Read an Excerpt:
CHAPTER 42
April 9, 1944: Easter
“Dear Lord, on
this day of yer greatest miracle, we thank ye for life and pray for world
peace.” Father Stuart clasps his hands
in prayer over a makeshift altar. He has
taken off his Aussie outback hat and replaced his vest with a clerical
stole. A pleasant breeze offers a false
sense of comfort. The sun settles in the western horizon as it has for an
eternity. But today’s no ordinary day.
The grassy,
rolling field surrounding the command post at Hsamshingyang is thick with
thousands of kneeling soldiers from every denomination. Pfeifer’s shiny,
balding head; Preacher’s floppy black mane; Sam’s youthful, round face; Roy
Matsumoto’s thick eyeglasses; Mr. Doyer’s slow, steady smile; Major Johnson’s
wild, red beard—they’re all in this crowd. Even the Kachin, Nau, is here
somewhere, and we’re all fused as one.
This is the best
Easter of my life because I’m still alive.
I’m not sure if it’s real. Looking up into the cloudless sky, I blink
back the tears that choke my throat, and swallow hard. Throughout the
gathering, scattered coughs attempt to mask heavy emotions.
In his Irish
accent, the priest continues, “Why did these young lads need to die before our
countries can make peace? Seems to me
that fighting for peace is an oxymoron.”
Extending his arms in an open embrace, he says, “Peace comes when yer
willing to listen to what ye don’t understand; when ye let yer heart and spirit
talk, instead of yer mind.”
Digging my nails
into my folded arms, I close my ears to shut out the grief. I picture Maggot Hill from early this
morning.
“Harry, are you
walking around in broad daylight, out of your bunker and out of your mind, for
some particular reason other than to get killed?” Pfeifer had asked with a
twinge of sympathy. He slumped against the wall of his crumbling foxhole.
The morning’s
enemy artillery bombardment hadn’t started, and I didn’t give a damn why it was
late. “I got a Buddha in my pocket. The
Nips dare not attack me,” I answered, then continued to pace back and forth
between Pfeifer’s hole and Collin’s grave.
“I thought you
were Christian,” Pfeifer commented, not one to let anything drop.
“I’ll believe in
any god that brings me luck,” I said, fingering the gilded talisman before
turning and walking from our knoll towards the path through the center of the
village.
The decomposing
mules and maggots had gotten worse, but my nose was deadened to the stink and
my eyes ignored what I didn’t want to see. Nothing had changed on the outside
since yesterday: the supply tarp flapped in the wind, the central path still
connected the north to the south, a cloudy sky cast bad luck over us all, and
Doc Winnie’s rows of litters continued to grow.
I couldn’t look at
the pain these men had to endure without wanting to break down. It reminded me of when Ruthie and I had gone
to a movie and she had cried so hard, I had to take her home.
“How can you get
so upset about something that’s not real?” I asked.
“Don’t you ever
see grief in someone else that reminds you of yourself?” she replied.
“I don’t see
anyone else who’s like me. And I think
everyone’s suffering is their own business.”
“No, there is no
one like you. And you wouldn’t want others knowing how you feel. But others
welcome the sympathy. Can’t you
understand?”
My laugh was
unsure, my feelings hurt. I told her I didn’t know, but I did. I had been hurt
too many times before. Still, she made me feel incomplete, because I couldn’t
open up my heart to suffering. But I feel it now, and it’s crushing me.
Behind me,
crunching shards on the path caught my attention. Pfeifer and Preacher approached me.
“Flynn, why aren’t
you in your foxhole?” Preacher demanded. His voice was stern, but he looked as
apathetic as I felt.
I rolled my eyes
with an insolence that warranted a good ass-kicking, then said, “If you don’t
mind, I’d rather get out of the enemy’s line of fire than be buried in my
ass-pissing hole.” As an afterthought, I
added, “Sir.”
We all staggered
forward towards the south, along the path, in the hot, muggy morning. Probably pulled by the devil. I could hear voices.
“Sounds like God’s
coming to get me,” I heard myself say distantly. Depressed and lathered with sweat, I thought,
“So this is what it’s like turning into a fruitcake.” Who could blame my mind from straying from
the world we were stuck in? “I’ll let
you know what He looks like when He gets here.”
I received vacant stares in response.
The reverberations
in my mind grew louder. Cynically, I
said, “It sounds like the saints are marching in with him.” My high-pitched,
and erratic voice frightened me, but it did sound like a battalion of stomping
boots. There was huffing, grunting, snorting, and a sneeze.
“Saints sneeze?”
Pfeifer whispered, breaking his silence. We reached for guns that weren’t
there, and, finding ourselves defenseless, crouched low.
From the southern
bamboo forest marched a six-foot-four skeleton with a rangy red beard and eyes
too big for its emaciated body. It
looked a lot like Major Johnson. Two feet in front of us, it stopped and
studied us like we were the ghosts.
I
wanted to believe my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, but I didn’t trust
anything. So I froze like a cornered animal and just stared. No one else
budged, either. The morning’s rays sparkled off shrapnel shards in a rainbow of
colors. Transfixed, I expected the apparition to dissolve in the sunlight’s
reflection.
At Maggot Hill,
the only colors in my mind’s optical kaleidoscope were grey clouds, black mud,
and red blood. Yet, at that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a
rainbow of colors: lime green from supply parachutes, a pocket of royal blue
skies peeking through, a bursting orange sun, and red hair.
Then the skeleton
said, “Vacation’s over, boys. Time to pack up and move on.” It was Johnson! He paused to see if
anything registered in our emotionless faces, then added, “We’re here to get ya
out.”
Behind Johnson was
Sam, then Osborne, then the whole White battalion. I stretched out my arm to
touch them, but my feet wouldn’t move.
Nervous sweat prickled my forehead, but the Whites didn’t vanish or
evaporate. They just looked back at us,
smiling dumbly. I closed my eyes, and my
insides crumbled.
“After we cut off
their supplies from the south, the Nips made a quick retreat. Want some hot
breakfast? It’s still cooking down
there,” Colonel Osborne said, and clapped each of us on the back. “Shit, you
guys smell like you don’t know how to dig a latrine.”
“And you look like you’ve been hitting the
bottle. It’s time we take you out of here so you can sleep it off,” Sam jabbed
lightly.
As we marched
through the village, a trembling soldier jabbered, “It’s about goddamn time you
got here.”
“I had to take a
few piss breaks,” Johnson said. “Sorry
we’re late.” Nervous laughter broke out
among the men.
“Welcome to Maggot
Hill Resort,” another said, beaming like he’d just won the lottery.
A private from the
Blue team grabbed a White soldier’s chin between his hands and silently studied
every pore of the man’s face. Grinning
with satisfaction he finally said, “Yep, you’ve got to be real. No ghost would
be that ugly.”
My eyes burned,
and my lips struggled to hold down the gasp rising from my chest. Then I
spotted Mr. Doyer, who came up to me, wordlessly touching me with his
confident, caring smile. Eventually, he asked, “How are you doing, Harry?”
The lump in my
throat snapped like a brittle rubber band, releasing all the tension from the
last two weeks. I wanted to say
something clever, something that would hide the fact I could barely breathe. But I just smiled like I had no brain left.
Gently, Mr. Doyer
slung an arm over my shoulder and asked, “Harry, where’s your bunker?”
Instead of
answering, I said, “I need to get the rations passed out before we leave. I’ve
got to track everything.”
Mr. Doyer led me
by my elbow and said, “Let the other guys get that stuff later. You look like
you need a shot of something strong.
Now, tell me how your face ran into a meat cleaver.”
“Aaw, I just
tripped.” The glib answer rolled off my
tongue, but my cheeks were still raw from yesterday shelling.
“What you boys
went through here was no small feat,” Doyer said with concern.
Too exhausted to
joke, I asked, “Where do we go from here?”
Doyer smiled. “Are
you speaking philosophically or literally?’ He lit the cigarette I didn’t want,
shoved it between my lips, and pushed me into motion. “Either way, I’d say the
only way to go is forward.”
Father Stuart’s
brogue pulls my mind back to the Easter evening’s sermon. “Lads, the cold, the
hunger, the sickness, and the fatigue ye have suffered has changed ye into men.
Tis a tough way to become a man, fighting the crusades of others. It’s the
ordinary man, trapped between earth and hell, who wins the war. And, while we
can’t choose when we die, let our death be worth our lives.”
In front of the
gathering lies a field of wounded men, their tortured eyes holding tough
questions for God. I think of those who
didn’t make it and wonder why I was spared.
“But let God open
yer eyes to the beauty that refuses to surrender.” With a sweeping arc, the
priest encompasses everything within the hills and valleys. Silver-tipped fruit pigeons swoop in for an
evening’s meal, cooing gently. Perfumed, yellow-fringed flowers rustle with the
leaves. “Ye know that long after yer gone, this valley will be here. And the
children of this country will walk in yer path. But yer struggle will not be
theirs. God will hand them their own burdens. Hopefully, the seed of peace will
have been nourished by yer blood, and life’s beauty will lighten their load.” With that, the priest steps down from the
altar to the injured. As he moves among
them, he finishes the sermon with, “Let the war wait! Let us rejoice in life today! And tomorrow,
give the Japs a good kick in the ass. In
the name of God. Amen.”
Watching Father
Stuart bless the boys as he meanders through the network of litters, I realize
I’ll smell the stench of Maggot Hill for the rest of my life. Water will always
taste better because I know its value. Nothing will be insurmountable, because
I landed on my feet—okay, my face—when I thought it was the end. But it was
only another beginning.
Finally, the tears
break loose as my mind sees Collin’s grave and what I said to him as I knelt by
it for my final farewell. “Oh, little buddy, I wish you could’ve waited one
more day.”
Behind the Forgotten Front Blog Tour Schedule
Monday, May 11
Review at Flashlight Commentary
Interview at Boom Baby Reviews
Tuesday, May 12
Review at With Her Nose Stuck in a Book
Wednesday, May 13
Review & Giveaway at Forever Ashley
Spotlight at A Literary Vacation
Thursday, May 14
Spotlight at CelticLady's Reviews
Friday, May 15
Review & Giveaway at Teddy Rose Book Reviews Plus More
Saturday, May 16
Review at Impressions in Ink
Spotlight at Just One More Chapter
Monday, May 18
Review & Giveaway at Unshelfish
Tuesday, May 19
Spotlight & Giveaway at Passages to the Past
