Chapter 10 - Part 2
Arnold Gray stands there in the heavy and misty air of a winter day along the bygone setting of Euclid Avenue and watches Robert and Mildred Mathis walking through their barren yard towards that faded, old house – one moment feeling a ridiculing assessment of the union of 2 people seemingly substantially removed from even the most liberal interpretation of a fulfilling marriage, and the next, feeling a contradictory and unaccountable envy that they seem so happy together.
A provoked frown comes to Robert's face as he reaches down, picks up the evening newspaper and glances at what appears contesting headlines. One recites the body count of American soldiers killed in Vietnam the past week and the other heralds the latest campus protest against the "immoral war" that has taken their lives. In his own unpolished manner, he wonders if the media is indeed reporting a valid division within the country or if, in fact, it is creating, or at least exaggerating it.
He sits down on the sunken and discolored sofa beside the window facing Euclid Avenue, and he scans the narrative on how the protests were against how the American involvement was bringing so much suffering to so many innocent people. He utters a few words of profanity under his breath and throws the paper down, remembering all those "innocent people" fleeing the communist advance on the roads from Taejon. Many of those in the protest weren't even born then and very few of the others could remember feeling the pride within the country after prevailing over another evil enemy in the days of World War II but immediately, his thoughts turn to his own attitude during his first months of service in the Army and what a difference seeing the world as it really is had made in him. His intolerance with the protesters is quickly disiplaced by his own conscience.
Robert Mathis sits there staring down at the newspaper for a few moments before his eyes begin to wander about the room. He stares at the Combat Infantryman Badge in the small frame on his mantel where it has been since he returned from Korea and remembers the day it was awarded to his whole company in one of those filthy Korean villages. It really hadn't meant much to him until he had seen Sergeant Owens and Captain Draper a few days later with theirs pinned to their field jackets. Each of their badges had a star in the center of the wreath, indicating second award, and after that, knowing he had won the same decoration had brought him a feeling of self-esteem and an awarding invigoration he hadn't felt before and didn't understand.
His gaze turns towards the window and down on the Moreland schoolyard, bleakly cast in the last light of a dismay day. He lacks the insight to access the disgust at the headlines he feels filtering through his body, wearied from another of many days on the assembly line, because he is as much of a contradiction as opposing points of view in a newspaper. He is much the same man now as he was that day when he had sat in the barracks on Kyushu, feeling such a loathing for that stupid-ass inspection and the simple-minded bastards who took it all so damn seriously. He is still a loudmouth and many would quite properly describe him as crude, because he certainly has nothing of the manner of a gentleman and never once has professed any sort of spiritual repentance after his experiences in Korea. In a very narrow sense, however, he isn't the same man.
Even though it has been over 20 years since he last saw Joey, each time he thinks of him, there is always that same warn sensation he finally felt when he realized Joey was his true friend. Certainly, many times over the years, he has thought of Sergeant Owens, a man who could have been his friend, if he would have only let him. Then, he never stopped to realize when one person attempts to befriend another, he can only sincerely reach out to him with a mannerism that his own life and experiences have created. Sometimes, that manner will be gentle and accommodating and the person will be forgiving and understanding as Joey most certainly had been. Other times, the manner will be as was Owens' – stern and demanding, because he had been a soldier for most of his life, and that was all he had ever known.
And now, Robert Mathis so regrets those times of his life when he was inclined to effectuate some sort of pronouncement on others without at least taking into account their pasts that many times, had yielded the mannerisms he found so objectionable. All the more condemning is the recognition that he should have first examined himself as to what his mannerism had on all those who were never his friends but perhaps could have been. So, when the trials of this world finally prevail upon one to reconcile himself to the reality his nature might well have brought unhappiness to those who, in their own way, were trying to break through to him as only they knew how, there is a damning memory for all those past mistakes, all that past thoughtlessness and a determined resolve that for what time remains in life, not to be so inconsiderate, not to be so unthinking of the feelings and needs of other people. Such is the conscience of those to whom life has passed a certain reconciliation, though it be all too late to take away their unremitting regret. It is a liberation of sorts from what a person once was to what he now is and often, such a sanctifying transformation is only attained through the thoughts and acts of those who understand a misguided person.
So many times, Robert has remembered that night when Joey and Sergeant Owens lost their lives and the massive frontal assault of the Chinese Communist forces that came only a few minutes after he made his way back to friendly lines. He can still hear the blowing bugles, the sound of the burp guns, the exploding grenades and the howling voices of the swarms of men who threw themselves against the hopelessly outnumbered American forces. As thought it were yesterday, he still sees the grim wreckage of the American tanks and trucks strewn along the sides of the retreat routes, line with the fallen bodies of those who were both good and evil but were all dead just the same.
____________________
When his unit was withdrawn from Korea, he had at first thought they had been the unlucky ones and that nothing could have been worse than the demeaning retreats of the early days of the war and the shock of the hoards of screaming yellow bastards senselessly rushing into 105-millimeter howitzers as they fired near point blank into the oncoming masses. The units on the line had reacted so differently to the surprise of the Chinese intervention, much like people react to what their lives award or deny them. Some of the companies quickly jumped into what trucks were available and left everything behind, but others would not retreat until they had carried out their wounded and courageously withstood several mindless Chinese attacks.
All those things have been indelibly engraved in Robert's mind for all these years but now, he knows those who served after the Chinese intervention were truly the unlucky ones. There were Migs attacking from across the Chinese border, yet the UN field commanders were strictly prohibited from authorizing they be pursued into China. There was MacArthur's understandable refusal to accept the containment idea and his insistence on total victory with the use of all weapons in the UN arsenal. How dismal it must have been for those on the line when MacArthur was relieved from command, admittedly after having made a number of ill-conceived remarks, but only for wanting to fulfill his duty as a soldier, as he understood it, and shield forces under his command from the caveman tactics being thrown against them in the stalemate that was to follow. All the while, whether they lived or died was a matter of political debate and not informed tactical planning.
Worse of all must have been the fighting that continued after the supposed peace talks began. Most of the American casualties were during the peace talks, and the Communist strategy was obvious, both to the UN negotiators and those on the line as well – the Communist strategy was one of psychology rather than one based on sound military fundamentals. Their scheme was to inflict heavy casualties on the UN forces during the truce talks and foster the adverse public opinion building against UN involvement. In the end, the war came to a non-conclusive halt with the signing of the armistice at Panmunjon, but even that was without the most degrading calamity. South Korea, the ally that the US had been so willing to defend at the cost of thousands and thousands of American casualties, never signed the peace treaty and technically remains at war with North Korea to this day.
____________________
Mildred watches her husband aimlessly staring down at the newspaper headlines and feels a warm affection, not at all for the man he once was but for a man she has known since he returned from Korea. So many times over the years, she has heard him speak of Sergeant Owens and Joey, and she knows he is thinking of them now.
He looks up at her and in a hesitant voice, asks, "Mildred, there's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time but somehow, I couldn't find the words."
Rarely has she seen her husband in such a reflective and fragile mood, and at this moment, it is she who is without words. She can only reach out and gently place her hand on top of his, resting on the outdated sofa.
He clutches her hand, raises it to his lips and placidly utters, "I've never understood why you stayed with me during those first years we were married."
"It was because of your mother and father," she immediately responds, as a tender and sympathetic smile comes to her face and she softly brushes his hair from across his forehead.
He is surprised and glances up at her with the most uncertain expression, asking, "Mama and Daddy?"
A delicate smile weeps over her face, she moves closer to him and lays her head softly on his shoulder. She hesitates a moment before saying, "If you hadn't been for them, I would have left you a long time before you were drafted."
"What do you mean?" he asks, clearly shaken by an answer he did not expect.
Tears come to her eyes as she says, "They gave me a love and understanding that I had never known, just as thought I were their own daughter." She looks across the room at those two chairs by the large window and can see them sitting there just as they would almost every night before they died. Her voice is quivering. "They knew I was so terribly unhappy at first, but they didn't want to see you hurt by my leaving you." She swallows, sits up and adds in a much more steady voice, "I wanted you to be happy, but everything I did seemed to make things worse."
Robert feels the punishing conscience he has felt so many times since he saw that officer, lying there on that wretched road, pinned under the Jeep that had just crushed him, only moments after he had said those bastards in the clean uniforms would get their asses out as soon as they heard the first shot. It is a conscience that is merciless – an endless source of shame and regret from which there is no escape, even though he knows he is a different man than the first time he saw Sergeant Owens and Joey standing in company formation on Kyushu.
Mildred wipes the tears form her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and quite abruptly, her mood turns seriously inquisitive as she asks, "There's something I've wanted to ask you, Robert, but I never knew exactly how to put it. The man that came back from Korea wasn't the same one I came so close to leaving. What happened to you over there?" She waits but he does not answer and just sits there, staring down at the newspaper. She remembers all those times over the years when he has spoken of Joey and Sergeant Owens, and as an affectionate and warm sentiment surges through her, she asks, "It was Sergeant Owens and Joey, wasn't it?"
He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees, still gazing at the newspaper. Slowly, his head rises, he looks at the 2 empty chairs where his mother and father would be, if they were still alive and then, peers out the window at the last light of a dispiriting winter day. There is a slight smile on his coarse and unshaven face as he gently nods and says, "In their own ways, they were the kindest and most understanding men I have ever known, and I loved them very much."