OutyToMy
Country
By Jane Watson
Dave sat down at the typewriter
^nd stared into the dark room a
•moment trying to think of how to
begin the letter. He could make
•out no distinct object in the dark
ness, but he heard the clock tick
ing in military precision. Rain was
dripping in the gutter pipe outside
• the window rhythmically —left —
left—flight—fprward march—
right. Dave thought about
turning on the radio softly to shut
,ont these sounds. It was time for
•■“Music in the Night”. Then he
thought about the boy. on duty sit
ting at the end of the hall under
the one bare, cold neon tube. He
couldn’t risk any more demerits.
Last week he had kept night
watch. He remembered sitting in
the strai.ght chair facing the long
hall, lighted only by the tiny night
lights along the floor.
He liked to sit and imagine how
some night when he was on duty,
lie would leave the desk and walk
down the hall. It would stretch
farther and farther away and he
would walk until the desk glaring
under the bare neon tube would
fade and vanish. Still he would
■walk. The night lights would be
come brighter and brighter and
soon he w^ould close his eyes, daz
zled, always walking. When he
opened them, he would find a new"
world, and he would be free. Dave
frowned and decided to risk the
demerits. He flipped The radio
switch and turned it down low ’til
the buzzing was replaced by smooth
soft music. Dave leaned back in
diis chair and smiled. To hell with
;demerits. He imagined what would
happen if the boy on duty heard.
“On my honor as a West Point
cadet--” He would be reported—
“Duty to God and my country”—
“God”, and Dave thought of march
ing into chapel and reciting the
Cadet’s Prayer — “my country”—
.Dave dropped the front legs of his
chair back onto the floor with a
thud and sat up straight, remem
bering, staring into the darkness.
“Duty to my country,” that’s
, W'hat his older brother had said
seven years ago. Dave had watch
ed Tom all during church that
morning. The w'hole family was
sitting as usual in the pew next to
the window in the grey stone Epis
copal church—Mom and Dad, then
Ann and Tom sitting very close
together, then Dave. But when
the opening hymn was announced,
Tom hadn’t moved to open a book
for Ann. He looked straight
ahead, not seeming to hear. Dave
thrust his hymnal over and Tom
jumped, startled. He stared at the
page a moment before he grinned
and whispered, “Thanks”. During
the sermon, Tom stared out of the
window. There was no trace in
his eyes of the teasing glints Dave
knew so w'ell. Dave wondered and
started to pinch his leg—Tom
hated that—but for some reason
he didn’t. Reverend Cains began
the prayer, “Lord, be with the
boys in Germany—” Tom whisp
ered something to Ann. As she
put her hand on his knee, the sun
reflected prisms of light from her
wedding rings.
At dinner that day while Mom
and Ann were clearing away the
dishes for dessert, Tom had said
suddenly that he believed he’d join
the Army. Ann kept on stacking
plates, but Mom had sat down
cphckly. She and Dad tried to
talk him out of it. Ann kept scrap
ing the plates. It was then he’d
said something about duty to his
country. Dave had sat silent wish
ing h« were old enough to go and
forgetting how he hated being
called Tom’s “kid brother” and the
“baby”.
. Tom came home on leave before
^e went overseas. Dave remem
bered how straight he was in his
khaki uniform as he jumped off
the early morning train steps. Dave
held out his hand awkwardlj".
“Good to see you, Tom.”
Tom grasped his hand tightly
I and mumbled something in reply
[ keeping his other arm about Ann’s
I waist, looking at her.
I That evening when Dave came
j home from school he found Tom
[ alone in the living room sitting in
! the stuffed chair by the fireplace.
The grey half-light of dusk
smoothed away harshness and Dave
thought Tom was smiling.
“Where’s Ann?”
She took Mom to the grocery
store.” ,
“You by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
Dave walked over to the fire
place and turned suddenly to face
Tom.
“Tell me about it.”
“What?”
“I mean how it—being in the
army—feels, you know.”
“Right now after a train trip
from camp, it feels tired.”
“-'\re you tired all the time,
Tom ?■’
“No. back at camp I’m just—
bored.”
“Aw Tom, I’m serious. Don’t
you remember how you talked be
fore you left—duty, and all that.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Tom’s
voice dropped.
Car lights flashed in the drive
way and Ann j^elled for. help in
carrying in the groceries. Dave
never talked to Tom alone again.
After he went back to camp, his
letters to the family came from
across the Pacific. He 'wrote about
being hungry when the supply
headquarters sent only heavy artil
lery which couldn’t be used in the
hills. He complained about Roose
velt’s giving half of eastern Asia
to the Russians and splitting up
Korea at Yalta, but he never men
tioned duty again.
When the telegram came, Dave
j had been in the living room writ
ing the valedictory speech for high
school graduation. His mother was
clattering with Sunday night sup
per in the kitchen, and Dad was
re-reading the morning paper. Ann
answered the door bell. When he
heard her very quickly thank the
messenger, he stopped writing and
waited. She walked into the room,
and he knew. Before long the
gold star had been put away, Dave
had entered Georgia Tech, and
Ann had gone to work in the
newspaper office.
The radio announcer read an ad
vertisement to the dark room and
Dave heard the clock ticking in
military precision.
It was during his first Christmas
vacation from Tech that he had
announced his intention to try for
an appointment to W.est Point.
Ann had dropped in that night
with the new managing editor to
wish them Merry Christmas. When
he finished telling of his decision,
Ann was watching him intently.
“Don’t do it, Dave. You weren’t
cut out for Army life.”
Dave looked at her resentfully.
“How do )’ou know ? And what
do 3"ou know about Army life ?”
“I knew Tom.”
Dave saw the managing editor
sitting beside her and staring at
the floor. “If seems that you
might have forgotten Tom.”
Ann reddened. “No, I haven’t
forgotten him. Perhaps we’d bet
ter go now, Ed.”
Dave snapped off the radio an
nouncer’s voice and t3"ped Dear
Ann at the top of the page,he
stopped. It had begun to rain
harder.
He remembered the next time
he had seen^ Ann. It was during
his summer leave after his first
3'ear at West Point. He hadn’t
wanted to go to her house after
she had announced her engagement
to the managing editor, but his
mother had told him iie should.
Her house was quiet with the
S u n d a 3' afternoon hush. It was
like walking into a cave to leave
the glittering pavement and enter
the rather dark, high-ceilinged
room. The wallpaper was a hazy
mixture of tarupe flowers on a
grey background. The ruffled
white curtains wavered slightly
with the breeze. Across the street
someone had turned on the N. B.
C. S3"mphony.
Dave threw his hat on the chair
by the doorway and turned to
watch Ann coming downstairs. She
crossed the room and held out her
hand. It was small and cold in
Dave’s.
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“I’m glad you came, Dave. Youi
look good in 3’our uniform.” She
turned awa3" and sat on the couch
motioning him to sit beside her.
“How do 3"Ou like the Point?”
“Fine,” Dave replied too loudb".
“I love the brass buttons and the
trumpets.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Oh. it’s all right. Are you busy
with the wedding plans yet?”
“Do you still hold that against
me ?”
“No. I’ll write a term paper on
‘How I Have Forgiven Ann And
Grown Up’ if that’ll convince you.”
Ann laughed. “Do you ever
write an3'more, Dave. Tom used
to think you were pretty good.”
“A little. I won honorable men
tion for a profile about General
Pershing.”
“Could you write about anything
but generals in the contest ?”
“No.”
“Dave, please listen to me. It’s
wrong for you—”
Dave jumped- up. “It was good
enough for Tom wasn’t it? He
died for his duty didn’t he? If
you weren’t so busy with that
newspaper man 3"ou would see it
too ?”
“Tom never died for duty. He
died because his men couldn’t eat
heavy artillery and he had to open
a supply line. On the way a bul
let caught hiiTi.”
“You’re wrong!”
“Am I?”
“You have to be.” Dave walked
out of the door and into the hot
sun.
Dave began to type. I hardly
know how to b e g i n, Ann, but
there’s something I have to say—
He stopped and listened to the
rain thumping on the window pane.
It sounded like a double cadence—
Maybe I’m an idealist or perfec
tionist, Ann, maybe that’s why I’m
all mixed up about honor and duty
and all that. Any way I want to
apologize for the way I acted.
Maybe I was wrong, but they
All Is Calm
By Cynthia May
The night is dark.
The crescent moon hangs low.
The black horizon is tinted with
pastel shades from the city be
low.
The air is still.
We mortals lie asleep.
From somewhere a gentle breeze
stirs and whispers in the trees.
The breeze grows stronger.
The night is no longer quiet.
The trees form ghastly arches bent
by the terrible force of the wind.
The world is aghast,
A terrifying fear has struck the
awakened.
The gale is at its peak and all is
a rushing, threatened turmoil.
The night is dark.
The crescent moon hung low.
And all was calm before the dawn.
taught me not to admit a mistake.
I have to believe in something now.
What—
Dave ripped the paper from the
typewriter and crumpled it vicious
ly. He walked across the floor
towards his bed bumping into the
wastepaper basket. “Damn,” he
muttered. He lay down on his bed
and listened to the rain drumming
on the roof. Perfect marching
time—left—right—
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