JackShea
01-07-2007, 12:19 PM
Willie lived in apartment 12C on 580 W. 218th Street, New York City between the avenues Broadway and Park Terrace East. A nondescript human he was tall, balding with a protruding nose and disarrayed teeth. Regardless of the elements Willie wore a faded navy blue topcoat, a grayed fedora, black shoes and the same pants whose color was beyond identification. He shared this apartment with his sister who was equally non-descript. They shared quarters and nothing more. They neither conversed nor were a party to any civilities of life. Each had their own bedrooms, which were kept locked when either was away from the apartment.
In 1948 Willie was released from the Veteran’s Hospital in the Bronx. There was little the doctors could do for him. The pounding they told Willie could be eased with medication but the memories of the bombs would not go away. The nerves would always be frayed. He was shell-shocked. There was no more color in Willie’s life, only whites and grays and blacks. Night was worse than day. The rumbling of the train wheels of the IRT line across Broadway pounded and resounded in Willie’s brain. And the whistle of the freight train along the Harlem River was the whistle of an incoming before the explosion. Willie would lie in bed shaking and shaking and squeezing his pillow over his ears. He seldom slept and thus he looked well beyond his years.
Mornings were better for Willie. There were squirrels and pigeons to be fed. There were walks through the Inwood Hill Park to take. Weekdays there seldom were encounters with people. Children were in school, men and women at work. It wasn’t like late afternoons when Willie would walk the streets back to his apartment and the mean boys of the streets would sneak up behind him yelling, “Boo!” Or filling a paper sack with air and when Willie walked by popping the sack, “Bam!” Willie would shake and walk faster and faster yet could hear the boy’s laughter and yelling, “Willie the boogey man! Willie the loon!” And Willie knew these Germans would not catch him. They didn’t catch him in France and they wouldn’t catch him now.
Fall Saturdays were the worst. The streets of the avenue were filled with strangers attending the Football game at Columbia University’s Baker Field. The air was fall crisp, the leaves browned, rusted, the silence of his apartment deafening until some team playing across the street scored, and then the rising crescendo of cheers and even worse the cannon. A volley for each touchdown. He was at that dreaded bridge on the outskirts of Dombasle, France with the 35th Infantry Division. All around him men torn apart, his lieutenant, Jones he remembered, cut down before him. Above the canal. What canal? The Sanon he remembered. The Sanon River Canal. He had put his palms over his ears but the explosions were inward not outward and the more he pushed upon his ears it was as though he found the acupuncture point for relieving his stress. But the pounding would not cease. It was constant and droning. And then he heard voices and more pounding and thought he heard a voice say, “Come on out!” but the sound was garbled and he knew now the German’s had come for him. He was in a barn on a farm in France and prayed his sister would not open the door but what was his sister doing on a farm in France surrounded by men who were trying to kill him. And the pounding went on and on. And then a cannon volley for unbeknownst to Willie, Colombia scored and beat Harvard behind the arm of Tom Vassel and tied for a share of the Ivy League Crown.
“Willie!” his sister implored, “Please come out!”
Corroboration with the enemy. He dug himself deeper into the shadows of the barn. Slits of sunlight lined the barn floor having filtered their way through cracks in the weather worn wood. The Germans kicked in the rusted hinges of the barn door and slithered into the haystacks. Three young men in German gray commanding, “Come out! Come out!” But he did not surrender to the commands.
“Willie…this is Officer McShane. You hurt those boys Willie, hurt em bad. Come on out Willie.”
He softly moved amongst the haystacks. The Germans separated, their eyes searching the upper levels of the barn. The pound, pound, pounding of heartbeats as the rats scurried from beneath the boots of Government Issue. Hurt those boys…I don’t remember. He remembered a face, an explosion, a scream, an awful throbbing of his ankle as he jumped to the barn floor, rifle blazing as three young Germans fell to the ground and a fourth blocking his way. He heard the click of the German rifle and the misfire and the toe of his boot, first to the groin and as the soldier fell, a boot to the German’s head, the sound of a crunch… but boys, he remembered no boys.
Pigeons, he remembered, sitting on his shoulders, perched upon his hat and hands, pecking at breadcrumbs. And squirrel’s darting beneath his feet as he fed them Planters peanuts from his overcoat. And the rustle of the autumn leaves, above his head the bird songs…but boys, he remembered no boys. They were soldiers; enemy soldiers and they deserved to die. He did remember a voice, a young man’s voice as he walked the city streets toward home.
“Hey Willie”, the voice prodded.
“What did the farmer say when the bull died?
Robotically Willie responded.
“No more bull**** from you big boy…”
And the voice, which was now a chorus of voices, laughed, and then threw rocks and sticks and knocked Willie to the ground. Willie, old loony Willie; Willie the Spooks, rose from the ground, the veins in his neck protruding, his face crimson, his eyes ablaze as he lashed out defending himself from these Germans by the Sanon River Canal, who wanted him dead.
He felt it odd his body ached as he ran for he had run many a time with rifle and full kit and prided himself in his physical conditioning, but now…The voices again outside his bedroom door.
“The boys are hurt Willie. This is McShane Willie…You know we won’t hurt you Willie but you gotta come with us…
His eyes darted about the room until they focused on the calendar on his wall. November 1963, 1963, 1963…nothing made sense anymore.
In the street below Willies window the boys were playing errors. Each in turn would bounce the Spaulding pinkie ball off the tenement brick. They would play until someone reached ten errors and the game would start again. Bobbles re-caught before they hit the ground were considered a fair catch. As they played the cherry tops of the police cars went round and round. The boys knew the police had come for Willie. They knew the Donegan brothers were in the hospital. They knew they would be asked in school to pray for the Donegan brothers. Several more police cruisers lined the streets. A crowd had now gathered. Windows were opened as the curious leaned out.
Willie glanced at himself in the dresser mirror and could not understand why he was dressed as he was. He knew he would be shot if captured in this clothing. He opened his closet door and reverently removed his uniform laying it gently upon his bed. Outside he could again hear the voice of his sister beseeching him to please open the door and then another voice, a man’s instructing her to stand back. Quickly Willie removed the cellophane wrapping, which covered his uniform, undressed, and then redressed. He went to the closet, found his shoes; spit polished them with his discarded shirt and prepared for the assault. In the bottom dresser drawer he found his cap, which he placed upon his head. He then reached under his mattress and retrieved his bayonet. McShane could have shot him but he refrained.
“Put the knife down, Willie.”
Willie followed the German soldier’s movements. McShane held up his hand and ordered them to stand back. McShane then started speaking slowly, softly and soothingly to the veteran and for a brief second Willie started to lower the bayonet and then the cannon went off. Columbia scored and Willie charged.
It was over quickly. As Willie charged the officers in the doorway, McShane leaped across the bed and with one blow from his baton sent Willie crashing to his knees. The officers cuffed the soldier and gently raised him and sat him upon the bed. A woman who Willie did not recognize gently stroked his cheek with her hand saying over and over his name. Officer McShane apologized to the woman saying, “I’m sorry, there was no other way.”
The woman understood and asked the young policeman about the Donegan boys.
“They are hurt pretty badly madam, but they will survive. They should have left your brother in peace.”
“What will happen to my brother?”
McShane could not respond. McShane enforced the law. He did not mete out its punishments. In all likelihood, Willie would spend the rest of his life in a mental hospital.
“It’s time to go Willie,” McShane said.
“Wait please!” Willie’s sister asked.
She went to Willie’s dresser, found a shoebox in his bottom drawer and rummaging through it removed a medal and showed it to McShane.
“I would like him to wear this,” she said handing the medal to the policeman. McShane turned the medal over in his palm, then held it up for his fellow Officers to admire, explaining, “The Bronzed Star”.)
McShane returned the medal to Willie’s sister who in turn went to her brother and with pride and love pinned his award to his chest.
As the Officers led Willie down the stairs Willie wondered where these Germans were leading him. He knew he was a prisoner and as a soldier of the United States Army he recognized the importance of maintaining the dignity the uniform represented. As they exited the apartment building Willie hesitated. The crowd in the street began to push forward. Willie’s guards were pushing these French villagers back. It was then Willie snapped to attention and his voice boomed over and over again his name, rank, and serial number. The crowd became silent. The year was 1963. Willie’s War was finally ended.
In 1948 Willie was released from the Veteran’s Hospital in the Bronx. There was little the doctors could do for him. The pounding they told Willie could be eased with medication but the memories of the bombs would not go away. The nerves would always be frayed. He was shell-shocked. There was no more color in Willie’s life, only whites and grays and blacks. Night was worse than day. The rumbling of the train wheels of the IRT line across Broadway pounded and resounded in Willie’s brain. And the whistle of the freight train along the Harlem River was the whistle of an incoming before the explosion. Willie would lie in bed shaking and shaking and squeezing his pillow over his ears. He seldom slept and thus he looked well beyond his years.
Mornings were better for Willie. There were squirrels and pigeons to be fed. There were walks through the Inwood Hill Park to take. Weekdays there seldom were encounters with people. Children were in school, men and women at work. It wasn’t like late afternoons when Willie would walk the streets back to his apartment and the mean boys of the streets would sneak up behind him yelling, “Boo!” Or filling a paper sack with air and when Willie walked by popping the sack, “Bam!” Willie would shake and walk faster and faster yet could hear the boy’s laughter and yelling, “Willie the boogey man! Willie the loon!” And Willie knew these Germans would not catch him. They didn’t catch him in France and they wouldn’t catch him now.
Fall Saturdays were the worst. The streets of the avenue were filled with strangers attending the Football game at Columbia University’s Baker Field. The air was fall crisp, the leaves browned, rusted, the silence of his apartment deafening until some team playing across the street scored, and then the rising crescendo of cheers and even worse the cannon. A volley for each touchdown. He was at that dreaded bridge on the outskirts of Dombasle, France with the 35th Infantry Division. All around him men torn apart, his lieutenant, Jones he remembered, cut down before him. Above the canal. What canal? The Sanon he remembered. The Sanon River Canal. He had put his palms over his ears but the explosions were inward not outward and the more he pushed upon his ears it was as though he found the acupuncture point for relieving his stress. But the pounding would not cease. It was constant and droning. And then he heard voices and more pounding and thought he heard a voice say, “Come on out!” but the sound was garbled and he knew now the German’s had come for him. He was in a barn on a farm in France and prayed his sister would not open the door but what was his sister doing on a farm in France surrounded by men who were trying to kill him. And the pounding went on and on. And then a cannon volley for unbeknownst to Willie, Colombia scored and beat Harvard behind the arm of Tom Vassel and tied for a share of the Ivy League Crown.
“Willie!” his sister implored, “Please come out!”
Corroboration with the enemy. He dug himself deeper into the shadows of the barn. Slits of sunlight lined the barn floor having filtered their way through cracks in the weather worn wood. The Germans kicked in the rusted hinges of the barn door and slithered into the haystacks. Three young men in German gray commanding, “Come out! Come out!” But he did not surrender to the commands.
“Willie…this is Officer McShane. You hurt those boys Willie, hurt em bad. Come on out Willie.”
He softly moved amongst the haystacks. The Germans separated, their eyes searching the upper levels of the barn. The pound, pound, pounding of heartbeats as the rats scurried from beneath the boots of Government Issue. Hurt those boys…I don’t remember. He remembered a face, an explosion, a scream, an awful throbbing of his ankle as he jumped to the barn floor, rifle blazing as three young Germans fell to the ground and a fourth blocking his way. He heard the click of the German rifle and the misfire and the toe of his boot, first to the groin and as the soldier fell, a boot to the German’s head, the sound of a crunch… but boys, he remembered no boys.
Pigeons, he remembered, sitting on his shoulders, perched upon his hat and hands, pecking at breadcrumbs. And squirrel’s darting beneath his feet as he fed them Planters peanuts from his overcoat. And the rustle of the autumn leaves, above his head the bird songs…but boys, he remembered no boys. They were soldiers; enemy soldiers and they deserved to die. He did remember a voice, a young man’s voice as he walked the city streets toward home.
“Hey Willie”, the voice prodded.
“What did the farmer say when the bull died?
Robotically Willie responded.
“No more bull**** from you big boy…”
And the voice, which was now a chorus of voices, laughed, and then threw rocks and sticks and knocked Willie to the ground. Willie, old loony Willie; Willie the Spooks, rose from the ground, the veins in his neck protruding, his face crimson, his eyes ablaze as he lashed out defending himself from these Germans by the Sanon River Canal, who wanted him dead.
He felt it odd his body ached as he ran for he had run many a time with rifle and full kit and prided himself in his physical conditioning, but now…The voices again outside his bedroom door.
“The boys are hurt Willie. This is McShane Willie…You know we won’t hurt you Willie but you gotta come with us…
His eyes darted about the room until they focused on the calendar on his wall. November 1963, 1963, 1963…nothing made sense anymore.
In the street below Willies window the boys were playing errors. Each in turn would bounce the Spaulding pinkie ball off the tenement brick. They would play until someone reached ten errors and the game would start again. Bobbles re-caught before they hit the ground were considered a fair catch. As they played the cherry tops of the police cars went round and round. The boys knew the police had come for Willie. They knew the Donegan brothers were in the hospital. They knew they would be asked in school to pray for the Donegan brothers. Several more police cruisers lined the streets. A crowd had now gathered. Windows were opened as the curious leaned out.
Willie glanced at himself in the dresser mirror and could not understand why he was dressed as he was. He knew he would be shot if captured in this clothing. He opened his closet door and reverently removed his uniform laying it gently upon his bed. Outside he could again hear the voice of his sister beseeching him to please open the door and then another voice, a man’s instructing her to stand back. Quickly Willie removed the cellophane wrapping, which covered his uniform, undressed, and then redressed. He went to the closet, found his shoes; spit polished them with his discarded shirt and prepared for the assault. In the bottom dresser drawer he found his cap, which he placed upon his head. He then reached under his mattress and retrieved his bayonet. McShane could have shot him but he refrained.
“Put the knife down, Willie.”
Willie followed the German soldier’s movements. McShane held up his hand and ordered them to stand back. McShane then started speaking slowly, softly and soothingly to the veteran and for a brief second Willie started to lower the bayonet and then the cannon went off. Columbia scored and Willie charged.
It was over quickly. As Willie charged the officers in the doorway, McShane leaped across the bed and with one blow from his baton sent Willie crashing to his knees. The officers cuffed the soldier and gently raised him and sat him upon the bed. A woman who Willie did not recognize gently stroked his cheek with her hand saying over and over his name. Officer McShane apologized to the woman saying, “I’m sorry, there was no other way.”
The woman understood and asked the young policeman about the Donegan boys.
“They are hurt pretty badly madam, but they will survive. They should have left your brother in peace.”
“What will happen to my brother?”
McShane could not respond. McShane enforced the law. He did not mete out its punishments. In all likelihood, Willie would spend the rest of his life in a mental hospital.
“It’s time to go Willie,” McShane said.
“Wait please!” Willie’s sister asked.
She went to Willie’s dresser, found a shoebox in his bottom drawer and rummaging through it removed a medal and showed it to McShane.
“I would like him to wear this,” she said handing the medal to the policeman. McShane turned the medal over in his palm, then held it up for his fellow Officers to admire, explaining, “The Bronzed Star”.)
McShane returned the medal to Willie’s sister who in turn went to her brother and with pride and love pinned his award to his chest.
As the Officers led Willie down the stairs Willie wondered where these Germans were leading him. He knew he was a prisoner and as a soldier of the United States Army he recognized the importance of maintaining the dignity the uniform represented. As they exited the apartment building Willie hesitated. The crowd in the street began to push forward. Willie’s guards were pushing these French villagers back. It was then Willie snapped to attention and his voice boomed over and over again his name, rank, and serial number. The crowd became silent. The year was 1963. Willie’s War was finally ended.