· Published three times annually by University of Richmond Publications, Incorporated. Right is reserved to alter contributions to meet publication requirements All communications should be addressed to THE MESSENGER , Box 42 , University of Richmond, Virginia.
Editorial
War and Peace
"Peace," John Milton wrote, "hath her victories no less renowned than war,•' and, though we fight, because we must, we fight for that which we hope will bring ultimate peace.
In selecting "War and Peace" as the theme of the second issue of The Messenger, we have not, of course, linked these words in a unique way. They have been, and always will be, inseparable. They are two extremes, the means and the end. They are bound together inextricably by the fact that it is impossible to ·come to a complete understanding of one without a realization of the other.
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It is paradoxical, and eternally so, that, in fighting a war, man must sacrifice immediate peace for a future, more satisfying one. It is only, however, in the bitterest hell of war that man can grasp the real worth of coveted peace.
It has been said that war has many faces. It takes on a new face with the death of each new casualty, with the agony of each sweetheart bereaved by the loss. Peace, too, is many faceted; its aspects countless. Our magazine cannot hope to show you war, for we, in our safe, secure existence, do not approach its true meaning. We offer you, instead, a glimpse into a conception of war as seen from the eyes of a few students and faculty members. It is right, I think, that 20th Century man examine war. Perhaps, as it is examined and as the questions ofworld pea~e are, in some measure, answered, the end, peace, can be shown to justify the means, war.
-HOP
The Messenger
Bamboo
The boy was slender and small, tender and young as the green bamboo in which he hid. His face was the dry, golden color of the bamboo leaves. His supple young body shivered in the wind as gracefully and responsively as the bamboo did. The mud and smell of the rice paddies were upon him; his feet were so encrusted with grime that they might have been the roots of the bamboo itself. His face had a hollow look, as hollow as the bamboo. There was a kind of cold, inhuman hardness in his eyes that made him seem hardly more alive than the leafy shoots around him. No sound came from the bamboo thicket. Boy and bamboo were still.
It did not rain. The earth was as badly in need of a shower as a farmer after a hard day's plowing. The odor exuding from the fields was unbearably offensive. Still, it did not rain. The road, hardly more than a path, unrolled itself in dusty disgust at the weather. Only the dirt, the hardy bamboo, and the boy, whose roots were the same as those of the dirt and bamboo, could survive.
A dust cloud at a bend in the road gradually resolved itself into a man. He plodded along wearily, as if the weight of the dust on his boots was more than he could bear. The dry wind sighed around him; the bamboo shiv-
Six
by Kathy Scott
erect; the green eyes watched. The figure advanced slowly, and a small flicker of light showed in the green eyes as they perceived that this was an American soldier.
The G.I. was muttering to ' himself, mumbling complaints about the quality of his lunch. The quantity had been quite sufficient, but he wondered if he would not have been better off eating nothing. His stomach was beginning to rebel against the diet of a soldier.
The bamboo stirred; for an instant it seemed that part of the thicket had walked into the middle of the road. Then, the soldier realized that it was only a boy -a small, hungry-looking boy. The slender green-and-golden figure began to speak. His voice was musical, like the wind playing a tune on bamboo pipes.
"Damn," the soldier said tiredly. The word came out matter-of-factly, tonelessly. There was no heat in his voice, and the word was not directed as much to the boy as to the rice paddies and the bamboo and the dry air. The silken, rustling voice of the boy continued. The soldier did not understand a single word of the foreign tongue, but he knew the boy was asking for food. He had none.
''If it would do you any good, son, I'd gladly give you my lunch," he
The Messenger
muttered, thinking how easy that feat would be to accomplish and how glad his stomach would be to be emptied of the awful food. The soldier sighed, his big frame bent with weariness. He looked at the boy, not unkindly, but quizzically. The boy's voice had stopped, and only the cool, leaf-shaped, greedy eyes answered the soldier's look. With a shrug of his shoulders, the soldier stepped past the boy and trudged on down the road.
The boy stepped back into the thicket, and once again boy and bamboo were one. This was the boy's habitat. In all the surrounding landscape, there were only two alien objects. One was the American soldier. The other was the object which the boy picked up from the shelter of the thicket and held close ,in his arms.
"Too bad," thought the soldier, "Too bad I don't speak any Vietnamese. I could have at least told the boy I'm sorry he• s hungry."
"Too bad,'' thought the boy. "Too bad you don't know that being hungry isn't the most important thing in the world. My friends have given me something even better than food."
In the midst of the green and gold bamboo, there appeared a shaft of black. The green eyes turned suddenly hard and steely in their intensity. As the dry wind wafted the smell of the rice paddies through the faintly rustling bamboo, a gun was leveled at the retreating soldier's back.
Then the bamboo bowed to the wind, and all was quiet.
prelude to n epilogue
i turn from the t.v. & i says to my friends that the situation's gitin worse/ & they embrace one another with apathetic smiles & nod while sippin mr. j. walkers brew.
"don't yuh care/ yuh might be nex."
"don't worry, nothin ever happened before, it won't now." yeh?
content t blink n eye when the train of inhumanity takes a stop t take new passengers who'll pay moren they know for their ticket. t northberry t southberry & all societies sufferin & death R universal black/ white & strawberry twirl all possess the fare-myopia "all aboard" & i sit at my window watchin the scenery/ knowin what comes nex but afraid t say/ then the porter names the nex 4 communities on the track of darkness. a laff a smile a frown a cry/ & we all know our stop.
- William C. Wilmoth Ill
FORUM:imageofwar
by Capt. R. S. Hawthorne
It is difficult to portray war as an image merely with words. Words serve to expand the image into terms that man may understand, but the real image only appears to the person who has seen and felt war.
War has many characteristics and faces. It is seen in the despair of people who have been bombed out of their homes. It is seen in the faces of children, gaunt from hunger. It is heard in the plaintive cries of these same children, begging for sustenance, and willing to eat garbage to preserve life. It is near hopelessness with but a single thread of hope remaining; the belief that someday and sometime it will end, and life will again resume.
War is normality in the abyss of abnormality. It is war production in the face of unemployment. It is violent patriotism in the face of draft card burning. It is death, relegated to page six of the newspaper, and in small print at that. It is a knock on the door; the end of a life; the dissolution of a family.
War's image can be a letter from home on the eve of a battle or the pungent aroma of a rice paddy in the middle of summer. It is the exhiliration of coming through a battle alive, and the absolute despondency felt at the loss of a friend. It is the totality of every human emotion and desire.
War's image can be a line of replacements waiting to board a plane or
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a ship; the feeling of utter loneliness within a crowd of soldiers. It is a belief in God, for it is true that ''there are no atheists in foxholes!'
War is the smell of burning flesh, both human and animal, as yet unburied; of soldiers whohaven'tbathedinweeks. It is the earsplitting sound of mortar and artillery fire, and the eerie absolute silence that precedes an ambush. It is leave in Picadilly, Paris, Tokyo, or Saigon. It is the Berlin Wall, for the image is cold as well as hot. It is C-rations---cooked in a steel helmet. It is 1st Sgts.; officers; ''shots,. u and boredom. It is K.P ., guard,. and a weekend pass.. It is the grim humor of the G. I., the humor that is inexplicable to the civilian, yet wondrously funny to the soldier.
The image of war can be birds singing in the trees,. while below lies desolation. It is man• s macabre device,. both grandeur and spectacle. It exhilarates and stuns; it enriches and destroys. It is heroism,. above and beyond the call of duty, and abject fear rolled into one.
It is without a doubt the greatest paradox in the entire history of mankind. It is complete destruction, though often for the betterment of society. It is the sum total of man's desire to impose his will upon another. It is the Alpha and the Omega.
Nine
Hey, Leroy
Joe was meditating. He lay on his upper bunk in his meditating position with his long spindly legs crossed and his shirt unbuttoned. His forearms sat tensely on his chest and ran up to his long fingers that nervously performed spider-in-the-mirror pushups. His black head was onyx buried in his ivory pillow. Only his nose, a bit of his forehead, and a long cigar that belched clouds of moldy smoke protruded. His presence in the dark was indicated only by the large ember of his cigar, which burned a bitter red when he inhaled and a duller and duller orange as every new idea struck and was mulled over. Every so often, a small breeze wafted through the hot, moist air and soothed the upper half of his body.
Leroy, in the lower bunk, was trying to get to sleep. He had long ago devised an ingenious way to do this. He thought about girls. From the seemingly delusory past, he yanked up memories of old loves and girls that he had been acquainted with at one time or another, but would have liked to have known better. Using them as a basis, he either decorated old memories or, if he was tired of seducing all his past loves, he invented new tales of conquest and filled them with part real, part imaginary girls. Eventually, he began /
by Nelson Cover
to exchange one girl's body with another's face until he had what he wanted. Next, he tried increasing proportions, so that girls became more and more amply endowed as the night progressed. There was only one thing wrong with Leroy's method: he could never get to sleep. Every night, the more he thought about girls, the more excited he became, and the more excited he became, the more he thought about girls. Consequently, Leroy spent most of his nights restlessly tossing and turning.
Joe was thinking about his childhood. He was ten when he had lived in a little fallen-down hut outside of Atlanta. In the hut there was not enough room for all the children and parents, and some of them had to sleep out in the '52 Ford that was up on blocks in · their back yard. He could still remember the rancid smell of unwashed bodies and ages of cooking odors that had emanated from atop the pot-bellied stove. This stove, the T. V., one old bed, and two stools were the only furniture in the house. His father made his living picking up hub caps and other things from the expressway. Every morning, he was up with the sun, walking long stretches of barren road with an uneven slow stride. Occasionally, he made a find and would reach down, pick up his hubcap or an almost empty bot-
tle of whisky, and slowly brush it off with his thick, stolid fingers. Then he would tuck the object into his incredibly worn and stained overcoat. Joe's mother ·worked downtown at a nebulous occupation when he was young. As he grew older and witnessed the birth of several mulatto and s\\'.arthy-skinned brothers and sisters, Joe soon learned the truth.
It was survival of the fittest in his family. He learned early how to lie, cheat, and steal. It was, most likely, unfortunate that Joe had been born with a high degree of native intelligence. By the fifth grade most of the children of his age had quit the . ramshackled hut of a school that he attended. But Joe saw his predicament in the early battles with his brothers and sisters for food and in the fights that swayed their shack and in the despicable glances he received from those few people of the upper classes with whom he came into contact. So he stayed in school until the eighth grade, which was the last grade taught, and suffered ridicule at home and everywhere he went. For awhile, his father beat him for going to school with a fan belt that he had found on the road. Soon, however, he tired of Joe's resistance and Joe became cautious enough to know the whereabouts of his father at all times. While his brothers and sisters gradually took to the streets or were put in jail, he secured a job as a busboy,· because he could fill in a brief application form, and had not been in jail. Still,
people called him "nigger" as often as not, and his pay of seven dollars a week plus half in tips did not even allow him to get drunk on the weekends and still keep his dirty little room. Then there had come the crisis in his life; he was fired. Walking the' streets, he thought of stealing. He had planned to rob that little grocery store on the corner of Main and Tenth. Thinking back, he guessed that he had really been lucky, but he was not sure. He wanted to know whether he had been a fool to let himself end up here, rather than running from what seemed to most a commitment to hell. He felt funny, liking something most others hated. Was he a nut or some kind of a kook? His mind wandered for a few more seconds and then returned to the question. He started up and his sudden movement cascaded a three-inch long residue of cigar ash over his chest. He brushed them off with quick vigorous strokes and cursed in a whisper, "Hey Leroy, you awake?"
Leroy in the lower bunk was in a semi-conscious state. By now, a girl who resembled Dionne Warwick, with the exception of her 48-21-40 measurements and her platinum blond hair, was chasing him madly around her penthouse apartment. She had just bought him a new Cadillac and tuxedo and had promised him even more. Leroy was running just to tease her and was intending to get caught at any moment. Finally, after a great struggle, she secured him steadfastly around the
waist. Leroy turned to her and as he stared into her black liquid eyes, she murmured softly •••
"Hey Leroy, you awake?" spoke a harsh stifled voice from somewhere up above. Leroy groaned and turned over with great effort; he extended his head over the edge of the bed and looked up. Overhead hung a silent dull red coal, which ever so often grew livid red and radiated enough to reveal a set of flared nostrils, pronounced, heavy cheek bones, and two alabaster eye balls.
"Hey, man, what you want?" he whispered irritatedly up at the ember.
The ember glowed, revealing the partial anatomy of Joe's face again and he said, ''Hey Leroy, you like it here?''
''Man, what the hell kind of question is that?" said Leroy somewhat indignantly.
"I don't know, man, I was just sort of sittin' here wonderin' about things. Jus' curious I guess."
Leroy was puzzled. He had never really given the question any thought. Perhaps, he was a bit surprised that anyone would think about things of that sort. He was silent for awhile as the ember glowed once or twice. Finally, because the quiet was so oppressing, he replied, "Hell, I guess so. I mean it's better than most of the things I've done.''
There was silence for a time, then the cigar lit up and faded and Joe spoke.
"Hey Leroy, what'd you do before you was here?"
"Man, what you mean, what'd I do?"
"I mean where you from; .what'd you live like?"
"Oh that." said Leroy flatly, after a short silence.
"Yeah."
Leroy was again silent. He was trying to synthesize into some pattern a variety of meaningless experiences. Eventually, some sort of scheme seemed to emerge out of the myriad memories and reflections that whirred
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through his brain and he began his tale.
"Man, I don't know. I grew up in New York in an apartment. It was OK I guess, but we had five kids an' my ol' man jus' couldn't find no job. All that old bastard ever did was get drunk and beat us kids. My old lady died havin' my little brother, but, man, it wuddint our fault. Damn people in tha hospidal; that's wha' killed her. • • I don't know, man. I mean, it was OK, that's all." Leroy didn't want to finish his tale because suddenly the flood of past memories deluged his brain with half-forgotten sorrows and grief. Startled at his sudden emotion, he twisted back onto the bed and lay silent for a few minutes. He thought of all the children in their tiny dirt-encrusted room, the cracked walls, the smell of sewage, the rats that bit the children, the gaseous smell and constant roar and honk of automobiles. He thought about jail and hunger and unemployment and fights. A ceaseless stream had been unleashed and spread in a flash flood through every region of his brain.
Joe was growing impatient. His neck hurt from leaning over the edge of the bed, but his curiosity hurt him more.
"Hey Leroy," he said finally.
Leroy responded with a vague, ''Yeah."
"You like it here?"
Leroy turned and looked out past the long row of double bunks; out into the lush moist vegetation. He looked down the muddy road past tanks and soldiers and ragged, bony village chil-· dren. The sound of numerous insects droned, and, off in the distance, the stacatto of a machine gun echoed forth. He watched as flames arose in the sky from a downed helicopter. He thought again for awhile. Finally, he looked up at the ember, which shone ominously from behind the dark residue of ash.
"Yeah," he said, "I guess I like it here.''
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The Messenger
A Sonnetfor 1943
Two wars ago, a student from the University of Richmond wrote this poem. It is reprinted from the February, 1943,issue of THE MESSENGER.
Young voices calling through the lonely night . .. Go tell the glories of your heroes bold Who at Bataan and Wake and Guam did fight Or braved the desert's sand and Arctic cold. Your sons they were who dared ' the clouds and sea . .Was it in vain they suffered death and j>ain, Or will their deeds secure the victory? What do you tell them, those who do remain? They hear the roar of the machine gun nest, The drone of airplane motors, marching feet. Give them your pledge that as you face your test You will not shrink nor ever feel retreat,· Let sacrifice of all be love's reply, Assuring them a nation hears their cry f
- Lillian Belk Youell
Thirteen
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AND AGAIN SHILOH
Slip slow from sun dawned hilltop down Through ancient lull of powder mist. Confederate colored cloud, once clown Of young boy's mind, now stays all jest And tints the sky with shades quiet frownedPaints past, hid deep by time's long kiss.
Soft step on reed and red rough earth On veteran sparse grassed slopes where blush Torn clods of ground that once gave birth, And now hold death in young morn's hush. They weight the sound of silent mirth That never from live mouths may rush.
Stand sure as cloud sketch disappears And rain begins its rape below. The hill with blood red stream it sears, Each drop hits death dried dirt a blow. But earth, now taught by morbid years, Soaks up the reincarnate flow.
Straight shot shower weakens, diesIt loses life in ground's tired gore. Yet torrents rip 'neath wrinkled eye And flood soft mind with fear's loud roar. They battle-cry from rest the war Of pain that last makes age a lie.
- David W. May
Fifteen
I COULDFLAREOUT
Mercury lamps spread their eerie light up and down the crowded street. Grouped people pass me by, Mumbling small sounds. Buildings, windows, cars, lights, people All whirl around me, All revolve in their own courses, While I wander through their orbits Like a burned-out comet, Unnoticed in the great voids. I could flare out, But they would just ogle me With their perceiving telescopes A few moments and grow tired, So I turn the corner of the darkness And go my solitary way.
- James Bowen
An Autograph for an Epitaph
by Ellen Shuler
Mildred Haney stepped out of the sputtering little aircraft with a flourish. She paused at the top of the rollaway steps with the hauteur befitting a queen who is about to confront her subjects. The narrow airstrip several miles outside of Saigon was relatively void of humanity except for a few scurrying mechanics.
"Ernie," her voice was hard and irritated. "There's not a damned soul here to greet us. You'd think after we've come all this way, someone would have the decency to ••• "
''Look kid, you're here to entertain, not be entertained. They said they'd send somebody to pick us up. What'd you expect, a brass band and red carpet? Take one of these bags will you."
A stocky man in his middle forties, squeezed through the narrow door juggling three suitcases, a hatbox and a sports jacket. A few graying curls were matted in sweat on his forehead and a fringe of a moustache obscured his upper lip.
His ostentatious companion snatched one of the bags and stomped down the steps, her spike heels clicking abruptly against the metal. The ancient little tri-motor transport plane had picked them up from the Cambodian capital of P hompenh and carted them to the international hotbox for a brief G. I. entertainment tour. Mildred Haney regretted the engagement already. Her shapely hips swayed emphatically as she marched toward a makeshift hut which seemed to be the only retreat from the relentless sun. Agent Ernie Norcom struggled along behind her.
A young lieutenant jumped from his desk as Mildred charged through the door. "Here, ma'am, let me help you
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with the bag. Can I get you some water or something?" ·
"You wouldn't happen to have a cold beer, would you?" she answered, snatching up a folder from the desk and fanning herself furiously with it. ''This place has to be hotter than hell."
"Yes ma'am, it gets pretty bad, but it cools off a little at night." He poured some water out of a canteen into a cup and handed it to her. "You'll have to wait until you get into the Long Binh for that beer. I could use one myself. I take it you're the new act for the enlisted men's club. It's sure good of you people to come out here like this ••• I mean this place gets mighty dull ••• "
"Yeah, I'm sure," Mildred cut him off sharply. "Look, isn't somebody supposed to meet us or something?"
She lifted her bleached blond hair and splashed the remains of the water on the nape of her neck.
''Yes 'm. I think that's your ride stirring up that dust just down the road.'' About that time Ernie stuck his head through the door.
"Let's go, gorgeous. The chariot's here.'' ·
They climbed in the dilapidated jeep; the fifteen mile drive to Long Binh was an eternity of strangulating dust clouds and jarring ruts. Not even the admiring whistles of the passing G. I. helped to appease Mildred's temper by the time they arrived at the ramshackled structure which would serve as their lodging.
The whirring ceiling fan inside. the building offered no relief from the suffocating late afternoon heat. The air was thick and muggy and swarming with mosquitoes. Mildred slapped at her neck. A low-cut flower-print dress clung damply to her dust-iaden body.
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She lit a cigarette and paced impatiently about the room which was obviously intended to be a sort of lobby in the barracks-like structure. Ernie followed a young aid upstairs with her bags to check out her room.
As she stood in the doorway, hoping for just the tiniest whisper of air, she felt suddenly that she was being observed. She whirled around and met the eyes of a rather insolent-looking young sergeant, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.
''What the hell are you staring at mister?" she snapped.
"You, lady. You're a mighty fine sight for a weary soldier to rest his eyes on."
"Well, I wish you'd kindly find something else to rest your eyes on."
''No sense being so uppity, ma 'am. I was just paying you a compliment. As long as you're going to be here awhile, I figured we could maybe get to be friends." He wore an ingratiating, arrogant leer on his coarse animallike face.
''The lady doesn't need any more friends, fellow. Thanks just the same," said Ernie in his firm but amiable voice. He strode briskly into the room and took Mildred by the arm. They were halfway up the rickety stairs when the red-faced officer shouted after them, "We'll see about that, Mr. Bigshot. Maybe she will need some friends." He stormed out of the building.
"I'm not gonna put up with that crap, Ernie. I don't have to put upwith that .....
''Not only do you have to put up with it, dollface," he interrupted her, "you gotta pretend to like it. These guys haven't seen a woman for months. And even though you're thirty and starting· to show- it, tonight you 're the woman of their dreams. So quit bitching and try to make yourself look a little less like a nightmare. They're drawing you
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a bath down the hall.'' He closed the door as she flounced on the bed amidst a profusion of profanity.
The falling night, which seemed to absorb a little of the permeating heat of the day, at the same time expelled an abundance of mosquitoes and spiders and countless other assorted creatures. Mildred sat at the dresser almost frozen in horror at the insects about her. There was a knock at the door and Ernie let himself in.
''I brought you a little something to calm your nerves," he said soothingly as he set a highball beside her on the dressing table.
"You have no idea how much I need it." She grasped it greedily. "Ernie, just look at these damn bugs. This place gives me the creeps. I can't even put on my eyeliner."
"I think you look very nice, Millie," he said simply. She had her hair pinned up off her neck in a new way. Her make-up was a little shiny as the perspiration glistened on her skin in the harsh make-up lights. Her filmy dressing gown clung revealingly to her simple figure. The years were beginning to imprint a few lines on her face and a bit of additional weight, but there was still an appealing girlishness in the stubborn little pout of her lips and the avant-garde in her hazel eyes.
Ernie gave an imperceivable sigh and gulped a swallow of his drink. ''Better step on it. The show opens in an hour. I'll meet you downstairs.'' He glanced at himself in the mirror, straightened his tie, slicked back his hair with both hands, and leftthe room.
Mildred finished dressing quickly in her haste to escape the intolerable atmosphere of her room. She slithered down the steps in a tight, low-cut gold gown. It was almost irridescent as she stood in the doorway of the barracks. Several soldiers in the lobby whistled and called to her so she stepped outside into the dusty street and strolled
The Messenger
I through the eerie darkness to the corner of the building.
"Looking for somebody, lady?" The voice came out of nowhere and sent a chill of horror through her. The sergeant from that afternoon sauntered out of the darkness. "Maybe you're a little more friendly in the dark," he said coming close to her. His breath was thick with liquor.
' 'You were told this afternoon buddy ••• , " she began.
''Nobody tells me what to do but my superiors, and you folks sure as hell ain't my superiors.'' He was shouting now. "A couple of third-rate, has-been show people --you come prissing in here like you was better than God ••• I '11 teach you to come off your high horse and be friendly.''
Grabbing her arms he pinned her against the side of the building in an unyielding grip and kissed her voraciously.
Suddenly he was gone and Ernie, summoned by the shouting, was there holding her ever so gently. She leaned against him and let the horror of the whole affair pour out in a flood of indignant tears. An officer came over to apologize for the unpleasantness and ask if the show should be cancelled.
"No, I think not," answered Ernie.
"Well, I think so," cried Millie, some of the fight surging back into her.
"The show will go on,'' repeated Ernie firmly. He nodded a dismissal
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to the officer.
"You heartless, unfeeling bastard," began Mildred. '' After all I've been through ••• ••
"Ir s not half as much as those guys waiting to see you have been through. And after all," he added with a trace of bitterness, ''it's not as though this is the only time your chastity has been threatened or even encroached upon.''
''You have the colossal gall to throw up something like that to me at a time like this. If I am tarnished or whatever you want to call it, it's only because of the steady diet of two-bit joints you've been booking me in since I was old enough to know what was going on," she shrieked.
"I've done the best I could for you," said Ernie coldly. "But that's beside the point now. The chances for big time are getting slimmer all the time. You pass up this tour and bookings of any kind may be a thing of the past. This tour pays pretty good money and it's publicity. A lot of the boys you play to here will be back in the States one of these days. Are they going to remeber Millie Haney as the act that never showed, or as that great kid that really boosted morale when it was down? Maybe you could even feel like you were helping a cause or something."
"Damn, you make it sound like a matter of life or death," she murmured, slightly irate, as she slapped at a mosquito.
Twenty-One
He looked into her almost comical face. Her mascara had blended with tears and sweat to make a maze of rivulets through the rouge on her cheeks. "You never know about that life and death business, do you?" his voice was quiet for a moment, then he snapped, ''Go do something to your face. You look like hell."
The Cubby-Hole Enlisted Men's Club was jam-packed. The little joint had at least 300 G. I.' s crammed inside with the beer free-flowing for all. Suddenly a spotlight centered on the makeshift stage as Millie stepped out ••• blonde, buxom and glimmering in gold like a vision. For a second the soldiers were silent ••• and then began the stomping, cheering and pounding on tables as they scrambled over one another for a better view.
Millie belted out song after song ••• of love, of home. Her voice rippled over the microphone with an accompaniment of a tape recorded band. But she couldn't have been better received in Carnegie Hall.
"And now fellows," she murmured into the microphone, "I'm going to do a number that I '11 need a little help on."
This part had to be the worst, she decided. Out of three hundred hysterical men she had to choose one to come on stage with her. She stepped off the platform and searched for a shy face among the mob. She could have killed Ernie for making her go through with this part of the act ••• tonight of all nights.
She finally spotted a quiet, almost sad-eyed boy watching earnestly from a table in a far corner. She stopped at his table and smiled at him. He looked like a mere child ••• so horribly thin ••• not at all like the rest of them •
"How about you, soldier? Would you come on up here with me?"
Twenty-Two
He ventured a feeble smile, "I'd sure like to Miss Haney, but ••• I got kind of shot up, see and I'm not much for dancing right now."
Suddenly Millie heard a buzz of voices behind her. "Hey, that guy• s supposed to be in the field hospital. He was in my platoon ••• got shot up pretty bad a couple of weeks ago."
"How do you suppose he got l!ere? God, there's blood on his shirt."
"Miss Haney, I'd sure appreciate it if you'd autograph this picture for me. I used to see you in Chicago, and I swore to myself I wasn't going to miss you tonight." His face was very white.
Millie scarcely knew what she was writing as she scribbled the words ••• "To a brave and courageous young soldier, best wishes." The boy smiled faintly at the slip of paper. ''You were mighty good to come ••• it gets awfully ••• '' Suddenly he slouched over the table.
Millie stood for a moment, frozen in horror at the scene before her. It was like a death scene in an old war flick, or the last page of a dime store paperback.
From somewhere in the muffled darkness, a flash bulb shattered the setting. It was the cue that Millie needed to finish off her act properly.
Her expression of astonishment re- · arranged itself into one of acute distress as she moved into a prominent position by the lifeless boy--her best side toward the camera.
Ernie backed off from the soon swarming mob, leaned against a post and lit a fresh cigarette.
He observed this grand finale to the show with a bitter disgust.
"Millie was a bitch," he mused grimly, ''but she sure knew how to make the most of a pregnant opportunity.•' This could be the break they needed. He could already visualize the headlines in the papers back home.
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The Messenger
'Sixty-Seven
The Prisoner
Dark, the soft and amber colored wall Holds shadows that lie scattered in his cell. His young frame hunches, covered by the pall Of small harsh bulb that lights for him a hell Of written blight. Words probe his tiring eye And irritate a mind that soon may break For want of truth. Of late he's lived a lie, That opposition's sharp claws might not rake From him the dignity of secrets chained. And now a trembling hand puts out the sun Of light that leads such falsehood to his brain. His damning race with truth has just begun. Painful nights will see this half-man shed His pious robe, to leave his order dead.
- David W. May
Twenty-Three
SUZANNE;longforgotten
Wednesday morning, before sun up, they were leading a young girl to a hill outside the city where she was to be electrocuted. She skipped happily along behind them never suspecting a thing, because she didn't see the sly smiles on their faces, and the silver watch that they had strapped on her wrist made no sense to her at all.
She didn't mind following them, for there was nothing else to do, except perhaps let the early morning mist settle in her hair, or watch the wind playing with the grain. She would even have brought them some of her sacred flowers, but she had picked them yesterday and they had wilted overnight. And they would only laugh at wilted flowers.
She had been on the hill many times before and so knew it well. The leaves smiled back at her, not suspecting what they were about to see. The pebbles on the road scattered in laughter around her feet, not knowing what was to happen. She had spent many nights on the hill, sleeping among unseen friends, and praying for brokenwinged birds. She would speak softly to the stars, the earth would answer her. and the stream would surround her. She was never alone.
'Sixty-Seven
by Paul Harrell
She could see the other children in the schoolyard far below and wondered why they hadn't been invited to come along too. But she had never been to school, and the children were strangers to her. She spent her time in the mountains, playing with spirits whose names • she didn't know, and in the forest, waiting for the dawn. The school bell never rang for her.
She could see the city now as it lay stretched out far beyond the ·schoolhouse. Yesterday was the first time that she had ever been to the city. She had always walked unnoticed among the ·hills; feeding stray dogs, and blessing the quiet grass. But yesterday she had gone down the narrow streets and back alleys between the small shops, and had been to the great square surrounded by steeple-topped churches. She had been frightened by the people as they pressed around her. She had tried to explain to them that there were spirits in the mountains, but they had only pressed tighter and tighter around her.
And so they came to the top of the hill, while the town clocks were striking, and strapped her into the chair. But she only smiled, and asked what kind of game they were going to play.
D 7.J D
Twenty-Five
The Iconoclast
Spartan Hibbus had amassed four doctorates without ever admitting that it had more than once made him a social tool for Leona Bell. He was a box of instant brain. Just add a few pseudos, stir awhile, and watch them rave at the humility that drooled from his Southern lips. Or then again, he could scrape off "the cream" and march them boldly up poetic heights, in another room, while the rest of the party rested their minds. Spartan knew perfectly well why Leona cultivated him -because he knew her better than she knew herself.
Leona's niece, Tracy Bell, had attended college with Dyan Doulan. Tracy completed her sophomore year, married in the summer and didn't return, Dyan and Tracy had been the best of friends. With Tracy gone, it shocked Dyan to see that most of her friends, male and female, were actually Tracy's. Too often, the crowd she knew left her out of their activities. One by one, her friends found excuses, and dropped away. She needed a home to run to, but to return home, to the rural town of her parents, meant the death of any hope of success. New friends filled up the void, but never healed the wound.
After graduation, Dyan taught school for a year - to repay a government loaa. A fellowship to do graduate work lured Dyan to Baltimore on the same day that Spartan Hibbus happened to be in town. Dyan called up her former classmate , and accepted Tracy's invitation to a · party at Leona Bell's in nearby Catonsville.
The cab puttered off. Punching the doorbell, Dyan noticed the swiss cheese pattern where the sun had blown holes in the snow. She folded down her collar and flipped up the golden hair caught
Twenty-Six
by Robert Sena
at her nape. She rang again. Light sprayed down as the door wheezed open. A distinguished gentleman dressed in sharkskin took her hand and deposited her in the foyer. He tried to welcome her with the drink in his hand but spilled it. Then he tried it without the glass and was ironed across the cheek.
Down the hall, in the parlor where the party was centralized, Leona sensed the commotion and hurried to the front door. By Dyan's clothes, Leona correctly judged her to be the schoolteacher friend of her niece. The hostess was gracious and apologetic. Dyan's hazel eyes still bristled with anger; her aquiline nose and pursed lips approximated an exclamation mark. Leona was all the more friendly and even ordered the gentleman to come back and apologize again. Someone asked for Dyan's coat. She let it drop from her shoulders.
The atmosphere in the big parlor , was informal. The guests who were not in high gear appeared to be moving there rapidly. As Leona paraded Dyan around the room, the stranger was greeted with varying degrees of spontaneous warmth. After a few minutes, Leona passed off the entertainment of Dyan to a young woman lawyer.
A couple of cold champagnes re-stored Dyan's composure, but the loud, laughing voices of strange people alienated her. She asked Frankie Brown, the lawyer, where Tracy was.
"Who, Tinkerbell? She's listening to that professor, Dr. Hibbus, who happens to be a walking encyclopedia. He's got a nasty habit of holding lecture sessions wherever he goes."
''Is he Dr. Spartan Hibbus?" Dyan asked.
"Oh, don't tell me you've heard of
The Messenger
him too/' Frankie said.
''Yes, I've read two of his novels, and one of his books on anthropology. You mean he's here, Dr. Spartan Hibbus? ''
"Big as life. Or bigger than life, if that's the way you look at it. In all the Greek· splendor of his Texan heritage."
''What's he doing in a place like this?" Dyan said.
''What do you mean," Frankie said, ''a place like this? This is Leona Bell's. You're lucky to be here yourself, honey. Nobody asks any questions at Leona's, if they want to get invited back. They just seek their own level and let their hair down."
"I didn't mean it that way at all," Dyan said. "I think what I meant was, I'm very happy to be here with Dr. Hibbus." Frankie directed Dyan toward Spartan Hibbus and told her to enjoy herself. Dyan picked up a drink and headed up the quiet hall to the kitchen. Walking through the dining room, she could see past a wall of hollow squares that sliced the kitchen off from the dining room. Behind the mazed wall, a cluster of people were talking at the
'Sixty-Seven
table. The tall blonde entered the kitchen and introduced herself. She drew stares of interest from the six men who were there, and startled Tracy.
"Dyan I" the latter said. "I didn't know you were here 1 I had no idea 1 It was getting so late I thought you weren't coming. You're just in time! We're talking about the universe!" One of the men found a chair for the newcomer. "Ohl This is Dr. Hibbus," Tracy said. A bespectacled Negro with graying hair and French cuffs smiled as he nodded to Dyan. "He's a professor of history at the University of Michigan. This is Don Chorgravarti, and Martin Finch, George E. Stone, Hank Coleman, and, uh, Bob • • •" "John's thename,baby. John Smith. No relation."
"Sorry 'bout that," Tracy said, trying to ignore the man's terrible complexion. Dyan was relieved to see that four of the men were about her own age. Martin Finch and the professor were both much older. Spartan Hibbus, out of courtesy, questioned Dyan about her work, education, home town. The two discovered that they both had roots Twenty-Seven
in Cincinnati. His parents were living there, and she had taught school there. Although her parents lived in a small town near Columbus, Cincinnati was her "adopted" home. Dyanimmediately liked the professor because of the casual precision of his voice.
''Hank,'' Spartan said. ''You were starting to say something quite profound about time in outer space."
"Yes, I have a theory that explains flying saucers, eternity, and everything else. l believe the universe is infinite, but that its mass is greater at a center point. This center of mass is actually the center of gravity of the entire universe. The mass of the universe thins out from the middle to virtually nothing. Now, about time, well, our units for time are based on the earth's rotation, which depends on the gravitational pull of the sun. And so, if time is a function of gravity, then time also thins out from the center of the universe just like the gravitational force does. In practical terms, this would mean that creatures living further out in space have a much longer life span, have developed greater intelligence, and have plenty of time to travel."
"Very amusing," Spartan said. "In other words, you're saying that gravity ages man. Would I live longer on the moon, where the force of gravity is less than the earth's?
"No," Hank said. "You're confusing gravity with relative weight. How far a mass is from the macrocenter, the center of the universe, that's what's proportional to the acceleration toward the center due to macrocentric gravity."
"Wait a minute I Wait a minute I" Tracy said. ''How about slowing down a little bit, will ya, fellas I I ain't no Einstein. You guys are off in space, but my little pea brain ain't left this tablet''
"Sorry 'bout that," John Smith said, grinning. Tracy had an intense urge to
Twenty-Eight
lavish her Tom Collins all over his face. Just then, Leona came in and served drinks. Dyan declined a drink; the screwdriver she had just downed was all she could handle at the moment. Also, she found herself caught in a cross-fire of cigarette smoke, which was nauseating. To take her mind off feeling sick, Dyan asked Spartan Hibbus about the flying saucers on Michigan's campus. The next day, she couldn'trecall what reply, if any, he gave.
The conversation in the kitchen ended at 1:00 that morning. Most of the guests had already left when Dyan's cab came to drive her back to Baltimore. She had the opportunity to talk briefly with Spartan Hibbus after the party. She gave him her telephone number in Cincinnati, with the vague thought of having a similar discussion party in her own apartment. She realized, however, that he would probably never call.
The semester of work at Johns Hopkins was both productive and destructive for Dyan Doulan. She met a young medical student the week of her arrival who shared her idealistic suppositions about life. She was eager to fall in love, and after two dates blundered into telling him that she loved him and always would. In the beginning, when there was no time to see Dyan, he made time. Pressure from studies gradually pulled his nerves taut. He tried to cut her out of his life, but had grown addicted to her love. Dyan tried to reason with him, to restore his interest in medicine. The evidence for his emotional instability became all too plain. She blamed herself for his deficiencies. The only logical solution to the problem, she believed, would be to tell him she no longer cared. It would be better for him and for his ambition. The day after she released him, he died in a single car wreck on a lonely road. There were no skid marks, no indication of the cause.
Her glass world shattered. She
The Messenger
cursed God for allowing it to happen, begged Him to take her life before she did. Self-imprisoned in her room without food, she resisted any act of kindness by her friends. The chaplain came often. She would let him in, and they talked. He made her talk about her childhood. The good and the bad. Her college life. Everyone she had ever known. Her religious experiences. Bit by bit, together they reconstructed her life. The priest and the little girl pieced the world back together as it had been before the tragedy. But, hopefully, this time it would be more solid.
The semester ended two weeks later. She craved the lull of a summer vacation, and returned to Cincinnati. She re.J'!ted the same apartment in Hyde Park.
The weather stayed beautiful all during June. Dyan loved to go walking through the parks. From everywhere, she collected flowers to bring home. Frequently, she would go to Times Square to listen and watch. In July, she took a job with a florist. The man who owned the shop had a son who would come irregularly into the store to chat with his mother. He was terribly handsome, Dyan thought. Weeks went by. He always smiled and greeted her, without stopping to talk. From his mother, Dyan learned that Rick was a poet and had been successful in selling his work. For economic reasons, he had yet to use his M.A. in Greek. His mother hinted to Dyan that he had eyed the pretty new florist with interest.
Dyan did not hesitate to accept, one afternoon, when Rick asked her to dinner that night. The restaurant he chose was dark and elegant. Rick delighted her with his sense of humor. By his conversation, Dyan could tell that he had much in reserve. He was brilliant and proved it more by what he didn't say than by what he did. Rick _ held a secret power which relaxed her. Perhaps, the power lay in his ability to
' Sixty-Seven
encourage her femininity. Rick treated her, not as an equal, but as a sexual complement from whom he had much to learn.
The summer days were pleasant. Her relationship with Rick remained casual, yet she learned to trust him completely and with no reservations. It was almost as if she needed no one else. As long as he was there, life was stable, and nothing could hurt her. Then, Spartan Hibbus came to town.
Rick drove Dyan home that evening when she got off from work. As she opened her apartment door, the phone started ringing. It was Spartan Hibbus. He explained that he was in Cincinnati visiting his parents for a few days. Dyan was surprised that he had remembered her. His voice brought back memories of a bygone era. Actually, hardly eight months had passed since Leona Bell's, but she felt much older now.
Most of her life and most of her friends had only served to confound the high goals she had always cherished. The Doulans were good people, but, as long as they stayed in her life, they were unwittingly blunting their daughter's intellectual growth. Dyan's pride in her grades, even in grammar school, her parents somehow mistook as hostile to the status quo. They discouraged her from travelling the tenth mile, because the road stopped at the ninth, where they and all their dreams had stopped. It is a desperate, thankless mile, that last mile, if you must go it alone.
Dr. Hibbus, and other great men like him, enkindled her zeal into a blaze of ambition. The professor, to Dyan, was not just an image of success, but living proof of the personal triumph of which man is capable. The nobility of man is measured not by his achievements, but by what he first set out to do. Spartan Hibbus, a Negro Ph.D., a novelist, and a humanist, not only braved insurmountable odds, but carved
Twenty-Nine
out a seat from which to inspire and edify.
Dyan begged the professor to visit her, if he had the time. He seemed pleased, and insisted it was an honor to visit her. She asked if he would object to expanding the visit to include a few of her friends. Dyan was sure that Rick would jump at the chance to meet the brilliant educator. Dr. Hibbus agreed; the date was set for nine o'clock the next night.
All during the day, in the florist shop, Dyan waited for Rick to come.
At five o'clock Rick's mother said he was out of town on a business trip; he'd return by early evening. Dyan mentioned Spartan Hibbus and said she wanted Rick to meet him. The older woman promised Dyan that she'd have Rick call when he got home.
The shop closed at six. Dyan jostled through the crowd and hailed a cab. She was too excited to wait for a crowded bus. The sprinkle of rain on the burnt-gold leaves refreshed her.
Spartan Hibbus watched as the cab pulled up, watched her closely as she walked up the sidewalk and up the porch steps. Then, she turned, ran back Thirty
across the lawn, got the paper, returned. He continued to wait in his car. Occasionally, he spotted her through the second story window. Dyan's silken hair and slim shoulders kept bounding, running, bouncing in his mind. He flicked on instant music. Lit a cigarette.
Dyan ate a cold sandwich. She tidied the apartment, knowing Rick would call any minute.
There was a knock at the door. It had to be Rick. She smiled in relief. He hadn't even bothered to call but had come right over.
The man shocked her when she threw open the door. The dark overcoat frightened her. Then she recognized the familiar face. His plane was leaving at 9:30. He hadn't much time. Had to visit now. Two hours early.
The professor yanked a bottle from a paper bag and asked Dyan to fix drinks. She poured a softdrinkforherself, and mixed a Collins for her guest. Another of his novels was coming out in a few weeks; he was celebrating; they toasted. What was she doing with herself during the summer? Was she going back to school? What was her opinion of Hyde Park? The rain outside
The Messenger
was refreshing. What time were her friends coming. Rick would call.
She went to the kitchen to mix him another drink. He liked the cb.rysanthemums. Wouldn't it be nice if the whole world were one big, giant flower?
Coming back, she saw the couch empty, and suddenly felt alarmed. An arm grabbed her waist. The bristling beard seemed to be clawing her face to shreds. Why did she resist? He tried to calm her. She had played up to him. Sought his company. Why resist now?
She broke away and grabbed a butcher knife and stood against the wall. Spartan Hibbus picked up his coat and walked out of the apartment. What seemed like an hour later, she beard his car roar off.
Her fingers fumbled helplessly on the dial. Each numeral she dialed demanded intense effort. Finally, Rick's mother.answered the phone. Yes, he had come home, but had already left again. She didn't know where he could be reached. Was there anythingwrong? No, but it was urgent that she speak with him. Surely his mother knew where he was. Why hadn't he called her. Yes, she told him to call. Then why didn't he? It must be another girl -Rick had another date. To hear his mother's silence was agony.
In the morning, Dyan did not show up, as usual, at 9:00. The old man figured her punctuality had been too good to be true, anyway. At ten, her employer called her number, but there was no answer. Rick came into the shop about noon, and became worried over Dyan as he talked with his mother. The telephone call the night before didn't make sense. Dyan had had a good idea in inviting him to meet the professor, but the last-minute notice conflicted with his plans. Why the hysteria in her voice? Unless something had gone wrong.
Rick fitted the tragic riddle together as he drove over to Dyan's apartment.
'Sixty-Seven
He could not dismiss spmething the girl had once confided to him about an episode in Baltimore. It was a certain grief or suffering she had endured-she wasn't specific--but vowed never to go through it again. This cryptic hint of a harrowing or torturing experience somehow took on bizzare significance now. Rick drove faster.
The house looked completely normal. The morning paper still lay in the grass. The sun was beating down relentlessly. What a perfect day for swimming, for the lucky ones. Rick pounded on her door, but each time, a hollow echo mocked him. He went downstairs and convinced the landlord that there was good reason for them both to check up on Dyan in her apartment. Just then she came walking through the front door.
Her face, framed with golden hair, looked radiant but puzzled by the weird assembly at her door. Rick couldn't help but notice her long, beautifully tanned legs, and her shorts, her blouse, her innocent pink mouth. He all but fell in love with her right there. Had he been too blind to see all this before?
"Hi, Rick," Dyan said. "Saw you from down the block. What's new?"
''Hi, Baby, Just checking up on you. We got worried about you when ·you didn't come to work. Is it any of my business where you've been?"
"Well, when the rain was over, I took a walk."
''You mean you've been footing it around since 9 :00 this morning? ''
''Uh huh. It was a long, pretty walk. It must have been ten miles."
"How would my little globetrotter like to dive in for a swim at Coney Island for a change?"
"No thanks, Rick. I'm going home to visit my parents before I go back to school. I really miss them; have to start packing now. When this gorgeous sun goes down, I want to be home."
