Rare Earth/Chapter 6

by Frank Owen

 

Chapter VI

 

All through his life Scobee had had one inseparable chum—Rad Graham. And Rad had been killed in the War. Scobee had been with him when he died. It had been an ordeal so frightful it had snapped his reason. Blind with fury, he had set off single-handed to vanquish that grim gray enemy that had dragged off his friend. Reward for his gallant effort had been a bursting shell—blindness. But the sea of blackness did not engulf him until he beheld a lovely vision, the vision of the mother he had never known. She was walking about the battlefields, stanching the wounds of the dying, pleading for the life of a young boy whom Scobee was about to impale with his bayonet. There was no hatred in the heart of his mother. The War had made beasts of men but of her it had made a saint. Then came the bursting shell and blindness.

When Scobee months later was home again, he finished painting the picture of his mother which she had commenced years before and never completed. But now he had found his mother's face, the beloved countenance for which he had been searching all his life. So deeply was the vision of her sweet face impressed upon his memory, he was able to complete the picture which she had started. Even in his blindness he was able to paint although he had the feeling as he worked in the attic that he was not alone. Some lovely presence was there with him. The House Mother guided his hand even as ever since childhood she had watched over him, crooned lullabies and guided his footsteps. The picture had been painted during the night but this meant naught to Scobee for now he lived in a land of perpetual night. Day had vanished forever. And when at last he had finished the picture he crept downstairs again to his room. Sleep came to him almost immediately, sleep and rest, better rest than he had had for months.

The completed picture was perfect in its lifelike resemblance to Ardell. When he beheld it, Hung Long Tom stood in amazement. Some time later Scobee explained to him how he had found his mother at last upon the battlefield. From that picture Hung Long Tom had derived great hope, for hope seemed to be shining from Ardell's eyes. Her expression of contentment could not have existed if her boy had to remain forever in darkness. Yet they had gone to Chicago to see Steinlin and his report was certainly not encouraging. Hung Long Tom sighed. Why, oh, why must there be so much sadness in the world?

Sometimes Mary Graham, Rad's mother, came across the fields to see Scobee. She loved to sit with him, to be near him so that she could talk about her boy. For Scobee she had a great love. How often with Rad he had played about her living-room when they were boys together. One of the tragedies of life is that children should ever grow up. Childhood is the only period of a man's life when he is supremely happy. It is therefore the most complete moment of his existence.

Mary Graham never tired of talking about Rad nor did Scobee. It was a bond between them. But Mary Graham was not morbid. Hers was a sunny nature. She kept smiling in spite of all. There was sorrow enough in the world, she reasoned, without her adding to it. Rad had been a gay fellow who had taken life lightly. Undoubtedly at the last moment he met death in the same manner. Often he used to say, "To whine does not make life any easier and besides it may bring on a sore throat or at least hoarseness."

Frequently Mary brought over a few of Rad's letters. She read snatches of them over and over again. There was nothing extraordinary about them but in her eyes they were masterpieces of courage. Scobee liked her to read bits of them aloud to him.

"Corporal Pry gave me a call-down today for not being in his immediate vicinity. He had a couple of tickets to attend a concert at the Y. M. C. A. at which Margaret Wilson was to sing. He did not find me until it was too late to go. But I probably wouldn't have gone anyway because of the General Admission. One can't be too careful in the army. Speaking of standing armies, we're certainly living up to the position to the letter. I told Scobee there is nothing so tremendously wonderful about winning a war. All you got to do is get a lot of men and a lot of standing room and let them stand there. Then get more men and more standing room. That's all there is to it. Anyway that's how this war is being fought. One would almost think that if the American Army sat down for a change, it'd be annihilated. Anyway, Ma, you haven't a thing to worry about. We're bound to be victorious unless we get fallen arches. I understand Baker is in town. We ought to have some good biscuits tomorrow. . . . And now as I am giving an outline of the war, I think I ought to mention the financial side of it. A few moments ago I carried some trunks upstairs for a lieutenant and was tipped a quarter. Can you imagine what I'd have got if it had been Pershing? Of such stuff are we mortals made. We have very good quarters in camp but that is the first I have received so far. . . . We are going to put up a sign, 'Guests are requested not to go AWOL as it necessitates too much work in computing the pay-roll.'. . . At this point I gotta pause long enough to tell you the joyful news. They have made me Company Clerk. It's a swell job. Of course being a General isn't so bad either. There are certain unpatriotic gentlemen such as Scobee Trent and Morris Funk who claim it is a dog-robbin' job. But believe me, Ma, it isn't. Not a single puppy has been victimized by me. Morris Funk has even written a nasty verse about me which everybody is humming:

'Radcliffe Graham
Has been made company clerk
Because he's too darn lazy
To do real work.'

But then Mr. Funk makes rhymes about everybody. He's worse than Shakespeare. He is peeking over my shoulder as I write. When I typed the name, 'Shakespeare,' Morris asked, 'What company's he in?' And I replied, 'Good company, I hope.' Would you like to know what a company clerk does? So would I. He's the big noise that makes up the list of fellows who are to go on Kitchen Police each day. Kitchen Police, I might mention, are the Gold Dust Twins of the army. Sometimes it is possible to keep your friends off this prosaic duty. The other day my casual friend, Scobee Trent, came to me and said, 'They are going on a thirty mile hike Thursday and I don't feel ambitious enough to go, therefore if you could arrange to put me on K.P. that day I would consider it a favor.' 'Anything to oblige a friend,' I said. And so Thursday found Mr. Trent doing housework in the kitchen.

But the best laid plans of mice and men and company clerks go somewhat awry when big events strut in and of course this war is a colossal undertaking. Thursday was a very hot day. In the morning soon after dawning there came to my office a special messenger from headquarters. He handed the Captain a letter. (It is really my office, you know, but I let the Captain have a desk in it.) That letter was a veritable calamity. General Hutchinson was going to inspect the camp the next day so the hike was off till Saturday. It was necessary to polish guns and clean all equipment generally including the ears. Orders went out that the kitchen had to be polished until it shone like silver. You should have seen Scobee's face. He tried to slay me with a look. I couldn't help saying, 'Anything to oblige a friend.' As I spoke I had to make a flying leap into my office, for Scobee threw something at me with intent to disfigure. I think it was the kitchen stove. And Scobee worked and scrubbed and worked and toiled. He never realized how dirty his regiment was till that day. It was gorgeous to watch him. He even sprinkled lime all about outside the mess-hall so that everything would look spotless. At four o'clock Scobee collapsed and it was so much wasted energy. General Hutchinson changed his mind. He didn't come. But we survived the disappointment. However Scobee's collapse was not permanent. He was well and strong enough by Saturday to go thirty miles on the hike. . . . Kessler walks around continually talking about a cofïee-cake. I think he'd willingly be bombed if he could get that cherished cake. As I understand it, the cake is about seven inches high and rich—about as rich as a Major-General. But the thing that makes the coffee-cake so precious is that it's to be made by his mother. . . . I bought a small suit-case last night to keep some of my junk in but somebody sent Kessler a pie and he's hidden it in my suit-case. Then he stood the suit-case on end. 'Look out, Kes,' I said, 'or you'll ruin the pie.' But what I really thought was, he'd ruin the suit-case. . . . From all of which you would think Kes was a baker in balmier days but he wasn't. He was a tailor. But he's a swell guy and has a laugh so infectious that when he chuckles the whole army laughs. Perhaps when he gets across, he may make such a hit with the enemy, they'll refuse to fight. In other words he'll tickle 'em to death. . . ."

So the gay letters continued and Mary Graham and Scobee laughed many times over the simple humorous incidents which he related.

Mary finished reading the letters and her hands fell limply into her lap. "It doesn't seem as if he's dead, does it, Scobee?" she asked wistfully.

"I never think of Rad as dead," said he slowly. "I never think of anybody as being dead. Hung Long Tom says, 'Those we love, never die.' Ever since I can remember I have thougnt of my mother as still living. And in France I found her, even as all through my life I heard her singing softly to me in this house. My mother is still living. Her personality is still here. And so it is with Rad. In his letters and in memory, he still lives. I guess I see things the way Hung Long Tom has taught me. He says that in material things the world has advanced supremely but in things spiritual we are just children. Joyce Kilmer once wrote a tribute, 'In Memory of Rupert Brooke.'

'His body lies that was so fair and young.
His mouth is stopped with half his songs unsung.'

But I do not feel that way about Rad. If you pause, the echo of his laughter will float back to you. If you listen intently in the night you may even hear his voice, just as countless times in the silence of the night I heard my mother's lullabies."