Hatbox

“I don’t have time to nursemaid you greenhorns,” Sergeant Victor Pascatelli grumbles. “Stow your gear and help Corporal Prentice unload the ammunition.”

The squint-eyed Sergeant throws open the front door of the barracks.

A squat, beefy soldier sitting on a bed looking at racy photos pops to attention.

“Take the two bunks in the back. That’s Prentice. Get acquainted and get to the ammo dump pronto…”

Corporal Duke Prentice scans the two new soldiers, laughing boisterously.

Harte Buckner, the older-looking of the two men, is clean-cut, with aquiline features and a quiet air of intelligence.

“You look like a gentleman. Guess I’ll call you Professor,” Duke says.

The second new soldier, Tommy Tooley, is more boy than man, with soft blonde hair, benign brown eyes, and a skinny build that suggests he’s still growing.

“I’ve seen spuds older than you, boy. That’s a good name for you, Spud…The United States Army must be scrapin’ the bottom of the pickle barrel to be bringin’ you two in. Let’s see if we can live long enough to unload some highly dangerous explosives.”

“But I joined to fight,” Spud complains.

“Remind me of that the first time the Germans train a machine gun on you… Providin’ you live…”

***

The men work in silence for a few minutes before Spud innocently asks, “Are we gearing up for a big fight?”

“Yep. Pretty soon, we’re gonna bomb the German lines with these very shells. Then twenty thousand soldiers are gonna charge across No Man’s Land and drive the Boche all the way back to Hamburg.”

“Have you been on the front line?” Spud asks.

“Do ya think I’ve been schelppin’ supplies since we entered the war? The trenches are hell on earth. They’re the garbage dumps of this war. They’re filled with abandoned guns, shredded uniforms, shattered helmets, and bleached bones… There’s bodies in the trenches that are so mangled you’ll think you’re in a butcher shop. Every shell that hits the ground uncovers a decayed corpse. The dead comrades we’re able to bring back are piled on top of each other, six feet high. Some of our less-than-compassionate commanders have used them to bulk up the trenches… There’s always the smell of blood boiled by the sun in the trenches that sticks in your nostrils and turns your stomach. I’d rather be gassed a hundred times than breathe in that smell of death. You know why soldiers only spend five days a month on the front line? It’s five days of excruciatin’, non-stop bombardment, death, and mud. And rats…Rats the size of your grandma’s tabby cat.”

“Why don’t you shoot them?” Spud asks.

“It’s considered a waste of ammunition. You have to bayonet them. Otherwise, they’ll eat through your rations bag. They’ll even eat the biscuits, which are as hard as rock. And the rats are always there to keep you company when you want to catch a few winks. A new officer who joined our regiment was given a dug-out with a spring bed. He was preparin’ to get some shut eye when he heard some scufflin’. He shone his torch on the bed and saw two rats fightin’ over a severed hand. So, you boys still interested in a life of adventure?”

***

The men return to the barracks after a weapons check and breakfast. Some play cards or dice. The rest wait anxiously for the mail.

Duke comes in an hour later, handing out letters and packages.

Spud is playing with a bird he captured.

“You know, Spud, for a smart kid, you’re pretty dumb sometimes,” Duke says. “You take that bird to the front line, he sings, and the Boche’ll blow your block off... By the way, there’s no mail for you.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Didn’t you say you had a Momma? How come she don’t write you or send you some cookies or somethin’?”

“She’s busy. She volunteers to help out with the war effort. And she’s not much on writing.”

“I’ve got a wife, Mavis, back in Brooklyn. She don’t write ‘cause she can’t. We been together in sin and marriage for fourteen years. She keeps a good house and never nags me about havin’ a few beers after work. I was a longshoreman before the war. We got two runny-nosed brats. Georgie is six, and Buddy’s four. I miss ‘em…How about you, Professor? I bet that letter you got is from some society dame.”

“You’re an oddly good judge of character. And it’s pretty ironic that you call me Professor, since I am one. I graduated from Colgate and was teaching English there when my cousin prodded me into signing up with him. He was at the Battle of Cantigny a few weeks ago. He didn’t make it…”

“Sad. But ya still got your dame at home.”

“Yes, my wife, Dorothy. She teaches at a girls’ finishing school. And we’ve got a girl, Emmaline. She’s two. Her first word was ‘Daddy.’”

“Well, tell Dorothy your grumpy guide to the trenches says hi.”

Harte finishes writing his letter:

***

My darling Dorothy,

I’m still in reserve, but Corporal Duke Prentice says we’ll be on the front line any day now. Duke is a gruff Brooklynite who resembles a caveman but looks after us like a mother hen. He sends his love, as does Tommy (Spud), the young, good-natured boy I told you about. I think Spud’s desire for action was dampened a bit today when they brought the wounded from the front line to the hospital. My heart went out to the maimed, blinded, severely wounded men barely older than Spud.

As we prepare to fight the Germans, my thoughts have turned to you and Emmaline. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to miss seeing our baby grow up or never feel you in my arms again. But a lot of other men, husbands and fathers like me, have willingly gone to their deaths to protect America and their families. So, I’ve convinced myself that I have a duty to perform and may never see you again. Rest assured, I’m going to do everything I can to make it home to you and Emmaline. And I can’t wait to get back into the classroom and bore the next group of students to tears!

I fondly remember our perfect life together... Our wedding day in Newport, our vacations in Maine, bringing in the New Year in Times Square… I can’t wait to make more memories with you.

With love,

Harte

***

The men’s return to the barracks after dinner is interrupted when they pause at the hospital tent. A half dozen shaking, spasming men shouting incoherently are being guided into an ambulance.

“Gas?” Spud asks.

“Nah. Those malingerers claim to be sufferin’ from shell shock,” Duke returns.

“Their suffering looks real to me,” Harte says.

“There’s no such thing as shell shock. Sarge says so.”

“And old beetle brow is always right?”

“It’s bunk,” Duke insists. “They’re a bunch of cowards.”

Spud walks toward the ambulance.

“Leave those slackers alone!” Duke shouts after him.

Spud taps a bald man in a white coat on the back. The man turns, his tired, creased face mirroring his concern.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Yes. Dr. Paul Caruso.”

“Are these boys shell-shocked?”

“There’s no such thing as shell shock!” Duke yells.

Dr. Caruso exhales heavily. “The facts say differently. Three years ago, 40% of French casualties at the Battle of the Somme were from shell shock. Shell shock isn’t just a physical affliction. It causes nightmares and paranoia. Shell shock patients experience dread, panic, fear, or suffer from an inability to reason, sleep, walk, or talk.”

Duke spits out his wad of gum. “Hogwash! They’re just cowards lookin’ for a ticket back home.”

Dr. Caruso gives Duke a grim look. “Even a battle-hardened tough guy like you can suffer its effects. Follow me…”

Inside the hospital tent are two dozen broken, twitching, murmuring soldiers. One soldier is crying, calling out for his mother. Another patient stands in a corner, clutching his stomach.

“His company was ambushed while out on patrol,” Dr. Caruso says. “He ran out of ammo and ended up stabbing half a dozen Germans to death. He keeps reliving the pain they suffered as they died.”

Dr. Caruso points at another corner of the room. A soldier in a hospital gown marches back and forth repeatedly singing, “Over there, over there.”

“He even mutters it in his sleep. His company was attacked and practically wiped out when they were singing it.”

“Jeez… What do you think now, Corporal Prentice?” Spud asks.

Harte and Spud look around the tent. Duke is gone.

They find Duke outside, chewing a mouthful of gum.

“You know what scares me?” he asks them. “Howie Combs was the bravest man I’ve ever known. “He got blown to pieces by an artillery shell. They had to pick pieces of Howie off the trees. You know what they buried him in?”

“A cheap coffin, just like everyone else,” Harte replies.

“A hatbox… There was so little left of him that they had to use a hatbox. My greatest fear is endin’ up like Howie… In a hatbox.”

***

Harte takes off his helmet, wiping his brow.

“Never take your hat off, Professor,” Duke cautions. “The Boche have snipers that can pick you off from 1,000 yards.”

Both men stiffen at the sound of an artillery shell exploding in the distance.

Duke balls up his fists to keep his hands from shaking.

Harte offers Duke a stick of gum.

“You know there’s worse things ‘round here to be afraid of than guard duty,” Duke says.

“Yes. I could get the trots from Cooky’s so-called ‘stew’.”

“Worse. There’s the spirits of the dead to worry about. Some appear, reachin’ out to soldiers, just before they’re killed. Other ghosts kill with a look or a touch… But they’re not all bad. French soldiers who fought at Verdun still talk about a ghost dressed in 1870s-era soldiers’ clothing. He wore a white robe that matched his long white beard. Sometimes he led the charge against the German trenches. Other times, he was seen giving dyin’ soldiers a drink of water.”

Harte bursts out laughing. “What a crock.”

“Howie Combs saw him just before he died.”

***

Sergeant Pascatelli bursts into the barracks. Two men scramble to hide the bottle of rum they’ve been drinking as the rest of the men snap to attention.

“At ease, you mutton heads. I’ve got good news for you. Before we send you back to the front, you get to spend the night indulging yourself in LeHarve.”

“Girls!” Duke shouts.

“Calm down, Prentice. Remember, you represent the American Expeditionary Forces, the finest army on Earth. Don’t screw up.”

***

After a few drinks, the men hardly notice the sound of shells exploding in the distance.

Everyone except Duke, whose hands shake. His heart rate quickens, and he takes a deep, soothing breath, followed by a shot of whiskey.

Sipping his tea, Spud looks around the smoke-filled room at the scantily clad women. “I still think we should have gone to the opera house.”

Duke takes a long drag on his cigar. Blowing out a cloud of smoke, he waves over a pretty brunette, pinching her cheek as she sits on his knee.

“When the heck are you gonna grow up, Spud? You need to stash that picture of your momma and live a little. You don’t wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

Harte downs his scotch. “Aw, give him a break. You know he’s girl shy.”

“Have you even kissed a girl, Spud? Held their hand? Well, we’ll fix that.”

Duke whispers into his girl’s ear. The brunette winks at Spud. “J’ai une surprise pour toi.”

“What?”

“You’re about to be surprised,” Harte warns.

Seconds later, a slinky blonde concealed in a myriad of veils dances toward Spud. She gyrates in front of him, her sensual stare dissecting him.

“I think she likes you,” Duke teases.

She takes Spud by the hand, guiding him to the center of the room. The other soldiers whistle and hoot as the pair dances to the music of a gypsy violinist.

“I think she’s too fast for him,” Harte says.

“They’re a perfect match. Just wait…”

The song ends. The blonde tears off the veil concealing the lower half of her face, revealing a manicured, blonde mustache.

“She’s a man!” Harte exclaims.

“Might be more his speed,” Duke chuckles.

Confused and embarrassed, Spud withers under the torrent of laughter and jokes from his fellow soldiers.

He plops down at the table.

“…You didn’t have to do that, Corporal… Just because I’m saving myself…”

Duke pushes a bottle of whiskey across the table at Spud. “It was a joke. Didn’t mean to traumatize ya. I did it hopin’ you’d loosen up. Maybe if you had a few drinks…”

A young woman in a stylish outfit wearing a beret and carrying a guitar pulls a stool into the middle of the room. Strumming the guitar, she sings the ballad, “I May Be Gone A Long, Long Time.”

“…Her… She’s the one…,” Spud says dreamily. Rising from the table, he drifts toward the center of the room, singing along.

Spud claps enthusiastically at the end of the song. Approaching the singer, he whispers in her ear.

“Looks like our boy’s about to become a man,” Duke says proudly.

The woman strums the guitar. Spud begins to sing, “Roses of Picardy.” His mellifluous voice turns everyone’s attention to him, silencing the room.

Duke wipes a tear from his eye. “Guess there’s different ways of becomin’ a man.”

***

Harte is roused from his boozy slumber by frantic banging on the door.

His head throbbing, he nearly steps on an empty bottle, cursing as he stumbles to the door.

The house manager, a heavyset brute with a club in his hand, yells, “LE SORTIR D’ICI!”

“What?”

“Your friend… The rude one… Get him the hell out of here!”

Harte follows the manager down the hallway to an open room.

The brunette is standing on the bed, her nude body barely concealed by a sheet.

“C’EST UN ANIMAL FOU!”

Naked, his fists clenched and his eyes bugging out of his head, Duke shouts, “THEY’RE KILLING US! BOOM! BOOM! THE BOMBS ARE FALLING LIKE RAIN!”

Harte notices Duke’s lips are smeared with blood.

The brunette has a sizeable chunk of flesh missing from her thigh.

“Get that animal out of here, or fini! I will get him out the hard way,” the manager warns, slapping the club against his leg.

“C’mon, Duke, behave… Remember what Sergeant Pascatelli said…”

“THEY’RE COMIN’! BUT THEY AIN’T GONNA GET ME! I AIN’T GONNA WIND UP IN NO HATBOX!”

Lowering his head, Duke charges at the door, bowling over both men.

He runs down the stairs, screaming, “HATBOX! HATBOX!”

Regaining his feet, Harte smiles apologetically at the manager, explaining, “It’s shell shock… That and all the liquor…He’ll be okay.”

Harte runs after Duke.

He sees Duke in the street, grappling with two police officers.

“No! He’s shell-shocked! Leave him alone.”

Screaming, Duke punches one of the officers. Spinning around, he kicks the other in the groin.

Duke growls at the first officer. Petrified, the officer pulls out his weapon, yelling, “Cesser! STOP!”

Duke takes a threatening step toward him.

“HATBOX!”

The officer fires his gun.

***

Harte’s fellow soldiers dress Duke and prepare to take his body back to camp.

“Tell Sergeant Pascatelli it was a mistake. That the policeman thought he was a burglar,” Harte says to them.

Spud steps forward. “No. It’s better to say he was shot saving us. Tell Sarge that a stranger dressed in a British uniform came into the house, and because the Corporal was so experienced, he recognized he was a spy. The man tried to poison our drinks, but Corporal Prentice caught him. Tell Sarge that the man shot him, and I chased after him. And when the time came for us to return to camp, I was still missing, and you heard the spy killed me and escaped.”

Spud assays Harte’s bewildered look.

He puts his arm around the blonde singer.

“She’s the one. I know if I go back to camp, I’ll never see her again.”

“So, you’re deserting? What about your mother?”

“She died years ago. I joined the army because I didn’t have a direction in life. Now I have something to live for.”

***

Sergeant Pascatelli looks over his column of men.

“This is the day, boys. Your turn to shine, to make your families proud, and to show the Germans that American soldiers are the best men ever to put on a uniform. I’ve heard some of you say that being selected to knock out the enemy's artillery is a suicide mission… I say, today we live or die as heroes!”

Sergeant Pascatelli blows his whistle.

“OVER THE TOP!”

Fifty-six men scramble out of the trenches. A German machine gun immediately opens fire.

The disheartening sound of shells whistling in the air makes Harte’s legs shake. Men running alongside of Harte disappear in a cloud of smoke and gore.

Harte zig zags across the bleak terrain, diving into the mud when machine gun bullets narrowly miss his feet.

In the distance, his fellow soldiers scream for their wives and mothers.

Harte lies face down for what feels like an eternity as shells explode around him, covering him in a thick, brown ooze.

He looks up during a brief respite in the carnage.

An old man in a flowing robe with a white beard bends down, offering him a drink of water from a canteen.

He closes his eyes as he feels the cool water flowing down his throat.

“…Thank you…”

When he opens his eyes, the man is gone.

The sound of artillery draws closer.

Harte looks up at the shell that will end his life.

“…Hatbox…”