Two Soldiers Meet at the Hatchie River

The old farmer crouched with the seat of his faded overalls touching the damp leaves and soft mud of the Hatchie River bank. He held a pint bottle of Jim Beam in his hands and used the top as a sight to survey the scene around him. First, he saw his cane pole, imbedded in the mud, swaying gently in the breeze and blending in with the foliage around it. He took a sip of the whiskey and wiped his mouth, his grey stubble scratching the back of his hand. Re-sighting on the top of the bottle, the farmer followed the slow process of a small branch, still clinging to its last leaves, down the moonlit muddy snake of a river as it slivered along its wavery course. The brown water was first broken by the four stained-brick towers of the old abandoned bridge. The columns stood naked, the road deck above them taken by the flood years before, as they struggled to remain above the level of the river. Just beyond these bare pillars stood the new bridge, stark and square and concrete. More practical than its predecessor, but far less beautiful. And on the bridge the farmer saw the silhouette of a man, standing in the middle, smoking a cigarette.

The man on the bridge threw the still-red butt into the river and watched it extinguish. Then he cast his gaze downstream and stared at the old brick towers. He saw the river as only a break in the trees, an obstacle for the lonely highway to cross. Leaning down on his pack, he could feel the heat of the day still struggling to escape the asphalt. The bottle of whiskey he now held felt warm and secure. He tore open the seal on the fresh half pint and forced a large swallow down his throat. He turned back to the river. His bare arms felt cool against the steel railing of the bridge. He looked at the brown band below him and he watched a branch and its leaves sliding across the expanse of moving muddy water. The man on the bridge lit another cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke almost drift out of him with a slow exhale. He hated his cigarettes and his whiskey and he loved them so much.

Still staring at the surface of the water, the man on the bridge allowed his mind to wander as he smoked. He struggled to connect people to places, events to dates. He knew the people in the places couldn’t remember him. He poured more whiskey down his throat, and sharply shook his head, as if to regain his senses. But he couldn’t make sense of anything. He’d gone to the war in Europe, drafted just after his eighteenth birthday in August of ’44. He was sent to a replacement camp and then sent by himself to the front after the Bulge. Everybody knew the war was over, we’d won, and now the old guys, the band of brothers, just wanted to survive. He was ‘kid’. He was eighteen and looked fourteen and was scared all the time. The old guys stayed as far back as they could, took the easiest duty they could, and sent the new boys to the front and to the point. Finally the war did end and then he had to wait months to be sent home, scared they were going to send him to invade Japan. The old guys went home in ones and twos until just a few lifers and the kids remained, drinking and smoking and waiting to go home. His step-dad sent the kid a letter and said his Mom had died and step-dad was moving to California. The kid did eventually get sent home in the spring of ’46 and found a job in construction on Long Island building houses. He didn’t like New York, he never felt at home so he drifted south, stopping when he found work, staying until the work ran out or he ran off, leaving no forwarding address. He had no home, no friends, no family. The future was unknown and the present wasn’t worth a damn. He told himself it was all going to change, as he had many times before. He threw his cigarette into the river.

To the old farmer the river was deep and rich. It had a heart, a soul. He could smell her sweet perfume almost from the house, and he could hear her softly calling as he got closer. The old farmer peered directly at the shadow on the bridge, hating it through nearly closed eyes. Slowly he lifted the bottle to his lips, never taking his eyes off the silhouette. He wished the man on the bridge would stop desecrating his lovely, peaceful river. The Hatchie was his love, his only happy moments were here. He often came to the river, always at this secret spot, always alone. He would park his battered pick-up up the bank, at the end of a winding, nearly overgrown trail. And he would walk through the trees, brushing small limbs from his path with his arms. He would bring his pole and some worms and a pint of Jim Beam. Here the old farmer could rest secure, knowing his troubles would not follow him. His wife could not follow him to nag. For the life of him, the old farmer couldn’t remember what he’d seen in her before his war. Now, she could always complain about something. He could forget about his worn-out worthless farm here, too. Ten years ago he had told his wife that Jesus Himself would be hard pressed to grow anything on that farm. His wife still mentioned that sacrilege almost daily. Of course the old farmer knew Jesus could get a good crop out of that red sandy soil, but why in the Hell would He bother? Wouldn’t He pick a better spot to take up dirt farming?

The old farmer thought back to his younger days. When the Great War started he’d joined the Army with his friends and they trained together for almost two years. Then they fought together in the Old Hickory division. He remembered rivers in Europe, but with the brown of the water turned to the red of slaughter, filled with blood and bodies and dead horses and God knows what else and surrounded by shattered trees and mud and more unspeakable gore and stench. After the war the Old Hickory returned to the US and paraded down Wall Street with ticker tape raining down and he just kept on going until he got back home to the farm. Once he got home he got behind the plow hitched to that old mule and went to work for his Dad. Dad had worked that farm by himself during the war years and it had just about broken him but the prices were good and after the war the farmer and his Dad made the little house nicer with that money. Dad died in ’25 and the son took over the farm. And used the same damn mule. And it just about broke him too.

He sold a lumber company rights to harvest the river bottom for timber and they destroyed it. It looked like the rivers of Europe had without the blood — the shattered trees, the churned up mud, the ugliness. The old farmer hadn’t known how much he’d loved the river land until he destroyed it and he vowed to restore it. But he was able to get an International Harvester tractor and an old pick-up truck with the money. He felt as if he had sold his soul to get out from behind that damn Mule. But life was still a grind season after season of hard work and little reward. Church on Sunday, greet the neighbors after church, a nice dinner, and then back to work the other 6 days. FDR and LBJ brought electricity in ’39 and with the second war food prices went back up, but it was a backbreaking life.

By the end of that war, the forest had returned. The bottom land was lush again and to the old farmer, beautiful. He would never sell that timber again no matter what.

Now he watched the shadow on the bridge throw another cigarette into the river. The old farmer rose and turned and walked slowly back to his truck, his feet sinking slightly in the soft earth as he walked.

The man on the bridge watched another ember extinguish on the even surface of the Hatchie. The bright moon behind him cast soft, faded shadows of the bridge and himself on the smooth, dull river. He dreamed of walking through the streets of a small country town, adorned in hat and vested suit, and having the respected members of the community hurry over to shake his hand. When they inquired of his family and his fields, he would say, “Fine, just fine!”, with a deep hearty voice and then ask of theirs. But he had no town and no family, and no one knew him. He had his hand clenched tightly around the bottle, and he forced it to his lips, attacking the whiskey, rooting it free of its sanctuary. He just wanted someone to care. He wanted to be a part of someone’s life. He wanted to be known.

When the farmer returned from his pick-up, he again squatted on the bank. He faced the river, and he firmly planted his feet in the leaf-encrusted mud. Then he sipped the last few swallows of his whiskey, savoring each drop. After carefully sliding the empty bottle into his pocket, he picked up his rifle. He made sure the safety was on. The he put his elbows on his knees, and he held the gun with his cheek pressed firmly against the rifle butt. He sighted the shadow through a break in the underbrush and pierced it with round after imaginary round. The old farmer hoped this would somehow dispel his anger, but his hatred of the shadow continued to grow. The night air was cooler now, the gentle breeze playing with the farmer’s hair. The river was humming softly as the trees whispered. And the old man watched the river’s enemy throw another cigarette into the water, further deflowering his love.

The man on the bridge reached for still another cigarette. But his hungrily groping fingers found none in the empty pack. He crushed the package and tossed it over the rail. He rolled his sleeves down over his now cold arms, as the night had become much cooler. To warm himself he finished his bottle, and he realized he had been drinking far too quickly. He threw the bottle against the brick bridge tower in front of him and it shattered — he loved the sound of breaking glass. The biggest piece splashed into the river, and he heard the splash, and saw a funnel of translucent brown water escape the river, only to be recaptured. He watched the ripples expand across the water and he enjoyed the disturbance, the little impact. Then he heard a sharp explosion, seemingly far away, yet deafening and echoing, and he felt himself being thrown against the blacktop surface of the road. His head crashed against the hard asphalt, and he was hurt and dazed and confused and numb. He wanted someone to explain what had happened. He wanted to cry for help, but he knew no one would come. And he wanted to shout, “Remember me, remember me!” but he knew no one would.