The Good Deed

The Good Deed

The canteen chaffed Jim’s weary butt as the equally weary company column plodded back to the reserve area. The line of men moving to the rear were troops that had been committed to the fight for over five days and were now going back for a brief rest, to shape up, and to replace lost and worn equipment and gear.
Jim and his comrades were fatigued, spent. Their actions…purely reflexive. Morning fog still hung in the air, and the day was already hot. A cloud of dust followed the winding road as an endless stream of men and trucks moved in the opposite direction and toward the front.
Jim was walking quietly, head down, weighted, and tired when he was certain he had glimpsed a body. Largely camouflaged by vegetation, it lay crumpled in a deep ditch a few feet from the road. The dead GI in dusty fatigues, still wearing a helmet and light combat pack, was oddly twisted and looked like a helpless doll. Jim had seen all too many dead Americans, and Krauts for that matter, but the wrenching reality of the torn bodies, futility, and waste of it all had been totally out of his control.
Jim pictured the body in the ditch as his and struggled to push the thoughts of home, family, and death out of his mind.
As the column trudged on, Jim realized he was likely the only one who had recognized the object in the ditch, for what it was, a slain soldier. About one hundred yards down the road the company swung off and into the reserve area. The company commander spoke to his first sergeant. “We’ll bivouac here. Let the men make camp. Rest first, shape up later.” The ground troops rested in improvised shelters, tents, and half tents. Some slept the sleep of exhaustion. Others twisted and turned, often muttering incoherently.
The day developed, the dust thickened, the sun rose higher, and the endless line of relief men and trucks continued moving toward the front. The silent body of the dead soldier lay in the ditch not far from Jim’s tent.
The war, the heat, the fatigue had worn Jim in body and in spirit, and his exhausted mind now worked overtime about the dead soldier in the ditch. First, he cursed himself. “Damn it, man. You can’t assume responsibility for that soldier.” Then he reasoned, “It’s all tough, you just take care of yourself. Let the overhead tell you what to do.” But the thought kept coming back. “The poor bastard’s layin’ dead in that ditch and no one seems to know but me.” He asked himself, “So what? Thousands of bodies are dead and mangled and no one made you responsible for any of’em. Graves registration’ll find’im!”
But Jim knew there was no guarantee, and in his mind, that wouldn’t be right. Heavy tanks would soon be moving up. Their monstrous tracks would crush the sides of the road and fill in the ditches. The body would likely never be found.
He tossed restlessly and cursed himself anew. “You fool, you’re exhausted, you need the rest, you’re goin’ back up there pretty quick and you get this goddamned quirk in your head! Forget it! It’s not your deal! Get some sleep!” He kicked the thought aside but it kept coming back--like a boomerang.
Jim crawled out and found his good and competent squad leader. They had become ‘old soldiers’ together. Arkie was sprawled on his blanket, drowsing, not really asleep. He looked puzzled when Jim gently shook his shoulder. “I saw a dead soldier in the drainage ditch back there as we moved up.”
Arkie immediately became alert and sat up. “Damn, Jimmie, I ain’t missin’ no men! Who was he? Anyone from the company?”
Jim hesitated, and fumbled with the words, “Nobody I know, but he’s an American, and he’s dead…not long, but he’s dead.”
The squad leader looked curiously at his tired, yet intensely lucid rifleman. “Jesus, I thought for a second you were gonna tell me he was one of ours” and advised, “If you don’t know the guy, don’t let it bother you. Someone’ill find him. Get some sleep. I gotta draw some ammo and new carbine.” He then squinted, and queries, “You got all yer gear?”
Jim nodded absently. “I got everything I need. I’ll see yuh Arkie!”
“Sure kid, get some rest!”
Back in his tent Jim tossed and turned, asking himself if he should drop it or pursue it. Weary from vacillating, he rolled out to seek Captain Rice, his company commander. Rice had evidently just awakened and was pulling on his boots. He motioned for one of his most trusted soldiers to sit beside him.
“Captain, as we moved back I happened to look down and there was this body in the ditch. I’m sure it’s an American and I don’t think he’s been dead too long.” The Captain’s mind moved around it. In combat the company commander worried about his own men and this situation was clearly out of his sphere. He tried to move farther away from it.
“Jim, Donovan is cracking up on us. I gotta bust’im or send’im to the hospital. You can handle his squad. Why don’t you take it?”
Jim shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t want no more stripes.” His voice trailed off, “I don’t want anything.”
The captain dismissed him. “Jim, get some rest. I gotta a feelin’ we’ll be movin’ out at dusk.”
The determined rifleman returned to his tent and tried to console himself that he had tried, but he still could not let it go. He listened to the sounds of the day and eventually drifted into a troubled sleep.
It seemed to Jim like he had just begun dreaming when he was shouted awake to, “Y’all out…we’re goin’ back…you men get down to the grape arbor and draw yer ammo!” The memory returned and had become like a millstone around his neck. Jim fell in with the men to draw ammo and rations, fill their canteens, and strike tents.
The company then fell into a loose formation and waited, some smoked, others talked softly. The captain gazed in the direction of the loose ranks and reminded the combat veterans of what they were already well aware. “It’s lookin’ rough up there again.”
The sun had disappeared behind the mountains; and military units, friend and foe alike, relied on the short period of evening nautical twilight for last minute preparations. The air had cooled and felt like velvet to Jim’s lungs. “How long before we move out?” He quietly asked…of everyone, yet no one.
“I’d give it another fifteen minutes,” Arkie estimated.
As the squads continue to form, Jim turned to his sergeant. “I’ll be right back… somethin’ I gotta do.” Not waiting for an answer, he started at a walk toward the body and then broke into a trot until he reached the approximate location of his first encounter and slid into the deep ditch. The body was still there, covered by a light blanket of road dust. It was eerily macabre and the enveloping darkness was cause for haste.
Trucks moved noisily overhead as Jim bent and grasped the dead soldier by a wrist and an ankle. The corpse seemed surprisingly light as the mountain infantryman swung it up and onto the shoulder of the road, and then dog-trotted down the ditch to crawl out just in time to rejoin the squad that was on its feet. They had slung arms and were, literally, on the verge of ‘movin’ out.’
On the road there was a delay. “What’s the hold up?” the CO asked his first sergeant who had gone forward to check it out.
“Damndest thing I ever heard of, Captain. A driver up there nearly wrecked his truck. Swears a dead soldier, chopped damned near in half, crawled out of the ditch and came at him. He’s really shook up!”
“Did they get the body?” an anonymous soldier inquired.
“Yeah, put it in the back of the truck,” replied the first sergeant.
As they moved out it was the troops’ topic of conversation. Jim felt extreme relief, yet had some difficulty with ordering his thoughts. “It don’t make any difference who he was, what outfit he was with,” he said to himself. “He was a soldier. Any soldier deserves a burial and not to be forever lost in a goddamn ditch! At least now his family will know what happened and can give him a proper burial.”
Arkie looked meditatively at Jim but said nothing. The captain called for Jim to march at the lead with him as they move out. He was battle hardened and wise, but by no mean insensate. “Jim,” he said, “that Lazarus bit is the damndest thing I’ve heard. How do you feel about it?”
Jim, ironically, felt the ‘millstone’ begin to lift from his gaunt shoulders. A twinge of happiness crept in, accompanied by a wild desire to roar with laughter. “I feel fine, Sir, just fine.” He patted his rifle and listened to the clank of equipment and booted feet crunching the pebbles underfoot. “Kinda like a Boy Scout that’s done his good deed!”

By
John A. Powers
Box 94
Davenport Center, NY 13751