Blood, Dreams, and Olive Drab (Pride & Promise) Read online

  "Well, he was fine for a while and then it just got to him. He basically snapped," Ernie confided. He crossed his arms over his chest and chewed on the side of his lip.

  "Just like that?" Henry blinked and could feel his stomach churning.

  "No. He put in for a transfer, but they never granted it."

  "Why?"

  "They picked Welky because they thought he was the only man that could handle the work. When he failed, no one would take the post." Ernie looked over at Henry while wiggling his nose, trying to keep his glasses on his face as sweat poured down his head. "Other than me every so often, you’re the only live American he’s seen in two years. The guy that had this job before I did would come down here and he said Welky was just deteriorating every month. He told everyone that Welky had tried to get out, but he said that after a certain amount of time, Welky almost started to like it. He started to fall apart and then the next thing you know . . . well, you can certainly see." They both turned back and gazed upon Welky with hideous astonishment as he snored away in the sweltering heat.

  "Well, kid, I gotta get goin’!" And Ernie bounded out the door.

  "Hey! Hey!" Henry barked as he ran for the doorway.

  "See ya, kid!" Ernie yelled. He rounded the side of the bus and jumped into the driver’s seat. He cranked the engine. It hissed as it started up when he released the brake and it started rolling down the slope of the hill.

  "See ya . . . ," Henry mouthed. He watched the bus creep away through the tight curves of the short street. The young soldier leaned against the doorway and could smell the pungent odor of new tainted flesh. He glanced over his shoulder. The floor was a collage of off white and nearly yellow sheets that were all stained with either brown or dark crimson spots.

  Welky woke up long enough to let his chubby arm fall off the cot. His fingers tapped around the floor, feeling for his flask. He tipped it over and a trickle of liquor spilled, but he pulled the flask back up and poured it into the side of his gaping mouth. When the flask ran dry, Welky tossed it viciously across the room. It clattered off the wall and came to rest next to one of the new bodies. The last of the liquor dripped out onto the corner of the white sheet and Welky mumbled something gruffly and rolled back towards the wall.

  Henry looked down at the ground and could feel a weird numbness in his fingers. A cold chill ran up his spine. He walked over to his cot and sat down, letting himself fall onto his side, sinking into the hard fibers of the cot. He looked at Welky’s body twitching angrily.

  He flopped over to face the tattered wall and looked at the porous holes. He let his eyes fall closed. He could feel denseness on his chest like an anvil was weighing him down--but it was only his thoughts. He felt like a man trapped in his own body, held hostage by his own mind. When he tried to sleep, his world became a nightmare of tortured thoughts and images. When he stayed awake, he lived in a hovel of those actual images. He was torn and lost at the same time.

  "Amazing story, eh, Country?" Welky belched, and Henry realized he had heard the whole conversation. He struggled to pull himself up and sit on the edge of his cot. His portly legs hung over the edge and the tips of his gnarly toes swayed over the floor.

  "Yes."

  "That poor drunken Sergeant Welky could have actually been a real live man at one point," Welky said about himself in a low gravelly voice.

  "Yes," Henry muttered. He opened his eyes slowly, stared at the blankness of the wall, and felt sadness come over him.

  "I know what you’re thinking, Country. You don’t feel as sorry for me . . . as you are worried about your own life," Welky chuckled sinisterly.

  "No," Henry started.

  "Don’t lie to me, Country," Welky shouted. "I know your type. You act like you’re this kind, caring SOB, but in all actuality, you’re only worried about yourself." Welky’s eye started to twitch with convulsing bitterness.

  "That’s not true." Henry felt his thoughts slipping away to a distant place and his mind was drifting into a dazed state. He wasn’t retreating back into his fond memories. Instead, he was losing his grip.

  "Don’t lie to me, Country," Welky snorted. "You want to know something that will really make you lose your mind? You and I aren’t so different after all, you know?"

  "You and I? That’s a laugh!" Henry forced himself to chuckle. "We are complete opposites."

  "Not really, ole boy," Welky mused. "Do you know why I always call you Country?"

  "Of course," Henry bolstered, "because I grew up on a farm. I’m not a complete idiot."

  "Well, that’s partly why, but mostly because that’s what my old platoon called me. I’m not a big city galoot. I grew-up on a milk farm in Wisconsin. We were two hundred miles from nowhere. I never saw an inside toilet until I joined the army. We had more cows, chickens, dogs, cats, rabbits, and sheep than you could shake a stick at. I had seven sisters and six brothers. We had a little yellow house that sat on the hill. Our land was covered by streams and hills and over the far hill was a tiny dot, which we called a town. It had one general store, a barbershop, and even a stop sign. We were the first town in the area to get one of those stop signs, but no one . . . ." Welky belched in the middle of his rant and a sour look cracked across his grizzled face. "No one ever stopped at that damn stop sign. No one really knew what it was for."

  "Seriously?" Henry said softly. Welky couldn’t see his face, but Henry’s eyes were wide open and staring with terror at the wall. Unbeknown to Henry, his elbow started to twitch.

  "That’s right, Country," Welky taunted.

  Henry rolled onto his other side and now looked at Welky. For the first time since Henry had met him, Welky’s eyes weren’t lifeless. They danced with an evil glint and as he smiled, the dullness of his little bean teeth showed from under his thick lips. Welky leaned back against the wall and laughed. His chest and gut jiggled as his laugh grew louder. He took his damp sweat-stained cap off his head and slapped it against his knee. He bellowed loud enough with laughter that he choked slightly and had to gulp air to catch his breath.

  He staggered across the floor until he stood over Henry. So Henry turned onto his back and propped himself onto his elbows. He glared up at Welky and knew exactly what the deranged sergeant was trying to do. He was trying to scare Henry--and it was working! Henry could feel his calm demeanor slipping away. He curled his fist, feeling the blood rushing to his chest as his pulse raced. The young soldier’s breath grew short and heavy.

  "Ahhh, Country," Welky mused. "If you’re lucky, you’ll end-up like this. If you’re lucky!" he shouted.

  He spread his flabby arms out and tilted his head back. Each one of the chins on his neck stretched out until the flabby rolls were thin purple lines. His milky white fat oozed from his clothes like glue from a tub. Then he turned and stumbled towards the doorway. The pale light of day curved around his pear-shaped body as he blocked out the sunshine. He stood in the doorway like a human eclipse.

  Henry remained on his cot in the shadow of the meager light and watched as Welky shuffled off the step and out into the subtle noonday sun. Henry felt his breathing become more rhythmic and easy. His fingers curled back out of his rock-like fist. He gently lay back down on his cot and stared at the crumbling ceiling. The deep black holes in the plaster looked like knots in tree bark. He rested his arm across his head and laid his wrist flat on his forehead.

  He tried to close his eyes, but the image of Sergeant Welky burned in his mind like the first flash of light on a dark morning. Welky was ingrained in Henry’s thoughts.

  10

  Henry and Marie strolled down the jagged path of the rugged canal and tossed tiny bits of bread into the dark waters. Like a flock of sheep following their shepherd, the fledgling ducks drifted behind them in the tranquil water. The sunlight was pale and timid off the top of the water, shimmering with a white effervescence like the tips of the ocean caps after sundown.

  The ducklings had lost their fuzzy coats and sleek feathers had started to sprout acro
ss their backs. The fragility of their bodies was gone and strong lean muscles shifted when they shook off the water. They darted across the top of the canal, struggling and squawking loudly as they fought for the scraps of bread. Henry smiled.

  He balled the pieces of crusty three-day-old bread up in his strong hands and handed them to Marie. She reared back, tossing them with all her might. The morsels scattered across the water and fell among the ducks. She threw so hard that her back foot came off the ground and she grunted after the bread left her hand. Henry smiled larger every time she turned for another piece. Her eyes were contagious. They were wide and soft, but full of life, and in a place like this, that was always a welcome sight.

  They strolled until there was no more stale bread. Eventually the canal narrowed and began trickling over a few large stones, and then the stones shrank and tall grass grew up. The churches and large buildings were replaced by homes, and then outbuildings, and then the structures became smaller until they were no more and the land was free of dwellings. The trees blocked out the sky and when the wind swept through, a dry cottony taste was left on their tongues. They tromped off through a field, splitting the high grass. Sparrows jumped out of the brush, soaring high into the sky and disappearing as black dots into the blue, like tiny baseballs into the summer sky.

  Grasshoppers, dragonflies, and butterflies hopped or zoomed or fluttered across the weeds as Henry and Marie walked. They came to a secluded clearing which stretched quiet and innocent under a large but humble oak tree. The sound of babbling water could be heard over the cooing of the forest.

  Marie took a blanket from under her arm and fluffed it out onto the ground. Henry showed her how to let the breeze help her when she was laying it out by having the winds keep the corners up until it was ready to settle onto the ground. Her face was carved with an earnest seriousness as she waited for the right breeze to help her. Meanwhile, the blanket flapped uncontrollably on the simmering gusts.

  Henry chuckled a little bit as he strode down to the brook to place a bottle of white wine into a cradle of smooth rocks just under the surface of the flowing waters. He cupped his palms, letting the cool water gather into his hands. He splashed it over his head, rubbing it through his hair and lightly massaging his sore neck. He patted his face dry with the tail of his long shirt and turned around.

  Marie’s face was warped by frustration as she fretted with the corners of the blanket. She stopped fussing and finally began setting some things on the edges. Henry smiled. He stopped for a second and felt whole again. When he looked at her soft caring eyes, there was no war, no hatred, only love.

  Off in the distance he could hear the roaring of plane engines. They both looked to the sky to see the plane dart across the expanse. They were gone as fast as they had come. They were friendly, he thought to himself, but would the next ones be? No matter how wonderful the day started or ended, the war was always there. It lived and breathed on this soil like a beast and seemed to fester like a sickness.

  He walked back into the concentrated darkness of the full shade and stood over Marie. She looked up and grinned widely. She had heard the plane, but her life had been full of soldiers, planes, and madness for so long that most of the time she hardly flinched anymore.

  "Sit, sit, Henry," Marie almost burst with excitement. She tugged on his sleeve and he playfully fell onto the ground.

  "Calm down there!" Henry rambunctiously rubbed his elbow and twisted his neck a little bit. "I think you made me wrench my poor little neck," Henry frowned in jest.

  "Listen, Henry, listen!" Marie sat up tall and stretched out her neck as if the length would help her vocals.

  "Go ahead," Henry gently encouraged her. He crossed his legs, pulling a few blades of grass from the ground as he waited.

  "The sultan of swat smacked six super slammers on Saturday," Marie enunciated proudly.

  "Wow!" Henry nodded. "That was great! You’ve been practicing."

  "Yes, I have. The sultan of swat smacked six super slammers on Saturday," she repeated and grinned like the Cheshire cat.

  "Wonderful. Simply superb. I couldn’t have done it better," he teased.

  He pulled a small slab of meat from the picnic basket and started carving. The sharp knife slid through the charred meat and slices of fatty beef sagged down, revealing a tender pink center. Henry’s mouth watered as it always now did in anticipation. He cut off a couple pieces of sourdough bread and made a sandwich. When he went to take a large bite, holding the sandwich to his lips, he could feel Marie watching him.

  "Oh, sorry," Henry grimaced. He offered the thick sandwich to Marie but she grinned and shook her head no.

  "You go ahead," Marie said. "I’ll make my own." She proceeded to carve a little more modest proportion.

  "Oh," Henry remembered. He jumped up and jogged down to the steam and pulled the bottle of wine from the water. He scampered back to Marie, pulled two white cups from the basket, and began to pour.

  "A toast," he announced, his voice high in excitement. His eyes were bright and boyishly full of charm. Marie lowered her face and couldn’t help but smile at his efforts. "To a beautiful girl!" Henry sighed as he breathed deep. They clinked their cups together. Marie’s face was a few shades of red.

  "Henry," she said as she sat her cup on the ground.

  "Yes." Henry took a gulp of wine.

  "What is a sultan of swat?" she asked with embarrassment.

  "Oh," Henry laughed, "he is a big man . . . ," Henry ballooned out his thin shoulders, ". . . with a round face." He filled his cheeks with air. Marie covered her dainty lips as she coughed with laughter. Henry stood up and paraded around under the shade of the tree, puffing out his chest and strutting around like a silver-back gorilla. He bent over and picked up a long thick stick and held it like a bat. A fallen large green apple lay on the ground. He picked it up, tossing it in his hand. "You see, . . . the sultan plays baseball," he said slowly, pronouncing each syllable.

  "Base-ball," Marie mouthed as she watched Henry with her glowing eyes.

  "That’s it, base-ball. Slammers are known as home runs. He hits hundreds of them." Henry tossed up the apple and swung at it with the stick. The apple exploded and sprayed all over the ground.

  "Base-ball!" Marie shouted as she watched the bits of apple rain down onto the dry ground. Henry sat down beside Marie and kissed her on the cheek. Marie blushed, again.

  "What does it feel like to have a home run?" Marie asked.

  "Come on!" Henry took her by the hand, pulling her off the ground.

  "No . . . no, Henry," she pleaded, sheepishly. Her brow knit and her chin trembled slightly.

  "Come on," Henry said. "It’s fun," he tried to convince her. He nudged and struggled for a few more moments.

  "Okay, if you say so," Marie agreed. She sprang up and grabbed the stick, holding it at the thin end. She stood as stiff as a board with her heels touching. A pathetic worried look was in her lonely eyes.

  "Let me give you a couple hints," Henry suggested warmly. He walked over to Marie and stood behind her. He took her arms in his hands and molded them into place, gently. He shimmied closer to her until his chest was pressed against her back and his knees were close to the back of her legs. He took her hands, sliding them down over the rough knobs of the stick. Her hands were close together at the bottom of the stick and she could feel the power of her grip as she waved the stick in the air.

  "Just like this," Henry said. His voice cracked as he could feel the seductive heat radiating from her enticing, voluptuous body.

  "Like a sword," she said, her delight palpable. She was proud of herself and barely noticed Henry’s advances. Then she glanced back over her shoulder and saw the smoldering look in Henry’s eyes. She fluttered her long black lashes and lowered her head with an innocent charm.

  "Yeah, like a sword," Henry repeated. He took a long slow breath to calm himself before taking a step back, followed by three more. He stumbled slightly over a couple apples on the ground. H
e bent down and picked them up, never letting his stare leave Marie’s entrancing eyes. "Are you ready?"

  "Yes!" Marie answered.

  Henry stood tall and brought his feet together, holding the projectile in both hands. He mocked the great pitchers as he glanced out of the corner of his eye over his shoulder at an imaginary first base. He playfully narrowed his glare at Marie and winked. Then he brought his front leg high into the air and stepped towards her, tossing the apple gently in her direction.

  She took a mighty swing and missed the apple like a beginning woodsmen at his first tree. The apple sailed past her, softly plopping into a tall bit of grassy weeds. "Oh," Marie moaned with discouragement.

  "That’s okay, that’s okay," Henry said patiently. His voice was deep and calm and it soothed her frustration. He could see Marie tighten her grip around the stick until the tips of her fingers were turning a few shades of pink. She was serious now. She stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth and bit down on it a tad.

  Henry couldn’t help but grin. He took another wind-up, checking the imaginary first base again and then strode towards Marie with a long winding delivery. The apple appeared just as his arm swept forward and his shoulder seemed to disappear in his motion. Marie’s eyes were as big around as the blue sky. She followed the apple as it sailed through the air. She grunted as she swung the stick. And then the apple exploded as she made a lucky contact! Bits and pieces sprayed across the ground.

  "Yeah!" Henry shouted as he held his arm up triumphantly. Marie stood admiring her destruction. A few pieces of the apple were squashed on her dress. She brushed them off and stood at the ready.

  "One more?" she asked with a gleam in her eye.

  "Okay, boss," Henry chuckled. He bent down and picked up another bruised apple and tossed it in his hand. "Are you ready?"

  Marie just nodded. Her face was blank and serious except for the glow in her eyes, which danced and sparkled with a laughing twinkle. Henry went through his wind-up routine one more time and lobbed the apple in Marie’s direction.