Backlands Page 44

  When word came down that the division would be late in arriving and Santo Stefano would not be liberated until the next day, Matt sent his squad out to scavenge feed from a nearby farm and requisition a regimental water truck. In a field ringed by a low stone fence, Matt spent the afternoon with the ponies, making sure all were watered and fed. He got them bedded down for the night just as the first of the advance mechanized troops came roaring down the road. If there were still Germans troops in the village, they knew the division would soon be knocking at their door.

  He was boiling water for coffee when a soldier passed by handing out the latest issue of the 45th Division News. The headline read:

  COMPANY K CAPTURES ENEMY HORSES!

  Next to the story was a Bill Mauldin cartoon showing a grizzled infantry sergeant pointing a finger at a sorrowful-looking horse with its head bowed and saying, “As a POW, do you promise to abide by the rules of the Geneva Convention?”

  Roscoe Beal plopped down beside Matt, newspaper in hand. “Ain’t that something?”

  “It’s pretty funny,” Matt allowed.

  “I’ve got something that will top it,” Beal drawled. “You, me, and the captain are gonna receive the Army Commendation Medal for coming up with the scheme to put those ponies to good use in our rapid advance to Santo Stefano.”

  Matt could hardly stop laughing. “Well, at least it isn’t another Bronze Star,” he finally said.

  When Roscoe went on his way, Matt read the rest of the newspaper over a cup of coffee. An editorial complained about stateside newspapers and magazines trumpeting the Sicily campaign as a cakewalk for Allied troops. Back home, the writer noted, only the families of the fallen and wounded knew how hard fought the battle had been. The writer wondered if the day would come when Operation Husky was nothing more than a footnote in World War II history.

  Matt didn’t doubt it.

  ***

  Next morning, the Germans chose to put up a fight at Santo Stefano, and the whole division was thrown into a battle outside the town on a ridgeline. The shooting stopped when darkness fell and the Germans retreated, leaving rearguard units to slow the advance. Division casualties were high, and not just from the fighting. Intense heat had settled over the island, and increased cases of malaria had thinned the ranks.

  To ready it for the Italian invasion, General Patton pulled the Forty-Fifth out of combat for some well-deserved R and R and replaced it with the Third Division. There were hot showers, clean uniforms, hot chow and plenty of it, and as much rack time as Matt needed. It was almost heaven. Mail call brought letters from home—nothing from Anna Lynn, but a note each from Patrick and Al Jr. telling him how good the ranch was faring, what with the summer monsoon moisture and strong cattle sales.

  The last letter he opened was from Evangelina, postmarked Lubbock, Texas. Lance Corporal Juan Ignacio Kerney had been killed in action while serving with the Fourth Marine Raider Battalion on New Georgia in the Pacific.

  Matt stared blindly at the note, his breath caught in his throat. He remembered how angry Juan Ignacio had been at him the last time they met. He wondered if Evangelina had told Patrick about Juan Ignacio’s death. With all the misery that had passed between them, he doubted it. He wrote to Pa, sealed Evangelina’s note in the letter without comment, and mailed it.

  He’d decided to take a walk through town down to the shore to clear his head when a sergeant from the heavy weapons platoon hurried up.

  “You’d better check on your animals,” he said. “Some of the boys have turned them loose and are spooking them.”

  “Dammit.” Matt wheeled and headed for the field where the ponies and mules had been contained behind a rope corral to keep them from scattering. The rope corral was down and the soldiers were chasing horses, some throwing stones at them. Others were trying to ride bareback. The agitated animals were snorting, throwing snot, showing teeth, and prancing. To escape the harassment, Matt’s chestnut had cleared a low rock fence at the far end of the field. It had its ears lowered and was shaking its head in frustration.

  Matt grabbed a soldier off a mule and threw him to the ground. “Get up and tell your buddies to stop,” he growled, not waiting for a response.

  He strong-armed another GI about to stone a horse. Behind him, men from his squad poured onto the field to help clear the troops. When the GIs were removed and all the animals except the chestnut had been corralled, Matt went to coax him back over the rock fence.

  He climbed over and tried to calm the pony, but it was still spooked and shied away. He took a step forward. The chestnut stepped back. He offered it sugar in the palm of his hand. The chestnut hesitated, shook its head, snorted, and stepped back again. Then the horse blew up in a shower of hide, horsehair, intestines, and blood that slammed into Matt with a stabbing pain in his head that hammered him unconscious.

  41

  Matt regained consciousness, tried to open his eyes, and felt a shock of pain in his head so severe it made him scream. It felt like an ax had split open the left side of his face. He tried to touch his head, but his hands were tied at his sides.

  He struggled to get up, but hands pressed against his chest, holding him down. He howled at the pain that consumed him, the sound of his voice faraway and strange.

  “Relax, soldier,” a calm voice said. “I’m going to put you back to sleep.”

  He started to ask where he was, what had happened, but couldn’t get the words out before he fell into a black, dreamless sleep. When he awoke, the pain had lessened to razor-sharp, needlelike pulses that made him dizzy.

  “Welcome back,” a voice said.

  “Am I dying?” Matt asked. A hand patted his shoulder.

  “No, you’re in a field hospital. You’ve had a serious shrapnel injury to your left eye. I got most of it out, but you’ll need more surgery. We’re going to move you to a hospital ship tomorrow.”

  “Am I blind?”

  “Not by a long shot, soldier. You’re going home.”

  He felt a needle in his arm and went back to sleep. In the morning, a medic removed the bandage covering Matt’s right eye.

  “Can you see with that eye?” the medic asked.

  “Yeah,” Matt said with a big sigh of relief, looking at the kid, who was barely out of his teens.

  “Are you right-handed?” the medic asked.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because it means your right eye is dominant, and that’s gonna be good for your recovery. I’m gonna bandage that because we don’t want you using it for a while. You want more morphine before we transport you?”

  Matt shook his head. It hurt like hell and made him change his mind. “Maybe a little,” he said. “But don’t knock me out.”

  An hour later he was transported by ambulance to the Palermo docks, where a landing craft ferried him and other wounded GIs to a U.S. Army hospital ship. Hoisted aboard by block and tackle, he was carried into an operating room for a second round of surgery to remove several tiny metal fragments embedded in his cornea.

  When he came to, his left eye was patched but the bandage covering his right eye had been removed. A doctor hovered over him. He patted Matt’s hand and said he was going to be just fine.

  “Does that mean you’ve saved my eye?” Matt asked.

  “We won’t know that until the patch comes off in a couple of days,” the doc replied.

  The look on the doctor’s face wasn’t encouraging.

  Two days later the patch came off. Serious damage to the retina had caused permanent blindness. The doc joked that with an eye patch Matt would look like swashbuckling movie star Errol Flynn. Matt laughed, although he didn’t think it was funny.

  It took twelve days to cross to the States, and during that time Matt found plenty of reasons to stop feeling sorry for himself. There were guys blind in both eyes; guys missing feet, hands, arms, and legs; and guys who we
re badly burned. Late one night, Darrell Lawrence, a boy in a bed next to Matt who had lost both legs, took a sudden turn for the worse. He died holding Matt’s hand before help arrived.

  After the orderlies took Darrell away, Matt tried to blot out the young soldier’s death, only to have Jimmy Potter’s fall from the cottonwood tree flood into his mind, followed by the faces of the men in his platoon who’d been killed in action, never to go home. It took willpower to keep from crying in the silence of the night. The people he’d lost over the years—especially Ma, Beth, and Boone—were way too many.

  The ship put in at Charleston, South Carolina, and the ambulatory patients disembarked first. The sight of hundreds of empty stretchers with fresh bedsheets and pillows, lined up on the dock in front of the open doors of dozens of ambulances, unsettled Matt. GI litter bearers in fatigues and helmet liners stood by to carry the seriously wounded soldiers off the ship. It was a sad, bleak reminder of the human wreckage of war.

  Matt was taken by ambulance to Stark General Hospital, located on an army cantonment outside of town. It was brand-new and army-style, with rows of wooden barracks that served as wards and an assortment of other low-slung, pitched-roof buildings used for administration, personnel, supply, recreation, and medical purposes.

  He waited for a week for an eye specialist, a light colonel from Atlanta, to come and evaluate him for transfer to an army hospital outside Santa Fe or discharge from the service. He gave Matt a careful checkup, confirmed that the blindness in the left eye could not be reversed, rated him as fifty percent disabled, and cleared him for separation from the service. Quartermaster supply issued him new uniforms, finance gave him his back pay, and personnel typed out a form so he could purchase his ribbons and stripes at the PX. He had the option of either taking leave right away or traveling by train to Fort Bliss to be discharged.

  He thought about visiting places like Washington, D.C., and New York City, but the pull of home was too strong. He hadn’t written Anna Lynn, Patrick, or Al Jr. because he had nothing to say other than he was blind in one eye and coming home. He wondered how they’d react when they saw him with his eye patch.

  When Matt took it off, he hated what he saw. The eye was dead, empty, and awful. Maybe someday he’d get used to it, but not yet.

  In uniform, with his stripes, unit patch, and ribbons, and with travel papers in hand, he caught a ride to the train station and waited to begin the long journey home.

  ***

  It was a relief to reach El Paso and escape all the fresh-faced, raw recruits on leave from basic training. Their unsure, worried questions about combat seemed to tumble out of their mouths as soon as they spotted Matt’s eye patch and ribbons. He tried to reassure them, but it was malarkey and they knew it.

  Halfway through the trip he took to feigning sleep whenever a nervous young soldier approached. Only twice was he questioned by gung ho MPs looking for AWOL soldiers and deserters at train stations.

  Although much had changed, Fort Bliss was a homecoming for Matt. The familiar, starkly beautiful Franklin Mountains still loomed over the fort, which looked down on El Paso, the sluggish Rio Grande, and the city of Juárez across the river. There were new buildings everywhere, and the post bustled with activity. Lines of brand-new trucks, jeeps, and antiaircraft artillery pieces were parked on acres of land adjacent to the headquarters compound. The days of the horse soldier were gone forever.

  The building that once housed Hubert Roddy and the Forest Service during the CCC era still stood. It was now a supply warehouse containing hundreds of mattresses stacked to the ceiling.

  He checked in at personnel. A clerk scanned his service jacket and told him to report to the William Beaumont Army Hospital for his discharge medical examination. No longer contained within the confines of a lovely Spanish colonial brick and stucco building, Beaumont had been transformed into a larger version of the army hospital in South Carolina, with rows and rows of barracks converted to hospital wards.

  Matt found his way to the correct office, got an appointment for the following afternoon, and settled in at a billet before heading out to the NCO club. So close to home, he was suddenly anxious to be done with war. He wanted to forget the army and put 1943 behind him.

  It was early and the club was empty except for a bartender and an old master sergeant drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and reading a newspaper at the end of the bar. Matt ordered a draft beer, raised his glass in memory of Lance Corporal Juan Ignacio Kerney Knox, U.S. Marine Corps, and drained it. He walked back to his billet with the afternoon sun still blazing in the western sky and a hot desert breeze kissing his face.

  The personnel clerk had told him that in three days he’d wake up a civilian again. He could hardly wait to board the train for Engle.

  ***

  The train pulled into the Engle station, where not a soul waited on the platform to board. From the coach window Matt could tell the slowly dying village hadn’t profited one lick from the wartime boom. There were no cars or wagons parked outside the general store, the hotel had a FOR SALE sign nailed to the porch railing, and the old barber shop had been torn down. Ken Mayers still hung on at the livery. Matt found him out back tending to some horses in the corral and asked if he could borrow a pony to ride home. Ken thumped him on the back, said, “Hell no,” and offered to drive him to the ranch in his truck.

  Along the way, Matt learned that Al Jr.’s pa had died from a sudden stroke a month ago. Al Jr. and his wife, Brenda, had returned to the Rocking J to take over the ranch and look after the widowed Dolly. Ken didn’t know if Patrick had hired any help.

  Ken wasn’t much of a talker and didn’t ask about the war, which suited Matt just fine. It gave him the quiet he needed to get reacquainted with home. He drank in the view of the basin, silently grateful that he still had a good eye left to see it again.

  At the ranch, the sound of Ken’s truck brought Patrick to the veranda. He grabbed Matt in a bear hug as soon as he could hobble down to meet him. Ken waved good-bye and drove off.

  “Dammit, you’re alive,” he said after releasing him.

  “And only half blind,” Matt joked.

  Pa studied Matt’s face. “Some officer wrote us from Sicily that you’d been wounded but he didn’t know how bad. Did you lose an eye?”

  “It’s there, but just for show,” Matt replied. Patrick had shrunk some, and there were more wrinkles in his weathered face, but he looked sober and fit.

  “Has the army let you go?”

  “Yep, now I’m a veteran with a pension, just like you.” Matt picked up his duffel bag and paused to look at the ponies in the pasture. “The ponies look healthy.”

  “They are, but nobody’s buying. The army bought some to give to the coast guard to use to patrol shorelines, but that’s it. And the cow pony market has dried up. Ranchers are using trucks more and wanting fewer horses.”

  “Now that Al Jr. and Brenda have pulled up stakes to take care of his ma, is he still looking after the cattle on the high pastures as agreed?” Matt asked.

  Pa nodded. “He is. I figured Ken told you about Al. Damn shame.”

  “Yes, it is.” From the veranda, Matt looked out on the Tularosa with Sierra Blanca looming in the distance beyond the malpais and White Sands sparkling to the south. “Have you hired any help?”

  “Didn’t need to yet,” Pa replied. “We can talk about all that later. You get settled in, I’ll brew us a fresh pot, and then you have to get going, if you’re feeling up to it.”

  “Get going where?” Matt asked.

  “Over to Mountain Park. Ever since I went and told Anna Lynn you’d been wounded in action, she drives here twice a week to learn if there’s any word from you. She came by yesterday with a pot of chili to help ease my troubled mind about you maybe being dead.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  Patrick smiled and raised his hand. “I sw
ear on it. I reckon you’re in for a tongue-lashing for not writing to her.”

  Matt smiled. “I’ll take that over the silent treatment.”

  “There ain’t nothing worse than that from a woman,” Patrick said. “I’m glad you’re home, Matt.”

  “Me too,” Matt replied.

  ***

  It was evening, with a full moon cresting the Sacramentos, when Matt stopped the truck in front of Anna Lynn’s farmhouse. Little Ginny appeared in the doorway, squealed in delight, and ran into his outstretched arms. Anna Lynn stood in the doorway with a bag of flour in her hand. When he put Ginny down, Anna Lynn hit him in the chest with the flour, white powder billowing into his face, his hair, her face, her hair.

  “You son of a bitch, why didn’t you write?” she demanded, tears in her eyes. Then she kissed him.

  Author’s Note

  Writing historical fiction requires paying a great deal of attention to an accurate recounting of the myriad aspects of the world the characters inhabit in a story. For information about the Civilian Conservation Corps, a groundbreaking federal program that put hundreds of thousands of boys and young men to work during the Great Depression, I turned to Richard Melzer’s Coming of Age in the Great Depression: The Civilian Conservation Corps Experience in New Mexico, 1933–1942; John C. Paige’s The Civilian Conservation Corps and the National Park Service 1933–1942: An Administrative History; Alison T. Otis et al., The Forest Service and the Civilian Conservation Corps: 1933–42; and Major John A. Porter, Q.M.C., “The Enchanted Forest: Army Quartermaster Support to the Civilian Conservation Corps During the Great Depression,” The Quartermaster Review (March–April 1934).

  Over lunch, my friend Bryan J. “Chip” Chippeaux provided me with valuable information about his great-great-grandfather John W. “Jake” Owen, a former Lincoln County sheriff at the turn of the twentieth century, and gave me permission to use Jake as a private detective in Backlands investigating the mysterious disappearance of a man from the Double K Ranch on the Tularosa. Bill Martin and Molly Radford Martin’s book, Bill Martin, American, was a surprisingly helpful resource in my understanding of New Mexico law enforcement practices in the early years of the twentieth century, as was Chuck Hornung’s New Mexico’s Rangers: The Mounted Police.