Tease Mawray - The Good Time Man

Simple war story of two friends

THE GOOD TIME MAN

 

  Some winter days are the gray freezing days; the drag-out-all-your-bundling things days. They are the never ever go outside days.  They are the dark enemy shadows moving in and out of focus in the distant fog days.  

     Barely awake, a sentry is living one of these days.  A bizarre landscape of snow and ice, dotted with stark naked, wicked-looking black thorny trees reflected on glazed eyes days. 

     Drifting creeping mists give the illusion of life while these soldiers win Emmy's for their portrayal of infantrymen freezing to death.  Mean body aches and shallow, indiscernible breathing are proof of duty.

     The Sarg's eyes are looking north, and to look north is to look for something to kill. 

     Shivering fear overtakes the dog face when he realizes he hasn't cleaned or checked his weapon in two days.  

     Briefly, he wonders, is the action frozen, is there a round in the chamber?  His eyes start to fill with tears as he thinks to himself, what an exhausting, insurmountable task it would be to find out.

     If this were a movie, the close-up of the welling tears in the corners of his eyes, and the winter silence may be the scene that stops you from touching your lips with the next piece of hot buttered popcorn.  

     You look at the big screen and your eyes focus fifty feet ahead and off to the right of the frozen mud road.  There, almost invisible to the naked eye is a faint cloud of smoke rising from the ground. The 'lead' and his partner are living hell to tell you a story. 

     Snuggled in your warm, maroon velour theater seat, you watch intently, and with paused breath, you can almost feel the cutting wind as it sweeps over the mortar hole the two Americans are in.  You tell yourself "It's only a movie", and finish putting the hot buttery popcorn in your mouth. 

     Hidden below the slight mound of snow is a makeshift wooden frame.  The crude structure is draped with a ripped piece of frozen green canvas.  The whole affair is Staff Sergeant Cooper's masterpiece.  The roof covering the frozen mud hole cost three cups of coffee.  Just what he needed to be able to piss on the green canvas shard to freeze it solid. This frozen fragment is acting as a roof for the five-foot-deep mortar hole where Army Staff Sergeant Cooper and his roommate have been living for the last ninety days of an ugly war.

     Standing 'watch' in the unforgiving small hole was a half-awake sergeant passing in and out of consciousness.  He watched intently as a staggering PFC tried to keep his footing and balance while negotiating frozen tire ruts left behind as witness to an army on the move. He watched as the Private crawled out of a snow bank and fought the biting wind to stay on his feet.  The sergeant's ground-level, hidden observation post gave him a front-row seat. 

     The sentry wasn't sure he was really seeing the private on the other side of the road, intermittent consciousness being what it was, he didn't trust his eyes.  For the last three months, the sergeant has talked to three people; the first only provides answers on a rare occasion, and without moving his lips; the second is curled up in a fetal position at the bottom of the mortar hole trying to keep warm; and the third, has been detained elsewhere, administering to the true believers.         

     By wakening Darnel, the sergeant was always the first to bring misery to his friend curled up in the bottom of the hole; "who the hell is that?", pointing out a narrow opening in the canvas, and motioning to the person standing on the other side of the road. Private First-Class Darnel slowly pulled his hand from inside his coat and gently tugged at the frozen cloth wrapping his frost-bitten face.

     Through the thin slit, and with just a hint of excitement, Darnel's glazed eyes viewed morning fog for the first time that day.  Looking upward from the bottom of the pit, he could see the tall sergeant's warm breath illuminated by the gray, cold light entering the hovel as the sergeant peered out the narrow slit.  Darnel slowly raised himself and after great effort, leaned against the frozen sergeant. 

     The only thing worse than the pain in his legs was the frozen uniform cutting into his skin. It was a game the two of them played with each other. Neither would ever turn so fast as to never give the other time not to compose himself.

     Darnel followed the tall man's gaze towards the dim winter daylight.  He could see a lone private laboring up the hill.  He smiled to himself as he realized how many tiny, if not insignificant events add life to a day when you're in the middle of a war.  He paused for a moment as he dearly weighed the price of speaking. 

     As by ritual, he closed his eyes and tried to remember the warmth of his wife's lips in his history, that intense feeling as the faint scent of her lipstick teased and tugged at his humanity, and her soft moist flesh touched his.  He waited silently for that brief moment, that brief exquisite second between being awake and the warm descent into a sleepless, exhaustive oblivion the two of them cherish to end the misery.   He is thankful he still has the strength to catch himself before falling into that dark canyon of memories. 

     He jerks violently for a second, as he pulls himself back while swinging his arms searching for something to hold his fall; the sergeant's arm is there for him. 

     As his vision slowly returns, he can see the sergeant painfully smiling into his face.  Darnel regains his composure, knowing it's another one of many little games the two of them play.

     As Darnel watches the sergeant's wide grin, he realizes it's his turn to smile back before succumbing to the excruciating pain of opening the wounds of split, frostbitten lips to mutter a word. He stares for a second while weighing his painful sacrifice against his companion's need for company.  He shuts his eyes ever so briefly before he turns his head to see the sergeant's motionless hulk leaning against the frozen earth once again. 

     The sergeant's lips are quivering uncontrollably as the fresh blood fills the splits and freezes in his white breath. 

     Darnel looks down to see the sergeant's frozen knees locked together to keep his legs painfully propped under his body so if he fell asleep, he wouldn't fall on his partner sleeping in the bottom of the hole.  

     Hidden behind the rag that protected his face, Darnel's eyes were filling with tears as the warm spell of defeat filled his heart.  He watched in silence as the sergeant's breath betrayed both of them as it silently told the enemy and his dear friend, that he was still alive.

     Before speaking, Darnel pulled himself closer for a better look, and whispered ever so gently, ever so slowly, toward the frozen green rag wrapped around the sergeant's hat and face. 

     Once the sergeant saw Darnel's breath, he slowly turned to hear what he was saying.  His eyes were smiling at Darnel, while he watched his friend's lips move and whisper... "Oh, that's Private Winters, Sir!" 

     The sergeant's eyes welled up, as he watched the intense pain in his dear friend's face as the stinging pain of reopened flesh cuts on his friend's lips, assured him Darnel's answer was truly a gift of compassion.

     His own lips bleeding again and half choking, the Sergeant persisted, "Yeah, but who the hell is he?"  Wanting to be left alone to wallow in his own misery and return to dreams of home, Darnel paused as he sank down and into the piss and excrement waiting in the darkness of the pit before answering.... he's "The Good Time Man!".

     Staff Cooper had enough and started kicking the motionless lump in the corner, "Get up you lazy b*****d, and keep me company! I'm making a fire and some coffee, get up damn it!" Darnel's body felt like every muscle had been beaten with a club and silently screamed to be left alone.... the 'private' in the bottom of the pit was slowly moving to his knees. "Ok, Ok, I'm up!"

     The Sarg's rank taking credit for keeping the two of them alive, the b*****d kept the pressure on. The sergeant would do anything to break the monotony and keep the two of them breathing. A reason for living...a question needing attention, something to b***h about, and anything for their minds to feast on was the trophy.  He really didn't care if Darnel ended up hating his guts, he was bound and determined the two of them would finish the war together.

     Again, he prodded the dying man, "Come on Darnel, and tell me about 'The Good Time Man'! 

     The hissing of the small stove pulled the sergeant's attention from the lone soldier outside. He watched as Darnel tried to get the burner lit. The stove was more sight than substance and any warmth was indiscernible. They both learned the hard way that if you put your hands near the flame, you smell burning flesh before you feel any heat. 

     The aroma of coffee grounds and bark acted as an elixir that always sent them back home.

     The sergeant cried out from pain as he bent his legs at the knees and slowly knelt down.  It took no time for the frozen mud to numb his kneecaps.   

     Silently the two of them took turns adding small pieces of ice to the metal pot.  Memories of aroma from the neighborhood diner filled their nostrils, as frothy, black water appeared in the tiny cup.

     A popping noise from the G.I. stove broke the silence as dirty ice shavings vanished into the thick black liquid. Neither said a word as the mud came to life. It wasn't long, before a thick black liquid was stinging the open sores on their cracked lips. The stabbing pain was almost too much as old wounds opened again. Like razor cuts, stinging, then cauterized by the burning liquid.  Almost giddy, the two of them had tears in their eyes as the cups of home warmed their hands.

     Snow started falling again, and both men instinctively turned to look up, and outside. Darnel was the first to speak, "It must be warming up boss, kind of like Christmas"

     Standing now, and through the snow curtain; they both pay attention as a drunken Private bends over and disappears under the flaps of a long green tent. Darnel spoke again, "You know Boss, the Captain wants everyone to leave that guy alone. Don't even talk to him; he's on duty even when he drinks!" What's his duty, what the hell does he do? Like I told you, he's The Good Time Man! What the hell is The Good Time Man, damn it, and quit leading me on! Darnel smiled in Sarg's direction; "he's a drunk and the best camp liar we've got."

     The Boss used the barrel of his 30-caliber carbine to hold onto as he fought to stand again.  He couldn't believe his ears as he watched the narrow tent opening on the other side of the road. Someone from inside the large tent fumbled to close stiff flaps, long frozen by twenty-below temperatures.

     The Boss turned just in time to see an outstretched glove give him another cup of coffee. Using a trick Darnel taught him, he raised the simmering liquid as fast as he could, knowing if only for a second, he too could feel his wife's breath on his face.   He brought the steaming cup to his nostrils as he envisioned the girl he left on the dock, crying and waving goodbye. 

     The Boss turned to watch Darnel bend over the tiny stove, trying to soak up as much heat as he could.  He thought to himself "The poor b*****d". 

     He then remembered way back, when he was alone, how miserable this war had become.  You shared your thoughts with the cramps and fears of frost-bitten toes.  You remembered to move your feet to keep the circulation going in your legs, and you never knew if it worked.  He was so thankful not to be alone, so thankful for Darnel.  No one wants to die alone. No one wants to die without saying goodbye. 

     The warm liquid was the closest thing to a hot meal either of them had in weeks. Soon it will be their turn to move up. They both knew it, and they both knew there was no point in discussing it. As far as they were concerned, the war was over when their legs gave out and they couldn't carry their own weight. They were lucky to find an empty mortar hole to crawl into and make camp.

     Darnel broke the sadness by looking up and smiling when he said, "Hey Boss, to get back to the story", it goes like this. Private Winters was a screw-up back in the real world. Word has it; he's a drunk and liar and dated the Captain's daughter. He's the kind of guy that tells tall stories to get what he wants, and doesn't give a s**t what anybody thinks!

     As punishment for that indiscretion, the Captain swore to make a soldier out of him! And He's been a thorn in the Captain's side ever since. I've been told, he's really a good soldier; but unlike the rest of us, he'll do anything not to get sent home. Hard time waits back in the States. 

     The Captain takes him everywhere he goes and gives him the lousiest jobs as punishment for thinking he is in the same league as his daughter. The Captain knows he'll put up with the s**t as long as he can stay. 

     The Captain swore to change him, or break him; it's the worst kind of duty Boss, the worst kind.   Anyway, it's said the Captain finally found a job the private is perfect for; lying to the dying men about how good it's going to be!

     Sitting with the ones everyone knows aren't going home. Winters tells the poor b******s' stories as if the sun is coming up tomorrow. That's his job, Boss, making our dying soldiers feel good before they pass.

     They say, over in that long tent, when you're freezing to death, just before you die, you get a warm feeling and slowly fade off into sleep; never to wake again, but peaceful.

     Those men in that tent aren't stupid Boss. They know when the cot they're lying on gets moved to the outside of that tent, it's time to go to sleep for the last time. There is no heat on the outside of that tent, Boss!  They just want someone to be with them, they don't want to go alone Sarge.

      Darnel watched the Sarg's face as he listened to the s**t. Then he continued, "When it's time to go, they know there's a drunken liar sitting next to them who would go with them in a second if he could.

     Darnel paused as he watched the Sarg's expressionless face stare out the opening in the stiff tent. It seemed like a natural, the guy drinks like a fish and lies through his teeth!

     The Boss hadn't moved for a while; finally, he spoke, "Jesus, can you imagine the stories from those dying men, the letters that lying drunk has to write…. the burden he has to carry?" All that responsibility.... damn Darnel, I'm not sure all the booze in the world can drown out those feelings!

     This was one of those conversations, one of those stories the two of them recognized and hoped it would last forever.  This was one of those moments that broke the monotony of thoughts of death...thoughts of never going home or seeing your loved ones again.  They both tried to drag this story out as long as they could.  To not think about dying, and all the horrors war brings with it, if not for a few minutes was like manna.  They cherished these moments; they could taste the words and feel the blood rush through their veins, proving once more if only briefly, they were still alive. 

     Darnel knew it was kind of like a game the two of them played...and it was his turn.  Finally, and with nothing new to reveal, Darnel repeated himself...all I know Boss, is that guy tries to make our buddies forget the pain of dying by filling their heads with laughter and stories he makes up.  You know... before they go to sleep for the last time.

     Motionless, the Sergeant watches as the drunken liar crawls out of the hospital tent and into a driving snow.   He watched intently as the one man the Captain hated, defiantly struggled to rise from his knees in the freezing gale. He watched in awe as the camp liar stood erect as his dark silhouette faded in and out of the Sarg's view. 

     He saw Winters pull something from a coat pocket and cup his hands under his hood. Seconds later, blue hues of smoke curled upward and as if rebuked, the fierce wind whipped them away; personal proof for Winters he beat the whole world by lighting that cigarette.  It's the little things.

       Oblivious to war, the womanizer took another long drag before producing a small brown bottle from his other pocket. As if waving goodbye, and in one smooth motion, he raised the vial to his lips and held it there until it too had been used up. He held it up high, and then, as if he had triumphed over something, threw it down.

     Frozen in time, the Boss watched in disbelief as the private slowly turned and looked in his direction. The Boss didn't know the private could see his breath emanating from the small slit in the canvas as he watched the spectacle.  The Boss didn't know the private could see his warm breath as he spied from across the frozen road. Boss felt weak in the realization the small tent covering their mortar hole, hid nothing.

     The Sergeant froze as if the world had stopped; and for an instant, the two men acknowledged each other in silence. He bit his lip as he watched the private slowly turn away and stumble down the frozen road. He couldn't take his eyes off the hunched-over figure as the freezing, gray fog pulled him from sight.

     The Boss realized that the liar just kept the both of them alive for another hour. 

     Sarg's moment was broken when sounds of life came from behind him. It was Darnel, "hey Boss, you going to keep us alive for another day?"  Before answering, the Boss paused, he was still 'in the moment' remembering what he had just seen; this man Winters dies over and over again every day so others can be at peace. Who's the real soldier, who's the one making sacrifices in this war?

     Staring at Darnel's smile, the Boss secretly hoped the private would be there if their time came. At that very moment, Boss realized why the private was smiling at him from across the road; the drunk knew Boss was also full of lies. Just as Winters lied to each soldier, one at a time; Winters knew the Sergeant who silently spied on him from across the road, also lied that day. Winters knew the truth; and as punishment, the Captain made him relive it every day of his life. Winters knew he was doing nothing special; it was the duty of every soldier to lie to their dying comrades, whatever it took to keep them alive.  With that, he told Darnel another lie.

       With his cracked lips stinging and bleeding, he gave the best act of his shining career when he said, "You bet I'm going to keep us alive!  Where's that steak you promised me?" At that moment...at that special moment, if you listened really hard, just outside the emotion of death and the biting cold, you could have heard the sound of two friends with bleeding lips, laughing and lying through their rotting teeth to one another. Lying was easy, making that s****y coffee dark brown was the hard part. Cheers!