Next on my
list of etc. stories I choose Stephen Cranes’ Henry Fleming from The Red Badge of Courage. He was one of
the "phony tough" not "crazy brave" to use Joker's words
from Full Metal Jacket (1987). Lets take a look at him a bit after all the
"bravery" he conjured the battlefield, and the war have left him far
behind. Now granted, I did take a bit of liberty with the dates, but isn't that
what fiction is, liberty taken, with things that may or may not have happened?
Well in writing, as in life, some of us are a bit more free than others...
The Badges No One Else Can See
"It's bad during the
day, but worse at night." Henry mumbled to himself, as he hurried to the
bar, the sun was setting, and now only a glimmer of it’s light remained. Henry
was near his favorite place and surely there would be someone, anyone, there
willing to share a bottle with a "bonafide war hero". If he could
help it he would prefer to spend his last money on a room tonight. The streets
were cold, and dangerous for a man of his age and experience. It didn't help
that sometimes, even when he was safe in a room, he would forget where he was,
and he would forget that he had left the war behind, years ago.
But, then,
that wasn't really true, he had never left the war, not really. The ringing
that never really left him was audible again seemingly increasing in volume,
and an ache was starting around the side of his head. They were just a couple
more souvenirs from his service. He was pretty sure the headache was from the
soldier hitting him in the head with the rifle but he wasn't really sure, but
where the knot had been, that was where the pain started. The ringing, well
that was from the cannons, the sawbones told him. Sawbones, he saw a hacksaw
biting into savaged flesh. Gawd, but he needed a drink.
Henry gave a small
derisive snort at his current predicament. The "quiet manhood" he had
felt when leaving the battlefield had been replaced by screaming, hellish,
nightmares. Once, he thought he had left the "red sickness of battle"
on the field, but that too had proven a fallacy. No, in fact that "red
sickness" had gone deeper and festered in his heart and mind. Maybe if he
had gotten his "red badge of courage" he could have avoided this
deeper wounding, maybe if he had stood his ground in the first battle, maybe if
he had just died, maybe, maybe...He got a whiff of a freshly extinguished
match...and like that he was back.
The smoke was so
thick he couldn't see but he could hear the opposing army rushing at him
bearing down with an unstoppable force and like that day so long ago he ran. He
ran as if the very hounds of hell were pursuing him, because he knew that's
what they were. He ran so fast and so hard that he was past the man, almost
before he saw him.
He caught only a
glimpse of the face, “That's Jim Cronklin,” he thought dimly through his panic,
but of course it wasn't Jim was dead, and he had played this game before. All
he had to do was reach out and find that the man wasn't really there, but this
time when he reached out to the man's shoulder his hand met warm flesh. Oh
Gawd, he was real. Was this maybe some gift from above giving him the chance to
right his previous wrongdoings? If only, what if…
“We
gotta go Jim, we gotta run…if not you’ll die again, come on.” Henry grabbed
Jim’s shoulder and tried to pull him along but the man was rooted in his spot.
“What’s
this now? Unhand me sir!” Jim was pulling away from him now, as if driven to
his untimely death. Henry was pulling him trying to move him into running with him,
they could make the forest in no time flat if he would only…the fist came out
of nowhere smashing into the side of his head, causing the ringing to hit a
fevered pitch and slamming him back into his current reality.
Blinding
pain, confusion. Vaguely, Henry heard,”…came out of nowhere…grabbed onto me…
thought I was a John or Jack…” rough hands picked him up and shook him.
“What’s you
business with this fine gentleman?”
Henry’s gaze
focused on the policeman as he was being shaken. He’s played this game before
too. He tried to slow his breathing and compose his face. “So sorry sir, my
mistake I was just on the way to the bar…uh I thought this man was my friend,
from the war, so sorry…”he rambled on a bit until the cop looked bored.
“Do you want
to charge this vagrant?” The cop shook him again as if for good measure.
Strange usually the cops were more lenient after mentioned being in the war, so
this man must have been a Grey-Back. The well-dressed man said no, and the
peace officer roughly let Henry go.
“Could
you direct me to the nearest bar?” Henry asked the man who, now the old
realized, in no way resembled his fallen comrade. The man was finely dressed
and looked a respectable sort.
“Yeah,
over there,” the man gestured vaguely toward a building that Henry could
clearly see was the type of establishment he was seeking. Loud and drunken
voices could be heard so enthusiastic that not even the door or walls of the
place could contain them. Henry quickly lurched toward the building. He needed
that drink (now!) before his head split wide open, but this was not his bar,
the drink would be his only comfort this night.
Henry
shoved his way up to the bar and sat. The barkeep walked over and Henry quickly
slapped the last of his money on the counter and asked for three fingers of
their strongest, cheapest liquor. The money was swept away and Henry was left
with his drink. At the first taste the ringing faded back into to it’s normal
pitch. After the first swallow his breathing eased and his heart rate began to
slow. Henry sighed.
“Another,”
he slapped the bar with his open hand.
The
bartender came back over, “How are you going to pay fer it?” He asked.
“There
was enough on the bar for three of what you gave me,” A small embellishment,
but surely enough for two. Henry started to feel indignant, was this man going
to try to cheat him, a war veteran?
Better men than this pup had died next to Henry in the war and now this
slug had the nerve to cheat him…his temper flared. The barkeep knowing the look
of a man about to get into trouble squared his stance behind the bar.
“I’ll
cover his next, sir” a cultured voice behind him made Henry spin around. It was
the man from the street. The bartender shrugged and poured Henry out another.
Oh thank god
for this man, this man who had found in the depths of his heart the will to aid
his poor and battered fellowman. This man was the milk of human kindness; he
was the beauty of charity. The man motioned again after Henry gulped the finger
the bartender stingily meted out.
As the
barkeep filled the glass once more, the love for the generosity of this man
swelled within Henry so fully as he could barely contain it long enough to take
a swig of the beverage that burned on the way down, clearing the ever
encroaching fog of memory. Henry was so filled with love and gratitude toward
this kind soul, and was about to speak of it to him, in honest and reverent
thanksgiving over the gift of his blessing, which was now caressing his empty
belly and filing him with the kind of courage only cheep whisky can provide.
The man's voice cut through his haze of wonderment and said, "Tell us
about your service then old man."
The words
hit Henry like a blow. Of course in return for the drinks he needed to come up
with a story for this young man, he had a ragged book and pencil in hand, so
his man was a writer. Luckily for both of them Henry’s inner dialogue was as
active as ever so he opened his mouth and let the folly of empty patriotism
flow forth. He even found himself throwing in some song lyrics. What did he
care more drinks were bought.
As the wave
that was his thoughts slowed down to a trickle he took another drink, it was
water now, he knew that meant soon he was to be left, on his own, with nothing
but his demon memories to keep him warm.
Henry opened
the door to them just a little, any more was too dangerous, but he heard
himself say as if hearing himself talking in his sleep, "what could be
more beautiful than these heroic happy dead who rushed like lions to the
slaughter. Oh no, they did not stop to think, they died instead..."his
voice trailed off as he took another gulp of water, his hand was trembling ever
so slightly like his voice had near the end of his speech.
The writer
stopped writing and looked at his dog-eared little book, "This may not be
enough for a story, but it may make a fine poem, or a part of one." the
writer scribbled down one more line, then he tipped his hat to the barkeep and
waked out into the night. No doubt to a warm bed and sweet dreams. Henry envied
the writer his easy sleep more than anything.
The bartender put up a few more glasses and
started to wipe down the bar. Shooing out his lingering patrons, the barkeep
slowly worked his way back to where Henry still sat as if lost, looking through
the bar, at darkness only he could see. The barkeeper stood watching Henry for
a moment then finally said, "Finish up your water sir, you have to go
now."
Henry paused
before sipping from his glass again, "Is there really a place for men like
me, in this world?"
The bartender
while sympathetic had no good answer for him, "I don't know sir, but it's
not here."
"Well
you're right about that," Henry finished his water and wandered outside to
find a nice warm corner to curl up in. With the roar of the cannons and the
cries of the unnamed wounded as his constant company.
Before he
passed out on he back side of the building, Henry realized that he had never
asked the names of anyone he had spoken to tonight. More nameless faces for the
pile, but at least those men were still alive and wouldn't haunt him."