When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  Now Donald stood, inserting himself between them—and probably saving Samuel from doing something he’d regret. His fists ached with the need to wipe that smug smile off his former friend’s face.

  “Sam’s right,” Donald said. “You need to leave before you disgrace yourself more than you already have.”

  Gilbert laughed out loud. “I’m willing to bet my army pension that I’m not the only one in this room who’s disgraced himself.” He gripped his cane with both hands, drew it to his shoulder, and pretended to fire it like a rifle—straight at Samuel’s chest. “Gotcha.”

  Samuel recoiled with a shudder. For the space of half a second his vision clouded, and he was back in a bloody field in France.

  “Sam.” Donald’s grip bit into his upper arms. “Sam, sit down. Now. Let me—”

  “No—I’m—” Samuel’s pulse thrummed in his ears. He sensed the darkness creeping closer, but he fought it. The Lord is my shepherd . . . Yea, though I walk through the valley . . .

  “Confession is good for the soul, Sam.” Gilbert’s taunting voice echoed as if it came from deep inside a tomb, bouncing off the sides, slamming into Samuel’s brain. “Who’d you kill, Sam? Braswell, wasn’t it? Doesn’t sound German to me.”

  The ringing in Samuel’s ears intensified until it became one continuous barrage of machine-gun fire. Black and yellow and red—so much red—zigzagged across his vision. A part of his brain registered Donald’s angry shout, “Who told you?”

  “I overheard the two of you talking at the hospital. So what’s the story, Doc? And why are you covering for this honorable man here?”

  The room, the voices, the whole world receded, leaving Samuel at the gaping precipice of yet another hastily dug mass grave.

  Sixty-seven dead after the latest skirmish. At least that was how many dog tags Samuel had gathered. Hundreds more, hammered and bloodied, would never lift another rifle or march into another battle. After slogging through the blood-soaked battlefield, sifting through remains that often no longer even resembled a human being, Samuel tasted the bile rising in his throat. Arms, legs, hands, feet—bits and pieces of human flesh scattered across endless acres like some macabre jigsaw puzzle.

  Invisible giant pincers squeezed the air from Samuel’s lungs and threatened to crush whatever life remained in his stammering, struggling heart. How many more would have to suffer and die before humanity—before God Himself—had had enough?

  Sixty-seven dead. Sixty-seven bodies, or what was left of them, carried with as much grace and dignity as expedience would allow and laid to rest in one massive, anonymous grave. But Samuel knew their names, had made himself repeat and memorize each one as he turned their dog tags over to the battalion commander. Prayers had to be said, letters had to be written, families had to be comforted . . . when there was no comfort to be had.

  Daylight faded as the last shovelfuls of dirt were scraped onto the funereal mound, when more shots rang out. Officers shouted commands. Return fire concussed the night air. Artillery from both sides arced overhead like shrieking red demons and blasted new craters into the already blackened, pockmarked earth.

  Then the screams. The wretched, disbelieving screams of the wounded and dying.

  Unbridled fury seared Samuel’s throat. Still standing at the graveside, he stumbled in the soft dirt, went to his knees, pushed up again. Foxholes and gun emplacements lay between him and the enemy, but he wouldn’t be deterred. “Please, God, make it stop! Make the killing stop!”

  As he charged toward the battlefront, someone shouted his name. A doughboy clambered out of a foxhole and seized Samuel by the arm, nearly yanking him off his feet. “Padre! What are you doing? Get down!”

  “Give me your rifle, Private—now!” Heaven be hanged, he’d fight like a real soldier if that’s what it took to end this bloody war.

  “No, Padre, you can’t!”

  “God’s deserted us. I’ll kill them all myself, every last one of them!” While enemy fire raged around them, Samuel grappled for control of the skinny kid’s weapon, but the boy held firm. “Your sidearm, then. Give me something I can fight with. I won’t—”

  A shot. One single shot, close enough it rang in Samuel’s ears. He felt the recoil against his chest. His hand stung. And then he was cradling Private Braswell’s bleeding body, his own uniform soaked in Private Braswell’s blood.

  “I killed him.” He sank to his knees—not in a stubbly field in France but on a plush Persian carpet in someone’s dimly lit parlor. “God forgive me, I killed him.”

  “Crushed eggshells and coffee grounds, that’s what my grandmum always used in her gardens.”

  “How interesting. I shall begin saving mine with tomorrow’s breakfast.”

  The women’s conversation had grown continually louder as voices rose in the parlor, but Annemarie barely comprehended the tedious discussion of gardening tips. She’d positioned her chair near the closed doors, all the while straining to hear what the men were saying in the other room. She caught only a few words here and there, something about killing and honor and . . .

  A sudden and ominous silence descended beyond the French doors. Instinct drew Annemarie to her feet. She clutched the back of her chair, only vaguely aware the other women had ceased their prattle and now eyed her with confused stares.

  Patrice touched her elbow. “Annemarie? Are you ill?”

  Ears attuned to any further sounds from the parlor, Annemarie waved a dismissive hand.

  Behind her, Mrs. Yarborough whispered, “Perhaps she needs to use the lavatory. Patrice, why don’t you—”

  “Please,” Annemarie hissed. She edged toward the door, reached for the knob—

  “Sam. Sam, can you hear me?” The urgency in Dr. Russ’s tone sent an icy tremor up Annemarie’s spine.

  She pushed through the double doors and flew across the hall, only to draw up short at the parlor entrance at the sight of Sam crouched on the floor. He pressed his head into the carpet, his whole body convulsing with muted sobs.

  Dr. Russ knelt beside him, his long, thin arms enfolding Samuel as if by sheer physical strength he could silence the demons. “It was an accident, Sam. It’s over now. Just let it go.”

  For a long, crazed moment Annemarie could do nothing but stare, her mind screaming for answers. What had happened here? Who could do this to her Samuel?

  She swung her gaze to Gilbert, her chest heaving on a wave of anger. “What did you say to him? What have you done?”

  “I did it for us, Annemarie.” Gilbert gripped the chair arms and pushed himself upright.

  “For us?” she repeated. “There is no us.”

  “But there can be again.” Gilbert fumbled for his cane, then wavered, his left leg buckling. While she simply stared in stark confusion, he reached down to adjust something on his artificial limb. Then he took two hesitant steps toward her, his free hand outstretched. “I should never have pushed you away like I did. I still love you, Annemarie. And you still love me. We can start over, like none of this ever happened.”

  She shook her head. “No. No, we can’t.”

  Numb with shock and bewilderment, she turned to see Dr. Russ and a disheveled Pastor Yarborough lifting Samuel to his feet.

  “Sorry for dozing off,” the pastor muttered. “What happened? Did he take sick all of a sudden?”

  “Never mind.” Annoyance laced Dr. Russ’s words. “Just help me get him to my car. I’m driving him to the hospital.”

  His words spurred Annemarie into motion. She darted to the doctor’s side. “I’m going with you.”

  Dr. Russ paused only long enough to offer a regretful smile. “There’s not room for you both this time. Leave him to me. I’ll take good care of him.”

  Shaking with fear, aching with love, she could do nothing but watch Dr. Russ and Pastor Yarborough walk a stumbling, unseeing Sam out the front door and help him into the doctor’s Roadster.

  As she stood in the doorway watching the doctor drive away, Annemarie felt a
gentle tug and turned to see Patrice at her side. “I’m sure he’s in good hands,” Patrice murmured. “Are you all right?”

  The weight of the entire evening sank upon Annemarie’s shoulders like a boulder. She hugged herself and waited for tears that refused to fall. Finally, she murmured, “I just want to go home.”

  30

  Mary stood in the shadows beside the staircase, one hand shoved against her roiling stomach, the other covering her mouth. Oh, mercy, she should have surmised from the start that Gilbert had more on his mind this evening than a friendly reunion with an army buddy. Hadn’t he been a wee bit too contrite when she’d confronted him about his addictions? Promising to shape up, pleading for her forgiveness, assuring her he’d come calling and meet her mum like a proper gentleman.

  And all for this—to win back the love of Miss Annemarie Kendall.

  Except his grand plan appeared to have backfired. Well, fine and dandy for him.

  While the Yarboroughs hovered around the poor Miss Kendall, fetching her wrap, the pastor offering to drive her home, Mary edged into the parlor. She spied Gilbert slumped in a chair, his artificial leg poking out stiff and straight, and all she wanted to do was pummel some sense into that curly black head of his.

  Slowly, tiredly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, his pupils like black, bottomless pits. A sheen of perspiration across his face reflected the lamplight. A dazed smile coaxed up the corners of his mouth. “My head hurts, Mary. Could you . . .”

  Any other time she’d have welcomed him into her arms, happy to massage away the pain, thankful he needed her. She’d dared to hope need could grow into love.

  She’d been wrong.

  Arms folded, she stood before him. A coldness had settled in her bones. “Out of pills, are you? Out of friends as well, so it appears.”

  Squeezing his temples between his palms, he leaned forward and sucked air through his nostrils. “Help me, Mary. Help me.”

  “And why would I be helping you after you’ve gone and made a first-class fool of yourself—and of me?”

  Glancing up, he extended his hand toward her. His whole arm trembled, whether from desperation or morphine withdrawal or both, she wouldn’t hazard a guess. His eyes cleared for a moment, and in their depths she saw straight through to his tortured soul. “Why?” he said. “Because you love me.”

  “Indeed I do. And far better than you love yourself, Gilbert Ballard.” Lips pressed flat, she went about realigning chairs and straightening throw pillows. Next, she found Mrs. Yarborough’s tray, gathered up all the brandy snifters, and carried them to the kitchen. Never let anyone say Mary McClarney didn’t know how to be a considerate guest.

  And perhaps while she attended to such duties, Gilbert would use the time to pull his sorry self together enough to explain to her exactly what had transpired. In her service as an army nurse she’d cared for plenty of ill or wounded soldiers, but never in her life had she seen such stark and unholy torment as she’d read in Chaplain Vickary’s eyes before Dr. Russ took him away—all brought on by Gilbert, she had no doubt.

  Patrice met her as she returned from the kitchen. “Forgive me, Miss McClarney. I’m afraid with all the excitement we’ve completely neglected you.”

  Mary dipped her chin. “Think nothing of it. I’m more concerned about the poor chaplain.”

  “Quite staggering, isn’t it? I can’t imagine what came over him. He seemed fine at dinner.” Patrice clucked her tongue. “A dreadful end to the evening, I’m afraid. And so sad for Annemarie.”

  “Yes. Annemarie.”

  Always Annemarie.

  “Father has just left to drive her home.” Patrice slid a disapproving glance toward the parlor. “I daresay we should have asked him to take you as well. Perhaps when Father returns—”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll just be fetching my wrap, and Gilbert and I will be on our way.”

  Not that she had a clue as to how she’d maneuver a near-stuporous Gilbert out the door and into the driver’s seat of his car. She could only hope the fresh air would revive him enough so he wouldn’t steer them into a gully or off the side of a mountain before he got her safely home.

  What he did to himself afterward, she didn’t much care.

  Or so she tried to convince herself. They’d driven only a block or two—thankfully doing no worse damage than running the left front tire through the Yarboroughs’ flowerbed as they left—when she insisted Gilbert pull over.

  “Now, Gilbert Ballard, you’ll be telling me what in heaven’s name you said to Chaplain Vickary that left him in such a state.”

  He kept his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes forward. He appeared more clearheaded now, his chest rising and falling with slow, purposeful breaths. “You don’t want to know, Mary. You really don’t want to know.”

  “I think I deserve to know, considering how I let you use me as one of your pawns in whatever malicious game you were playing.”

  Muttering a curse, Gilbert pounded a fist against the steering wheel and then broke down in tears. “I didn’t know. . . . How could I have known?” He shot her a look of desperation. “God help me, Mary, I’ve destroyed him!”

  Annemarie held herself rigid as she stood before the hospital reception desk. “I’m here to see Chaplain Vickary.”

  The elderly nurse on duty offered a tight-lipped smile. “The chaplain is unavailable until further notice. Is there someone else—”

  “He’s a patient here. I know.” Annemarie balled her hands into fists. “Just tell me how to find his room.”

  A pause. “Are you a relative?”

  “No, but I’m—” I’m the woman he loves, the woman who adores him more than life itself. The woman who can’t wait even a moment longer to be with him, to hold him in my arms and kiss away the nightmares. She blinked back a tear, fighting to control the tremor in her voice. “I’m Annemarie Kendall. Please, I must see him.”

  The nurse’s eyes softened. “Ah, yes, Miss Kendall. Let me check with the charge nurse.”

  Nodding her thanks, Annemarie stepped away while the woman rang someone on the hospital telephone. Moments later she signaled Annemarie over. “I’m told you may go up. Dr. Russ will meet you at the nurses’ station.”

  Annemarie waited barely long enough for the nurse to direct her to Samuel’s floor before she raced up the nearest flight of stairs. By the time she skidded around a corner and spotted Dr. Russ at the desk, her pulse thundered in her ears.

  Dr. Russ looked up from the chart he was studying. “Annemarie. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you before now.”

  “Never mind. Just tell me how Sam’s doing. I’ve been so sick with worry I didn’t even go to bed last night.” The scent of potter’s clay still clung to her hands, but she doubted any of the pieces she’d thrown in those tense, toilsome hours would even be worth firing.

  Dr. Russ motioned toward the waiting area. The last thing Annemarie felt like doing was sitting quietly and listening to a long medical explanation of Sam’s condition, but she could see from the doctor’s expression he was as worried about Sam as she.

  She sat stiffly on the edge of a worn tweed armchair. “Just tell me. Is he going to be all right?”

  “In time.” Pacing in front of her, Dr. Russ massaged the back of his neck. “Last night was . . . well, frankly, it was inevitable. I’d just hoped Sam’s memories would return under much more controlled—and far less hostile—circumstances.”

  “Memories? From the war?” Annemarie clutched her abdomen. “Are you saying he’d intentionally blocked things out?”

  A tortured look deepened the doctor’s frown. He pulled a wooden chair closer to Annemarie and sat down, hands clasped between his knees. With quiet deliberation, he told of the first time he’d met Sam, the day an ambulance had brought him to the field hospital where Dr. Russ was assigned. At first he’d thought the chaplain had been wounded—there was an incredible amount of blood soaking his uniform—but after a thorough physical examination the d
octor determined it was only a severe case of shell-shock.

  “Only.” Dr. Russ uttered a cynical laugh. “I say it like it was nothing serious. No more serious than the thousands of other soldiers who’d had all the war they could stomach.” His neck arched. A vile, sickening sound came from his throat. “No one—no one with an ounce of humanity in his bones—can go through what these men did and come through it unchanged.”

  Samuel, Gilbert . . . Annemarie’s heart broke for both of them. For all the soldiers America had sent to war. “Please,” she murmured, gently touching the doctor’s arm. “Tell me about Sam.”

  Dr. Russ sighed and sat straighter, looking off to the side as if reliving the events he described. “All I knew at first was a chaplain had lost it on the battlefield when a doughboy died in his arms. But the things Sam said in his sleep . . . I knew there had to be more to the story. When they brought in a wounded soldier from his unit a couple of weeks later, I finally talked the guy into telling me what happened—but only after he made me promise I’d never betray his padre.”

  The doctor then described how Samuel had just presided over a mass burial for nearly seventy dead soldiers. Exhausted both emotionally and physically, when the next round of fighting broke out he’d gone berserk. As he grappled with a private over control of his weapons, the private’s own pistol discharged, killing him instantly.

  Annemarie thrust a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. Oh, dear Jesus, help my poor Sam!

  “It was pretty clear Sam didn’t remember all the details, and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Bad enough he blamed himself for Private Braswell’s death. Until last night, he believed what was logged in the official report, that the boy was killed by enemy fire, not his own gun.”

  As Annemarie let the doctor’s words sink in, a tremor began deep in her belly. Her clenched fists shook as she raised her eyes to meet Dr. Russ’s. “Gilbert—he knew all this?”

  “Not all of it. Apparently he overheard part of a conversation between Sam and me, just enough to give him the ammunition he was looking for.” The doctor pushed to his feet and resumed his pacing. “Why he felt he had to bring down a good man like Sam, though, I’ll never understand.”