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 on it. The corpsmen carefully removed his shirt. Laying on his back, unconscious, Luther moaned and ground his teeth. Tears ran down his face.
A younger corpsman, just arrived at the front, looked disgusted. “Christ, he’s crying.”
The Major, his sergeant and the other corpsman, turned on him at the same time, fists clenched. Their combined anger was like a fist in the boys gut. The Major had to make a physical effort not to hit him.
“Sergeant, someone should instruct the child regarding the facts of life before it becomes necessary to kick the child’s ass through the top of his head.”
The major muttered to himself. “You’ll cry boy, before your done with this place, you’ll cry if you’re any kind of man.”
The Major knelt beside Sergeant Cole and gently wiped his face with his handkerchief. He spoke in a whisper.
“Any fool can see the Sergeant is sweating. Probably fever.”
The corpsman began to apologize, then at a look from Sergeant Keene, shut his mouth tight. As Luther’s pale body came to light, the young corpsman grimaced. It looked as if every inch of his body had been beaten with a baseball bat. The bayonet wounds on his arms and shoulders were jagged, bloody, oozing pus. Around the bullet hole in his chest, the skin puckered, waxy and yellowish-black.
The other corpsman spoke to himself.
“Looks septic, and these,” - he pointed to the jagged cuts- “bayonet, ugly wounds.” He lifted Luther’s wrist.
“Jesus, I’ve seen this before. Teeth marks! It was hand-to- hand for two days on 406. If we keep him alive it’ll be a miracle.”
The Major turned to his sergeant. “You get the MASH Unit on the hook.” He had a hard time controlling his voice. “Tell them! Don’t ask! They’re to send a chopper, Now! If they screw around, you tell them I’ll send a squad back and shoot every damn one of them.”
The Sergeant was shocked. The Major didn’t curse.
“Tell them we’ve got a survivor from the hill. Damn bastard war!” He turned away so the men couldn’t see his face. “We had two hundred and eighty six men up there and so far we’ve got six back, seven counting sergeant Cole. Sergeant Keene, get some water heated. I’m going to take a bath, and wash my feet. I don’t intend for Sergeant Cole to come around and find I didn’t do like he said.”
Chapter