Shrapnel

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He writes some more on his clipboard. Maybe I have a second shot at England.

I’m in the hospital four more days. Every time I have a chance, and nobody’s looking, I bang that calcaneus spur on the metal siding of the bed. I start limping when I go to the bathroom. It begins to hurt so much I need to limp. I stay awake and moan at night a lot. The nurses give me aspirins to shut me up.

The next day, Doctor Smet comes around with another doctor. This one seems to be a specialist. He turns me on my stomach, bends my knee up, twists my ankle in all directions and starts hitting the back of my foot with a little rubber hammer.

Of course, I’m screaming, howling, the whole time. I don’t need to fake it much because with all my thumping on the bed, that foot’s practically a piece of hamburger meat. The two doctors step back from the bed, ‘consultation time’ I figure. Maybe they’ll decide to discharge me, give me a medical discharge. I’ll have a disability pension. The second doctor comes up to the side of the bed. He has his clipboard at his side.

‘You’re in Headquarters Company, Regimental Headquarters, isn’t that right Soldier?’

‘Yes sir, I&R.’

‘Well, you won’t need to march much then. Just take care of that foot.’ He writes on the clipboard. He looks down at me and winks. Doctors, especially military doctors, should never wink.

‘I’m assigning you back to duty. The nurse will give you some Band-Aids for that foot. Nice try.’

And so the future painter, engineer, teacher, psychologist, writer is condemned to death, with a wink!

NEED A BODY CRY

When I come back to our mattress-less mill, I flop out on the canvas strap bed, trying to get it into my mind that I’m still in the army, the same army. All I have to show for my medical malingering is two dinky ‘ball holders’ and a sore Band-Aided foot. It isn’t an hour later when Diffendorf, our balding mail orderly, comes in. He’s the one who first announced to me the happy fact that I would be balder than he is before I reach thirty. Perhaps it was a classic example of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Anyway, from then on, I’m aware of my constantly expanding forehead. I now have a forehead that goes practically all the way down the back of my neck, a fore and aft affair.

This time Diffendorf gleefully announces to me that the regimental S2, Major Love, wants to see me, and on the double.

I change shirts, check buttons, brush the fronts of my new combat boots on the back of my pants. This is just dumb habit. The boots are clean, and the shiny leather is inside, the outside is rough like suede, ‘All the better to absorb water with, my dear.’ Blotter boots.

I hustle up the street of this small English town called Biddulph in the middle of the Midlands of nowhere. The S2 has his headquarters in the city hall. It’s one of the few buildings in town that still has the ornamental iron fence in front of it. All other gates, fences, grilles have been ripped out and contributed to the war effort, melted down and turned into shrapnel, I suppose. I dash past the sentry at the ornamental gate. His name is Thompson, he plays trumpet in the regimental band. As I dash by, he tries to hide a cigarette.

Inside, Taylor, Love’s assistant, is sitting at a desk. I salute; go through the whole military routine.

‘PFC Wharton we think we have an assignment for you.’

‘Yes Sir.’

We’re playing the whole thing out. He reaches down into a drawer and pulls out a portfolio filled with papers and plastic overlays.

‘I understand you had top marks in map reading and map making back at Jackson.’

He smiles at me and lights a cigarette. Damn, I’m still at attention, he hasn’t even put me at ease. I wonder if I should just go into ‘at ease’ by myself. This jerk probably wouldn’t even notice. Then again, maybe he’s got a message from that bone doctor at the hospital and he’s about to pull some kind of wild bamboozle on me. I keep my mouth shut. I stay at attention. He must have read my mind.

‘At ease, Soldier.’

I slump appropriately.

’Major Love feels we ought to have a map of this town and the surrounding territory. It’s good military procedure to be prepared. One never knows. Those Nazis are capable of anything, look at that guy Hess who practically jumped down the queen’s chimney. He had to give himself up; these Limeys could never have caught him.’

I don’t say anything. To be honest, I don’t even know about Hess. I’m not very political. This war to me is something like whooping cough or measles you try to get through, or maybe more like chicken pox where you aren’t supposed to scratch or you’ll have big craters all over your face and body. I’m trying my damnedest not to scratch.

He reaches across the desk and hands me the portfolio. This is about to be one of the weirdest things to happen to me so far. Little did I know how weird things can get in the army. I can feel it in my bones, especially in that calcaneus spur. Does he expect me to go out and make little drawings of all the houses in town? I tuck the folder under my arm and come to attention again, half way.

‘What we need is a complete map showing locations of all buildings, and what they’re being used for. Indicate the mills we’re living in as barracks, show where the motor pool is located. Get in all the important roads and even the little paths. Show the distance from one place to another in yards. Try to do the whole thing to scale. If there are some details, make detailed maps of those parts. If possible, indicate the topography with elevations. You can work out the scale, too, but be sure to have a legend so the Major can quickly have an idea of the terrain. I’ve taken you off all other duties and here’s a pass to get you around town without any trouble. Try to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. If you need a map table, you can get one from supply, also anything else you might need.

‘You got all that?’

I hardly know what he’s talking about. However, having a pass to go anywhere I want to in town without being locked inside that mill is just fine with me. I nod vigorously.

’Yes Sir. I’ll do my best.’

He salutes and I whip him back a good one and spin on my heels with the portfolio under my arm. I’m going to need some pencils and drawing pens but I don’t want to screw anything up.

I stop outside at the orderly’s desk and he has the pass. He also lets me have two 2B drawing pencils and, after some convincing, a black fountain pen. I figure I’ll stroll around town and look for any kind of a stationery store with a real drawing pen and some India ink. I’ll also need a ruler and maybe a T square. I’m deep into the map making business.

More than that, I’m now practically a tourist. I stroll up the hill to look at the town church, it’s something I’ve wanted to see. On the way, two MPs jump out of doorways and start hassling me. I show them my magic pass and do everything but salute. I could be a Nazi spy who just counterfeited that pass and I’ll bet those idiots’d let me by anyway.

Maybe Williams is right, nobody’s doing much of a great job running this war. Hey, maybe I can do all these drawings and sell them to the Germans. They might give me a German discharge in exchange. I could work on my German, disappear in the Alps somewhere and nobody would know the difference. No, they’d get me. With my luck, some hot-shot American skier would discover me in my little hut on the side of the hill and turn me in.

The church door is locked, but just down the hill on the other side is a little combination newspaper stand and stationery shop. There’s an old lady and a very pretty girl running it. As I move toward the pretty one, the old one blocks my way. She’s surprised to see a soldier walking around in broad daylight. All these people must know we’re here but there’s some kind of agreement that we’ll all pretend we don’t see or know anything.

I try to explain what I want. The old lady is confused, but the young one steps forward. She has very dark hair and beautiful violet eyes. She pulls down some dusty boxes and there are crow quill pens, and engineering pens, great for map drawing, but I’d have bought split goose feathers from her. She also has some quality pink pearl erasers. This master spy does make mistakes once in a while.

She also brings out some rulers, wooden and thick, twelve inch jobs and, miracle of miracles, a transparent T square.

All the time, I’m trying to work up a conversation. I can’t tell them what I’m really doing, although they’ve probably figured it out faster than I did. So, I tell them I’m an artist and will be doing drawings around town to pass the time.

I think of an old film with Ronald Coleman where he wanders through the English countryside with a portable easel on his back singing, ‘When a body meets a body coming through the rye’; I romanticised over that one for six months. It could be one of the influences that made me want to be an artist. Of course, he meets the most beautiful girl in his wanderings and she thinks he’s ‘God’s gift to earth’ because he can draw and paint.

I wonder if I can talk Taylor into letting me buy a portable easel instead of hauling a map table around. He said I should make myself inconspicuous. Maybe I could even wear civilian clothes, some old tweeds and a Sherlock Holmes cap with a bill. The English would never shoot me as a spy, or maybe they would. I’ve lost a lot of confidence in the people who make those kinds of decisions.

There’s a great wooden combination paint box and easel in the window. I ask the price. It’s just under ten pounds. Taylor could never get a requisition through even if he’d try. But I act as if I’m seriously considering it, all in the interest of security. I ask the young girl her name and she tells me its Miss Henderson. I look at her, pretending I’m Ronald Coleman.

‘Might I call you Violet?’

She blushes and turns around. I figure I’ve blown it. What would Ronald Coleman have done?

Luckily I have a bit over ten pounds in my pocket, more than enough. I ask for a receipt. I’ll need it to get my money back, if that’s remotely possible. Then I remember, I forgot India ink. I ask. Without a word she turns and takes a bottle from one of the shelves. She twists the top open to check if it’s dried up. It is. She opens three before she finds one that’s okay. India ink is like that. It goes to seed or something and you have bits of black grit in ink plasma and there’s no way you can make it flow through a pen, especially a crow quill pen or an engineering pen. It’s very nice of her to check.

‘Thank you, Miss Henderson. There’s nothing worse than having black sand for ink.’

She looks at me with those violet eyes.

‘My name is really Michelle. It’s a French sounding name isn’t it?’

‘My name is William. I’m called Will by my friends. I hope I’ll be seeing you again.’

She smiles, gives me my change, looks me in the eye.

‘Perhaps William, you might need some more India ink.’

I begin walking around the town, measuring distances, counting buildings, taking notes, humming ‘Coming Through the Rye’, thinking about violet eyes. This is going to be one terrific assignment. I’m pacing from the church to the mayor’s office, trying to keep count, when I see Michelle coming up the street. She has a small cloth basket with packages in it. I know, from my wandering around, that today’s market day, the day when the farmers come in to sell the few things they can sell that aren’t rationed. I look up and lose count. Michelle stops in front of me.

‘What are you doing William? I see you marching up and down the streets marking things on your papers. You don’t look to me as if you are doing any drawings.’

So, I confess. I’m probably giving away state secrets to an enemy spy who’s been posted in this town for almost twenty years and has a secret radio in her bedroom. I like to meditate on her bedroom.

‘I’m trying to make a map of the town. My officer thinks it would be a good idea, in case any Germans come charging over the hill we’ll all know which way to run.’

She swings her bag around so she’s holding it with two hands in front of her. She looks at me, inquisitively, the same way she did in the shop.

‘Well, William, I’m quite sure there are maps in the council archives. I think they would let you use them for your work, if you asked. In fact, if you want, I’ll ask. My uncle is a council member.’

She smiles and turns away. She’s about five steps back up the hill when Ronald Coleman asserts himself.

‘How can I find out if this would be possible. Where should I go, Michelle?’

‘Come to the shop this afternoon. I will know by then.’

She continues on up the hill. I’m totally confused. I can’t even come within a hundred of how many paces I’d done when we met. I wait until she’s out of sight, then sneak up the hill to the church again. I start pacing anew. At the bottom of the hill (the whole town is on the side of a hill) is a wooden cattle fence with a cattle gate. I go through it and I’m out in open country. Everything is deep green. We have some fair-to-middling green in Pennsylvania, but this green is the kind you expect to find in Ireland.

Taylor’d said I was supposed to give some idea of the surroundings for this town so I go through the gate, turn and march across fields to another rolling hill beside the town, from which I have a great view of the entire area with the church on top of the hill, the line of streets and all the little side streets crossing it and down to the fence. There are sheep in the fields. I figure the fence is to keep the sheep out of town. There are the same kinds of fences at the end of each side street. I spend the afternoon drawing the town, then inking in my drawing. I don’t even go back to the mill for chow. I’ve bought some hard rolls and soft cheese at a shop and nibble on them as I draw. Boy, I’m really into being Ronald Coleman now. I keep repeating that part, ‘if a body kiss a body, need a body cry’.

At about two thirty, I have my drawing done. There are some things I don’t like about it, especially the big brick mill in the middle of the town on the other side of the street. It really stands out like a sore thumb. I probably shouldn’t have put it in. But then that’s what Taylor wants. This will show I’ve been working seriously if he asks to see what I’ve done.

I head back to the stationery store. Michelle is there alone, without the older lady. She smiles when I come in. She holds out a paper with old fashioned writing.

‘Show this to the woman at the desk in the public library. She’ll be expecting you.’

‘Where is the public library? We’ve all been looking for things to read but no one knew of a library.’

‘Do you know where the chemist shop is?’

‘You mean the drugstore.’

‘Yes, that’s right, what you call a drugstore. Well, just before you go into the chemist’s, beside his door is a smaller door. It doesn’t have any sign over it. You go up those stairs and knock on the door at the top. As I said, she’s expecting you. There should be no problem and I think you will find all you want.’

I want to show her the drawing I’ve done in the field but instead buy another pink pearl eraser I don’t need. I do make a lot of mistakes but not enough to wear out an eraser in one afternoon. She smiles her magic smile again.

‘Thank you for everything, Miss Henderson. This could certainly save me much measuring and pacing around town.’

She looks quickly over her shoulder.

‘You may call me Michelle or even Violet whichever you prefer, when we’re alone. Mama is always afraid I’ll become too close with our American friends.’

Another smile. I try a ‘knowing’ Ronald Coleman smile of my own and back out of the store, almost knocking over a whole stand of fountain pens in the window stand by the door.

I find the library just as she said. The lady is waiting for me there. I show her the note from Michelle. She looks at it briefly, smiles, then turns back into the room. The library couldn’t have more than a thousand books plus some periodicals, also what I guess one could call the ‘archives’. It’s to this part she goes, pulls out three cardboard folders and comes back to the small narrow, shelf-like counter separating us. The counter is hinged so one can lift it to go in and out of the ‘library’. She unties the small string on the portfolio wrap around ties, and opens it. I know this is it, all right. I’ve struck gold. Somebody in the past has done beautiful topographical maps of the town and surrounding area. It even has contour lines and is all to scale. I stare appreciatively at the drawing. It is done with more loving care and skill than I could ever manage, but is exactly what I need. I smile up at the librarian.