The Soldier

It's the same the whole world over.

It's the poor what gets the blame,

While the rich has all the gravy,

Now ain't that a blinkin' shame?

            Goddammit, even Daffy Duck gets to fight for his fucking country.

            This was the prevailing thought that gripped the mind of Sam Roberts as he sat brooding in the empty, cheap, cold picture show. The air was chilled, his seat was chilled, and everything felt frosted over. The small amount of warmth he expected to get from a cartoon duck slugging it out with kraut vultures just wasn’t getting the job done. It was a damn fine cartoon, he was sure, but it didn’t help him ignore what was truly on his mind.

            Polio. Jesus, God Almighty, polio. When the doctor first told Sam why he was spewing out both ends, why his neck was constantly sore, and why his legs hurt like hell, he wanted to laugh it off. Shake it like a dirty rug. But it wasn’t going to be that easy. No, he was stuck with it. He was stuck in his diseased, tired body. The majority of the symptoms had passed by this point. His legs felt sore only most days now, but that still wasn’t good enough for his recruiter. Sam felt like a broken tool when the army turned him away. He had to sit while more capable and better men get to prove themselves to their families and friends. Sitting was all he seemed good for. So he sat watching Daffy Duck play around with a vulture in a telephone booth.

            “Hello, Shultz!” barked the vulture into the phone receiver. “I want you to—Oh! Is that you, Myrt?” Now that got a real kick out of Sam.

            Was that a nod to McGee and Molly? Hot damn, it was! It had to be! The Looney Tunes always found a way to cheer him up in the end. Along with that sly wink, the last stinger where Daffy whacks Hitler with a hammer got a standing ovation out of him. Of course the theater was empty, so he was saved from looking like a meatball in front of a whole crowd.

            The projectionist shooed him out and Sam was welcomed into the cold November night. He pulled his coat around himself and tried not to focus on his sore legs. The town was dead quiet, nothing felt alive. Sam lived a ways out of town, still with his folks. They tried to get him to take the car into town, but he wasn’t having any of it. Just because his legs kept him from duty, didn’t mean he was going to let them take apart his entire life. Sam always walked everywhere and no disease was going to stop him from doing what he always did.

            As Sam pulled his coat against the wind, the town blew away around him. Businesses and buildings shrank away until he was walking along a dried-up road. The only sound that reached his ears was the roar of wind that tumbled past them. He thought about roads, in Europe and the Pacific, and the men that were walking along those. With their legs that weren’t screaming in pain. Or maybe they were. Sam desired the call of duty more than anything, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he could die and die badly. His great uncle had been cut to ribbons in the last war and Sam had grown up hearing about the hell those boys had gone through in the trenches. But that still hadn’t deterred him. He had no right to do any less, but his damn legs stopped him from that path.

            A faint light broke his concentration. It was far off the road, into the field on his left. Sam had no idea what it could be at this distance. A lantern or maybe even a car was his best bet. Curiosity gripped his heart and Sam stepped off the road and through an open gate. He focused on the light and the crunch of dirt and grass under his sore feet. Then the scream of wind became the scream of human voices. One human voice, a girl’s voice. Sam didn’t know what she was screaming, but it was coming from the lights. He double-timed over, but he kept his legs low, more pain shot through, but he ignored it.

            The light was definitely coming from a car. Someone had parked it facing a large hay barrel. That someone was probably one of the two gorillas laying into some poor chump. Or maybe it was the third goon holding tight on a girl, egging his buddies to do some more damage. Sam’s throat tightened and he became very aware of his breathing. The cheap picture show popcorn rose in his stomach as the scene played-out before him. This wasn’t getting any easier to watch. The idea to back away and creep to the road faintly drifted through his mind. But another thought rose and gripped his body to action. He had no right to do any less.

            Sam stood up like a tree in a hurricane and tried to call out with confidence. Instead what came out of his mouth sounded pathetic.

            “Haaa-eeeyy,” he yelled. The heavies beating on the guy turned like the devil was pulling their ears to see who was calling them. Sam didn’t recognize them. Must’ve been drifters. He did recognize the guy being slugged against the hay. It was Jack Dunn, someone he had known since elementary school. Which means that the girl had to be Winnie Cooper. The two had been sweet on each other for years now. They must’ve been trying to find some time alone when they were jumped. Winnie took notice of Sam immediately and even from a ways off he could see her eyes screaming for help. Jack was too busy bleeding out of his mouth to take proper notice of Sam, but the thugs sure did notice him.

            “Well would you look at this grand-standin’ fat-head!” one of them called out while flipping out a knife. He had a face that would make a potato go cockeyed. “Why don’t you keep walkin’ before I crack your skull!” Sam considered asking him what a knife had to do with cracking a person’s skull, but his knees shook and his stomach spun like a Ferris wheel. The other bully, some whisker-lipped mug wearing a hat that was too big for him, picked up a bottle of something and chugged the last of it, all while keeping eyes fixed on Sam.

            “We’re out of gas with you, boy! Fuck off outta here!” The brute with a knife took a few steps forward, and Sam took a few steps back. Then his nerve broke. He slowly backed-off and let his sickly legs walk him away from the situation. He heard hoots and laughs and insults. Then the next thing Sam knew, his shoulder was on fire with pain, and he went down like a bag of bricks. After a few seconds of pain passed, Sam’s mind cleared and he saw a bottle lying half a foot away from him. Those sons of bitches had tossed a bottle at him. He looked back at the scene. The show had resumed like there hadn’t even been an intermission. His legs burned, his shoulder screamed, and Sam flipped his wig.

            He picked up the bottle and ran towards the thugs. He thought he heard a shout of warning, but he stayed focused on the sly punk that had been drinking the bottle. As he raised his arm, his mouth said some words, but his brain didn’t catch what they were. Sam gave as good as he got and smashed the bottle over his target’s too-big hat. It was his turn to go down like a bag of bricks. Potato Face caught on quick and slammed into Sam, tackling him to the ground and dropping something that reflected the beams coming off the headlights. Sam put up his forearms so they’d take the brunt of punches, but a few managed to slip by.

            Sam could vaguely make out the shadow of someone standing over them, saying something rude. More punches, more punches, then the shadow screamed and flinched. Something glinted out of his shoulder. The sudden commotion caused the wall of ham giving him a beating to turn. Sam saw his window. He flung his right fist upward, hoping to hit something. His knuckles connected to jaw twice before the creep fell off him. With his view unblocked, Sam took in the madness in front of him.

            The hat-wearing bastard that took the bottle to the head was slowly starting to come to his senses and rising to his feet. Jack beat him to the punch and showed him just how much he appreciated his company by kicking the shithead in the chest, flipping him over and sending him back to whatever he was dreaming about. The force of the kick was too much for Jack and he tumbled over himself, just in time to tangle himself in the legs of the maroon who had just been on top of Sam. Winnie had jumped on the back of the nimrod with the knife decorating his shoulder and was trying her best to strangle the life out of him. It took Sam a few seconds to realize Jack was being kicked into the dirt by ol’ Potato Face. He jumped to his feet, pain shooting throughout his body, and he charged. His shoulder met chest and the both of them met the hood of the car. They slid off and Sam hit the ground for the third time that night.

            Sam became aware of legs dancing in front of him, Winnie was still giving her bastard the strangling of his life as he tried to throw her off his back. By instinct, Sam grabbed onto the guy’s legs, hugging them tight. A tower of people hit the dirt. Pain from his legs shot through his body and into his limbs, directing Sam to climb himself up the body. He pulled a knife from a shoulder and raised it high in the air.

            Artificial thunder boomed across the field and everything stopped dead in its tracks. Sam’s mind cleared and he saw himself about to stab another human being. He didn’t drop the knife. He was too scared to move. Sam didn’t need to see action on the battlefield to know what that sound was or the twin thunks that followed. Fear and shame exploded in his heart and Sam said the only thing that could come to mind.

            “Is that you, Myrt!” There was a pitiful silence.

            “What?” said whoever owned the shotgun. “Grab your friends and get the fuck off my land, Sam.” He now knew who the voiced belong to; it was Russell, a local farmer. The two knew each other from church. Russell had once dragged Sam out from under a table when he was eight, after he had stolen a whole plate of cookies. He had never been happier to hear that geezer’s voice.

            Sam finally dropped the knife and stood up. Or tried to. He legs had quit. Enough was enough. He could barely stand. Two pairs of hands grabbed him off the ground and he had enough support to start walking away from the lit-up dirt. It was Jack on his right and Winnie on his left. All three were moving as fast as they could. Jack was laughing as they stumbled through the field and away from Russell giving the business to Potato Face and his cronies.

            “‘You dropped something!’ Someone hits you with a bottle and you throw a line at them? Who the hell are you, Sam Spade?”  Jack clapped his acquaintance on the back and his shoulder lit up with pain.

            Winnie gave Jack a glare that he seemed all too familiar with. “Damn it, Jack! Lay off him. You don’t need to make him any more bruised than he already is.” Sam didn’t know Winnie that well, but he really liked her words a lot more than the words Jack had for him. Or the slap. Jack apologized and gave his gal his best smile. She reluctantly smiled back, rolling her eyes at him, and all three of them were in high spirits as they marched into the windy night.

            Sam felt triumphant. Sure, he didn’t get to fight krauts or smack Hitler on the head with a hammer, but he did save a good couple from having a really bad night. And you know what? That was good enough for him. Bum legs be damned, he was a solider after all.