about the child? To grow up resented by a mother who never had time for you because she was busy trying to recapture her lost chances – that wouldn’t be so wonderful. And ten or twelve years later, when it was the right time to have her family? For the child that was a mistake – to have to look on and see everybody else being showered with love: that would be a torture.
She rattled off every thing she had to say, without allowing him to get out a single word. Then she collapsed. She was nice; even on the verge of hysteria she wasn’t going to remind him that his grandfather had drunk himself to death and his aunt had gone crazy. After a long pause she just said that this was goodbye. And she hung up.
He called back. He called back forty-three times. Everytime, her mother answered; she was polite but unyielding, as was to be expected of the mother of an only child.
He talked about his love. He said that he’d do anything. He hadn’t meant to hurt anybody – he’d have done anything rather than that. This just couldn’t be goodbye, no matter what they all decided. He reasoned, he whined, he tried not to sound angry. He cried.
When he realized that everything was over, he went out and got drunk. And in the morning he joined up.
*
His wasn’t a world war. It was one of the smaller wars, but just as deadly as any other. ‘Wars are like snakes,’ his first commanding officer said to him. ‘Some of the little ones can be even worse than the monsters.’ It was certainly as bad as anything Franklin had ever imagined, despite all the comforts of modern warfare: danger money, paid leave, medical care, disability compensation and the G.I. Bill if you came out in one piece.
In a modern battle you didn’t often see enemy blood. What you encountered in the way of death and mutilation was mostly from your own side or among the civilian population who weren’t supposed to be in the fight: the women and children. Women and children – and, of course, land – were what you were expected to fight for, not against. His war was up to date: air power was an important factor. But it was also like any other war in that after the aircraft had done their work, paratroopers and then the infantry had to go in on the ground. For some troops there was always going to be blood.
In Franklin’s case, the most blood he ever saw at one time came out of another man in his outfit. Not even several years later was the birth of his second child – which he would be forced to watch because of a dream his wife had had – to generate so much blood. The soldier out-bled anyone or any thing Franklin had ever seen and a lot of it ended up over his own uniform because he’d gone to the rescue, while their friends – some of whom hadn’t considered the man worth the trouble – covered him.
He was given a citation for bravery but at the time he hadn’t felt any sense of his own courage; he’d still thought it didn’t matter if he died but he was pretty sure that if either of them got hit, it would be the wounded soldier he was carrying over his back, like a protective blanket. There wouldn’t have been any better way to get out of the field unless he’d dragged the man, which could have killed him. As it was, every step Franklin took exposed the wounded soldier to further danger. But to abandon him would have meant leaving him to die cruelly, when he might have been saved. Franklin didn’t think of himself as heroic. Any other soldier would have done the same if the man to be rescued hadn’t quarreled with a bunch of them over something. It was never really clear what that had been about: he suspected it had to do with food supplies or liquor and money, or maybe women.
Afterwards he was surprised at how good he felt. He’d saved somebody. He’d tried to do the right thing and it had worked. It was a shame that the man wasn’t particularly worth while but after living a long time with danger, you came to believe it was
She rattled off every thing she had to say, without allowing him to get out a single word. Then she collapsed. She was nice; even on the verge of hysteria she wasn’t going to remind him that his grandfather had drunk himself to death and his aunt had gone crazy. After a long pause she just said that this was goodbye. And she hung up.
He called back. He called back forty-three times. Everytime, her mother answered; she was polite but unyielding, as was to be expected of the mother of an only child.
He talked about his love. He said that he’d do anything. He hadn’t meant to hurt anybody – he’d have done anything rather than that. This just couldn’t be goodbye, no matter what they all decided. He reasoned, he whined, he tried not to sound angry. He cried.
When he realized that everything was over, he went out and got drunk. And in the morning he joined up.
*
His wasn’t a world war. It was one of the smaller wars, but just as deadly as any other. ‘Wars are like snakes,’ his first commanding officer said to him. ‘Some of the little ones can be even worse than the monsters.’ It was certainly as bad as anything Franklin had ever imagined, despite all the comforts of modern warfare: danger money, paid leave, medical care, disability compensation and the G.I. Bill if you came out in one piece.
In a modern battle you didn’t often see enemy blood. What you encountered in the way of death and mutilation was mostly from your own side or among the civilian population who weren’t supposed to be in the fight: the women and children. Women and children – and, of course, land – were what you were expected to fight for, not against. His war was up to date: air power was an important factor. But it was also like any other war in that after the aircraft had done their work, paratroopers and then the infantry had to go in on the ground. For some troops there was always going to be blood.
In Franklin’s case, the most blood he ever saw at one time came out of another man in his outfit. Not even several years later was the birth of his second child – which he would be forced to watch because of a dream his wife had had – to generate so much blood. The soldier out-bled anyone or any thing Franklin had ever seen and a lot of it ended up over his own uniform because he’d gone to the rescue, while their friends – some of whom hadn’t considered the man worth the trouble – covered him.
He was given a citation for bravery but at the time he hadn’t felt any sense of his own courage; he’d still thought it didn’t matter if he died but he was pretty sure that if either of them got hit, it would be the wounded soldier he was carrying over his back, like a protective blanket. There wouldn’t have been any better way to get out of the field unless he’d dragged the man, which could have killed him. As it was, every step Franklin took exposed the wounded soldier to further danger. But to abandon him would have meant leaving him to die cruelly, when he might have been saved. Franklin didn’t think of himself as heroic. Any other soldier would have done the same if the man to be rescued hadn’t quarreled with a bunch of them over something. It was never really clear what that had been about: he suspected it had to do with food supplies or liquor and money, or maybe women.
Afterwards he was surprised at how good he felt. He’d saved somebody. He’d tried to do the right thing and it had worked. It was a shame that the man wasn’t particularly worth while but after living a long time with danger, you came to believe it was
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