drink coffee. Sit, as slow as an arthritic old man, Clean rifle, reload, survey wounds and re-bandage; check contents of pack – all in robotic silence.
When these things were done, he sat in front of the fire. Again memory relentlessly retrieved the past. Bitter tears washed down his bearded face.
Martin Luther Cole was twenty-four years old. He fought the Japanese for two years in the South Pacific. Now he fought North Koreans and Chinese in the Land of the Morning Calm.
He made no sound. He wept not for himself, but for his men. He was responsible. All his adult history was defined by a deep sense of obligation. He promised to care for the men in his small command; boys really, and they were dead, all of them.
‘A promise made is a promise kept.’ His Daddy told him that when he was a small boy.
He tried to shut them away in that place where men store the faces of war. Survival first. He was still alone in a terrible and hostile land.
He looked around tiredly. Something he’d seen when he arrived at the farmhouse wanted his attention, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
Luther struggled to his feet and walked into the back room with its gaping hole in the rear wall. Something wasn’t right. The wall! It was unusually thick: two, maybe three feet. He moved over to it, stumbling over broken beams and blasted hunks of hardened mud. Near the bottom edge where the explosion had burst open the wall, was a shape too natural to have been caused by a bursting shell. A cache had been built into the wall, the size of a large suitcase. Without the explosion it might have remained hidden for centuries. Luther looked inside cautiously. Two feet down, near ground level he saw, faintly, a dark, oblong object. His first thought was, booby trap. He took out his bayonet and used the tip to delicately pry around the edges.
Reaching in with one hand, he lifted first one corner, then the other, never more than an inch. Nothing happened. There were no booby traps. He lifted the case out of the cache and carried it to the front of the farm house, his curiosity strangely muted. He put the case down near the fire, walked to the front door and looked in every direction. He wondered if taking it meant he was a looter.
Luther went to the well and got more water, wincing with each pull of the rope.
He sat in front of his small fire and made another cup of coffee, glancing at the case from time to time. Finally, he lifted it to his lap and examined it carefully. A worn case but well made. He wet a rag and wiped away the dust. It looked like a case for a musical instrument, but why here, why in a farmhouse in the middle of Korea? He popped the three snaps, one at a time, and lifted the lid slowly.
A violin - he thought of it as a fiddle - lying in a bed of rose-colored velvet. A small square box had been built into the narrow end of the case. He lifted the cover. A hard block of golden material nestled in a tangle of discarded strings. He touched it with his finger tips, then smelled it. Nothing: It had a waxy feel. Fiddles in the mountains of West Virginia were as common as trees in a forest. He’d never seen a violin - a fiddle such as this. A beautiful golden brown, so well finished he could see his reflection in the surface.
He stared at it for a long time, his large, square hands resting lightly on the body and slack strings. He felt calm. This was right. This was good. This perfect thing had to survive, he would see that it did. Amid all the horror one beautiful thing must live.
Chapter 2
The rain poured from a grim sky in sheets. Luther sat in front of the farmhouse wrapped in a poncho as the first elements of the column entered his small valley. The shelling became louder as they arrived. The war returned.
A battered jeep pulled off the road and skidded to a stop in front of Luther. He struggled to his feet. Wounds and the loss of blood had taken their toll. Barely conscious, all that remained he controlled with instinct and duty.
Major Welter stepped out of the Jeep and peered at Luther curiously, trying to fathom how he could exist. The few survivors of hill 406 said they had seen him blown off the rear slope.
Major Welter cleared his throat, coughed, a racking, sickly cough. His eyes were dark pits sunken into the recesses of his skull. He was gaunt, unshaven and dirty. He rubbed his face hard.
“How...” he coughed again, “how did you get here, Sergeant Cole?”
For a few minutes, Luther didn’t answer, trying to remember how to talk. “Ah don’t rightly know, Major Welter, concussion maybe? Ah don’t know. I’m shot up some.”
Luther propped himself against the wall, but his knees wouldn’t lock. He forced them straight.
“Major, you look poorly. There’s water around back in the well. It’s clean. Why don’t y’all take ten? I’ll heat water, you can have coffee, get cleaned up.” Luther’s voice faded with each word.
The Major turned and hollered for a medic to come forward on the double. “I missed having you around, Sergeant. I haven’t been looked after proper since I left Oregon.” Sergeant Cole’s head drooped heavily to his chest.
Major Welter hobbled over to Luther. He still suffered from the effects of frostbite. He put his arm around Luther’s waist and helped him inside the farmhouse.
“I’ll do like you say, Sergeant. Let’s sit. I have been rained on hard and hung up wet.”
Inside the small room, Luther stumbled to the nearest wall and leaned against it. “I lost track of things, Sergeant Cole. What about your men?” the major asked.
Luther’s head came up. Major Welter saw his expression and wished he hadn’t asked.
“Damn! Sorry, sergeant, had to ask.”
Luther’s voice was a whisper. “Major, you don’t look too good. I bet you ain’t took care of your feet neither.” His voice rose and fell with his fading strength. “Soldier lives on his feet: Man don’t take care, he ain’t gonna last.”
The Major nodded. “You’re right, Sergeant. I promise, I’ll do it.”
The Major’s aide, a young first lieutenant and the top sergeant stood in the doorway waiting orders.
“Lieutenant Terry, see that everything keeps moving. I’m staying with Sergeant Cole for a while. Sergeant Keene, tell those corpsmen to step on it.”
“Sir.”
Luther waited for the Major to sit, when he had, he half sat, half fell down. The major jumped to his side and eased him into a comfortable position.
“Easy man, easy. You’ve done your share.”
Two corpsmen entered the room running. “You alright, Major?”
“I’m alright. This is Sergeant Cole, back from 406. He’s been hit, looks like his arm is broken too.” He turned to the Luther. “Where’d you get it, Luther?”
Luther’s head was slumped forward on his chest. He didn’t move. The corpsman knelt by his side and examined him.
“He’s unconscious, sir.”
Two men brought a stretcher and laid him
