Mile 21

By Del Corey

You have this book in your hands with the intent of being entertained, I presume. I hope that is the case.

Some of you wish to whoosh through this tract, not expecting to discover any characters or gems of insight. I pray that you stop in your tracks and say, Son of a gun! I never thought of that! or perhaps I like looking at that from a different angle! That would be nice, because I believe such insights are in here, waiting to be discovered like jewelry in Grandmas boudoir.

Now even though Im encroaching on some unmentionable years in my life, this is just my second novel! And I didnt think it would be such a momentous effort. I created scenes and characters that didnt exist before this! Where were they before? In my insane brain, I suppose. I was amazed to count and come to the realization that Id created over forty people! Many of them have come from parts of people I knew, and I thank them. Also, some of the people I created have become friends. I will miss them!

Also, I trust that you, the reader, will enjoy to some degree the scenes and ideas I wrote for you without too many curves or knucklers so you can swing and hit home runs again and again while you find pleasure in the reading.

Also, I mention addictions often in this book. I learned that there are good addictions and bad ones. I had the bad habit of smoking for many years, and I am so sorry now. If only I could unsmoke every cigarette Id had, but of course, I cant. And the damage is done to my lungs. Thank you, cigarette companies, for the gifts of packs and cartons while in the military!

But dont focus on this one idea. Theres so much more in this book. Like sex!

So enough of all that.

Please read and enjoy! Or else!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546202882

Del Corey

Del Corey, was born Adelbert M. Corey, in West Springfield, Massachusetts, near the bank of the Connecticut River, November 19, 1934. Although his family was poor, during the Depression, he, his one sister, and his 4 brothers were happy, with chickens and a garden in the back yard. In the pubic school, Del played baseball and football. He and his friends grew up in the flood plain, where the fickle Connecticut might, or might not overflow her banks. The house that Del lived in had been flooded a few times, and the bricks of the foundation, revealed crevices inviting many critters. Del joined the army, to serve as a paratrooper, from 1953 to 1956. He was pursuing his dreams of being a hero, dashing and brave. But Life had ideas of Reality waiting for him. Following his discharge, Del went to Aquinas College, in Michigan, and after 2 years, transferred to Michigan State University. Del went on to earn Bachelor's and Master's degrees. He taught seventh grade, then high school, and then began his 30 year stay at Macomb Community College in the Detroit area. It was there that his writing began in earnest. He taught communications, but mostly literature and creative writing. He began a writers' group, The Fantasy Factory, and held regular meetings with a large following. This lasted for 25 years. Del has written over 3,000 poems, has published 5 books of poetry, and had countless individual poems published through the years. Del has said, "Poems and stories are waiting to be told at every turn in the road of my travels." This is his first novel.

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2017 Del Corey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/12/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0289-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0288-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Introduction

1 Assignment Change

2 Of Goodbyes And Addictions

3 Fayetteville And Fort Bragg

4 From Barrack To Desk

5 Some Letters

6 Tattoo

7 The After-Tattoo Effect

8 Guilt

9 My First Sunday

10 Some Friends

11 Strange World Of The Library

12 Night Visit To The Chapel

13 Randy And Franny

14 A Cookie Visit

15 Some Letters

16 Randy’S General

17 Psychological Warfare

18 Names Of Things

19 Counseling

20 Mass And Confession?

21 A Fiery Money Jump

22 Randy’S Return

23 A FrActious Fayetteville Visit

24 Baseball Lesson

25 A Nun Assignment

26 Double Troubles

27 Letters

28 Suspicions

29 `Espionage

30 Word Worries & Spiders

31 Letters

32 Sister Mary Victoria’s Hug

33 Barrack Banter

34 Willy From Gary, Indiana

35 A Catechism Trip With Sister

36 A Leroy Riverton Visit

37 Confession, And Then Some

38 I Am Promoted

39 Letters Home And Beyond

40 Sewing Pfc Stripes And Plotting

41 The Chaplain Is Curious

42 I Visit Randy

43 A Library Trip

44 A Curious Keepsake

45 Into The Wild Thang Den

46 Another Catechism Class

47 Crazy Weekend

48 Insanity Thwarted?

49 Letters From Home

50 Unholy Night And Church

51 A Nunnery Visit

52 The Chaplain Fires Me?

53 On Dog Training

54 Satan Training Begins

55 Of Jumps And Orders

56 Fayetteville Confessions

57 Dangerous Revelations

58 The Angry General

59 Letters Home

60 Night Jumping And Farewell

61 The Wild Thang

62 Sister Vickie And Satan

63 Here I Come, Mile 21

64 In Trouble With Father

65 Writing Letters Home

66 Of Suicide And The Lord

67 Scoldings And Plans

68 A Four Part Maneuver

69 Maneuvers Begin

70 Insanity And Grenades

71 A Reluctant Attack

72 Hospital Visit Plus One

73 Willful Willy

74 My Day Of Revenge

75 Love Letters Home

76 Strange Sunday Mass

77 Late Letters From Home

78 Time For Confessions

79 A Mess Of My Own Making?

80 What A Fool I Was

81 Library Visitation Interrupted

82 General Apologies

83 Colonoscopy Letters

84 Wild Things At The Wild Thang

85 Reaching For Normality

86 Trouble In The Hospital

87 A Lasting Confession

88 A Priestless Sunday?

89 The After Mass

90 Francis In Recovery

91 A Fateful Phone Call

92 Losing Mom?

93 A Painful Funeral

94 Mom’s Recovery

95 My Return

96 Fayetteville Adventures

97 Battle For Peace

98 A Bitter Peace

99 New Priest, New World

100 General’s Final Meeting

101 Letters Home

102 Francis’ Farewell

103 Surprise Award

104 Big Decision

105 A Love Trip?

106 Letters From Home

107 A Farewell Party

108 My Fayetteville Party

109 My Mt. Pleasant Party

110 Altar-Boying

111 A Final? Farewell

112 Ah, Francis, Ah Love

113 Homeward And A New Adventure

DEDICATION

I dedicate this novel to my wife, Leslie, who has been so patient reading many of the pages I wrote. Most of her suggestions have been excellent, and quite helpful. Thanks go also to many of my friends who have been so encouraging and patient.

I thank the many readers who, willing or not, entered the fictional church with me, and read a bit of Latin, and went to masses with me, and listened to a number of my sermons. Thank you!

I also, of course, dedicate this book to my family, who perhaps will read my novels and poems and realize that I too was young and stared at the world with starry eyes, and great optimism, slurping up Life like a delicious, giant orange, so sweet, so tangy, so wonderful!

INTRODUCTION

You have this book in your hands with the intent of being entertained, I presume. I hope that is the case.

Some others of you wish to whoosh through this tract, not expecting to discover any characters or gems of insight. I pray that you stop in your tracks and say, Son of a gun! I never thought of that! Or, perhaps, I like looking at that from a different angle! That would be nice, because I believe such insights are in here, waiting to be discovered, like jewelry in Grandma’s boudoir.

Now, even though I’m encroaching on some unmentionable years in my life, this is just my second novel! And I didn’t think it would be such a momentous effort. I created scenes, and characters that didn’t exist before this! Where were they before? In my insane brain, I suppose. I was amazed to count and come to the realization that I’d created over 40 people! Many of them have come from parts of people I knew, and I thank them. Also, some of the people I created have become friends. I will miss them!

Also, I trust that you, the reader, will enjoy to some degree the scenes and ideas I wrote for you, without too many curves or knucklers so you can swing and hit home runs again and again while you find pleasure in the reading.

Also, I mention addictions often in this book. I learned that there are good addictions and bad ones. I had the bad habit of smoking for many years, and I am so sorry now. If only I could un-smoke every cigarette I’d had, but of course I can’t, and the damage is done to my lungs. Thank you, cigarette companies, for the gifts of packs and cartons while in the military!

But don’t focus on this one idea. There’s so much more in this book. Like sex!

So enough of all that.

Please read and enjoy! Or else!

1

ASSIGNMENT CHANGE

Alas, how god-like is the government that can change plans for us poor soldiers. We are like furniture to be placed here or there at the whims of some faceless mover, who cares not where we should be placed. Before I could travel to the West Coast, I received a telegram from the Command Center on Fort Bragg. It was the day before I was to leave for Japan. My mother pulled it out from her apron and handed it to me, nervously. I opened it immediately with shaking hands. I’d never received such an envelope that seemed so ominous, especially one from the United States Army.

Inside was a very impersonal military message, the way most of them are. That’s because we’re viewed as non-persons, I presume, things or machines maybe, like trucks. Push our accelerators and off we go.

So the message said, PRIVATE THEODORE BYRUM WILL PROCEED TO FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA. ORDERS TO BEPPU, JAPAN CANCELED. REPORT TO CHAPLAIN, 15 OCTOBER, 1953.

That was it. No explanation. To the chaplain? What had I done? Was I in trouble? What about Father Drew? What was this all about? I then tried to call him at the base, but he had shipped out.

I was relieved, but confused, because I’d looked forward to traveling to Japan, on the other side of the world, but, I admit, it was quite daunting. After all, I’d never traveled at all, except for to Boston to see the Red Sox at Fenway Park, as a teenager. The only other traveling was in the military, to Kentucky for basic training, and North Carolina for jump school. And shipping out all the way to Japan, with those strange, slant-eyed people who were our enemies just a few years ago, made me uneasy. In the movies I’d seen, the Japanese were wicked, cruel people. Short, too, but exotic.

I explained to Mom and Dad, that my plans had changed, and I was heading back to Fort Bragg. I would be leaving the next day.

Mom said, I suppose that’s a good thing, to report to the chaplain. Is he Catholic? She was talking to me about one subject, but she looked at me as if she were worried about something else. I’d have to find out before I left.

I don’t know, Ma, but Father Drew has shipped out on another mission, to Africa, or one of those islands like the Dominican Republic in the Caribbean. He enjoys helping the poor and suffering.

I’m sure he’s a good man. ‘Dominican?’ Is that anything like the Dominican Order for priests?

I don’t know, Ma. You would know better than I would, I’ll bet. But it sounds reasonable. And, Mom, will you make sure to write to Pauley? I told her you would. Do you mind?

Of course not, Son. Are you sure she’s the one? You’re both so young. But I kept the address you gave me. I’ll write in a few days. And make sure you write to her, too, and to me, of course. Mom had the usual look of concern as she looked up to me from her 4 feet and 10 inches, or so. She was aging, I could tell, from her greying hair. So was Dad.

Yes, I’m sure. And I will, Mom. You know me. I’ll be like a poet with a pen.

I noticed Dad had sat down in the rocking chair, moving slightly. He looked straight ahead, wearing his usual glasses, with one lens soaped over to hide the empty eye-socket, where the suicide bullet had exited. He kept his mouth tight together, as usual. I was sure it was because of his pain, which must have been like being stabbed by little bayonets.

I knew he wasn’t much into talking or letter writing, or religion. I was glad he had allowed the family to be Catholic years ago, though. She wouldn’t have married him without our being brought up Catholic.

Well, Dad, thanks for taking care of the lawyers and the house in Chicago. I hope it works out well for Jeff. It was good to hear he found a job out there at a restaurant, to keep himself busy when not teaching.

Dad tried to turn his torso toward me, so I walked over by the stove so he wouldn’t have to strain his neck to see me. I hope so, too, Son. I think it’ll be good for him to get away from Massachusetts for a while. He can sow more of his wild oats out there. He gave me his half smile, which was rare, since his car accident, which led to all the other pain he suffered. It must be tough to look at the world through the one eye, I thought, trying to focus on everything. I had tried it for an hour once, with one eye closed, and I was so unsure of distances, I even knocked a glass over on the table when I reached for it. It was like trying to kick a can in front of me, but coming up short, my foot flying in the air.

For Dad it was a car accident, then years of neck and back pain, then attempted suicide, great sequence of life, which led to more, even deeper suffering. He was like a prisoner who knew more torture was coming from the guard.

But the bullet he’d shot from that 22 pistol must have done worse damage. Having one glass on the specs smeared over at least saved himself and others of embarrassment and disgust from looking at the results of the bullet. I had a brief glance at it one time, and the red lids closed over the hole that was, with puss oozing until he wiped it away, and a deep queasiness brought me close to up-chucking.

Dad squinted a frown, So they want you to report to the chaplain’s office? What the hell, are they tryin’ to do, make a priest out of you? I noticed how thin his hair was getting, and grey. Yet, his mouth was set, ready to smile or frown. I still respected him, even though he was only 5’6" and I was 6’. Whenever he yelled for me, I came running, faithful and respectful like a pet dog.

I chuckled. I hope not, Dad. I don’t think I’d make a good one, speaking strange languages, and blessing everyone. Although I did learn the Latin responses as an altar boy, I never knew what they meant. I made a pretend sign of the cross in the air. I need all the blessings I can get for myself.

Mom interrupted, I think you’d make a nice priest, Son.

I hugged her. The vision of me as a priest brought a chuckle from me. Not likely, I knew.

Are you gonna be a priest, Teddy? Are ya? asked Anthony. I didn’t know he was in the dining room, listening to us.

We all laughed. Anthony did too, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was more imitative of ours.

I walked to the doorway. My 12 year old blind brother was sitting on the floor, rocking, his back to the wall, his one eye squinting, with wide-spaced yellow teeth, his chubby face retarded-looking, like so many others, which was why little kids pointed at him in public. I was glad he was home for good, home from that Fernald Blind School that treated him like an idiot. Every time I think about how they gave him and other patients experimental drugs I cursed them in my mind, praying they’d get their reward in hell.

No, I’m not going to be a priest, Anthony Byrum. I’m just trying to be a good brother to you, and a good soldier. You know I have to leave soon, don’t you?

He sat there rocking back and forth near the doorway, and said, I know, Teddy. I been listenin’. An’ ya know what I think? I think you’re a good brother, and a good soldier, I think, and I don’t want you ta leave.

I smiled at Dad and Mom, and offered, Thank you, Anthony. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but I do have to.

Mom turned away and put her apron to her face, wiping away tears.

Anthony stood up. His voice rose, and he put his hand up to wipe his eyes, And I don’t want you to get big-banged and killed, like the neighbors did, ’cause then you wouldn’t be able to come back.

What a heart-break his blindness had been for us all, but especially for Mom, who had to take care of him most of his life.

I put my hand on Anthony’s shoulder. I’ll come back to you, Anthony, my brother. Wild elephants couldn’t keep me away. I love you, you know.

I know. I love you too, bigger than ten bread boxes with elephants in them!

That made us all laugh. I hugged my brother. He was fat, of course. He had no occasion to exercise. God decided to let him be born with a tumor in his left eye. Then the right one faded until he was blind.

Dad pulled himself up and held me and even rubbed his unshaved face and lips across my cheek. It felt like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, but I didn’t care. This was a bit of affection he’d never shown before. He turned away from me, and said, Stay safe, my son, make us proud, and come back to us, ’cause you’re…you’re…you’re loved, godammit. He walked into the dark living room.

Later, I called Pauley, to tell her I was going to Fort Bragg, and not Japan.

She said she was glad, and told me to write her with all the details. I promised I would.

That night I stared out the attic window, where I ’d slept as a teen. A cool, calming breeze wafted through the screen at me. The maple trees, which were planted when I was about eight, almost covered the avenue below. The metal shade above the street lamp shook with each puff of wind. I could see the tops of the trees clearly because the full moon glowed brightly, exposing the leaves that proudly boasted of their changes, almost like a magician, turning green into crimson and yellow. Ah, the fall colors, that sad and deliriously beautiful time of the year.

If some god or magician had offered me the chance to travel back a few years, I’d have taken them gladly. The hours and days seemed to be in too much of a hurry to come, then disappear, as though on some important appointment, leaving us behind with just a few memories of our fleet-footed childhoods.

I felt lonely. My friends in the neighborhood were gone, and my friends in the military had shipped out. I was leaving my family and Pauley. In the bed, I covered up from that chill thought. Yet, I confess I was also excited to be back on a journey into some new adventures.

I knew I also had to keep jumping out of a plane at least once a month to receive my hazardous duty pay. That meant $55 extra each month. I guessed it was worth it, as long as no accidents occurred. It was a lot of money.

It took a while before I could sleep deeply, until about 0300 hours, when I awoke, abruptly, and stared at the window, trying not to remember, but couldn’t erase the memory, the details of what happened right across the street when I was about 10 years old. There was a grey cat, a stray that most of us in the neighborhood fed and petted at one time or another. When asked whose pet it was, we said, Everybody’s, and this was later converted to Buddy. I remember petting Buddy many times.

Whenever Buddy was chased by the little scotty dog, that the McCourt’s owned, Buddy would run and Meow loudly then turn and wait and scratch, and after two or three minutes of chaos, the dog tired of the game, and trotted away.

But one day, this big dog, a wolfhound, I guessed, ambled down our street, saw Buddy, chased it, until Buddy cornered himself across the street by the porch of Carrie’s house. I guessed Buddy expected the same meowing and woofing game, but not this time. Buddy turned, meowed, hissed and stuck his paw out to scratch.

But the game quickly changed to horror. The wolfhound went straight up and had its mouth on Buddy’s throat, shook it, and it was over in seconds. This was followed by the ghastly scene of the dog eating Buddy! I threw a rock at that monster. The hound turned at me and growled with what looked like a piece of intestine hanging down from its mouth!

I was so overcome, I heaved two more rocks at it. The big killer turned, all teeth. I suddenly realized it could kill me as easily as it had Buddy! I ran for the safety of my porch. The hound finally trotted off with Buddy in his mouth, a victor heading home successfully from the hunt, the cat’s intestine sweeping the path.

2

OF GOODBYES AND ADDICTIONS

The following morning, after more goodbyes to Dad, who slipped a $20 to me, and Anthony, who sobbed and held me, I went out the door with Mom. I put on my soft military hat. The sun was shining brightly.

She said, Make sure you stay safe, Son. I…. She started to say something, but stopped.

What, Mom?

She shook her head. No, it’s nothing. I’ll write to you. She forced a smile, even though through her glasses I saw her eyes glisten. She touched her left side, first with her right hand, then hugged herself.

Okay, Mom, I love you, you know. Are you in pain?

She shook her head, wiped her eyes. I Love you, too, so come back safe and strong. But I want you to listen to me, now. You have time before the train arrives. The taxi can wait. You know your father was an alcoholic, don’t you? Well, he’s not doing as much drinking now, of course. But he was addicted, and he was on and off for years.

I know, Mom

Just listen, okay? I’ve been wanting to say this to you, so just be patient. Your Dad was addicted. But I’m an addict too, to the church, and to my soaps on the radio. My addictions aren’t harmful, though. At least, I call them ‘addictions.’ My point is, Theodore, you too, could become addicted. I just hope you will be wise as to what these cravings will be. You will be forced to choose every day, whether it be something to drink, or someone who tempts you, or challenges you, or even tries to steer you from the church, or the path to Salvation.

She reached up and put her hands on each side of my face, and held on firmly Now listen to me.

What, Mom?

"You’re a good person, Theodore Byrum, and whoever you meet, and whatever they offer you, and whenever it sounds like the easiest way, remember not to hurt others, and especially, don’t hurt yourself. Just be true to your heart, and you’ll do well, whatever you choose. Okay? And never, ever, soil your soul. You know the soot from the train sometimes blows this way, and soils my sheets on the clothes line? Don’t let this happen to your soul. Confess your sins often, Son, and keep your soul clean.

She put her hand on my heart and pressed.

Be true to your heart, Son, whatever the choices, because there’s good in you. Choose your addictions well. She stared pleadingly.

Okay, Mom, thanks. I will. I felt the wad in my throat and tears forming. Quit, Mom, or you’ll make me cry, too!

Sorry. She let a few tears run down her cheeks. We all love you. Don’t forget to write. Goodbye! she said as she stepped up the back porch steps, mopping her eyes with her apron. And don’t forget to go to Mass whenever you can! I saw Dad, looking out the front window. I saluted, with a tightness in my throat. He grinned.

I was in my dress uniform, looking sharp from the soft hat to the spit-shined jump boots. I waved to the neighbors. I heard Ciao, Teddy, and some arrivederci’s and more ciao’s as I entered the taxi. As the driver backed out of our driveway onto Belle Avenue, I looked across the street at where Carrie had lived. When I was younger, I would see her out on the porch. She would always smile and wave so nicely when I was younger. I hoped she was finding some happiness in Sicily. We just weren’t meant to be, I guess, though it was a thrilling brief romance with her. Why must some families force their daughters to marry a person they don’t love?

But my true love was Pauley, then and forever.

While heading toward Fort Bragg, I wondered again why the chaplain’s office.

We passed the sign that said West Springfield, Est. 1635, which so many of my teachers referred to with pride. I guess it was a pretty old town at that.

As we crossed the Memorial Bridge, I realized it was just a few months ago that I had left West Springfield for the first time in my life. Cabbie, can you pull over for just a second? I want to do something.

Make it quick, can ya? There’s lotsa traffic on the bridge.

I got out and leaned against the rail. I saw a hawk flying above, and whistled to it. The hawk circled and answered to me, then flew to across the river to Springfield. I picked up a piece of cement that had fallen off the railing of the bridge, and heaved it out. It made an arc, then plunged down, hardly making a splash. I jumped back into the cab quickly. Thanks.

Musta been important to ya, huh, soldier?

Yeah, kinda. Thanks.

As we drove on, I settled back in my seat, closed my eyes, and thought what a nothing effect that cement had on the water. I guess that’s the same result most of us will have on living in this world for such a short time. We’re here, then forgotten.

At the train station, I waited with my duffle bag, sitting on a bench. I remembered again, my dad saying goodbye to me earlier this year. He wanted me to be a man even though I was just a kid. I was so excited yet filled with trepidation over becoming a soldier and a paratrooper. Was that just in May of this year? It seemed like years ago.

I pictured again the worried looks on Mom’s face. What was it? It seemed like more than her usual concerns, something deeper, something she wanted to tell me, but then couldn’t allow herself to let it out. I feared it might be something serious, like some dragon was chained in the cellar, about to get loose.

When she held my head for attention, I remembered her intent look at my eyes and her words to be true to myself. It wasn’t quite clear to me what that meant, but I knew I’d find out. Dad’s Be a man fergod sake came back to me. I then promised myself I would try to be a man while being true to myself, if I could. I thought this would all be clear as the army’s challenges presented themselves.

The question marks in my brain were hooking themselves together until my head ached and my stomach was tightening like a giant fist.

At last the train arrived and I climbed aboard. I selected a seat by a window and watched the life outside as we left the station. The streets of Springfield, with its people bustling past the stores and theaters, all so familiar to me, faded behind, and we chugged along the Connecticut River, with fishermen casting from the shore and small boats. The fall colors were magnificent, filling my senses. The reds were oaks I thought. It was as though my eyes were eating the colors.

At last sleep took over. It was after my nap that I decided to take a more accepting attitude toward the challenges heaved at me. It was like the little league baseball season when Coach Levesque made me a catcher. Whatever it was, a curve ball, or fast ball or sinker, I was ready to catch it. We didn’t have signals then. But I decided to be ready to handle whatever pitch Life would throw at me at Fort Bragg, despite my anxieties. No flinching.

I was glad I’d had a chance to see Pauley once more before I left. She took a bus to Springfield so we could spend a few hours together. We held hands and walked up and down a few blocks. I whistled quietly and happily as we moved along the park, hugging whenever we stopped, then went into a restaurant, a Friendly’s, to sit in a booth for a coffee and sandwich. I sat next to her. Pauley was wearing a white sweater with a blue skirt. I liked the way her dark hair washed across her forehead and dove down beside her cheeks and over her ears. She kept brushing it back as it tried to cover her eyes. She had an attractive, demure smile.

I shook my head and smiled.

What? she asked. What’s wrong?

Nothing is wrong. You’re perfect. You don’t know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you. You are so beautiful and sexy.

I hope you don’t think I don’t feel the same way, dummy.

What?

Oh, shut up. I want you so much, I’m trembling. She held her hands out, and they were sure shaking. I’ve been reading Emily Dickinson, you know.

No, really? I’m so proud of you.

Shut up, and listen. She closed her eyes and whispered.

"‘Wild nights! Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!’

And the last stanza is,

‘Rowing in Eden!

Ah? the sea!

Might I but moor

Tonight in thee!’"

Wow, I said. I love that one! That’s exactly how I feel, some nights, some wild nights! I still have Keats in my back pocket."

We held hands and just stared at each other, sending secret messages not for the world to hear.

She sipped her chocolate shake then sat back and stared at me. Tears came to her eyes. God, I don’t know if I can handle this. I just found you and then I’m gonna lose you.

I held her hand to my lips and said, Don’t start the waterworks in me. I’ll write to you as often as I can. But you’re not losing me. You can’t. To me, this feels like just a warm-up before the baseball game starts. You’re the pitcher throwing your love to me, and I’m the catcher always there, catching it, for this game and the next, and the next, season after season.

She kissed me. Sometimes I think you’re a nutcase, you know. But I’ll keep pitching my deepest love straight to your heart, every day every year for the rest of my life, so don’t you die on me, you hear, or I’ll never, never forgive you.

Oh, oh, I said, holding her close and whispering in her ear. I better live, or I’ll be in deep trouble.

And I thought, as the train neared the state of Connecticut, I will be true to my Pauley, no matter how powerful the temptations presented to me. And I’ll be true to my heart, while trying to become a decent man, or a man fergod sake," as my dad said.

The sky suddenly was darkening, and I heard rumbles of thunder in the distance. Out the window I saw the dark clouds moving quickly overhead. This brought back the fear I’d had of rain and lightning storms since I was a ten or eleven year old. I shuddered, hugging myself.

3

FAYETTEVILLE AND FORT BRAGG

At last, the train ended up in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I took a taxi to the base. The driver had a cup that he rested in the passenger seat, which he would pick up and spit tobacco juice into, from a lump in his bottom lip. He was so slim he looked skeletal, especially his face, which seemed scarcely to be covered by skin. The bones were quite prominent. I couldn’t imagine sticking tobacco in my mouth, just to chew and spit out. The juices must have been bitter, horrible. Now that was a disgusting addiction!

As we rode through the city of Fayetteville, memories of my last jaunt to the city curled around my brain. I asked the driver, Do you know the bar, ‘Rusty’s Waterhole?

Do ah know Rusty’s Waterhole? Ya betcher jump boots ah do. Ah’ve known Rusty for, lemme see, four-fav years now. He spat into the cup, and some of that brown goo oozed down his chin, which he wiped off with his sleeve.

Go thar ‘most ever Satidy naght with ma waf an’ friends. Drink beers and dance ta good ol’ country music.

Well, good. Next time you see him, tell him one of the young soldiers who had a rumble with Elrod, says, ‘hey.’ And give Tuppence a scratch for me. Nice dog.

Y’all had a rumble with Elrod? How’d that turn out?

Oh, Rusty took care of it. Maybe I’ll get to stop in to see him and the dog. Looks like I’ll be stationed here for a while.

The drive into Fort Bragg, was depressing. It didn’t have the colors I’d just enjoyed in Massachusetts. Here were many scrawny trees, loblolly pines they were called. Most of the terrain was sand, hills and the everlasting pines that to me resembled upside down toilet brushes. Fort Bragg, named after some confederate general in the Civil War was 127,000 acres, made into a base in 1918, to prepare troops for World War I. In 1923 Pope Air Force Base was added to the acreage, making this the largest military installation in the world. It was in the 1950s when it became a training post for the airborne. There were as many as 30,000 on base at a time.

I felt I’d met the challenges there, and had no desire to go back. Father Drew would be gone. I might be able to make contact with Lieutenant Smithson, or Sergeant Scrofura in the church, but they could never be warm friends to me. It felt like I was returning to a football field long after the game was over, and all the action had ended.

After the guard opened the gate for us, I thought, Well, Fort Bragg, what do you have in store for me now? I promise to keep my mouth shut this time, so I can avoid my usual punishments. So what do you have to brag about, what tricks are up your sleeve to squander another year or two of my life, and what can you teach me about how to survive until I get back home and to my Pauley?

On the drive in I saw airplanes taking off and landing, and heard the drones of the engines. When nearing the barracks I saw that soldiers were marching on the streets and the parade ground, looking sharp, usually with one cadre shouting or singing out the cadence. I rolled down the window and listened.

"Hut ho, hut ho.

You left you girl at home!" he’d sing.

You’re right! the marchers answered.

Waiting by the phone!

"You’re right!

But you don’t give a damn! sarge sang.

You’re right!

You work for Uncle Sam!

You’re right!

Then Sarge and the troops went by, Hut, ho, Hut ho!

At the 82nd Airborne campus, I reported to the Company Commander, a Captain Parnell, balding, red-faced, small mustached, who saluted back and pointed to the sergeant, who assigned me to my lodgings. Sarge eyed me up and down. I felt like he was looking for some disease, measles, or chicken pox.

I checked into my barrack, Able Company, found my bunk, ate a quick evening chow at 1730, returned from the mess hall, and, feeling shy, without any attempt at conversing with others, I unpacked and after some sleepless hours, at last slept deeply.

The following morning I spoke to no one, showered, ate chow, answered reveille, then reported directly to the chaplain’s office. I knocked and stood at attention.

Enter! came an angry voice.

I opened the door, took a step in and saluted. Private Byrum reporting, sir!

There, before me, was a man in uniform, who must have been 100 pounds over weight. He arose, flipped a casual sort of salute back at me, and sat back down behind his desk, squeezing his protruding stomach in, to fit. His shirt was too large for him, and his pants were wrinkled, especially around his huge thighs. At ease, Private Byrum. Come in and sit down. He was breathing hard, just from the exertion of standing up, I believe. I guessed he was about 40. His face was fat, with wide red cheeks, and his eyes were narrow, Asian-like. So, you’re Theodore Byrum. He picked up a chocolate cookie and nibbled. Mmm, I heard about you from Father Andrew. So, you know how to type?

Yes, sir, uh, yes, Father.

Mmm, just call me Father, son. But never the Holy Ghost. Get it, Father, son, and Holy Ghost? A low rumble of laughter blurted out of him, almost a snort.

I laughed, uneasily. That’s pretty good, Father.

He walked over to me and held out his hand. I extended mine and he took it and said, Welcome aboard. He had a powerful grip, which he held longer than a normal greeting. He stared at my face for a moment, as though searching for something. I squeezed back, hard, also, and said, Thanks, Father.

That felt unusual, strange to me.

He sat back down and munched another cookie, and said, Mmm, My name is Father Roland Carpenter and I’m from Modesta, California. I don’t type, and can’t stand paperwork. His black hair was untrimmed, with grey streaks along the side, arrowing outward, and when he sat back down I noticed the bald spot on the crown of his head.

After an awkward pause, I asked, Why am I here, Father?

Mmm, why are we all here, young man? To do the will of God. Or, in this case, to do my will of Roland, and harken to his song. Get it? ‘Song of Roland.’ No, I guess not. He mumbled a bit of laughter. No, seriously, I asked Father Andrew if he knew anyone who could type and help out in the office, and maybe even at the altar, and only your name came up. He didn’t think you’d be interested, but I pulled a few strings, well maybe ropes, so to speak, and got your orders changed. This way I saved you from the dangers of a foreign country so far away from home. He jammed the rest of a cookie into his maw.

Yes sir, thank you sir, I think. I was thinking that eating might be his addiction.

Well, anyway, he swallowed, you’re here, Byrum, and I’d like you to look at this desk full of letters and orders and make some, mmm, you know, sense out of them. And if you have to answer some letters, go ahead and type them up for my signature. You’ll find my stamp in there, somewhere.

Here he took a more serious pose. Understand, Private Byrum? Don’t you embarrass me, or there’ll be hell to pay! He shook his finger at me. His hand was shaking.

Yes sir! I’ll try my best, sir, I mean Father! This scared me. He was a man of changeable moods, on and off like a light bulb. And I was supposed to work with him, for him, for how long?

How old are you, Private?

Almost 19 sir, in November. Mmm. Okay, dismissed.

I fumbled through the Morning Report.

Report here tomorrow. I won’t be here ’til later, but just get started.

Yes, Father. I left, shaking my head, wondering what Father Drew got me into. It seemed like another hell waiting for me. Why is it I end up getting into trouble so often? I’m about to strike out before I even have a bat in my hands.

Back at the barrack of Able Company, I straightened out my gear, hung up my uniforms, and arranged my footlocker. That evening I quietly shined my shoes. I made eye contact with no one. Before turning in, I read a few lines of Keats’. The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

My reading was interrupted by a sound. What was that? A bugle? It was from a distance, but it certainly sounded like Taps! I ran the words through my brain.

Day is done, gone the sun,

from the lakes, from the hills,

from the sky; all is well,

safely rest, God is near.

What an amazing effect that has on a soldier! I never expected to hear it again.

My high school history teacher, Mr. Jubal Sherwood, played it for us from a recording. He read to us the fascinating story about a Union Army Captain in 1862 in the Civil War.

He recited this quite dramatically, The captain at the front, crawled on his stomach to the screaming soldier, in the dark, and dragged him back behind the lines, only to find him dead. He wore a rebel uniform. When he held a lantern above him, he found it was his son! Rebel?

That alone disturbed me, back then, imagining holding the corpse of a son or brother or a friend. Then, later, in jump school I experienced up close the death of my friend, Timothy Murphy. I held him on my lap during his final breaths after he had plunged from the airplane, his chute tangled around him. The image of his face is imprinted in my mind, and I still hear again his last sigh, that deep throat growling finality, Death’s warning.

But Mr. Jubal went on, His son had been studying music in the South, and the captain didn’t know that he had enlisted. When he found the words his son had written on a folded paper in his shirt pocket, the captain was given permission to have a bugle played in the rhythm of his son’s words.

After that, in a quiet mood, I gazed out the window, and it looked as if the moon had tipped over a bowl of its golden glow, and spilled it on the earth, the other barracks, the fields, the trees. I hoped Pauley was looking up at the same moon, and feeling as I did. So I took a deep drink of that blond magic, prayed, God is near, and slept, fitfully at first, but then, deeply.

4

FROM BARRACK TO DESK

The barrack I’d been assigned to was extremely plain, and drab, as they all are. They were designed by a color-blind person with no imagination. I suppose the purpose was to assure us that we were the same as everyone else, so we could then become the same, like cookies punched out with the name of tasteless sameness. The light bulbs on the ceilings were bare and dull, and, of course, there were no window shades.

Also, nailed onto each pole, about waist high, were the usual large cigarette butt cans, which at one time contained some kinds of soup, now woefully nameless because they were anonymously naked, their labels having been cruelly stripped of their identities. Now they were assigned the duty of holding a few inches of water, to snuff out the fires of the cigarette butts that were tossed into them, with a final, complaining, serpentine, hiss! So there was always the odor of smoke in the air, along with the wet stench of tobacco butts. Surprisingly, the tobacco smoke didn’t bother me very much. I was just so proud to have quit when I did. I didn’t mind at all the aroma of shoe polish or after-shave lotion on some nights, when some of the soldiers were preparing to head downtown to Fayetteville.

Then it struck me that Mom mentioned Dad was a drinker, an addict. Dad also smoked, an addiction as well, I thought. The cab driver in Springfield was also an addict, wasn’t he? And what about the cab driver in Fayetteville? He chewed tobacco. He was addicted to that, wasn’t he? So, you’re right, Mom. There are many addictions. Yours was praying. Can that be called an addiction also? I guess we all have some kind of addiction if we define it that loosely. Any way, I felt proud that I’d killed my smoking addiction!

Most of the men in the barrack were assigned to various offices around the base, one as the battalion commander’s clerk, others to company commanders, majors, and some to officers that seemed to have no responsibility at all. Many had been there for some time, well-versed in the routines of office life, and I wondered if they were happy with their assignments.

Often the hum, then roar of airplanes passed overhead, and frequently there were soldiers marching to loud cadence counts along some of the streets.

One problem I’d had in sleeping was the loud snoring, or in some cases, snort-snorting. That wasn’t too bad. I could adjust to that, as long as it had regularity. But one of them played a different tune each time. He’d let out a low one, a bass, then gargle a bit, then it would rise to an alto, and just about when I became accustomed to that, he’d become a tenor, or even a horrible soprano cacophony! But then he seemed to have awakened himself, and I found peace, sleep. But, alas, as I was diving deep into dreamland, out he came again, slowly reaching a crescendo of noise that shattered my peace. Then, a surprising conclusion to that composition was a long, loud explosion of gas that must have blown a hole in somebody’s shorts. This was followed by somebody’s laughter, and I couldn’t help myself. I joined in the hilarity. Once I heard some thumping, again and again, and at last I’d figured it out. One man was satisfying himself! I finally stuffed cloth in each of my ears and put my head under the pillow for peace.

On the second day, one man in the bunk next to mine, who was a bit older, maybe in his late 20’s, was very gentlemanly. He introduced himself, Hello, there, I see you’re new. I’m Private First Class Miller, Jules Miller, I work in Personnel, and he offered his delicate hand. He was well dressed, trim and fit. He pulled a small white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his forehead and mouth. His face was round, with a friendly concerned smile. I appreciated his offer of friendship. He showed me his ear plugs and said, For survival.

I asked him about Taps that I thought I’d heard the night before.

Oh, yes, our company commander started that about a month ago. He has some recordings. Didn’t you hear ‘Reveille’ this morning? He cupped his ear. He seemed to use his hands to express himself whenever he talked.

No, I had my ears plugged.

Jules laughed. I understand, you bet. But I kind of like it.

My history teacher told our class the background of Taps. Great story, but sad!

I agree. I know the history. I work in Personnel. Where are you assigned?

I explained to him I was assigned to the chaplain’s office as a clerk, and knew nothing about the job.

He waved as though there were some minor thing in front of him that he brushed aside. Oh, poof and piffle, you’ll figure it out. Most jobs in the military are not demanding. It will come to you in a week or two.

He strutted a bit as he started to leave the barrack. Let me know if you need any help. I’ll be around. Ta Ta! He waved his hand over his shoulder behind him.

Later, I returned to the administrative building and entered again into the door that said, simply, Chaplain. The office had a large desk, almost completely covered with papers and unopened envelopes. A chair with wheels squealed when I sat, and it tried to run away with me. The bare walls were a dull yellow. A short grey filing cabinet was in the corner close to the chair, with some empty drawers half open. From that viewpoint, I saw a small excuse for a room with desk and chair and typewriter. Mine, I presumed.

Inside there was also a small filing cabinet. Out the window I could see a parking space, and beyond that a pond and woods. To my right, next to a vent, was a closet, so I opened the door, and boxes and more boxes tumbled out, unopened. I peeked into one which had a golden cup and cover, and a crucifix. This was to be my job, I assumed. But I decided not to assume anything until I was told.

Father Roland arrived at about 1000 hours, when I was sitting at my little desk in my office. He burped, then said Good Morning, soldier. How much did you get done? He eyed me expectantly.

I did nothing, Father. I thought you could give me some hints, you know, preferences, as to what to do.

Damn it, dig in! This is all new to me, too! He sat at his desk and pulled out a cookie and munched away. "Look at this stuff. Military forms. Requests from soldiers.

Chapel arrangements! How in hell do I do this? I’ve never been in the military before. I just took this for a break, to get away from responsibilities. So I need help! He crunched away at his cookie. So help me! Mmm, please!"

Okay, Father, I’ll do my best. May I sit at your desk, sir?

Mmm, Go to it, soldier! I’m going over to the chapel.

Father Roland placed his papers on his desk for me. There, you might need that kind of crap. He waddled out, munching away.

As the door closed, I felt the old fear of failure, of once again beginning a new chapter in the army ten steps behind. What’ll it be this time, the mess hall, collecting garbage, doing one hundred push-ups, demotion? To what? I was already as low as could be. The hoosegow - the ole stockade?

The paper he left was in capital letters, just like my orders. It said he would be stationed at Fort Bragg for the period of a year, November of 1953 to November of 1954. He was quartered in the officers’ barrack. His office was located in the building set up for most officers, including the the chaplain, motor pool, maintenance, etc.

Father Roland Antoin Carpenter was also responsible for the utilization of the chapel, including maintenance, and arrangements for ceremonies. YOUR SERVICE TO YOUR COUNTRY WILL BE APPRECIATED, the order said.

Not sure where to start, I picked up a form, that needed a report regarding Father’s and my presence. I carted the typewriter over to the big desk and set to work. That was easy. I filled in the blanks and put it on the floor. That would be my out basket.

Then I saw a paper to affirm that the man maintaining the chapel would get paid. He worked 30 hours a week, or more if needed, and was to receive a monthly salary of $45 per month. His name was Leroy Riverton, and he lived in Fayetteville. Father’s signature was required on the form, and it was late by two weeks. Oh, oh. I’d better let him know.

Another form had to indicate hours of service needed at the chapel. It looked easy enough. It looked like I had to find someone else with help as to where to get this information.

I exited the office, and walked down the