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 The "quiet manhood" he had felt when leaving the battlefield had been replaced by screaming, hellish, nightmares.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."