Thank you to KT for suggesting the title, and for being a sounding board for the story... Editorial comment: Doc has been given a real first name for this story, purely a figment of the author’s imagination.

SOULMENDER

By: DocB, February 2006

Disclaimer: Don’t own...no profit...pure pleasure...

His wife found him sitting on the front steps, shoulders slumped, one hand covering his eyes. Tears were streaming down his face as silent sobs rocked his frame. In his other hand he held a yellowed and tattered envelope, crumpled in his tight grasp.

“John? Honey, what’s wrong?” She hurried to his side, worried and scared. As she knelt next to him and touched his shoulder, he flinched and jerked away as though that light touch had been a vicious slap. Then he realized who she was. Drying his eyes on his sleeve, he silently handed her the envelope.

“John? What is it?” she pled. “What’s happened?”

With a tear-choked voice, he said, “This came in the mail today.”

She looked down at the envelope that he had thrust into her hands, then looked back up at him. Confusion creased her face. Frowning, she said, “John, this was mailed 40 years ago. What do you mean it came in today’s mail?”

“The mailman said it must have been lost all these years, stuck in a crack or under a counter or something. He didn’t know how it happened, but he said it came to the post office with today’s mail. It’s addressed to me at my folks’ house.”

“They’ve been dead for 25 years. How did he know to bring it here?”

“He used to know my dad years ago. He said we should call the newspaper and have them write this up. A miracle, he called it. A miracle that this letter was found after all these years, and that he was able to deliver it to me.”

“That doesn’t sound like a miracle, that sounds more like bad service!” She smoothed the envelope and turned it over in her hand. “What is it, anyway?” she asked.

“A letter from a very old, dear friend of mine. A man I thought was dead before this letter was ever written. And for 40 years I’ve had no reason to think otherwise.” Tears welled in his eyes again.

“Someone you knew in the Army?”

“Yes, we called him the Preacher. He was a good man.”

“What happened to him?

“I left him for dead in a foxhole in France.”

************

France, 1944

“Hey, Preacher!” Kirby called over his shoulder. “Put your Bible away and come play some poker with us!”

“No, thanks,” the young GI in the corner said. “I’m reading.”

“What’sa matter? Ya think you’re too good fer us? C’mon!” Kirby persisted.

“Kirby, leave ‘im alone,” Doc said quietly. “He’s not doin’ you no harm.”

“Aw, nuts, Doc, I was just messin’ with ‘im!” Kirby grinned. “He’s in the Army, he should expect to be messed with!”

“It’s his first day here, and you take some gettin’ used to, Kirby!” Doc grinned back.

The newcomer sat propped on a cot reading a small New Testament. He was a fair-haired man, large by any standards, rivaling Littlejohn in stature. A fresh red scar marred the man’s classic Nordic features and his uniform showed the wear of battle. He absently rubbed the scar on his cheek with his thumb while he read. As Doc approached, he looked up from his book.

“Hey, I’m Doc,” the medic introduced himself and stuck out his hand.

“Hi, Doc, I’m Paul Blackwell,” the younger man replied, shaking Doc’s hand. “Thanks for sticking up for me, but it really wasn’t necessary. I just ignore those comments. Get ‘em all the time, ever since basic. They’re usually just blowing smoke. I’ve found that the more scared a man is, the more ridicule he dishes out to those he perceives to be ‘brave’. They don’t realize that my ‘bravery’ is just faith in God.”

“That’s very perceptive,” Doc replied. “I’ve often thought that myself. But with Kirby, it’s just ‘cause he’s annoying by nature!”

The other man chuckled. “Well, I’ve met a few of them, too. There’s always one in every outfit!”

“Where you from, Paul? Oh, and you might as well get used to being called ‘Preacher,’ ‘cause I have a feeling that nickname is yours for good!”

“I’m from Missouri. Was studying for the pulpit when I got drafted,” the man replied. “So I guess ‘Preacher’ is as good a name as any!”

“Nice to know ya, Preacher. You need anything, just let me know, okay?” Doc turned to leave, then stopped. “By the way,” he said loudly enough for the men at the poker table to hear, “if Kirby gives you a hard time, just tell him you and Littlejohn will meet him in a dark alley! That’ll shut ‘im up! Right, Kirby?”

Caje laughed and slapped Kirby on the back. “Hey, Kirby, he’s already got your number!”

“Aw, nuts to you guys,” Kirby grumbled. “Deal the cards, Caje.”

************

Arkansas, USA, 1984

He picked at his food, mechanically swallowing a few bites. He didn’t taste what he ate, and didn’t care whether he ate at all. His wife watched him push his food around until the plate looked like one of Picasso’s canvasses. His mind was 40 years and thousands of miles away. He stared at the plate, seeing instead a muddy foxhole and a torn and bloody body. The scene had plagued his dreams for years, but he thought he had finally laid it to rest just as he thought the body had been laid to rest.

He seldom talked about his months on the front lines in France. He’d never told his wife of the horrors he’d seen, but she knew. She was with him at night when the nightmares overtook his tired body and tired mind. She was at his side when he yelled out in the night, or when he awoke trembling and drenched with sweat. She’d heard him call out the names of his squadmates, or of the men he’d seen killed. Gradually, over the years, the nightmares had subsided. She had hoped that he’d finally been able to release the emotional and psychological pain that those terrible months had inflicted. Now she could see that he’d only buried the pain so deeply that it took a bombshell like the letter today to unearth it.

Reaching across the table, she took one of his hands in hers. He looked up at her, and she could see the unfathomable sadness on his face. She longed to comfort him, as she had done for years whenever the memories were too much for him, but she knew this pain was different.

“Honey, what are you going to do?” she asked.

He shook his head and whispered, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

In the middle of the night she awoke with a start. She reached over and found his side of the bed empty. She was startled by muffled thumps coming from the attic. Quickly slipping into a robe and slippers, she made her way up the narrow, dusty attic steps. There, in the dim light of a single 40-watt bulb, John was emptying a trunk, pawing through it like a madman. She could hear him muttering to himself.

“It’s here. It’s gotta be here. I know I didn’t throw it away. Where is it?” He frantically dug out object after object, throwing some immediately on the floor, examining the others more closely. He thrust his hand into every pocket of every jacket and pair of trousers, pulling the pockets inside out. He riffled through all the books, holding them upside down and flipping the pages. Then, sinking to his knees, he reached into the bottom of the trunk and slowly lifted out a medic’s rucksack. Reverently, he held it at arm’s length for a long moment before clutching it to his chest. Rocking back on his heels, he let the memories flood his mind.

************

France, 1944

“Okay, saddle up,” Sergeant Saunders called. “We’re going on a little walk in the woods this morning!”

“Hey, Sarge, where we goin’? I mean, do I have to get prettied up or anything?” Kirby asked.

“Kirby, you’re plenty pretty already,” Caje laughed. “Only thing you need is a little soap and water!”

“Let’s go, guys. No time for breakfast. Grab some rations and ammo,” Saunders commanded.

“Uh, Sergeant Saunders, do you mind if I pray before we go?” Preacher asked quietly.

Kirby looked at him in amazement. “What...you mean out loud???”

The NCO glanced from Kirby to Preacher. The tall man’s clear, earnest gaze held Saunders’, and the Sergeant gave him a brief nod.

“Aw, Sarge, you ain’t gonna let ‘im do that, are you?” Kirby asked. “That’s like goin’ to church in dirty clothes. I mean, look at us!”

“Well, Kirby, I figure it this way,” Saunders said. “Who needs prayer more than we do? We’re going on a patrol into Kraut territory, they’re going to try to kill us if they can, and they just might succeed. So a quick prayer isn’t going to hurt anything, and it might just help. And we can sure use all the help we can get.” He nodded again to Preacher. “Gather ‘round, everyone. Preacher’s got somethin’ to say before we take off.”

“Thanks, Sarge.” Preacher cleared his throat. “I know I’m new here and you all aren’t familiar with my ways yet, but I like to start every patrol with a short prayer asking for God’s protection.”

He took off his helmet and cradled it in his arms as he bowed his head. He offered a simple and direct prayer, naming each squadmate and asking for Divine providence. He prayed as though he were speaking to a good friend standing nearby. His words were spoken with a familiarity and intimacy gained only by long experience. As he uttered the ‘amen,’ Caje crossed himself and assumed the point position.

Kirby scratched his head and mumbled, “Don’t that beat all...” as Doc came up beside him.

“What do you mean, Kirby?” the medic asked.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, Doc, I didn’t see ya there,” Kirby stammered. “I just meant, all of a sudden I feel kinda...good about this patrol. Relaxed, I guess. Like nothing bad is gonna happen today.”

“Well, don’t let your guard down. Remember, the Lord helps those who help themselves!” Doc chuckled.

“Hey, Preacher,” Doc hurried to catch up with the new man. “Thanks for the prayer. It’s kinda nice to hear it said out loud once in a while!”

“I know. It’s good to pray aloud - keeps me in practice,” Preacher agreed. “Seems like there’s never enough time for spiritual things around here. We’re too busy trying to stay alive to worry about keeping body and soul together!”

************

Arkansas, USA, 1984

He’d fallen into a fitful sleep just as the palest hues of pink were creeping over the horizon. His wife slipped quietly from the bed, pausing long enough to draw the blanket up over his shoulders. Even in sleep his eyelashes were damp with unshed tears and his hands twitched convulsively.

He awoke a few hours later, no more rested than when he’d lain down. His face was lined and drawn, and fatigue rimmed his eyes. All the nightmares and horrors of France had been replayed in his dreams, leaving him as exhausted as he had been on all those night patrols 40 years ago.

He scratched at his stubbled cheek and sipped the cup of strong black coffee that his wife had brought him. She, sensitive to his moods after nearly 40 years of married life, watched him with affection and concern.

“Did you find what you were looking for last night?” she asked gently.

He nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. “I found more than I was looking for,” he replied. “And I know what I have to do.”

“What’s that?”

“I have to find him.” John sighed as he put the coffee cup in the sink. “I have to know what happened. I have to know if he’s still alive.”

“I realized that when you showed me the letter yesterday,” she replied. “I was hoping you would come to that conclusion yourself. Maybe then you can put the nightmares behind you once and for all.”

“Maybe,” he whispered. “Or maybe the nightmares have just begun.”

************

France, 1944

“Kirby, cover me!” called Preacher.

They had stumbled into a machine gun nest, well hidden in the underbrush, and now the squad was pinned down. Sarge was moving along the flank, crawling through the tall grass. The Thompson was cradled in his arms as he shimmied forward. He wanted to get a grenade into the nest, but he had little cover and would be easy prey if he was spotted.

Caje was behind a log at the other flank, and was drawing most of the fire. He kept his head down, only lifting it occasionally to take a hurried shot with his rifle. The constant firing of the machine gun was kicking up clouds of dust and wood chips, obscuring his line of sight. Usually the marksman of the squad, today his shooting was ineffective.

“What are you gonna do?” Kirby called back.

“I’m going right up the middle - they won’t expect that!” Preacher started crawling forward.

“Hey, wait a minute! You can’t do that!” Kirby hollered. “You’ll be cut to ribbons!”

“No, I won’t. Just cover me!” Preacher continued his advance, slithering through the grass like a giant blonde snake.

The booming of the BAR behind him and the answering chatter of the machine gun in front of him covered the sounds of his movements. Kirby couldn’t believe that the Krauts didn’t see Preacher - he was right in front of them, yet might as well have been invisible. The BAR man kept up a continual curtain of fire, glancing around occasionally to see where Sarge and Caje were. The rest of the squad, stupified by Preacher’s boldness, fired off their M-1's as rapidly as they could. Empty shell casings and magazines pinging to the ground added to the cacophony.

Preacher’s long arm swung in a slow arc as he released a grenade. The missile sailed into the nest and detonated, rocking the ground with its lethal power. Showers of dirt mixed with white-hot shrapnel sent a geyser of death into the air. The vacuum of sudden silence was broken by a single moan, cut short by a choking gasp as a final breath was wrenched from the machine gunner’s lungs.

Preacher stood, looking down into the faces of the dead Germans, and prayed.

“Ho, boy, Preacher, am I glad you’re on our side!” Kirby clapped the taller man on the back.

Smoke rose from the crater torn by the grenade, lending a backdrop to the tableau of war-weary soldiers. Caje and Sarge checked the Germans, turning over the torn bodies to look for signs of life. Kirby, Littlejohn and Billy were clustered around Preacher, who was shaking his head.

“I hated to do it, to kill another human being, but sometimes that’s what we’re called to do,” he murmured.

Doc stood off to one side and watched the man. ‘He’s an enigma,’ the medic thought. ‘Kill a man and then pray over his body.’ Preacher glanced over at him, and Doc was stunned to see intense pain and sorrow in the man’s eyes. ‘But he doesn’t take either killing or praying lightly.’

************

Arkansas, USA, 1984

“I found my notebook, where I wrote down the addresses of the men in my squad,” John told his wife. “I guess that’s where I’ll have to start looking for Preacher. I know what his address was 40 years ago. I’ll write a letter...or better yet, it’s only a few hours’ drive. Maybe we can make a day of it.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it? You didn’t sleep very well,” she said.

“I don’t want to put this off any longer. The sooner I start looking, the sooner I’m likely to find out what happened to him.”

She packed a picnic lunch while he was shaving, and they were on the road by mid-morning. They drove north on Hwy. 71 toward Missouri, and passed through some of the most beautiful country God ever created. Limestone bluffs towered, overhanging the road, and as they approached southwestern Missouri, the panorama of the Elk River was breathtaking. Small campsites and cabins dotted the banks of the river, providing stopping points for canoers along the water’s edge. Timbered mountains ringed the small town of Noel, and the trees were ablaze with fiery fall colors.

At the post office, John received his first disappointing news.

“Blackwell, Blackwell. No, no one by that name in town. Least not that we deliver any mail to,” the postmaster told him. “Seems to me I remember that name from years ago, though. I’ve been working at this post office for almost 40 years, ever since I graduated high school. But that name does ring a bell. Let me check our files.”

He soon returned with a huge, dusty ledger, which he plopped open on the counter. He hummed to himself as he flipped through the brittle pages, stopping occasionally to moisten his index finger with his tongue. Finally he jabbed at one page with the same grubby finger.

“Um-hmmm, um-hmmm, just what I thought. My memory isn’t so bad after all. The last time we had any Blackwells to deliver to was way back in 1956. And that was Joseph and Mary Blackwell. Joseph and Mary...now ain’t that funny! A wonder I didn’t remember THAT!” He chuckled at his own humor.

“Them the folks you’re lookin’ for?” he asked.

John shook his head. “No, I wanted to find Paul Blackwell.”

“Paul. Now why didn’t you say so in the first place? ‘Course I knew Paul way back when. He was ahead of me in high school, but they had all kinda trophies in the trophy case from him playin’ football and basketball. That was quite some kid! What an athlete! A legend in his own time.”

John felt his heart quicken.“Was there a forwarding address? Do you know what happened to him? Where he is now?”

“No, can’t say that I do. Leastways not for the last 40 years. Knew he went in the Army. Knew he came back all busted up. Knew he was in a German POW camp till the end of the war. Had a chest full o’ medals when he finally got home. But that’s all. Oh, I think maybe he went to seminary somewheres. Always wanted to be a preacher, ever since he was a young ‘un.”

John tried not to show his disappointment. “Well, thank you for your time. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, one more thing,” the postmaster said. “You might try checking at the library for old back issues of the newspaper. That might tell you something.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks again.” John shook the postmaster’s hand and walked out into the sunshine. The disappointment had turned to hope in his mind. At least he had something to go on now.

At the library, he was told that back issues of the newspaper were on microfiche. The librarian set the machine up for him, and he and his wife spent the rest of the afternoon reading small-town gossip and war news from 4 decades ago. He had never discussed or read about the war after he came home. The memories were just too painful to be dredged up once he’d buried them in his subconscious.

If the letter that he had received yesterday had cracked the dam that held back the memories, then the first-hand newspaper accounts of the war that he read today broke the dam wide open and let the memories flood out. It was almost more than he could bear.

Finally they found an article written after Preacher had come home from the war. He was the hero of the town. The writer of the article had listed Preacher’s wounds along with the medals that he had won. The worst of his injuries were a chest wound, a leg wound from which he had a permanent limp, and facial burns with scarring of one side of his face. He had won several purple hearts, a bronze star, and a silver star.

Most heart-wrenching to John was the account of Preacher’s time in the German POW camp. His life had been saved by a German doctor after he had been found near death, lying in a foxhole. John forced himself to read the details, even though the words blurred through the tears in his eyes. The soldier had nearly bled to death from a bullet wound to the chest. It had pierced one lung and exited out his back. When he was found, he was unconscious, barely breathing, and clutching a small Bible in one hand.

Once Preacher’s condition had stabilized in the German field hospital, he had been placed on a hospital train and sent on his way to Germany to a POW camp. The train had been bombed by the Allies, and Preacher had suffered horrendous burns to the face and a shattered leg. Without proper medical treatment, the leg had healed poorly, and the burns had scarred and contorted his handsome face.

The newspaper article showed a picture of Preacher arriving home from the war. John caught his breath when he saw how wasted the once-robust man had become. In the picture, he was leaning heavily on a cane, and had self-consciously turned the scarred side of his face away from the camera. His dress uniform hung on him like a sack, accentuating his skeletal thinness.

‘I could have spared him this,’ John thought. ‘I could have saved him from this anguish and pain...’

************

France, 1944

“Hey, Preacher, what’re you gonna do on your three-day pass?” Doc asked as he watched the man pack his duffel.

“Well, Doc, I just talked to the company chaplain, and he says there’s a church over in Belvoir that can use some help. They run an orphanage and soup kitchen, and the building was pretty heavily damaged from shelling a couple of days ago. I thought I’d go over and see what I can do to help. How ‘bout you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t really decided what to do. Seems like an awful lot of fuss to try to get to Paris for just a couple of days. But I don’t really want to stick around here either.” Doc paused, thoughtful. “Say, do you think they could use more help over there in Belvoir? I know how to swing a hammer...”

“Sure, the more the merrier! Jeep leaves in 20 minutes - think you can be ready?”

“You bet!” Doc grinned, grabbing his duffel.

“Don’t forget to bring your Bible, too,” Preacher reminded him. Doc patted his jacket pocket.

Belvoir was a sleepy little medieval village tucked into the rolling hills of Normandy farmland. It straddled the banks of an indolent mossy river where generations of young boys and old men had fished and daydreamed. A stone bridge, once used by horses and mules, arched across the stream. The town’s main street stretched from the bridge at one end to the gothic spired church at the other. Lining the street were small shops and patisseries, usually thronged with busy shoppers hurrying to finish their errands, or taking time for a pleasant repast.

The recent heavy shelling had decimated the street. Windows had been blown out, leaving most of the shops exposed to the elements. Broken glass and building debris littered the thoroughfare. Not one building or shop was left intact. Roofs had collapsed; walls crumbled into mounds of rubble. Café tables and chairs had been twisted into useless pieces of metal; bits of crockery and masonry were strewn as far as the river.

The church hadn’t escaped lightly either. Its main steeple lay on its side at the base of the church. The vagaries of the bombing had left the steeple neatly detached but otherwise intact. The doors of the church had been burst open by the tremendous pressure surge of a bomb detonating at roof level. Miraculously, one stained glass window was unbroken - its shimmering colors of golds, reds and blues were reflected outwards by the sunlight streaming through the hole in the roof. The window depicted Jesus welcoming the little children into His arms.

“Boy, when you said heavily damaged, you weren’t kidding,” Doc remarked as he surveyed the town’s damage. “Are you sure that bridge will hold us?”

“Course I am, Doc, I have it on divine authority!” Preacher replied.

Doc glanced at him in surprise, then realized that he was teasing.

“I don’t doubt it,” Doc chuckled.

“Well, shall we see if we can find the priest?” Preacher inched the jeep slowly across the narrow bridge. The fenders of the jeep scraped both sides of the bridge, and Doc was afraid the vehicle would get wedged like a cork. The bridge groaned under the weight of the loaded jeep, but held fast.

They wove the jeep around craters blasted out of the cobblestoned avenue and parked near the church. As they picked their way through the rubble and up the steps, they could hear sounds of construction from inside. Sharp hammer blows were accompanied by shouts and laughter as villagers worked to clear away debris and repair the damage.

Preacher tested the listing doors, and inspected the hinges and carved wooden reliefs. The heavy brass hardware was intact, but the wooden jambs had been splintered.

“This shouldn’t be too hard to fix,” he commented. “We’ll just have to take the doors down and replace the jambs, then rehang the doors.”

“Yep, we can do that,” Doc agreed.

Suspicious faces peered at them from inside the church, and silence descended. A muscular young man in a cassock approached them and asked them something in French. Doc and Preacher looked at each other and shrugged.

“Do you speak English?” they asked the priest in unison.

“But of course. I’m Father Dominic. How may I help you?” the priest asked.

“We came to help YOU,” Preacher said. “We’re from the 361^st, and we have a three-day pass. Thought we’d come help you rebuild your church.”

“Merci, gentlemen, merci!” The priest explained to the villagers, who gathered around the two, shaking their hands and clapping them on the back. The chattering resumed as the people returned to work.

“Let’s go unload the jeep,” Preacher suggested.

As they carried in heavy crates of food and supplies, Doc asked, “Where’d you get all this stuff?”

Preacher smiled. “Well, my Army pay was burning a hole in my pocket, so I put it to good use. And I hit Kirby up for a donation at the poker game last night.”

“Kirby? Donate to a church? How’d you get him to do that?”

“Told him I was going to pray out loud specifically for him before the next patrol. He gave me money just to shut me up!”

“Is that what they call ‘hush money’?” Doc snorted.

“You said it, brother!” Preacher laughed.

They finished unloading the jeep, and Preacher handed Doc a hammer.

“Let’s get to work,” he said.

They joined Father Dominic on the roof, patching the holes inflicted from the shelling. A certain rhythm developed among the three, their hammers singing a madrigal as they repaired the damage. The agile priest scuttled up and down the ladder, carrying bundles of wood shingles and buckets of nails as effortlessly as a mother would carry her child. He chattered endlessly, keeping the soldiers entertained with tales of the follies of the German army.

“They tried to conscript me,” he told them, winking and nodding cheerfully. “Oh, they tried, but I...” he paused dramatically. “I have a secret weapon!”

Doc and Preacher stopped hammering and glanced at each other.

“Secret weapon?” Doc asked. “What’s that?”

“Aha!” Father Dominic crowed. “Even you could not discern it, and you are a medical man. I hide it well, no?”

Doc scratched his head. “I guess you do. What is it?”

The priest stood to his full height on the sloping roof, and rapped himself sharply on the left shin with the hammer.

“Hey!” Preacher exclaimed, starting toward the priest. “Don’t do that - you’ll hurt yourself!”

Doc grabbed Preacher’s arm, as much to keep him from falling off the roof as to keep him from knocking Father Dominic off.

“No, he won’t,” Doc said. “I think I understand. When did it happen?” he asked the priest.

“When I was a young child. I grew up this way, and I am used to it.”

Preacher was puzzled. “When did what happen?” he asked.