I BE DAMN by Gusdavis Aughtry
I BE DAMN
By
Gusdavis Aughtry
RDU is located between Raleigh and Durham, North Carolina or at least it's suppose to be. Like all airports, construction is everywhere. I like it as airports go-convenient, efficient and busy. I was the first of the brothers to arrive and felt a kind of satisfaction like I had not known in a while.
Larry, Gary, and Michael were coming through security. We all wanted to gather at the airport before Cal's plane left for Italy to tell a few war stories as we didn't know when we'd be together again. I bought us all a coffee. We sat across from the Delta check-in. The airport was the only place that we were sure to find Cal. We laughed. Ever since he was "set free," as our brother, Larry, called it, the CIA couldn't find him if he didn't want to be found. He had called all the brothers a week earlier and told us he was leaving for Italy. We suspected.
To be honest, we were a little nervous. We all hugged and laughed and looked at our feet. Where was the man?
"Oh, he'll be here", I said. "I've never seen such excitement in a grown man."
"Yeah, I know. We're going miss him, even though we hardly see him anymore"
"Think he'll stay?"
"I think so. Can you believe this?"
"Whose got his passport, what about the ticket?"
"Relax my boy, Cal is the one going to Italy."
We watched him strolling toward us.
He looked good. Tan, slim, dressed to the nines-Mr. GQ, our brother.
We all group hugged on the spot.
Always close but never closer. Our emotional hurting no was good but sad with the separation of the quintet. We were all uncharacteristically silent and Cal sensed it and smiled,
"I love all you guys and will miss you. But, you know," he paused, "I have to go. Before I do, I want to set the record straight. I am a nutso." We all busted out laughing.
Most Americans, at least those who care, don't know for anything how to appreciate the freedoms of our great country. This is what I was thinking as I looked for a parking place in the giant lot at the VA hospital. I'd just come from a tour of duty in Korea and was so glad to be on home territory. It wasn't that it had been such a bad year, in fact, quite the contrary; it had been a good one. But, there's nothing like being in a foreign country, subject to their rules, that will make you appreciate the good old U S of A.
Better to be thinking this, I thought, than the sadness facing me about my brother. Cal was ten years older but had often been like a father, especially since our Dad died. When I was in High School, he owned this big country store in a religious community called Estridge. Don't know how it got that name but was the home of the Pentecostal Holiness Church in the South or maybe just the state. I ought to know but don't. What I remember most was that the people who came to the little community for the annual camp meetings were a little strange. I didn't doubt for a moment that they felt the same about me. The girls were some kind of pretty even if it was a "hands off" policy. They didn't wear makeup and wore plain clothes even for our day. "Keep in mind," my brother would say, "These folks are in here and then gone. We are here forever."
I mostly paid attention but on occasion slipped down to the activities and checked out the participants. What is remembered about those days is that I worked hard for spending money but Cal also saw after my needs. Once when I was going to some function, he said, "You can't wear that outfit," meaning jeans-only the poor wore jeans all the time. From that moment on, I had the best with a running account at Doug's; this men's shop in our hometown. Cal was fond of saying, "Listen boy, I'm living vicariously through your exploits." We would laugh.
This was not going to be an easy visit. In fact, I could hardly believe why I was here. Cal had lost it. I shook my head and must have let out the loudest sigh of many a day. How did this happen? When I left for Korea, I knew some things were not going all that well especially on the home front but everybody has problems. His wife was just who she was if a tad bit selfish or from a male chauvinist standpoint, just being a woman. Well, maybe a bit narcissistic. In fact, I wondered constantly how they ever got together. I remember standing in a back room at the Church with Cal and my other brothers and my oldest brother saying something like, "It's not too late to back out. I have a plane ticket here." I don't know if he did but regardless, Cal went through with the ceremony. How Cal got to marriage was always a mystery; in fact, most didn't even know he and Mary Lou were dating. It was always a little game: "Cal, seeing anyone?"
"Of course, always seeing lots of people." He knew what we meant but never fessed up. I still remember the wedding, full church, Mom and Dad all dressed up. I was pretty young and didn't quite get it all but my older brothers felt he was pushed into getting married. Our folks were the best in terms of being supportive but somehow felt that Cal and a family, settling down; it was just what you did.
Cal was in the Army at Fort Jackson, trying to get to Korea, and we were going for a visit. Mary Lou went along. I remember, thinking at the time, wonder what she is doing here? Cal had already confided to the brothers that he'd met the love of his life in Italy.
We had a devil of a time locating Cal. By this time, he was a staff sergeant, moving up in rank and pretty much calling his own shots. We waited and we waited and the soldier in charge kept saying, "We're trying to find him, he's on pass." When he finally did appear, it was awkward. I got the distinct impression that this was Mom's idea and Dad just went along. And, somehow, they were pushing Mary Lou. Who knows?
What went wrong with the marriage? What goes wrong with any marriage, they start out with such promise-maybe nothing went south, life just happened. And, where we are at one juncture of our lives may not be where we are at another. When you lose it, you lose it. See what I mean, a big sigh.
"Andy, how's it going? Boy, is it ever good to see you. How was Korea?" I stammered and was momentarily blown away, the same old Cal, talking, laughing, telling war stories, asking me questions. Lost it, what is this?
"You know I wish I'd stayed in. Damn," he said with resignation. I had heard the story dozens of times. Cal had first gone into the military when he was sixteen but they threw him out when they discovered he was underage. The fact that one of his buddies forged Mom and Dad's name on the enlistment papers seemed to escape everybody. The second time he was drafted into the real thing and was sent to Italy. It was such a disappointment as he'd volunteered for Korea.
But, to hear him tell it, what a life he had in Italy. He was constantly saying, Mi scusi, (excuse me) when he wanted to make a point. His time in Trieste was the happiest of his life. Italy was just getting on its feet from WW ll and Trieste was working on its port, located at the head of the Gulf of Trieste on the Adriatic sea.
The people were poor and had been decimated by the war. Cal became the top sergeant for the ceremonial platoon. The ceremonial platoon of Cal's regiment was the face of the military in Trieste's recovery and Cal was the main man. He loved the military and wrote a poem about his unit that he never tired of repeating. I heard it over and over and often thought, "What is it with this?" Now, I'm thinking that it was a kind of mantra that was important to him to never forget. I guess we all have something. Our Dad was forever making these nonsensical statements and so we were use to it, kind of a conversation that went on with himself.
The 351st Spearhead Regiment is the name
A history in a mighty frame
In time of war, in time of peace
It's one outfit I know could stand up to its name
With the men of the ceremonial platoon who walk so proud,
They are just like one mighty crowd.
If you could see into the heart, you would say with a smile or grin,
I am the Ceremonial
He would laugh and it was not unusual for some remembering glint to cloud his eyes. The piazza as it was called was always crowded with locals who loved the Americans. GIs always had money and were looking a good time. "And, trust me, my boy," Cal would say, "Nothing endeared you to the crowds like a few jingling 'preems' in your pocket." Cal got to know many of the locals as his platoon marched in parades and often acted as a security and military police unit.
Cal loved to laugh and talk about the shiny helmet liners, "painted silver," he would say and you could comb your hair in those spit shined boots. He wanted to learn the language and had gotten pretty good. What he did was learn Italian phrases: he called them his survival phrases; good day, Buon giomo; do you speak English? Si./No; I don't understand was his favorite, Non capisco; please Per favore; thank you-Grazie; you're welcome. Prego. I'm sorry. Mi Dispiace; excuse me Mi scusi; or another way to say the same thing, he pointed out: excuse me, Permesso-one means like passing on the sidewalk and another means, "give me your attention." He would laugh and say, "See what I told you, I was getting good." In a somber moment, he'd say, "My least favorite word, goodbye-Arriverderci." His commentary often included things like "most American GIs didn't take advantage of the culture nor appreciate the people. The Italians are warm and wonderful."
The first time he saw her, he knew she was different. Her hair was so black it had a sheen to it. Love struck instantly. They fell in love and as he often said, "They communicated the language of romance." Cal had always been a romantic and had a habit of scribbling his poetry on napkins or whatever he had at hand. Bella was her name and before long, it was dinner at her home. The mother and father loved Cal. As did the brothers and young sister. He always brought gifts and in post war Italy, this was no small thing.
Bella's brother had been killed in the Resistance and her father blinded in one eye. The father had been a railway engineer. They didn't like to talk about it but Cal had schooled himself in the history of the Resistance.
It was estimated that there were close to 50,000 Allied prisoners of war held somewhere in the Italian countryside. Stella's father was part of the resistance that enabled the most massive escape of World War ll. What he did was mobilize the vast farming communities of the northern Apennines to come together to help the POWs evade capture by Germans and Fascists. Because of their efforts, almost all of the Allied POWs were able to cross the border into neutral Switzerland or to reach friendly forces elsewhere in Italy. Stella's Dad was, among many things, a munitions expert whose particular specialty was blowing up the trains that he loved. It was on one such foray that he was almost discovered and had to remain too close to the explosives and lost an eye.
Cal proposed. Stella accepted. Would she go to the states? Yes and no. What about her family? Cal described the states and especially the Carolinas, the green, the freedom, the possibilities. She would do it. He begins to work on the visa to get her stateside, there's the long lines, and bits of discouragement everywhere, to include his commander, His CO was a good old boy from Texas and talked with a drawl that even Cal noticed, mixing up the syntax of his speech, "Sergeant, you are my best NCO but I have to tell you, do you know how many soldiers want to marry Italian girls?" He didn't wait for an answer, "Every swinging GI that I know."
Cal remembers the day with a type of foreboding that went way beyond what he wanted for his life. He got advice. Go back to the states; it's easy to send for her. How could he tell her? His tour was coming to an end. Maybe the Captain was right, while you are overseas, you're lonely, you fall in love. Get back to the states and into your regular environment and if you're still in love, can't live without her, you can get her a visitor's visa-it's easier.
It became OBE. His orders for Korea came through. The Captain said it was just a coincidence. Cal never made it to Korea; on the way, he was diverted home for emergency leave as Mom was at the point of death. She had this mysterious illness which disappeared almost as quickly as it began. The doctors thought it was some form of blood poisoning, possibly even a deadly bite from a black widow spider. The brothers speculated that she conspired with the extremely effective Red Cross rep, Mrs. Swanson, who knew literally everybody everywhere or so it seemed. She saved many a local boy from war she claimed.
The trip to Faison, their hometown, seemed longer than usual. I was stationed with the 82d Airborne at Fort Bragg, only about thirty five or forty miles away. The 82d was my all time favorite Division. Serving with the 82d would put me close to my brothers. And, we needed to support Cal's wife. Mary Lou had been a kind of confidante when I was growing up, talked to me about girls and feelings and the future. All the time I was overseas, we'd written. This was very strange. Surely, Mary Lou could clear it up. How could his brother be incarcerated at the VA hospital and yet be so much the same as always. This was very strange.
Pulling into the yard, I couldn't help but notice the complete semi circle of gigantic oaks along the back of the house. Green was the word and it always amazed me. A lake was beyond the trees and it was so still that walking on it seemed a possibility.
Mary Lou greeted me with a genuine hug. She was like a sister and we all needed a sister as our only one died very early. All the brothers laughed to keep from crying about the shortened life of Gertrude that we called, "Get." God bless her.
"How have you been? I was wondering when you were coming by. Thanks for calling from the airport. This has been hard but I guess you might say life."
"Well, yes, I've just come from the VA hospital."
Mary Lou seemed to have a look of panic on her face and said, "Oh, you saw Cal. I wish you had come here first so we could talk."
"He looked great and seems the absolute same to me. I can't see any difference."
Mary Lou got up and went to the sink and asked with her back turned, "Could I get some coffee or tea for you?" The obvious pause--she was looking for a reply even to one unsuspecting of it. The stillness in the house had an eerie kind of feeling. What I did not know but would soon discover: the relationship between us would never be the same. She answered. "I don't see how you can say he's the same. He hardly knows who he is half the time. I can't tell you the number of times he's been totally erratic. He gets angry and then goes for long periods when he doesn't say anything. He won't go to the doctor, goes out for long walks and doesn't return for hours. Sometimes we have to go out looking for him. Does that sound like someone who is the same? There's something definitely wrong with him." For Christ's sake, what is wrong with her. Why is she so angry.