by Jeff High
The first name on the list was a soldier killed in action, June 26, 1918, near Reims, France. His name was Leyland James Carter of Mercy Creek Road.
CHAPTER 46
Memorial
I will never understand how or why Leyland Carter appeared in my life as he did. I’ve never believed in ghosts and still don’t. But as real as every fiber of my being wanted him to be, I had to concede that maybe he was just someone I created, some peculiar manifestation of my subconscious. I never shook Leyland’s hand, I never saw him eat or drink, and I never saw him come or go. He just appeared. And all I could truly remember were his kind face and his temperate voice. As well, Leyland Carter had appeared to me as an old man, but he’d died a young soldier. Laughably, even when my mind created Leyland’s imaginary ghost, I couldn’t get his age right.
Still, something in my bones believed he was real.
Perhaps if our encounters had happened in the small hours of the night, or in the mystical half-light of sunset, I could have more easily relegated them to some fleeting trance or vaporous apparition. But they didn’t. They occurred in broad daylight.
In hindsight, my conversations with Leyland held a singular quality that was grandly puzzling. Invariably, Leyland had told me things I didn’t want to hear. But I had acted on his words and had made better, nobler choices because of them. And I could only wonder if in future days, during a morning run out Summerfield Road, or perhaps next spring while I was once again planting my garden, I would pause in my labor and suddenly catch on the lilt of the wind the sound of his spirited voice distantly singing a cheerful tune. I hoped so.
That night in the kitchen, I managed to regain my composure and dismiss the matter with Connie. She wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t pursue the subject further. I never spoke of Leyland to Christine or John or anyone. He would forever be a curious, yet oddly gratifying chapter of my life. I had no desire to spoil the richness of my experience with him or, for that matter, try to explain the unexplainable.
But I did have a passionate desire to know more about him. So in the final days before the memorial ceremony, I spent numerous hours at the Watervalley Library, digging through the archives and making discoveries that left me awestruck. Unlike the graduation speech earlier in the year, the Veterans Day speech was a story I couldn’t wait to tell.
Despite the cool temperature, Tuesday, November 11, dawned bright and beautiful with a perfect blue sky. The air was filled with a strong, clean, alpine vigor. Red, white, and blue banners had been draped around the courthouse square, and flags hung everywhere. The world seemed dressed for a grand occasion. Rows of white wooden folding chairs lined the courthouse lawn, circling the veiled statue and the small podium in front of it. The chairs were for all of Watervalley’s veterans.
Altogether there were more than one hundred of them. Among their ranks were Chick McKissick, Sheriff Warren Thurman, Maylen Cook, Clayton Ross, and Karen Davidson. These dozens of everyday men and women now went quietly about their jobs at the barbershop or the cabinet factory or the police station. Yet all of them had once put their lives on hold and served their country. Sitting near the podium and watching them take their places was possibly the most humbling experience of my life.
Then again, this was Watervalley, and humor was never far away. The veterans had been asked to wear all or part of their uniforms. Many did, with the exception of Gene Alley, who for some reason wore his old high school baseball uniform under his overcoat. Without a doubt, Gene was a little wacky due to the head trauma of his war wound. Then again, it occurred to me that he might simply be a living memorial to the long-term effects of questionable drug use. He was still a mystery.
Perhaps the most notable veteran in attendance was Luther Whitmore. His presence at the memorial service was one of the two favors I had asked of him. His uniform sagged a little, a testimony to the robust frame and stout fighting man Luther had once been. He had returned from his out-of-town journey, and to my surprise, seated beside him was his ex-wife, Claire. Luther had made peace with his past and had gone to California to find her. I didn’t know if she had come for the memorial service, or for Luther, or for both, but I took it as a good sign that she was there.
Soon everyone was seated and assembled. John made a few opening remarks and then introduced me. I stepped to the podium, pulled my notes from my overcoat, and smiled warmly at those before me.
“I want to tell you about two soldiers,” I said. “The first was a man born in 1894 several miles away in Maury County. His name was Leyland James Carter. When he was two years old, his family moved here to Watervalley. He grew up and went off to school at Vanderbilt University, where he earned a degree in classical studies. But he had a love of the soil, and after graduation he came back to Watervalley, where he bought a small farm on Mercy Creek Road. There he built a house with his own hands. And, as often happens with men in Watervalley, he met a girl.
“Her name was Sylvia Bartholomew, and she was the love of his life. Then, in 1917 he was drafted. Before he left for France, he proposed and she accepted. She was seventeen years old. They were to be married upon his return and live in the cottage home he had built for them on Mercy Creek Road. While he was in France, he wrote her many letters, and it was clear that he missed her desperately. Leyland was also a man of wit and humor. In one letter, he wrote, ‘Dear Sylvia: I have figured out how to make a small fortune in farming. You do this by first starting out with a large fortune.’”
A strong ripple of laughter swept through the crowd. I continued.
“Leyland also wrote poems in his letters to Sylvia. A few were about war, some were about home, and others were about the land. Leyland was one of the great company of men of Watervalley who lived by the soil and loved its mystery. For Leyland, the land seemed a source of essential wonder, and he took great delight in finding life in a handful of dust.
“But the most moving poems he wrote were about his love for Sylvia. One of my favorites is titled ‘As Long As There Are Daisies,’ in which he expresses the simple sentiment that as long as daisies bloom each year in the fields of Watervalley, so too will his love for her. It is clear that he loved Sylvia desperately and wanted nothing more than to return home, marry her, and live a quiet, peaceful life on his modest farm.
“But Leyland never made it back. He died in an attack at Bois Belleau near Reims, France, on June 26, 1918, and his is the first name on the memorial behind me. He was buried near the battlefield. Sylvia was heartbroken. She kept all of Leyland’s letters and his poems, and eventually had them published in a small book, a copy of which can still be found in the Watervalley Library.
“In time, Sylvia married and had a daughter by the name of Evangeline, who was born in 1930. Evangeline was the mother of Watervalley’s most decorated hero. This is the second soldier I want to tell you about.
“He joined the army in 1968 and, after undergoing basic training at Fort Polk, went to Vietnam, where he participated in multiple engagements with the enemy. At a time when most soldiers couldn’t leave the war fast enough, he reenlisted twice and served until the close of the war in 1975. Along the way, he attained the rank of captain. He was wounded multiple times, for which he received four Purple Hearts. His acts of valor in combat won him two Bronze Star Medals, one Silver Star Medal, and a Distinguished Service Cross, the highest recognition a soldier can receive short of a Medal of Honor. It took quite a bit of digging through some military archives, but I finally uncovered that story.
“In 1971 while fighting in Quang Ngãi Province, his patrol unit was ambushed, and he was shot and left for dead. But the wound only grazed his head. Upon regaining consciousness, he bandaged his injury. Then, instead of retreating to safe ground, he tracked his attackers back to a remote hut where two of his unit’s men along with three other soldiers were being held prisoner. Single-handedly, he attacked, killing six of the enemy and freeing the five captives, tw
o of whom had been beaten and had to be carried. All five of the rescued men survived the war.”
I paused for a moment to look out over the crowd, wanting them to absorb my last statement. “After learning this story, I made quite a few phone calls. Each of the five men returned home, got married, and had families. Since then, two have passed away, one in an auto accident and the other from a heart attack. The five men had a combined eleven children and twenty-nine grandchildren; people who never would have lived were it not for the courage of one man. And I am pleased to say that at their insistence, the three surviving men are here today to pay tribute to this hero. They are the gentlemen seated to my right.”
By now, many in the crowd were looking from side to side with curious glances. More than a few were staring at Luther Whitmore, who was sitting quietly, his face the picture of contrition and reserve. I paused and looked at him as well.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know our memorial unveiling today is for those men and women who have died defending our country. But it seems both right and fitting that we take a moment to honor those who have served and are still with us, while they can hear our applause and know our appreciation. It also seems fitting to give a long-overdue hero’s welcome to those who never got one and especially to Luther Allen Whitmore, Watervalley’s most distinguished and most decorated soldier.”
I fixed my gaze on Luther and began to clap loudly. The three men he had rescued immediately stood and clapped as well. Instantly and spontaneously the entire crowd stood and applauded in a thunderous ovation. Luther simply sat, holding Claire’s hand. Tears welled in his eyes. He looked humbly up at me and nodded in a tight-lipped gesture of appreciation.
As the applause continued, I gazed around at all the lives before me, at the men and women in uniform. And I couldn’t help but speculate that, just like Luther, there was in all of them something ruined, lost, or broken; that the unexplainable aspects of war had sealed up parts of their memory, robbing them of some irretrievable innocence, some unrecoverable sense of wonder. I gazed humbly at Karen and Clayton and so many others. For all of them, life had continued. Yet by some degree, war had changed them and taken from them something that they could never get back. Try as I might, I would never fully understand.
The applause ended and everyone sat again. I took a moment to smile warmly at those around me.
“I want to thank all of you who have given of your time and your money to make this moment and this memorial possible. I also want to thank you for giving me this opportunity to speak to you today so that those who have served, both living and dead, could be given the recognition and honor they are due. Let us never forget their sacrifice.”
I pulled the rope to the veil covering the large statue. The fabric floated down gently, revealing a young man standing next to an army duffel bag. He was wearing a proud and expectant face of pure joy. Once again, the crowd erupted in deafening applause. And as I gazed at the large inscription at the base, I couldn’t help but think of Leyland Carter.
The caption read, “Home, at Last.”
CHAPTER 47
Dreams Come True
After the ceremony, I was seated in my chair, putting my notes back together, when Christine came up behind me. She draped her arms around my neck and pressed her cheek to mine. “You did great!”
“Thanks. It’s a wonderful story. Although I’m not sure I did it justice.”
“I think you did just fine. I’m very proud of you.”
“Well, thank you, Miss Chambers.”
“You’re very welcome, Dr. Bradford!”
I stood and we walked a few steps. Christine hugged my arm as she spoke. “So, what’s this big surprise you said you have for me when we talked on the phone earlier this morning?”
I reached for some papers in my coat pocket. “I was going to hold off for some special moment to tell you this, but I’m too excited to wait.” I unfolded the papers and handed them to her.
“What is this?”
“It’s a signed real estate contract, or more exactly, it’s a one-year option to purchase. I’ve decided I’d like to own a piece of Watervalley.”
Christine’s jaw dropped. “Oh my goodness! You’re kidding! Where?”
“Oh, it’s just a fifteen-acre tract out past Gallivant’s Crossing. Nothing too special about it. But I think everybody around here calls it Moon Lake.”
Christine was completely speechless. She practically lunged toward me, wrapping her arms around my neck. Spontaneously, I lifted her in the air and lightly spun her around. After I set her down, she regarded me with rapt wonder.
“Luke! I don’t know what to say. Does this honestly mean that one day we’ll own Moon Lake?”
“Certainly looks that way. Of course, you’ll have to actually marry me to own part of it. Although . . . even if you don’t, you’re still invited to come swim on the bathing-suit-optional days.”
Christine was so ecstatic, she ignored my teasing and smiled with adoring wonder. She seemed incandescently happy.
“I can’t believe you did this!”
“I figured that one day we’d build a house out there, so we can, you know, live over the valley.”
Again, she hugged me excitedly. “I can’t imagine how you pulled this off, Luke Bradford. I mean, how in the world did you get an old grump like Luther Whitmore to agree to it?”
“I beat him in a game of Twister.”
“Bradford, you are unbelievable.”
“Oh, well, gee, I don’t know about all that,” I said hesitantly.
But after a moment, I jokingly shrugged. “Okay, you’re right. I am pretty unbelievable. Try not to drool.”
She rolled her eyes. We were awash in a giddy foolishness. I took her hand, and we began to walk toward her car.
“So, Chambers, I’ve been thinking about the two of us. You? You’re a smoking-hot girl. Me? Well, along with being unbelievable, I’m also the eventual owner of some pretty select Watervalley real estate. What say you and I get married next June?”
“Okay by me,” she responded casually. “But I’m kind of high maintenance. You sure about this?” Her words were lighthearted, but there was also something of a searching, vulnerable quality to them.
I stopped and spoke slowly, resolutely. “Absolutely, positively, unquestionably, completely sure.”
Christine ran her fingers under the lapel of my wool overcoat. “All right, then. I guess I’ll say yes. But just so you know, my answer was kind of iffy before the Moon Lake deal got put on the table.”
“Well, joke’s on you, brown eyes. My Mennonite buddies tell me your family has a bunch of Holsteins. The handsome-doctor thing was just to lure you in. I’m all about snagging a dairy herd.”
“Ugh, I knew it. I should never have fallen for you.”
We laughed at ourselves. I loved her, and I saw in her eyes that she knew it. In that moment I realized the great responsibility I had to always assure her, to always protect her, to help her look beyond her broken dreams. It seemed that during our time together Christine had invariably been the strong one, the one with the emotional strength and courage to swallow pride, to speak softly against anger, to love unselfishly. Now it was for me to find the wisdom and the words, to be the one who stood against the storms that life would inevitably throw at us, and to be the one who, when necessary, would simply stand and wait.
I leaned forward and kissed her. “Okay, brown eyes, gotta run. I’m supposed to be part of some photo op over at the Memorial Building.”
“Call me when you’re done, and I’ll meet you at your house.”
“Right. And hey, if you don’t mind, if you get there before me, check on Rhett and Casper? They may need to be let out.”
“Sure.”
I kissed her again and began to step backward, pulling my coat around me tightly to avoid t
he mild bite of the November air. Christine stood there and smiled sweetly, watching me leave.
“Don’t forget, our dinner reservations are for six,” she said.
“I won’t.”
“And it takes two hours to drive to Nashville.”
“I know.” I had continued walking backward away from her.
“And smile nice for the camera.”
“I will.” I turned toward the Memorial Building, not wanting to be late. But after two steps, Christine’s warm, enchanting voice rang out from behind me.
“I love you, Mr. Wonderful.”
“I love you too!” I echoed automatically, walking hurriedly.
But one step farther, I stopped abruptly. I stood frozen for a moment and then turned slowly around toward Christine. She was standing there in the crisp air and brilliant sun of that late-autumn afternoon, looking as radiant and beautiful as the first breathtaking moment I saw her in her classroom doorway more than a year ago. Her head was tilted to one side, and her face was framed in a soft, sentimental, affectionate smile. I stared at her for a few puzzled seconds before speaking with tender curiosity.
“What did you call me?”
POSTLUDE
Walking through the brisk November cold, Luke quickly made his way home from the Memorial Building. He was bubbling with anticipation. Both he and Christine were taking the next day off so they could go to Nashville that evening, grab some dinner, and then go hear Pink Martini play in a live concert. They would be late getting back to Watervalley, but the evening had all the potential to be nothing short of a fabulous time.
Before heading inside, he stopped at his mailbox and grabbed the envelopes that had accumulated over the last couple of days. While walking to the porch, he shuffled through a few familiar bills and became intrigued by a letter addressed to him from Vanderbilt University Medical Center. It was from Dr. Burns, his old med school professor. Consumed with curiosity, he stopped and opened it.
