As I reflected on the past, and fretted about the future, I heard footsteps on the grass behind me. Two arms slipped around my waist and held me in silence for a minute.
“Whatcha thinkin' about?” Ellen asked tenderly.
“Everything,” I replied, after concluding that was the only answer that encompassed my scattered thoughts.
“Um-hmm,” she agreed, her voice unsteady.
“Me too,” she added softly.
We watched as Mr. Matthews pulled the plow out of the ground and left for home, the snort of the tractor slowly fading as he got farther and farther away. I pulled Ellen to my side, and we stood there, watching nothing in particular. She reached up and wiped away the tears that ran silently down her face. I felt my throat tighten, but fought it.
“Please don’t cry,” I said, trying not to sound emotional. “I’ll come back.”
“But what if you don’t?” she said, her voice quavering. I didn’t want to answer that, so I just let the question hang about us like a smoke that makes for watery eyes.
“Supper time,” she said finally, clearing the air with her words and wiping her cheeks with the corner of her apron. I followed her in and washed up.
“Looks like you killed the fatted calf for me,” I joked, seeing the spread she had laid out on the table, but morbidly thinking I might have been more accurate in calling it a meal for a man condemned to the gallows. I looked at the ham, potatoes, biscuits, and vegetables that patiently steamed on the table, and wondered if this wouldn’t be the best meal I’d have in a long, long while.
We sat down and bowed our heads to give thanks for the food. I prayed for my protection, I prayed Ellen would be safely taken care of while I was away, and when I finally said “amen” after an unusually lengthy prayer, Ellen smiled at me with tearful eyes and said, “You forgot to bless the food!”
We ate leisurely, talking about trivial things in between the lengthy pauses where we both thought about what the other was thinking. I avoided looking her in the eye, because all I saw was sadness there.
I had two pieces of apple pie for dessert, and helped Ellen clean things up, which I didn’t usually do, but I just felt like we should be together as much as possible. We both talked tenderly to each other, in subdued tones, as though someone had just died or we were trying not to wake a baby. She had all my clothes washed and folded, and helped me pack my bags, since I would have to leave for Gatlinburg early the next morning.
We made love that night. It was an intercourse of souls, a copulation of emotion, a meshing of flesh and spirit unlike anything we’d ever experienced before. We cried unabashedly, laughed heedlessly, both seemingly determined to leave the other more ravished than ourselves. And then, when the fires had burned low, and rapture gave way to contented sighs, we talked. We talked about the past. We talked of silly things that lovers talk about. We talked about our future in words carefully chosen to eradicate any doubt that there would be a future together. And when words no longer sufficed, we clasped hands and spoke through tightly clenched fingers.
“Robbie?” she said, as I lay soberly, piercing the darkness with unblinking eyes.
“Yes, my love,” I acknowledged her with a squeeze.
“Well, there are a lot of girls out there,” she began. She halted, as though she needed a little time to gather up the appropriate words.
“Yes, dear, that you have rightly judged,” I inserted a teasing reply as she blew open the dam on her stream of thought.
“You’re gonna stay faithful to me, won’t you?” she blurted out. It was something I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to discuss. I myself had spent the past 10 minutes pondering how I’d survive without her love. “Who knows how long you’ll be gone,” she continued softly. “There will be so many temptations out there,” she ended tearfully, and sniffled.
“I’ll be back before you hardly know I’m gone,” I assured her with what I hoped to be a confident tone, “and I’m all yours until then.” I felt her prop up her head on one hand, and could feel her sweet, warm breath on my face.
“Tell me you promise,” she whispered over me, her voice uncertain.
“I promise,” I vowed.
“Say, ‘I promise I will be faithful to you,’” she instructed firmly.
“Didn’t I promise that on our wedding day?” I laughed nervously.
“Say it!” she ordered forcefully.
“I promise I’ll be faithful to you,” I repeated. She let out a long breath and her lips gently felt for mine in the darkness. She left me alone to contemplate, with the taste of her salty sweetness on my lips. I prayed I’d left her a son.
~~~
“I’m not hungry,” I pushed my plateful of food forward during breakfast the next morning. I looked over the peak of the mountain of food Ellen had prepared, and saw her picking uninterestedly at her own plate.
“Me neither,” she said quietly.
My insides flipped and jumped in an effort that would have won them favor with the Ringling Brothers.
We got ready to catch the train in silence. We communicated through sad eyes and thin smiles all the way to Gatlinburg.
I had hoped to leave her words. Words to cling to, words to tuck away and fortify her heart with on lonely nights. Perfect words. Words I could write down and mail off to Hollywood. Words they could stuff into the mouth of some movie star to complete a tear-jerking parting scene, where a perfect man whispers the perfect words into the perfect ear of a perfect woman. But life is unscripted, and there is no take two, and so we stood on the station platform, silently swaying in each other’s arms. An irreverent sun beamed down brightly on our somber farewell. I drank deeply from her lips, as a man drinks from the last oasis for a thousand miles. Her touch and taste weakened my will to leave. But my resolve to return alive took life from her every breath.
“Don’t cry,” she told me, wiping a wayward tear from my cheek. Her reservoir of tears had quietly drained on our way to the station, and so she comforted me, dry-eyed and staid. She took my head in her hands and kissed my forehead.
“Don’t forget to come back to me,” she jested softly.
“I promise,” I smiled weakly.
“I love you,” we spoke in unison.
The locomotive belched impatiently. I wrenched my grip from Ellen’s arms and picked up my bags off the weathered, wooden platform. She held her hat in both hands as I boarded the train. I turned, smiled, and winked from the top step. She had a blue ribbon in her hair.
The black and white clouds of smoke from the train’s engine drifted over top of the cars as we huffed and puffed toward Fort George G. Meade, a basic training post near Odenton, Maryland, to join the 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Division.
I made acquaintance with a few of the men around me. Most of the fellows I traveled with were farmers, coal miners, loggers, and the like. Tough men with rough hands and stout hearts. Most of them would be assigned to other companies, but one of them, Johnny Snarr, would end up in mine.
Johnny was quiet, morose, even, with dull blue eyes that smoldered like the ever-present, continually lit cigarette that stuck to his bottom lip. He sat hunched forward, squinting distantly through lazy rings of smoke, hands clasped, as though oblivious to our conversations or the fact that the ash on the end of his cigarette grew and fell off without benefit of being flicked by a finger.
“Where ya from?” a talkative chap I remember only as Rollins finally attempted to include Johnny in the conversation. Johnny stared into the swirl of blue smoke as though he had to think about it.
“Jacksboro way,” he finally answered, not looking up.
“Ya married?” Rollins ventured another question. Johnny allowed another silence, something I’d later learn he almost always did.
“Yup,” he replied slowly, as though he had to chew his words before spitting them out. His habit of delayed response seemed to be a tactic in discouraging conversation. It worked. Rollins got the hint and turned his attention to other top
ics. Johnny leaned back and closed his eyes, interrupting his nap only to butt out his stubby cigarette and light another.
I looked out the window. The sun shone through the wispy lace of locomotive smoke that scuttled along behind the stack, making shadows on the ground. I missed Ellen.
It was dark when we pulled into Odenton. Some of us had dozed off, but most everyone was groggy. We looked curiously out the windows. Many of us had scarcely been out of our hometowns, never mind out of state, so there was a good deal of curiosity and anticipation at seeing what lay out in the darkness.
We detrained, and were marched to the nearby barracks. The poor lighting afforded us little opportunity to get a good look at the place, but what we did see wasn’t particularly impressive; everything looked like a work in progress. Instead of grass, sand surrounded our unpainted, pine-clad barracks. This was our new home.
It took me some time to fall asleep that night. I just lay there, staring up into the blackness and thinking a thousand scattered thoughts. Thoughts about home and Ellen, thoughts about what the next day would bring, but mostly, thoughts about the chap two cots over who sounded like he had a buzz saw lodged in his nostril. I stifled the urge to smother him with his pillow, and instead, covered my own head with mine.
The next day started with a jolt. We met our commanding officer, Captain Jefferson Ross, a tall Yankee that was almost skinny looking, but made of rawhide. He appeared to be angry at nothing in particular and everything in general. He quickly earned the nickname “Old Lizard Gizzard” from us, although no one would have dared say it to his face.
“You will march when I say march, you will stand when I say stand, you will shit when I tell you to shit, and you won’t wipe your ass until I say!” he barked at us that first morning, neatly summing up the scope of choice-making we were afforded. It seemed his motto was “Never talk if you can shout, never shout if you can scream.” His harsh, brusque style was not so much his personality, but a tool he’d used so long to crush the will of his recruits; I wondered if he ever got out of character, even in his personal life. Any opportunity to get in your face and humiliate you in front of your entire company was seized with relish. His obscenity-ridden tirades served to squelch any thoughts we might have that we knew better than he did. It was one hell of a baptism of fire. It sure made it easy for a fellow to get homesick. The longing for home was reflected in the first letter I wrote to Ellen.
~~~
May 27th, 1941, Fort George G. Meade, Maryland
Dear Darling,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m doing as reasonably well as I can be, being away from you.
We’ve settled into something of a routine here at Odenton. The place is run with the military structure I expected. There are few surprises in our regimen, and when there are, they’re seldom pleasant.
We sleep on steel cots, 20 men to a room. Needless to say, I’m still not used to sleeping in an open space with 19 other snoring men. Last night, one of the fellows woke me with his sleep talking. In my sleep-muddled state, I reached for the warmth of your body. It made me sad when you weren’t there. I miss the smell of your hair.
They feed us fairly well. The hard training makes us hungry, so we wolf down whatever they put in front of us without tasting it, which is for the best, since your cooking has me somewhat spoiled, I suspect. One fellow said the food here beats the pants off the stuff his wife makes. I pity the poor chap if that is really the case!
It’s been interesting meeting fellows from different states. Most of the lads are first rate; I could see myself becoming good chums with some of them. For most of the officers, however, there is little love lost. I suspect many times the men would as soon go to war against the officers as the Nazis.
Other than that, there is little else new to share. Please write me diligently, whether you have news or not. I want to hear of every thought you think and every emotion you feel. I don’t want to worry about you, but I do. I feel so powerless to be of any help to you, being so far away, but hope you sense my love over the miles, and draw strength and fortitude from it to meet the challenges of the day.
Please don’t be lonely. My spirit never left you. I left it behind to dry your tears of sadness, keep you company on the garden swing, hold your hand when you watch the sunset, and warm you on cold nights. I hope you feel my nearness.
I don’t know what else to say, except I miss you. The tie that binds my heart to yours, that lasso with which you snared my affections, is pulled ever tighter the further I am dragged from you, and the pain sharpens. Every day I face is just another obstacle in my path back to you. Something to be gotten out of the way. Each moment is another step toward your arms. Another step toward caressing your body with kisses, sharing a meal together in contented silence, or enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company in the mundane drudgery of everyday tasks. I miss walking barefoot on the grass with you in the coolness of the night, feeling the thick green carpet tickle my feet. Lying down together and gazing at the stars. Finding our own constellations and telling our own silly stories about them. I miss feeling your hot breath drive away the cool night air around my face. The air nipping at us until we finally succumb to shivering and walk back to the house, hand in hand. I miss reaching for the warmth of your hand. Even when all around, everything was cold to the touch, I could always reach out with certainty. Your hand was always there, radiating heat and love. And I reach for it still. It is an absolute, like the stars, something I believe to be there, even when time or space or circumstances don’t allow me to see it. I love you, Ellen.
Till we walk hand in hand again,
Robbie
P.S. Please put a little of your perfume on your letters.
~~~
The weeks flew by. We were given uniforms that looked like World War I hand-me-downs. Captain Ross had us uncrate .30-caliber machine guns and 81 mm mortars, and we used gasoline and rags to wipe off the Cosmoline, a thick, Vaseline-like anti-rust jelly. We all had physical examinations, and were given shots and short military haircuts.
A new crop of Yankee draftees arrived, and the new guys were from a different world. They talked funny, with words, expressions, and customs we Southerners had never encountered, apart from maybe in a book or on the radio. We found each other mutually entertaining at first, but the novelty of our respective accents wore off, and we started not to think of each other as Yankee or Southerner, but fellow brothers-in-arms of the U.S. Army.
Army training was hard for me at first. Everything was dictated to us; there was no room for personal style or preference. We did what we were told. We marched the same, dressed the same, saluted the same, made our beds the same. I’d always valued the independent American spirit. I liked being the captain of my own destiny. There was no room for individualism in the United States Army. There were times it enraged me, that in the costliest patriotic service to my country, I was reduced to an automaton, made to feel like I was a child unable to make a simple decision like how to make my bed. However, after several weeks, I was beginning to make the adjustment. Johnny Snarr had a little more difficulty.
~~~
We stood at attention on a Friday morning, after a night of driving rain. The rain had ended, but the day was still only slightly sunnier than Captain Ross’ disposition. The captain walked slowly down the line, inspecting each of us and meting out a generous scowl to each soldier he passed. He held his peace—until he reached Johnny.
Now, the captain and Johnny just hadn’t seemed to hit it off. Every time Captain Ross got near him, you could almost see Johnny raise his quills. When talked to, he would glower, and there were times you could tell he could hardly contain his urge to reach out and give the captain a sizeable dose of his own medicine. Today was no different.
“Well, private,” the captain started in on him with a mocking smile, “what in blazes possessed you to shine your boots with shit?”
Johnny stared forward intensely, his jaw clenched, nostrils fl
ared.
“Answer me, dipshit!” Ross roared.
“I didn’t. Sir.” Johnny spat the words through his teeth.
“You didn’t?” the captain feigned incredulity. “He says he didn’t,” he informed us, as though somehow we hadn’t overheard the exchange. His eyes narrowed, and he pushed his nose into Johnny’s face.
“Then why do your boots look like shit?” he bellowed. I glanced down at my boots and those of the men on either side of me. The sloppy ground had left few boots unblemished.
“Well, sir, I’m no fuckin’ detective, but I reckon it might have something to do with the fact that I’ve been walking through shit since I shined them this morning,” Johnny answered fearlessly. There were no right answers to the question, but Johnny’s answer was most certainly less right than others he could have chosen. Veins popped out of Captain Ross’ neck and forehead.
“Is that how you address an officer, numbnuts?” he screamed. “Shine my boots,” he snarled, “you could use the practice.” The look Johnny gave him nearly singed the captain’s eyebrows.
Johnny slowly squatted, as though gravity had reversed and he had to muster all his strength to lower himself.
“On your knees! Bitch!” Ross was determined to take him down a few rungs. He dropped a handkerchief down on the ground, crossed his arms, and waited expectantly. Johnny picked it up, shook it twice, and wrapped it around the back of the captain’s left boot. I held my breath, thinking he might yank his leg out from under him, but he didn’t, he just calmly began polishing, in his leisurely, measured way.
“Oh, you’ll need a little spit to get the shine I’m looking for,” the captain informed him after a minute. Johnny complied grudgingly. He was stone-faced, but I could see the intensity building in his eyes.
Ten minutes later his mouth was dry, and the shoes were shined. Or so he thought. He stood up and held out the hanky for the captain.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 11
