The Final Service

by Gary W. Moore

  “I don’t know honey,” she replied. “I never looked, and I never asked. And your dad never told.”

  Sandy blew out a long breath before inserting the key. The lock was stiff, but a couple jiggles was all it took for the latch to turn. She unclasped the latches and hesitated a moment before lifting the top. It was heavier than she anticipated.

  The smell of old cedar wood and a faint trace of moth balls filled the air. The inside of the trunk was lined with a light blue paper stamped with something that looked like a palm tree print—but wasn’t. On the back of the top was a small sticker that read “Luggage MFGRS, Wahl Trunk Co., Eau Claire, Wis.”

  The top portion of the trunk was filled with a wooden insert divided into two equal sections. On the left side was a canvas laundry bag, and on the right a pair of army pants, neatly folded. Sandy lifted the pants. When they unfolded, she spotted a ragged hole high on the right thigh surrounded by what appeared at first blush to be black ink down to the knee. Blood.

  She shot her mom a look. “Did you know about this?” the daughter asked of the mother. “About all daddy did during the war?”

  Dorothy pursed her lips tightly and nodded. “Of course. I was his wife,” she replied, her voice finding its footing now, louder and stronger. “Your dad did more than his share of fighting and killing,” she continued. “About ten years ago we were talking late one night and he had more to drink then he should have, and I told him he had gone through hell. He shook his head and said, ‘Dotty, I didn’t go through hell. I stayed in hell.’ I didn’t know what to say, so I did what I always did and I just hugged him.”

  Sandy wiped a small tear away and gently lifted out the wooden divider.

  The bottom portion was filled with a ribbon-tied stack of letters addressed from her mom to her dad, some miscellaneous army t-shirts and shorts, all neatly folded, a small but heavy canvas bag with a zipper across the top, and an open envelope with about a dozen photos inside.

  Resting on top was a large faded manila envelope with the word “Shadow” written in her dad’s hand. She knew because her dad always ended the last line of the “W” with a grand flourish. Sandy slowly sank to the floor and sat cross-legged while her mom sat in a chair next to her.

  She carefully opened one end of the large envelope and shook out two smaller ones. The first had her name on it, and even her current address and phone number, all in her dad’s hand. The second was addressed to someone whose name she did not recognize. She slowly opened the one addressed to her and began reading:

  May 3, 1990

  My Dearest Shadow,

  Raising you was the greatest gift I ever received, and I know now that God spared me so I could have you.

  It is easier for me to write this, sitting here in the middle of the night at the kitchen table, than to tell you. I was never all that good with words—especially after you grew up from a little girl into the beautiful woman, mom and wife that you are.

  Please forgive me for not always being there for you in the ways that you needed. I know I am an alcoholic and have other problems. I wish I knew where else to turn for help, but how do you explain to a stranger you want to run through walls, and spend time punching at shadows and shaking your head until you can’t see straight to get the thoughts to leave?

  I want to give you something to show you how much I love you—and that I didn’t forget. How could I forget?

  I ask one final favor, too, come to think of it. First, take good care of your mom. I know you will, but it is something I feel better writing. Second, there is a letter here that I wrote long ago to someone. It was returned to me unopened. I tried hard for many years but I could not find the recipient. You can read it. In fact, you should read it. But my last wish is that you find a way to track down the family and get the letter to them.

  I love you with all my heart.

  Daddy

  By this time Sandy was sobbing so deeply she could barely breathe. She handed the letter to her mother to read. Soon, both women were crying.

  A few minutes later, once she blew her nose and had a glass of water, Sandy was back at the foot of the bed staring at the second envelope. It was addressed to a Mrs. William S. Agnello, 51 Church Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. The three-cent stamp in the upper right corner was cancelled, and across the envelope at an angle was stamped the words “Addressee Not Known. Return to Sender.” The envelope was still sealed.

  Dorothy leaned over and handed Sandy a letter opener. “Use this so you don’t damage it.”

  Sandy slid the silver tip into the envelope and slid it slowly along the edge. As she unfolded two sheets of thin, ivory-colored paper, a thick lock of brown hair fell out. She caught the tuft in her left hand, looked at it for a brief moment, and closed her fingers around it. This letter was typed. Trembling, she began reading aloud:

  July 2, 1944, France

  Dear Mrs. Agnello,

  My name is Thomas Loucks. I am a sergeant in the same company as your husband, Corporal Agnello. I waited a while until I was assured you had by this time received news of the death of your husband. I was also busy during much of this period fighting the krauts.

  I didn’t know Agno before I entered the Army, but we became fast and dear friends. I wanted to share these thoughts with you because he told me many times if something happened to him, to write to you because any info I could provide would give you comfort. It would pain me to know I did not perform my duty for my friend, so here is my promise fulfilled. I hope it helps you as he hoped it would.

  I remember the moment we met. It was like we had known each other for years even though opposite in most ways. He was a big city boy from New York, and I am from a tiny little place over 300 miles south of Chicago called Sesser, Ill. That never mattered to us. I know I’ll never have another friend like Agno again, nor will I ever forget him.

  Sandy stopped and shot a quizzical look at her mom. “Agno. I know that name.” Unable to place it, she continued reading:

  Your husband and I were part of the first wave to hit Omaha Beach. I know his death must grieve you so, but Agno was killed instantly and almost immediately. I was holding him when he died. He did not suffer.

  After we secured the beachhead, a shell nearly knocked me out and I did not advance with my company for about 24 hours. The next morning, men from Graves Registration arrived to organize the bodies for temporary burial. They asked for volunteers. When we went back to where Agno was, I told a major that he was my friend and am not ashamed that I broke down. The major, a deeply religious man, told me, “This is the final service you can perform for your friend. Through this Hell, amidst all this killing and dying, I have come to know that God has placed us on this earth to be servants to each other.”

  He called up a litter and together we carried your husband to a shallow trench and buried him there shoulder to shoulder with other brave men. I used my handkerchief to clean his face, cut a lock of hair from his head, and put a thin blanket over his body. I removed one of his dog tags and put it on a stake. Rest assured he will be identified and moved to a proper cemetery soon. We removed his dog tags so he could be properly identified.

  Sandy gasped. Agno was the name the therapist had mentioned in her office. When she told this to her mother, Dorothy nodded her understanding. Sandy turned her eyes back to the letter:

  I’m not much of a religious man, but I prayed to God that the work I had done was pleasing to Him and to Agno. I thanked God for the brief but powerful wartime friendship your husband and I shared. If it weren’t for this awful war, this would be a beautiful place to visit. If they keep him buried here, I hope it is high on the bluff overlooking the beaches.

  Sincerely,

  Sgt. Tom “Duke” Loucks

  U.S. Army

  Sandy’s hands shook as she set the letter down. There was so much she wanted to say, but she was unable to say anything at all. Her mother stood and rubbed her daughter’s shoulder. “I am going to make some tea,” she finally said. “I’l
l bring some back while you go through the rest of the things.”

  Sandy nodded, reached into the trunk, and gently shook the envelope of photographs until they spilled out. Most were of her father as a young soldier. The first was in his dress uniform. She turned it over and looked at the back for more information. In another, he was standing with a rifle in his hand, and a third posed with a massive sand dune behind him. Several more featured the handsome sergeant with a handful of his buddies. All young. All smiling. All still alive. She turned the last one over, but the back was blank, just like all the others.

  Her legs cramping, Sandy stood and stretched, her mind awash with a hundred thoughts and feelings that triggered a blur of emotions. It was then her eye caught sight of the corner of something sticking out from between the folds of the canvas laundry bag in the wooden partition. She eased back the edge to discover a brass picture frame holding an oversized black and white image. The black felt backing had come unglued, so when she picked up the frame the photo slipped out and fell facedown onto the bag. Unlike the smaller unframed images, there was something written in pencil on the back of this one:

  May 28, 1944, England

  Me and Cpl. William Samuel Agnello

  Sandy turned the photo over and looked at the front. Her dad was on the left, smiling broadly with his arm around the shoulder of another man who was wearing an off-white T-shirt and khaki pants tucked into shiny black boots.

  A few second later, from out in the kitchen, Dorothy heard a loud scream from the bedroom. After a second of silence came another scream, louder than the first.

  In the bedroom, a thick tuft of light brown hair fell out of a shaking hand and fluttered softly onto the carpet.

  The phone rang three times before a woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Is this Mrs. Ardovino?” asked Sandy. “You live in Chicago?”

  “Yes, but please call me Rose. Who’s this?”

  Sandy took a deep breath and continued. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ardo—Rose,” she began. “My father served in the Second World War and I just found his Army trunk. It had some information inside, including some photos, and I think you might be related to one of his Army friends.”

  “Oh? Well, that’s interesting. How may I help you?” she asked.

  “I am trying to learn more about my dad,” Sandy explained. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

  “I’ll try,” replied Rose. “But I don’t really know much about the war.”

  “Are you related to William Samuel Agnello?”

  “Yes—Sam Agnello was my father,” Rose slowly replied. “I never knew him because he was killed in the war. I was just two when he died.”

  “Your mother, did she live on Church Avenue in Brooklyn during the war?”

  Several seconds of silence followed before she answered. “I was born there,” began Rose. “My mom moved us back in with her parents in the summer of 1944 right after my dad was killed.” She paused before asking, “How do you know all this? And why are you asking me these questions?”

  “That explains why the letter was returned,” Sandy whispered.

  “What letter?” asked Rose. “What are you talking about?”

  “Rose,” began Sandy, “I just have one more question to ask you. And then I promise I will explain everything. It’s very important—for both of us.”

  “Okay,” replied an obviously hesitant voice on the other end of the line.

  “Your mother. Did she die of cancer?”

  Rose let out a small gasp. “Yes. Just two years ago. She never got over my father’s death, and she never remarried.”

  Sandy ran her hand across the top of her dad’s Army trunk. “I think we are going to be good friends, Rose. And we have a lot to talk about. I don’t even know how to begin. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  Afterword

  Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, can affect generations of families, as Gary W. Moore’s The Final Service makes abundantly clear.

  Sandy’s mother Dorothy, for example, had no idea what to do to help her husband. Like many spouses then and now, she avoided the issue and the stigma associated with what, during World War II, was often called “shell-shock.” Dorothy handled what she did not fully understand by simply sweeping it under the rug and looking the other way. Her decision, and Tom’s invisible wounds, went on to engulf Sandy, and in turn, her own family and Tom’s and Dorothy’s grandchildren.

  As Moore’s story highlights, diagnosing “shell-shock,” or what would come to be known as PTSD, is and was very difficult. As it unfolds, piece by piece, The Final Service does an excellent job unraveling Tom’s quiet suffering and connecting his experiences to PTSD and its related issues to the problems between father and daughter.

  Sandy’s emotional journey and the revelations that come to light are as realistic as they are uplifting. Because Moore’s characterization of the story’s protagonist is often gloomy and disheartening, her progression into lightness and healing is refreshing. He portrays the long and difficult journey for compassion and understanding that ultimately frees Sandy from the generational turmoil in a believable way. The Final Service is filled with characters that are all too familiar to me, for I deal with them on a daily basis—their stories, their suffering, their anxieties, their heartaches.

  Today, the medical profession has a much clearer understanding of post-traumatic stress disorder and the many ways in which to treat it. It is indeed a very real ailment with tangible and too often heart-wrenching consequences that not only include alcoholism and depression, but drug abuse, physical and mental abuse, divorce, and even suicide.

  Moore’s story also sheds light on the importance of having a strong support system in order to both alleviate the stress and fight this terrible (though now much better understood) consequence of war. Because of this, readers will better understand the extreme dynamics of depression, alcoholism, and other characteristics of PTSD in their veteran family members and friends. Hopefully, it will also convince everyone to reach out to veterans in any way they can, if only to show appreciation for their service.

  It is important that we all join together to assist veterans and their family members as they continue their own physical and psychological battles here at home. Today’s veterans and their families deserve to know that they are supported just as much at home as they are and were abroad.

  If you know or suspect someone is suffering from PTSD, it is important to seek help from a medical professional. I suggest contacting your local mental health care professional. Your family doctor can help you find the right assistance and trained professional to guide the veteran and his loved ones through this traumatic time.

  My work in this area, which includes educating people across the country about PTSD, together with other information, can be found at www.TheBattleContinues.org.

  — Sudip Bose, MD, FACEP, FAAEM

  Dr. Sudip Bose is an Iraq war veteran, recognized as a “CNN Hero” for receiving the Bronze Star and serving as the U.S. physician who treated Saddam Hussein after his capture. Dr. Bose is widely recognized as one of the “Leading Physicians of the World” by the International Association of Healthcare Professionals and one of the world’s leading experts on PTSD. He is the founder of www.TheBattleContinues.org, a nonprofit charity.

  The Des Plaines / Skokie Vanguard “Go Big Red!”

  “If you were in The Vanguard, no explanation is needed.

  If not, no explanation is possible.”

  — Sandy Richards

  Two members of the rifle squad of color guard of the 1973 Des Plaines Vanguard Drum & Bugle Corps. Jane Boulen

  Drum & Bugle Corps is a unique American art form that is both music and sport. The Des Plaines Vanguard was an inaugural member of Drum Corps International (DCI) and world class leader in innovation and execution. They passed into history after the 1976 competitive season, but their influences and impact can still be seen in today’s march
ing music.

  For those of us who knew and loved the Des Plaines Vanguard, the corps lives on in our hearts and minds. But for those who have never heard of this incredible organization, or are unfamiliar with drum&bugle corps, I hope Sandy and her story influence you to learn more about it at www.desplainesvanguard.com, or about Drum Corps International at www.dci.org.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing this story while looking at life through another person’s eyes has been an especially revealing experience. Let me begin these acknowledgments by thanking “Sandy,” the inspiration for this story whose name has been changed to preserve her anonymity. I still vividly recall the day she shared her true-life struggle with me, and how it planted the seeds of this story. Thank you, Sandy. I hope you approve.

  I want to thank my agent Tris Coburn of Tristram C. Coburn Literary Management for his efforts and encouragement. My stories don’t fit into a single category or genre publishers generally seek. My tastes tend to be eclectic and the idea of writing over and over on a similar subject or an ongoing series with the same hero holds little interest for me. I like to write what interests me, and my tastes and interests are all over the chart. Tris continues to find a home for my writing and the book you hold in your hand is proof of his success.

  I also want to thank my friend and publisher Theodore P. Savas at Savas Beatie for recognizing the light in this story and how it may not only entertain, but help create understanding and awareness. Ted is a dedicated supporter of the men and women who serve in the armed forces of our country and appreciated the need to share this story with a wide audience. This is our third book together. My adventures with Savas Beatie began with Playing with the Enemy and continued with Hey Buddy and now The Final Service. Thank you, Ted, marketing director Sarah Keeney, and the entire team. I hope we can make it four!