“Mr. Johnson, I never said I was not going to enlist; I simply said I had things to do first. That was true, I did have. It’s true also that I have misgivings about the ultimate useful­ness of this war. But regardless of any opinion—which I should have kept to myself—the time has come to close ranks and move forward together. So I went down and volunteered and they accepted me.”

  Mr. Johnson handed back the recruitment form, opened the door wide. “Come in, Ted!”

  Lazarus saw heads disappearing as he came in; apparently most of the family was still up. His grandfather ushered him into the parlor. “Please sit down. I must go tell my daughter.”

  “If Mrs. Smith has retired, I would not want her to be dis­turbed,” Lazarus lied. (Hell, no, Gramp! I’d rather crawl in with her. But that’s one secret I’ll keep forever.)

  “Never you mind. This is something she will want to know. Uh, that piece of paper—may I have it to show her?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Lazarus waited. Ira Johnson returned in a few minutes, handed back the proof of enlistment. “She’ll be down shortly.” The old man sighed. “Ted, I’m proud of you. Earlier today you had me upset—and I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry—I apologize.”

  “I can’t accept it because there is nothing to apologize for, sir. I spoke hastily and did not make myself clear. Can we forget it? Will you shake hands with me?”

  “Eh? Yes. Surely! Mrrph!” Solemnly they shook hands. (Maybe Gramp could still straight-arm an anvil—my fingers are crushed.)

  “Mr. Johnson, would you take care of some things for me? Things I didn’t have time to do?”

  “Eh? Certainly!”

  “This box, mainly.” Lazarus handed him the taped cigar box.

  Mr. Johnson took it, his eyebrows shot up. “Heavy.”

  “I cleaned out my lockbox. Gold coins. I’ll pick it up when the war is over…or if I don’t, will you give it to Woodie? When he’s twenty-one?”

  “What? Now, now, Son, you’ll come through all right.”

  “I plan to, and I’ll pick it up then. But I might fall down a ladder in a troopship and’ break my silly neck. Will you do it?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, sir. This is for Woodie right now. My chess­men. I can’t pack them around. I’d give them to you except that you would- think up some reason not to take them but Woodie won’t.”

  “Mrrph. Very well, sir.”

  “Here’s one thing that is for you—but it’s not quite what it seems.” ‘Lazarus handed over the bill of sale for the lan­daulet.

  Mr. Johnson read it. “Ted, if you’re trying to give me your automobile, you can think again.”

  “That’s only a nominal conveyance of title, sir. What I would like is to leave it with you. Brian can drive it; he’s a good driver now, he’s a natural. You can drive it; even Mrs. Smith might want to learn. When Lieutenant Smith is - home, he may find it convenient. But if they send me for training anywhere near here and I get time off before I’m sent over­seas, I’d like to feel free to use it myself.”

  “But why hand me a bill of sale? Sure, it can sit in the barn and no doubt Brian—both of them—would drive it. Might learn to herd it myself. But no need for this.”

  “Oh. I didn’t make myself clear. Suppose I’m off some­where, say in New Jersey—but want to sell it. I can drop you a penny postcard, and it’s easy, because you’ll have that.” Lazarus added thoughtfully, “Or I might fall down that lad­der…in which case the same reasoning applies. If you don’t want it, you can sign it over to Bran Junior. Or whatever. Mr. Johnson, you know I don’t have any relatives——so why not let it run easy?”

  Before Gramp could reply, Mrs. Smith came in, dressed in her best and smiling (and had been crying, Lazarus felt cer­tain). She extended her hand. “Mr. Bronson! We are all so proud of you!”

  Her voice, her fragrance, the touch of her hand, her proud joy, all hit Lazarus in the gut; his careful conditioning was swept away. (Maureen beloved, it’s lucky that I’m being sent away at once. Safer for you, better all around. But I did it to make you proud of me, and now my cup runneth over—and please ask me to sit down before Gramp notices the tilt of my kilt!)

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. I just stopped by to say thank you and good-bye—and good night, too, as I’m shipping out early tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, do please sit down! Coffee at least, and the children will want to say good-bye to you, too.”

  An hour later he was still there and still happier—happy all through. The candy had been opened after he had presented it to Carol for all of them. Lazarus had drunk much coffee thick with cream and sugar and had eaten a hefty slice of home-baked white cake with chocolate icing, then accepted a second while admitting that he had not eaten since breakfast then protested when Maureen wanted to jump up and cook. They reached a compromise under which Carol went out to make a sandwich for him.

  “It’s been a confusing day,” he explained, “and I haven’t had time to eat. You caused me to change plans, Mr. Johnson.”

  “I did, Ted? How?”

  “You know—I think I’ve told you both—that I planned to make a business trip to San Francisco leaving the first of July. Then this happens—Congress declaring war—and I decided to make the trip at once, settle my affairs there—then enlist. When I saw you I was all set to leave, packed and everything—and you made me realize that the Kaiser wouldn’t wait while I took care of private affairs. So I joined up at once.” Lazarus managed to look sheepish. “My packed grip is still out in the car, going nowhere.”

  Ira Johnson looked pained. “I didn’t mean to rush you, Ted. ‘Twouldn’t have hurt to take a few days to wind up your affairs; they can’t organize an army overnight. I know, I saw ‘em try, in ‘Ninety-eight. Mrrph. Perhaps I could make the trip for you? As your agent. Seeing that— Well, doesn’t look like I’m going to be too busy.”

  “No, no! A million thanks, sir—but I hadn’t been thinking straight. Thinking ‘peacetime’ instead of ‘wartime’ until you got me back on the rails. I went to Western Union and wrote a night letter to my broker in Frisco, telling him what I wanted him to do; then I wrote a note appointing him my attorney-in-fact and got it notarized and went to the down­town post office and registered it to him. All done, every­thing taken care of.” Lazarus was enjoying the improvisation so much he almost believed it. “Then I went downstairs and enlisted. But that grip—Do you suppose you could put it in your garret? I won’t be taking a grip to soldier. Just a few toilet arti­cles.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Bronson!” said Brian Junior. “In my room!”

  “In our room,” George corrected. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “Hold it, boys. Ted? Would it break your heart if you lost that grip?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Johnson. Why?”

  “Then take it with you. But when you get back to your flat tonight, pack it differently. You put in white shirts and stiff collars, no doubt. You won’t need those. If you’ve got any work shirts, take those. Be sure to take a pair of well-broken-in high shoes you can march in. Socks—all you own. Underwear. It’s my guess—based on sad experience—that they won’t have enough uniforms right away. Confusion, and lots of it. You may be soldiering for a month or more in what you carry with you.”

  “I think,” Mrs. Smith said seriously, “that Father is right, Mr. Bronson. Mr. Smith—Lieutenant Smith, my husband— was saying something like it before he left. He left without waiting for his telegram—it came hours later—because he said he knew that there would be confusion at first.” Her mouth twitched. “Although he said it more forcefully.”

  “Daughter, no matter how Brian put it, it wasn’t forceful enough. Ted will be lucky if his beans are on time. Any man who can tell his right foot from his left will be grabbed and made acting corporal; they won’t care how he’s dressed. But you care, Ted—so take along clothes you might wear on a farm. And shoes—comfortable shoes that won’t put blisters on you the first mile. Mmm— Ted, do you know the cold­cream trick? To use on your feet when you know you might have your shoes on for a week or more?”

  “No, sir,” Lazarus answered. (Gramp, you taught it to me once before—or maybe “after”—and it works, and I’ve never forgotten it.)

  ‘“If possible, have your feet clean and dry. Smear your feet all over and especially between your toes with cold cream. Or Vaseline, carbolated is best. Use lots, a thick layer. Then put on socks—clean if possible, dirty if you must, but don’t skip them—and put your boots on. When you first stand up, it feels as if you’d stepped into a barrel of soft soap. But your feet Will thank you for it and you won’t get jungle rot between your toes. Or not as much. Take care of your feet, Ted, and keep your bowels open.”

  “Father.”

  “Daughter, I’m talking to a soldier—telling him things that may save his life: If the children can’t hear such things, send them up to bed.”

  “I think it is time,” Maureen answered, “to get the younger ones quieted down, at least.”

  “I don’t have to go to bed!”

  “Woodie, you do exactly what your mother tells you to and no back talk—or I’ll bend a poker over your bottom. That’s standing orders until your father gets home from the war.”

  “I’m going to stay up till Private Bronson leaves! Papa said I could.”

  “Mrrph. I’ll discuss the logical impossibility of that with a club; it’s the only way to make you understand it. Maureen, I suggest that we start with the youngest, let ‘em say good-bye in turn, and then march straight up to bed. Which winds up in due course with me walking Ted to his streetcar stop.”

  “But I was going to drive Uncle Ted home!”

  Lazarus judged that it was time to speak up. “Brian, thank you. But let’s not give your mother something extra to worry about tonight. The trolley takes me almost straight home and from tomorrow on I won’t even have streetcars; I’ll walk.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Gramp. “He’ll march. ‘Hay foot, straw foot!—heads up and look proud!’ Ted, his father made Brian Sergeant of the Guard until he gets back, charged with internal security of this household.”

  “Then he can’t leave his post of duty to chauffeur a mere private, can he?”

  “Not in the presence of the Officer of the Guard—me—and of the Officer of the Day, my daughter. Reminds me— While the young ‘uns are kissing you good-bye, I want to dig out a couple of my old Army shirts; I think they’ll fit you. If you don’t mind hand-me-downs?”

  “Sir, I will be proud and honored to wear them!”

  Mrs. Smith stood up. “I have something I must get for Mr.—Private Bronson, too. Nancy, will you bring down Ethel? And Carol, will you fetch Richard?”

  “But Private Bronson hasn’t eaten his sandwich!”

  Lazarus said, “I’m sorry, Miss Carol. I’ve been too excited to eat. Uh, would you wrap it for me? I’ll eat it the minute I’m back in my apartment—and it will make me sleep soundly.”

  “Do that, Carol,” decided her mother. “Brian, will you fetch down Richard?”

  After more backing and filling Lazarus told them all good­bye, in reverse order of seniority. He held Ethel for a moment and grinned at her baby smile, then kissed the top of her head and handed her back to Nancy, who took her upstairs and hurried back down. To kiss Richard, Lazarus had to get down on one knee. The child seemed unsure why this was happening but knew that it was a solemn occasion; he hugged Lazarus tightly and smeared his cheek with a kiss.

  Woodie then kissed him—for the first and only time, but Lazarus no longer felt bothered by touching “himself” as this little boy was not himself but simply an individual from whom he derived some scattered memories in an odd con­catenation. He was no longer tempted to strangle him—or not often.

  Woodie used the unaccustomed intimacy to whisper: “Those chessmen are really ivory?”

  “Really truly ivory. Ivory and ebony, just like the keys on your Mama’s piano.”

  “Gee, that’s keen! Look, when you come back, Uncle Pri­vate Bronson, I’ll let you play with them. Anytime.”

  “And I’ll beat you, Sport.”

  “Says you! Well, so long. Don’t take any wooden nickels.” Little Marie kissed him with tears in her eyes, then fled from the room. George kissed him on the cheek and muttered, “You be careful, Uncle Ted,” and left also. Brian Junior said, “I’ll take real good care of your automobile—I’ll keep it shined just the way you do,” then hesitated—suddenly kissed his cheek and left, leading Richard.

  Carol had his sandwich, neatly wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a ribbon. He thanked her and put it into an outer coat pocket. She placed her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoes and whispered, “There’s a note in it for you!”—kissed his cheek and left quickly.

  Nancy took her place and said quietly, “The note is from both of us. We’re going to pray for you every night when we pray for Papa.” She glanced at her mother, then put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth, a firm peck. “That’s not good-bye but au revoir!” She left even more quickly than her sister, head high and moving like her mother.

  Mrs. Smith stood up, said quietly, “Father?”—and waited.

  “No.”

  “Then turn your back.”

  “Mmrph. Yes.” Mr. Johnson studied the pictures on the wall.

  With a soft rustle Mrs. Smith came close to Lazarus, looked tip at him, held up a little book. “This is for you.”

  It was a vest-pocket New Testament; she held it opened at the fly leaf. He took it and read the original inscription, somewhat faded:

  “To Maureen Johnson, Good Friday 1892, for perfect at­tendance. Matthew vii 7”

  And under this, in fresh and crisp Spencerian script:

  To Private Theodore Bronson

  Be true to self and country.

  Maureen J. Smith

  April 6, 1917

  Lazarus gulped. “I will treasure it and keep it with me, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Not ‘Mrs. Smith,” Theodore— ‘Maureen.” She put up her arms.

  Lazarus stuffed the little book into his breast pocket, put his arms around her, met her lips.

  For a long moment her kiss was firm and warm but chaste. Then she moaned almost inaudibly, her body softened and -came strongly against him, her lips opened, and she kissed him in a fashion that Lazarus could barely believe even as he answered it in kind—a kiss that promised everything she could give.

  After some uncounable eternity she whispered against his lips: “Theodore…take care of yourself. Come back to us.”

  DA CAPO

  VI

  Camp Funston, Kansas

  Dear Twins and Family,

  Surprise! Meet Corporal Ted Bronson, acting sergeant and the meanest drillmaster in the whole National Army of the United States. No, I have not scrambled my cir­cuits. I temporarily lost track of a basic principle of evasive action, i.e., the best place to hide a needle is in a stack of needles and the best place to avoid the hor­rors of war is in an army. Since none of you has ever seen a war, or even an army, I must explain.

  I had (foolishly) planned to avoid this war by running away to South America. But South America is a place where I could not possibly pass for a native, no matter how well I spoke the language—and it is loaded with German agents who would suspect me of being an Amer­ican agent and might arrange some nasty accident for Ol’ Buddy Boy, bless his innocent heart. And the girls there have beautiful flashing eyes, suspicious duennas, and fathers who love to shoot gringos up to no good.

  Unhealthy.

  But if I stayed in the United States and tried to stay out of the Army—one slip and I wind up behind cold stone walls, eating miserable food, and making little rocks out of big ones. Unappealing.

  But in wartime the Army gets the best of everything— aside from a mild hazard of getting shot at. The latter can be avoided.

  How? This is not yet the era of total war, and an army offers innumerable bolt holes for a coward (me) to avoid unpleasant dangers from strangers. In this era only a small part of an army gets shot at. (An even smaller part gets hit, but I don’t plan to take that risk.) At this here-­&-now land warfare is fought in certain locations, and there are endless army jobs not in those places, where (despite a military uniform) an army man is really just a privileged civilian.

  I am in such a job and probably won’t move until the war ii over. Someone has to take these brave, young, innocent lads, fresh off the farm, and turn them into something resembling soldiers. A man who can do this is so valuable that- officers are reluctant to let him go.

  So I’m full of that old fighting spirit and won’t have to fight. I teach, instead—close-order drill, extended drill, markmanship and care of the rifle, bayonet, barehanded combat, field hygiene, anything. My “amazing” aptitude in military matters caused surprise, me being a recruit with “no military experience.” (How could I admit that Gramp taught me to shoot five years after the end of this war and that I first handled these same weapons as a high school cadet ten years from now and that my military experience is scattered over the next hundred years plus a little now and then for centuries more?)

  But a rumor hints that I was once a soldat in the French Foreign Legion. a corps of one of our Allies, made up of cut-throats, thieves, and escaped convicts, and famous for their go-to-hell way of fighting—possibly a deserter from it and almost certainly under another name. I discourage this canard by becoming surly if anyone gets inquisitive and only occasionally make the mistake of saluting French style (palm forward) and correct it at once—but everybody knows that I “polly-voo” because my knowl­edge of the French language had a lot to do with my change from “acting corporal” to real corporal assigned to instruction, and now greasing for sergeant. There are French and British officers and sergeants here to teach us trench warfare. All the French here are supposed to speak English—but the English they speak these Kansas and Missouri plow jockeys can’t understand. So in slips lazy Lazarus as liaison. Me and one French sergeant almost add up to one good instructor.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72