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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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“Am I … in bad trouble?” John asked seriously.
The captain chuckled.
“No, no, Corporal,” he assured. “But you do deserve an explanation. I'm leaving … Transfer to Europe. But Nurse Jackson suggested that I stop to explain … . You were pretty sick. They couldn't seem to get you to
care
. You wouldn't move, wouldn't try. The doctors had given you up. The orange card … Extreme. Unction … ‘Last Rites.' That was a misunderstanding, apparently.”
“I'm not Catholic,” John said apologetically.
“So we learned,” said the priest with a wry grin. “But it did stir you up. You breathed deep, opened your lungs, worked up a sweat … . Nurse Jackson, here, suggested that we repeat the … Uh … ‘treatment.'”
Ruth was chuckling now.
“I … I owe you an apology, sir,” John said hesitantly.
“Not at all, son,” said the priest. “I've taken worse. Just pleased that it worked. Of course, I may have to go to confession myself over it. Not exactly the proper use of ritual. But thank your nurse, here, for seeing the possibilities!”
The captain rose.
“Well, I have a train to catch. Good luck to you … son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They shook hands, exchanged a salute, and the priest was gone. John turned to the nurse.
“I had no idea … . Once more, I owe you, Ruth.”
His voice was choked, and there was a tear in his eye.
“Thank you …”
A
few days later, John was transferred to a recovery ward in another building. It now became a problem: how, where, and even whether his friendship could continue with the young woman who had very likely saved his life.
“Don't try to contact me,” she had cautioned. “You'll be kept out of the acute wards because of the flu. ‘Isolation,' they call it. Keeps from spreading the epidemic. They don't really know how it spreads, I guess. It's not spread by mosquitoes, like malaria, or in food and water, like typhoid. Well, you're not interested in that.”
“Not really. How do I manage to see you?”
“I'll know where
you
are, John. I know the nurses on those wards, and I can stop by to visit
them
. As you improve, you'll also have the possibility of a pass into town before long. And I can learn when that's a possibility by stopping by your building. We can meet in town.”
“Is that permitted?”
“Not really.” There was mischief in her eyes. “Look … You'll have to be in uniform, but I won't. I can wear civilian clothes. Who's to know who I am?”
She tilted her head, with the perky little smile that she seemed to use more often now. He loved to see her with more pleasure and animation in her face. Her work must be quite depressing at times, he realized. Some joy in success, but so many tragedies. For one in a healing profession, the failures must be a heavy burden to bear.
 
 
They managed to meet only twice during the two weeks while John was assigned to the recovery ward. The meetings were similar: an afternoon pass, a meeting at a predetermined location in the town of Ogden. Ruth brought a picnic basket each time, and they walked … . Out into the open country, where they ate and relaxed and talked and talked.
“What do you hope to do after the war, John?”
“I don't know. I had hoped to coach … Teach sports, maybe. Couldn't find a job. That's how I started cowboyin'.”
“But … You've told me of your education, John. With so much interest in football, there must be … Didn't you say you'd been to the Olympics … Where was it? Stockholm?”
“Well, yes. That was a temporary job, as a pretty low-ranked assistant coach.”
She sat straight up from her semireclining position on the picnic blanket.
“Coach?
I thought you went as a spectator. John, these are wonderful credentials!
Why
can't you find a job?”
Her voice was almost accusing, as if he hadn't really tried. Long dormant, his disappointment now came rising in his throat.
“Because they'd rather have white coaches,” he said flatly.
It was the first time that he had ever actually said it aloud, that he'd been able to voice his frustration. Now he was embarrassed.
“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “I had no right to say that.”
She was staring at him in shocked silence. Finally she spoke.
“Oh, John,” she whispered. “I had no idea. It's something I wouldn't even have thought of.”
She reached over and took his hand. “Is it that way everywhere?”
“Depends. Worse in some places than others. But … I don't want to talk about it. What about you?”
“That's not very exciting, compared to you,” she assured him. “Grew up near here, married my high-school sweetheart after nurses' training. Emil wants to farm near here, supply the fort. A lot of local farmers and ranchers do that. We were pretty well started … . A little place, a few acres. Cattle, hogs, chickens … He'd like to raise horses for the army, too. But when the war came, he felt he had to enlist. So I went back to nursing. It lets me feel like if I'm helping some other soldier, maybe somebody's helping mine.”
“No children?”
“None. We want some.”
“You mentioned your farm?”
“A neighbor is running it. I still stay at the house sometimes, to get away from my work at the fort. It's lonesome without him, but I want to keep it ready for when he comes home.”
“Emil is a very lucky man,” mused John.
“Not really.” She smiled wistfully. “But I hope
he
thinks so.”
If he doesn't, there's something wrong with him
, thought John.
 
 
Things were changing rapidly in the conduct of the war. It was finally realized that men with sabers on horses would never be a match for cannon and machine guns. The action necessary for cracking the Kaiser's defenses would be artillery. There had begun a rush to train and put into combat a large number of batteries of cannon. Not yet mechanized, these would be drawn by horses. French “75s,” firing an explosive projectile a foot long and as round as a man's wrist, were shipped in quantity to the United States for training purposes.
Much to the chagrin of old-line professional cavalry officers, they were converted almost overnight to the command of artillery units. At some military posts, mock funeral processions with black-draped coffins mourned the demise of the proud horse cavalry.
 
In the midst of this change, Corporal John Buffalo was dismissed from the recovery ward to return to his unit. He found the barracks in a state of turmoil.
“We're movin' out,” explained the sergeant major. “They're makin' redlegs of us.”
The sergeant was not happy with the change. From the yellow braid and striping of the cavalry to the red of artillery was a major catastrophe to the old soldier.
“We're shippin' to Oklahoma to learn to shoot them French cannons,” he said sadly. “Usin' horses to
pull
the damn things, like wagons.”
“When does this happen, Sergeant?” asked John.
“Couple o' days, I guess. By train, prob'ly Monday. Good to have you back, Buffalo.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. Any chance for a pass Saturday? I've been shut up in the hospital.”
The sergeant thought for only a moment.
“Why not? Pretty tough over there? We heard a lot of men are dyin'.”
“Pretty bad … A lot I don't remember.”
“Bad times,” the sergeant major said sympathetically. “Sure … Make out your pass. I'll sign it.”
 
He planned almost frantically. A quick visit back to the recovery ward to talk to Ruth Jackson's nurse friend.
“Back already, John? Just can't stay away from us, eh?” joked Alice.
“I'm bein' shipped out,” he explained quickly. “I'd like to say good-bye to Nurse Jackson. She was good to me while I was so sick. How can I contact her?”
The nurse's face fell. “Oh, John, I don't know. She's not working. You knew about her husband?”
“No … What? He's back?”
“No, no. He was killed in France.”
“Aw, no!”
“Yes. She just learned yesterday, I guess. They gave her a leave.”
“But … Where is she?”
“She went home, I guess.”
“Home?”
“Yes. Her place. Hers and Emil's. John, have you two got something goin'?”
His anger rose at such a suspicion.
“No! Of course not. She's not like that. She's a friend, that's all!”
He surprised himself, that he was so defensive. Equally surprised, Alice backed off.
“Say, John, I didn't mean—Look, no offense intended.”
He took a deep breath.
“None taken … Sorry. But do you know where their place is?”
“Not exactly. She's wanted to keep it theirs, and separate from their military jobs. North of here, somewhere.”
That didn't narrow it much, but he tried to recall. Probably the meadow where they'd had their picnics would be in an area familiar to her. He recalled now that when she spoke of their farm, she had used a hand gesture, as if
over there
… . It was worth a try. He hiked out toward the grassy hillside.
As luck would have it, he had not quite reached the point where they would leave the road, when he heard the clip-clop of an approaching horse, and the slight rattle and squeak of buggy wheels. He stepped off the road and looked ahead to the point where the approaching buggy would top the hill.
A mail carrier … Maybe … He waved to the driver to pause, and the man pulled the horse to a stop.
John stepped forward. “Excuse me. Am I on the right road to the Jackson place?”
“Sure are. Over the hill and just around the bend, there. Not home very often, though.”
“That's okay. Thanks!”
His pace quickened as he rounded the bend to see a small frame house tucked in against the hillside. Like many with the men away at war, the yard was a bit weedy and untended, but the place looked prosperous. There were good corrals, a hay barn, and a young apple orchard. It could be a good place. Except … There was no man here, to live and love his home. Now there would not be.
His heart was heavy as he walked up to the porch and knocked at the door. He could hear music inside, a phonograph playing a sweet romantic waltz.
He recognized the melody as one he had studied in a music class at school, but at the moment could not put a name to it.
He knocked again, and heard footsteps approaching the door as the record came to its end and continued to turn with a scritch-scritch sound. The door opened and Ruth Jackson stood there, surprised.
“John! Come in!”
She turned and lifted the needle from the phonograph record, stopping the annoying scritch-scritch.
He had no idea what to expect when he knocked on the door, but certainly not this. There might have been friends or neighbors, but there were none. She might have been drawn and haggard, but it appeared that she was dressed for an occasion. Her hair was arranged carefully, she had used just the right amount of powder and rouge, and wore an attractive party dress. If it had not been for the tragedy in her eyes …
“Ruth … I heard,” he mumbled. “I'm sorry.”
“Thank you, John. Thank you for coming.”
“You … You're alone?” he asked, puzzled.
“Yes. I really have no people here, anymore. I wanted to spend a little time here, alone with some of the happy memories.”
“I'll go,” he offered, with a glance at the crank-winding Edison phonograph and the stack of wax record disks beside it.
“No, no,” she protested. “It was good of you to come.”
“Well, I … I'm shipping out. Monday, I guess.”
There was a look of alarm on her face.
“France?”
“No. Oklahoma. They're converting cavalry units to artillery.”
“I heard about that. Fort Sill?”
“I guess so.”
“Well … John, would you stay with me a little while?”
“Of course.”
She stood at the window, gazing at the radiant sunset.
“I was just remembering some of the good times,” she said wistfully.
She turned and pointed to the stack of records on the chair by the phonograph.
“Nearly every one of those has a special memory,” she murmured. “Here, I'll show you.”
She wound the spring tightly, put a new record under the needle, and released the latch to allow it to turn. The strains of a Strauss waltz floated through the room.
“That was the first one we danced to,” she said happily. She was swaying to the music. “It's a good memory. Will you dance with me, John?”
She came into his arms, naturally and comfortably, and they danced. He had always felt clumsy and uncomfortable on a dance floor, but this was different.
Somehow, this was not for his pleasure, but to fulfill her inner needs. It was almost as if some outside influence was making him a better dancer, for
her.
Her face brightened, her smile became happier, and her eyes shone with pleasure. The record finished and she chose another, and they danced.
Later, thinking back, he could not believe the perfection that he achieved that night with her … .
For
her. People mourn in different ways. For Ruth Jackson, reliving the good times was the way to honor her husband's memory. John did not delude himself. She was reliving the good times with her sweetheart, lover, and husband, not with John Buffalo. He was merely a proxy. John knew and understood this, as he knew that she did. It was not necessary to discuss it.

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