Double Jeopardy (6 page)

When at length we reached the wire we had been instructed to cut, the four of us went into a whispered conference on our bellies. “You go off to the right, Thatcher,” the Sarge muttered between his teeth, “and get into a shell-hole. Keep your eye peeled. For Chris' sake don't go to sleep. The Heinies may have a party out, too. Mullins, you mosey over to that stump on the left. Carter and I will tackle the wire.”

I was very glad to crawl into that shell-hole, believe me; and while I didn't like the idea of being separated from the others, I was infinitely grateful that I would be out of danger if shooting began. However, no sooner did I flatten myself at the muddy bottom of the hole when I felt something rub against my knee. Squinting into the inky darkness, I drew my trench-knife, believing that I might have to kill a rat. At that moment someone decided to fire up a light.

I was lying beside a German private!

He seemed as surprised as I was. We gaped open-mouthed at one another's uniforms. Terror froze the blood in my veins for an instant; then it galvanized me into action. I suddenly became conscious of what I held in my hand and, as he muttered something guttural, I drove the trench-knife deep into his neck.

When you took up this book you expected a confession. Well, now you've got one. That deed, in my own estimation, was a murder. You disagree? It was self-defense? It really wasn't anything of the kind. He had no weapon in his hand; neither did he show any sign that he meant to attack me. But you still think I was right in killing him? I'm sorry, but I don't understand such reasoning. If only someone would explain it to me! Killing Anita who deserved to die—;that was a crime? Killing a boy whose only fault was having been born in Germany—;that was not?

Twenty years have passed since that awful night and this outrageous misinterpretation of justice still remains to plague my logic. I have asked everyone—;priests, convicts, judges, cops —;but no one seems to know. Well, never mind.

Ten short minutes seemed an eternity. I lay beside the man I had killed, waiting for some signal from the Sarge. The enemy were firing many more Verys now and that, I suppose, was the reason for the delay. I tried to keep my eyes off the corpse but it was a difficult feat in that small area. In my hand I still clutched the knife and, as light after light went up, I stared horrified at the sticky blood that covered my hand up to the wrist. I tried to wipe it off on my pants.

My three comrades found me that way. The Sarge looked down at the body and then patted me on the shoulder. “Nice work,” he said in a whisper. “You got him in the right place, kid. There was a Fritz party out tonight. This guy must've been a look-out. We saw 'em in time. If this baby had opened his yap, we'd all of us be pushin' up the daisies now.” Then he callously began to search the dead man's pockets. “Got to look for maps and stuff,” he explained. “Of course, he ain't carryin' any. He's only a buck from the rear rank. But he might have a stogie on him or a pack of butts.”

The next morning while I was shaving, I remembered that I had taken a life. I peered at my reflection in the steel mirror, wondering how much the deed had changed me. I knew that I had changed inside... but outside I looked the same.

On the night of October 4, 1918 we made our bid for Exermont. I should say,
they
made
their
bid; for I deserted.

Deserted in the face of the enemy. Say it. Go ahead, I don't care. I had had enough of the war. But before you condemn me, imagine what might have happened if everybody had followed my example. There would have been no more war. There would have been nothing left to shoot at.

I lagged behind when we reached that ruined cemetery on the outskirts of Exermont village. Machine-gun bullets were kicking up all around us and shells were dropping, cutting off a retreat. I don't know when the notion struck me that we were walking toward sudden and certain death, but I was sure that nothing—;not even a blade of grass—;could escape that heavy rain of lead. Taking advantage of the fact that it was dark and there was a lot of confusion, I ducked into a convenient shell-hole and allowed what was left of my company to go on without me.

The last thing I can remember before I came to my senses in the little French hospital was the ever-increasing whine of some great shell. A five-point-nine. I could identify it by its sound. As it came down upon me, making my ears vibrate, I tried to press my body into the wet earth. My fingers frantically dug into the ground; my eyes filled with mud; my teeth clenched until they hurt; and my bowels opened....

Every soldier falls in love with his nurse. I, not much of a military man anyway, did not. The war had not caused me to forget Anita and, despite her very infrequent letters, my thoughts were ever full of her. Yet, somehow, the picture was blurred, pleasurably blurred if you wish, the imperfections blotted out. Moments dwelt on in memory, moments very often of the flesh; memories of moments only to be whispered when we were alone together. Desire is an insidious parasite gnawing at one's body. And so, paradoxically enough, although it was Anita who kept me away from women who could be had for the taking, women like the pockmarked roads of France over which an army marched, it was also Anita who made me glaringly conscious of a need for women. Celibacy is the pathway to depraved thoughts, even as war is the pathway to power of depraved minds. The very fact that Anita wrote so seldom made me want her more. Man usually kills the thing he loves, and cherishes that which ultimately destroys him. In the trenches, with death ever near like a white bird flying, it was not so hard to hold one's emotions in check. So frantically were we endeavoring to cling to life, we wooed and clung to her as though she were our mistress. Then, too, we could always look forward to being relieved, new troops to supplant us in this war that was merely a prelude to all other wars, and then —;a few days in Paris. Actually, the fact that few of us ever got to Paris was of little importance. Paris was a symbol. It represented any woman's arms.

Lest you suspect otherwise and visualize my nurse as some homely harridan, I would like to make it clear that Mademoiselle Monet was a very attractive person, one with whom many a man might fall in love. And pray do not think that I was viewing her with the astigmatic eyes of war which distorted everything. My nurse was truly beautiful.

Furthermore, Gilberte Monet was in love with me.

How this happened, I cannot explain. There have been many jokes made about French girls. There is the story that they considered it a patriotic duty to sleep with each and every one of the Allied troops from the brigadier generals right on down the line. Gilberte was not one of those and her love for me in no way hinged upon my uniform. Well, whatever her reason for loving me, I only know that when I eventually became aware that I was in a long, white ward, a friendly-looking dark-eyed girl in nurse's garb was bending over the bed and whispering some strange, incomprehensible syllables which she later told me meant: “So you are awake at last, my darling.”

Her voice was gentle, soothing like the voice of a mother speaking softly to her frightened little boy who lay hurt and shivering on his bed, shrinking from imagined horrors. And I was that boy—;but the horrors were ghastly realities. No war has ever been won, not even by the conquerors; and how can one describe that gray, terror-splashed tumult that rages in the frontiers of the mind; that frontier where reason locks with reality? Beyond the trenches lies a region like unto the world in the beginning, without form and void. This I know, for I have been there.

Yes, Gilberte Monet loved me and it was good to be loved; especially good while I lay broken mentally and physically, afraid to die, yet more afraid to live in a world gone mad.

You may laugh if you like. I wouldn't blame you at all. It does seem ludicrous that I, a timid, small-town druggist could so play havoc with a woman's heart. I am certainly no Don Juan.

I was the only American in the hospital and I must have been there quite a long time because none of the other patients were there when I was brought in. The first thing I learned was that the Armistice had been signed and that the war was at an end. You may be sure I rejoiced. But the news that my entire company had been wiped out at Exermont greatly disheartened me.

Although I was out of danger of death, my mind was periodically unsound and my memory as well. Sometimes for hours I would forget who I was, in which ward I belonged and the name of my nurse. During those periods I would suffer indescribable mental anguish until Nurse Monet came to claim me. I would always recognize her and in a minute everything would become clear again. I took to wheeling my chair after her wherever she went. She did not seem to mind.

Many evenings the nurse and I would be in the hospital garden. It was very lovely there with the green lawn and the cultivated flower beds and the stone fountain which played incessantly. She would sit beside my wheel-chair and coax me to sing to her. My nasal interpretations of “K-K-K-Katy” and “Over There” sent her into fits of laughter and she never seemed to tire of them. I would laugh with her until my shrapnel wounds began to hurt. To this day, whenever I undress for bed and notice the scars on my left leg and thigh, I think of the evenings in the garden with Gilberte Monet.

One evening in particular would be much better forgotten; and I would not mention it all were it not for my firm resolution to be frank. It happened so naturally and so sweetly that I can scarcely believe it was an adultery. Yet.... It will be hard to describe. I can only tell you what we did—;and that may sound very ordinary—;but what we did and what that night did to me is the important issue. That half-hour has since served as a standard by which I weigh love to ascertain its value. Gilberte's love was real, not feigned. It could, and did, weather anything —;even her realization that I could not reciprocate.

Yes, she gave herself to me. And what is more, no one cared. Who cared what anyone did during those topsy-turvy years—;like roulette with the play for human chips? The hospital staff was too preoccupied with a macabre puzzle to be disturbed over absurdities connected with a normal human function. They were attempting to put wrecks of men together again and, far too frequently, important pieces were missing.

And the important missing part in my own case was Anita. Gilberte helped me to fill that gap, for which I shall be eternally grateful. My only regret is the night I am trying to describe. There, and there only, did we overstep the boundaries beyond which we should never have passed. If I had loved Gilberte and not been in love with another woman it would have been quite all right. But I never loved her and, since she loved me, it must have hurt her no end to discover that she was merely receiving the crumbs from Anita's table.

However, it is too late to think about such things now. Even if we had known, I doubt if we could have prevented what happened. Before either of us realized quite what was happening, we found ourselves stretched full-length on a secluded strip of lawn, protected by the enveloping darkness. Gilberte's uniform was unfastened at the breast and my cheek rested on her satiny flesh. I became suffused with a warm glow and the intoxicating belief that nothing mattered but this one very human moment. I kissed her on the mouth—;the first time I had ever done so. She responded by tightening her grip and literally melting to me. I removed one arm from under her and in a few seconds nothing—;not a shred of clothing—;separated us.

“I love you, Gilberte,” I moaned again and again.

But, even at that time, while I held a woman in my arms for the first time in almost two years, I knew I was lying. But, somehow, that seemed the only proper thing to say.

The greater portion of the A.E.F. sailed for home on the Leviathan and other ships late in March of 1919; but I was still in no condition to make such a long trip. I'd sit in my wheelchair, staring off into space, and think about Anita—;how she was, what she was doing, and wondering why she didn't answer my letters.

It was my custom to write her each week. Gilberte provided me with paper and pen and ink; and later she would take the letters to post when she went off duty. I remember the first time I handed her a finished letter she glanced curiously at the name and the address.

“Your mothair?” she asked in her broken English.

“No,” I replied, not realizing I was being cruel, “my wife.” And not satisfied with that, I pulled out the picture of Anita I always carried in my breast pocket. “How do you like her, Gilberte? Isn't she lovely?”

She took the picture from my hand and studied it intently. There was a look in her eyes like some hurt animal and instantly I was ashamed of myself. Knowing how the girl felt about me, I should have known better.

“Vairy nize,” she murmured and returned it. I saw a tell-tale sparkle under her lowered lids.

Now please don't think for a minute that I am manufacturing this story out of whole cloth.

I can find no explanation for her misguided affections. I certainly did nothing to inspire them. The only observation I might truthfully make is that love is mighty strange and ofttimes somewhat silly. But to prove that Mademoiselle Monet was a real person and not a figment of a distorted imagination, you have only to look up the transcript of my trial in Tompkins County. One of the prosecution's major exhibits was a letter in the French language, addressed to me and signed by her. I never found out what the letter contained until I heard it translated in open court. Yes, it was a love letter. I ought to know, because it helped to convict me.

Gilberte showed her love for me in a way to which I could not possibly object. She did not try to kiss me, caress me or hug me; and pray do not imagine nightly assignations after the other patients in the ward were asleep; she was just over-kind and ever willing to go out of her way to please me. When she spoke of her love at all, it was quietly and in her own language, which I could not understand. Of course, there was no mistaking the meaning of her words. Behind them whispered something else—;an international esperanto which no one could fail to have recognized.