronze scarf filled the top half of the container. He wound the accessory around his hand like a boxer taping his fist. Then he buried his nose in the knitted wool and drank in its lavender fragrance.
With his free hand, he pulled a red-and-white checkered bundle from the box. Untying the knot released an avalanche of golden brown chocolate chip cookies. He snatched up two morsels. Just like he’d done as a kid, he gobbled them up by alternating bites between the chocolaty pair.
Blanketed in contentment, he reached into the shoe box and retrieved Betty’s envelope, the most precious part of the package. Already he knew he’d treasure th
is letter more than any other before it.
Dearest Morgan,
I cannot begin to express how terribly sorry I am to learn of your brother’s passing. Though I had the pleasure of meeting Charlie only briefly, the goodness of his character shone brightly through. His ability to make people smile, as well as his infectious zest for life, I will hold in my memory forever. Certainly even now, while in heaven, he is bringing immense happiness to those about him, your father and mother most of all.
I would not dare to pretend I fully understand the deep sorrow you must feel. I do, however, recall the sadness that lingered inside me after the passing of my beloved grandparents many years ago. Missing their company dearly, I once composed a poem intended to celebrate their lives rather than mourn their deaths. While I have never shared the verses before, I humbly offer them now, hoping they will provide you with even the smallest bit of ease.
Mountain peaks and valley lows,
O’er sandy shores and streams,
I scoured the earth in search of you,
Yet only in my dreams
Did you come forth, a soul at dawn
Stolen by a Thief,
Torrential tears, an endless storm,
My heart awashed in grief.
I cursed the Heav’ns for taking thee,
For plaguing me with pain,
Denied a bid for one more day
To dance amidst the rain.
Lo, from the dark your glow appeared,
A star blazed in the sky
Shining down your love to show,
I carried you inside.
I believe with all my heart that your bond remains as strong as ever. Through his memory and love, Charlie lives on within you. And you can rest knowing, dear Morgan, that in his final moment of life, you were there for him. You were the courageous brother he needed to lean on while his frightful scene transformed into one of peace. Perhaps more purposeful than your protecting him against the uncontrollable elements of war was your presence as he took his last breath, eased by the assurance that he was not alone. For this reason, I hope you release any thoughts of self-blame, instead finding solace from knowing how deeply you touched your brother’s life, just as you have mine.
Letters From Home Page 27
