Lost Cause by J.R. Ayers Read Free Book Online

the bloody stretcher back to the tent. They weren’t
gone five minutes before the man began to hemorrhage. Blood poured
from the wound in his chest and he began to strangle on blood and
vomit. Jack called for the orderlies but his cry went unnoticed in
the general din of many voices talking and shouting and crying out
in pain. Jack crawled to the man’s side and rolled him on his
stomach so the blood and vomit would expel on the ground. The man
was a private from Jack’s regiment. His name was Miller and he
hailed from a small town not far from Jack’s own homestead. Jack
held his hand and made him as comfortable as he could while the man
bled out and eventually died. His face was white like ivory and his
gray eyes fixed Jack with the vacant unfocused stare common with
the recently dead. Directly a surgeon came by and approached the
man and Jack said, “he’s dead,” and the surgeon shrugged and moved
on to the next man lying under the canopy of the juniper branches.
The sun was up now and the grass seemed greener than usual and the
blood splattered on the switch grass looked brighter than usual and
Jack wished it would be dark again so he wouldn’t have to see the
blood and the broken limbs and the torn flesh or hear the agonized
cries of men undergoing the knife of amputation or see the face of
his dearest Marie Hayes streaked with blood and anguish and tears
stained red by the blood of so many butchered men.
    The effect of the whiskey was beginning to
wear off and the pain increased until Jack could bear sitting still
no longer. He rose on unsteady legs and walked out to the
thoroughfare intent on going back to the barracks and drink wine
until the sights and sounds of the last few hours faded away into
inebriated obscurity.

Chapter 8
     
     
    That evening Jack was in his bunk and an
orderly from the infirmary stopped by to bring him clean clothing
and to tell him he would be receiving a visitor. It was an
obscenely hot day and flies buzzed around the room singularly
focused on the pail of vomit beside Jack’s bed. The wine had been
sweet and effective but the bottom of the bottle contained thick
dross which twisted Jack’s stomach into a sour knot.
    A shadow crossed the door and Jack looked up
to see the priest looking concerned. “How are you Jack?”
    “Wounded. But alive.”
    “I can only stay a minute. It’s getting
late.”
    “It’s not that late, Padre. How was
supper?”
    He smiled thinly and said, “Quiet. No one to
joke about prostitutes.” He sounded tired. And sad. “Thank God you
survived, Jack. I miss your conversation at the mess tent.”
    “I wish I could have made it. I always
enjoyed our little talks. Maybe tomorrow, eh?”
    “I brought you something,” the priest said.
He took the chair by the bunk and removed a flask of peach brandy
from his breast pocket. “Drink?” he asked.
    “My Lord no. Have you not seen that mess by
your feet?”
    “Self medicating, huh?”
    “Surviving. I’m glad you came, Padre.”
    “I’m making my rounds.”
    “Any converts?”
    “No. Just the opposite. Men tend to be angry
at God when their friends are blown apart before their eyes.”
    ”You’ve never been angry with God?”
    “No. Only his adversary the Devil.”
    “Huh. Have you seen Campbell?”
    “Yes.”
    “How is he?”
    “He can’t talk very well. But he was able to
ask me if I had been to the cantina to visit a senorita. I was glad
to see that he still has a sense of humor.”
    “What’s the matter, Padre? You seem awfully
tired.”
    “I am tired. “It’s the heat.”
    “Not the war?”
    “Ah, the war.”
    “Did you always love God, Padre? Or is it a
recent thing?”
    “You call me father and you’re not even
Catholic.”
    “I’m just being respectful. The war, it has
you down doesn’t it?”
    “Should it not?”
    Jack groaned and sat up in bed. “I’m so sick
of war. Why can’t we just finish it so all of us can go home?”
    “There is no end to war,” the