Behavior Report 11

Dearest Love,

I feel like a detective piecing together a story through the evidence surrounding Earl’s foxhole. The lighter and lightning reveal scuff marks and handprints and bits of mud that make for intriguing shadows that lead me nowhere. I don’t want to give up, but the darkness and rain and a growing sense of urgency to get back to Lieutenant Talbott all weigh on me heavily. Questions roll off my mind like the thunder above. ‘Where are they taking him? What do they want with him? Did he fight back? How did they get to him?’

I’m torn. Never have I felt so alive and so awful at the same time. Energy pulses through my body when I think, ‘Earl’s alive!’ It feels like the first warm day of spring after an eternal winter. But then I think of everyone else, left for dead in the forest, and my body turns cold. I want to celebrate and cry. The more I think about Earl, the more my mood swings toward sadness. Then, from a dark recess in the back of my mind, a thought appears, ‘He’s only gone because you didn’t stick together. You didn’t fight back with the orders to split up.’

The purpose I gained from picking up the letters and promises could not compete with my sorrow. No one survived because I didn’t warn them. Me. Selfish, me. The man who cowers.

A forcible roll of thunder pounds between the trees and when it reaches me, I let out the largest yell my body can sustain. Everything must leave me. Every thought. Every emotion. I feel like a snake shedding its skin, but, for me, the shell is what I must keep and rid myself of what’s inside.

I run back to the village. Lieutenant Talbott hasn’t moved from where I left him. His wheezing fills the room. Kneeling beside him, I dump out the supplies from the medic bag. There are boxes of dressing, sulfa powder, morphine syrettes, and a bunch of other things that I truly have no business trying to use. Caring for Lieutenant Talbott is the only thing I can do to take my mind of Earl and the rest of the boys.

I flick the lighter on to examine Lieutenant Talbott. The dressing on his chest is soaked red as is the shirt bunched up on his back. His skin is ice cold. I begin to peel off the dressing, but it sticks. Lieutenant Talbott moans in pain.

“I’m sorry.”

Without pooling blood, the wound is a small hole in the front. I tear open a sulfa powder packet with my teeth and liberally sprinkle it on. Then I redress the wound with fresh dressing. The air takes on a metallic smell. I can’t keep the lighter lit and work on his back at the same time, so I look for a way to bring some light to the space.

I turn the lighter to the room. The wall closest to the cellar stairs has a large cast iron sink surrounded by oak cabinets. The opposite side of the room has a large brick fireplace. ‘Light a fire. Dry off. Warm up Lieutenant Talbott.’ The rest of the room is empty with nothing to burn. Everything outside is too wet and my memory brings me back to the cellar when I looked there before. I recall the strange shadows and decide to head down with the lighter to investigate.

Dirt floors and field stone walls darken and chill the space. Roland’s lighter places flickering yellow light on wooden tables and dressers and chairs and bed frames all haphazardly piled up just beyond the base of the stairs. Six stained mattresses lean against the foundation on the other side of the pile. I take two chairs, break them down into pieces, and fill the fireplace. After a short while, the room fills with the warm glow of a fire, and I pull Lieutenant Talbott closer to the hearth to dry off and warm up.

 Darkness resides outside the windows. Our reflection repeats itself four times, two on the front of the building and two in the back. Krauts could be watching my every move. There are no curtains or even a rod where curtains once hung. I go back into the cellar to find anything that’ll do. Some of the dressers have shirts and pants, but none are big enough to cover a window. I dig through everything with no luck. My only solution is the mattresses.

Do you know how difficult it is to carry a mattress through a pile of junk that seems to have fingers that grip and pull at every opportunity? I feel like I have to drag each mattress through a no man’s land of barbed wire to get it to the stairs.

With a little convincing, some cursing, and a lot of force, I stuff each mattress into the window frame and stoke the fire from time to time. I bring up several more chairs and place them into a semicircle around Lieutenant Talbott and the fireplace with the intention of using them as a clothesline. I pull off the wet, muddy clothes from my body and Lieutenant Talbott’s. I hang our shirts and pants and socks and anything else that needs to dry. I open all the letters and set them out to dry without reading a word.

“It’s going to be awkward if a Kraut bursts in right now,” I say. “Would they take us prisoners in our skivvies, or would they have us dress first, I wonder?”

Lieutenant Talbott doesn’t reply.

“Do you need some water?”

He doesn’t reply.

I stand transfixed, watching his chest rising and dropping. He’s breathing, barely. Keeping myself busy isn’t helping him. What else can I do? The mattresses muffle the storm outside, but the thunder still finds its way through. I can’t drag him all the way back to the shore where we first started a day or two ago. Not in this weather. And if I go back, how will I fulfill the promises? I can’t leave the boys out in the forest. That wouldn’t be right. Plus, how will I find Earl?

That orb in the center of my gut returns but instead of feeling hollow because of fear, I feel empty, lost, unsure of what to do. What is the right thing to do? Picking up those letters was one of the most inspiring moments of my life. The energy I felt was like nothing I’ve ever felt before. But now that I have them, the energy is gone. Maybe it’s because of what they represent? Maybe it’s because I know that I must care for their previous owners once daylight is back and the storm is gone.

Another part of me, though, just wants to run. Run away. Run as far away from this war as I possibly can. I know this sounds awful, but I’m telling you everything, my Love.

Just how awful would that be? Eventually, someone is going to come to the village and find what happened. They’ll see everyone and just assume that I was part of the massacre. This could be my ticket to leave, to get on, to move away from this war and never worry about it again.

But who am I kidding?

I can’t leave Earl by himself. I can’t just ignore that he’s still alive.

I can’t leave Lieutenant Talbott to suffer.

I can’t leave the boys outside.

Not doing any of those things would leave me feeling worse than before. Maybe the orb in the center of my gut isn’t one of uncertainty. Maybe it’s because I feel absolutely certain of what I must do, and my body is telling me that it doesn’t want to do it.

I toss in several more pieces of chair to stoke the flames and find a spot on the floor to lay down. I close my eyes and don’t remember anything until the morning.

Sunlight sneaks through the edges of the mattresses in the windows. Birds sing songs that join the sunlight and add some joy to the faint cracks of a dying fire. I sit up and immediately check on Lieutenant Talbott. His dressing is soaked red again.

“Let’s clean you up again,” I say while searching through the medic supplies spread out across the floor.

The dressing comes off easily and exposes a wound that does not look any better. I sprinkle on more sulpha powder, but I don’t know if it’s actually helping.

“Can you hear me?”

Lieutenant Talbott’s eyes open. His pupils are wide and barely respond to the light.

“How are you feeling?” I pause to let him respond, but after some time, I say, “No? Is there anything I can give you? Water? Food? Our clothes are dry. Do you want your pants back on?”

He doesn’t say or do anything. Water dribbles from his mouth when I try to have him drink. Holding a cracker or meat from one of the ration boxes doesn’t elicit a response. I’m losing him and there’s nothing I know to do that will bring him back. I have to find a way to get him back to the shore, but how?

Removing the mattresses from the windows is like uncapping the plug in the bathtub, sunlight comes pouring in. All the dust and muddy footprints and blood practically glow in the sun. We’ve made a mess of the place.

Outside, the world is bright and green and refreshed from a long storm. Leaves litter the muddy trail leading through the village. Wheel ruts look like shipping canals, full of water, and transporting leaves to various ports along the way. Not one single cloud mars the blue sky. I wonder how that same sky could house a horrendous storm one moment and heaven the next.

But hidden within all this happiness are numerous men laying and waiting for someone to properly care for them. Behind, another waits for my care as well. The only problem is that I don’t know what I can do. I don’t have orders. I can’t simply push forward. I do what first comes to mind. I get dressed. My pants and shirt are crusty with mud. Little flakes fall off when I slide my legs and arms through. Dust catches in the sunlight. My socks are equally stiff along with my boots. The whole time I dress, I repeatedly think, ‘Get the boys to a safe spot. Get Lieutenant Talbott to safety. Find Earl.’

I step outside and take in my first deep breath of clean, fresh air. I let the sunlight fall on me like a warm shower. With my eyes closed and face upturned toward the sun, my thoughts begin to roll around inside my head. ‘Get the boys to a safe spot. Get them away from scavengers, both man and animal. Where?’ I open my eyes and look about the village. One of the buildings! I can bring them all to a building. Get a shelter half and bring them to one spot.

Back inside, I pick up my rifle and say, “I’m going to check on the others. I’ll be back soon. Don’t move.” I laugh but stop when he doesn’t respond.

Quinten is still in the same position as from the night before. I grab his boots and pull him to the surface. Then I jump into my foxhole to grab my pack and other belongings I left upon the shelves I dug out. I took a moment inside. The walls still held even after turning to mud. My roof still could fool anyone if it were set back into place. My Love, who would’ve thought that a hole in the ground would be what saved a man’s life?

Back on the surface, I dig through Quinten’s pack for any supplies that may help and then unroll his shelter half. The wet earth makes for an easy task to drag Quint to the village. I choose the next building over from where Lieutenant Talbott resides and enter. The layout inside is the same. Again, the furniture has been piled up in the cellar, leaving an open room on the first floor.

I follow the same process for everyone and, somehow, I manage to do it all without feeling sick. That orb in my stomach I always write about was missing the entire time. My thoughts were mechanical. I only struggle with Bob and Walt because of their size. I go through each man’s pack to see if there are any personal items that may help my search for Earl. I take an extra pair of socks, some cigarettes, ammunition, and leave the rest. Everyone is inside the second building after about an hour of effort. I lay them out in rows, safe from the elements and scavengers outside.

Lieutenant Talbott lay motionless when I return to the first building. Compared to what I just left, the room is a disaster from the mud and the blood and the chairs everywhere. I kneel to check on my friend. The dressing on his chest bears little blood. His skin feels like ice. Lines crisscross upon his lips like dried dirt in a drought.

“Let’s try to get a little water in you. You must be parched!”

I twist the cap off my canteen and carefully raise Lieutenant Talbott’s head for a drink. Little water makes it in his mouth. I give him a moment to breathe, but his head rolls to the side like a limp tulip.

“You need to drink,” I say. “Let’s try one more time.”

I raise his head and pour a generous amount in, but he doesn’t swallow. Water sits in the back of his throat.

“Swallow!” 

Seconds feel like hours. He won’t swallow. I wait until my body feels as if it’s suffocating and then turn him on his side. Water trickles out. The dressing on his back falls off without a speck of blood.

I lower him back, slowly, and watch his chest.

Lieutenant Talbott doesn’t move.

I wait longer.

Nothing.

“Just … Please … I was going to take you back.”

Silence.

In the span of a few hours upon the dawn of my rebirth, I found the courage to do so many things, and yet, I still failed. The one person in my keep was not saved. I turned all my attention to those who already passed rather than focus on the one person who needed it the most. Why is it that the lessons I learn from, always seem to come from disaster?

I sit back and look through one of the windows toward the blue sky. I wonder how the world can appear so calm. I wonder how the birds live their lives without a concern to what lays below. How does the sun carry on its course overhead, lighting everyone’s life. The stories the sun witnesses must be absurd. Love. Hatred. Impressive achievements. All out war. Birth. Death. Everything carries on.

Rectangles of light shine through the windows onto the floor and slowly crawl across the wooden planks. I watch the light move, plank by plank, with the woodgrain serving as the only means to keep track of the passage of time. No thoughts enter my mind. No words leave my mouth. I don’t even move. The room grows darker. Shadows fill more space than light. An ashy smell lingers in the air like a faint memory from the fire the night before. Eventually, I lay down and sleep.

I wake to another blue sky with swathes of merlot and orange. I don’t recall having any dreams. I barely remember falling asleep. My back feels as if someone nailed two board to it overnight. Trying to sit up sends cracks up along my spine. I can barely turn without feeling some sort of awful pain. My penance.

The letters from all the boys sit nearby on a chair. All are dry but shriveled from rain. I gather them, placing each letter in the correct envelope while also trying to tighten the creases to fit in my pack better. If you were to place some sort of recording device to my brain, you’d find that no thoughts pass through. I’m simply existing. I’m pushing forward. When I finish, I remember that I never gathered Lieutenant Talbott’s when I tore off his shirt. His letter lays still in the heap of shirt that I tossed aside. Somehow, someway, the carelessness I gave to the shirt did not affect the paper. I remove it from the pocket and stuff it next to the rest of the squad that is pinched between two waxy ration boxes in my pack.

For whatever reason, I decide to look through Lieutenant Talbott’s pack for any additional supplies that may help. Most keep an extra pair of socks or a shirt or toiletries, but he only has a crudely sewn together American flag that appears to look more like a blanket than banner of freedom. I grab it and stuff it in my own pack with the little room that remains.

I stand, put on my pack, pick up my rifle and take one last look at Lieutenant Talbott.

“I’m sorry. I am really, truly sorry. I failed you, but I will not fail your promise. I am going to find Earl. We stick together and I will keep my head on straight. I promise you that, sir.”

I salute Lieutenant Talbott and leave.