If It Wasn't For that One Thing

Horace Nathan Wright was digging the hot muggy weather of the southern Georgia coast.  Dressed in his neatly pressed soldier’s uniform with his boots shined to a high gloss, he sat wearing the ribbon he had won for valor.  It was June 1945 and all was right with the world if it wasn’t for that one thing.  His mama, Shatilly, would be at the bus stop in Washington D.C. with his fiancee Louanne Maples.  His future seemed to be lined with happiness for sure if it wasn’t for that one thing.

Sure was pretty this time of year, Horace thought as he looked out of the window of the Greyhound bus.  

In less than a day, he would have his sweet Louanne in his arms.  His hip had healed up pretty good.  All was right with the world if it wasn’t for that one thing.  He could feel some of the passengers eye him as he wore his uniform with those ribbons pinned to his chest.

None of them had any idea what he had gone through either, but they did not hide their expression of disapproval either. 

“We are taking heavy German artillery.” Lieutenant Crause yelled into the radio that was strapped to Horace’s back. As the shells struck the trees in the heavily wooded area resulting in a deadly rain of wood and metal, Horace shook with each screech of the shells.  

“Medic!” A familiar voice called out from a foxhole. “Ah half my leg is gone!”

It was Billy.  Billy who lied about his age so he could come and kill Nazis just like his father urged him to.  Billy who had been with the unit for only two weeks.  Billy who had not seen real combat until today.  There was a gunshot and Billy stopped screaming.  Billy who was from the hills of Georgia where folks were poor.  

More shells rained down sending slivers down on their heads. Machine guns sounded as the German soldier began to storm their position.  They were exposed on their left flank.  Screams echoed in the smoky woods.  Horace left the radio with the lieutenant as he ran toward the screams.  

When he got there, he saw the German soldiers were no more than little boys wearing enemy uniforms.  Raising his Tommy Gun, he fired.  Some of the boy soldiers went down in the dust.  Removing a hand grenade from his utility belt he pulled the pin and let it fly.  The pineapple landed in front of a group of rushing German soldiers.  There was an explosion. The soldiers disappeared in the smoke. An enemy soldier fired his gun.  Horace caught the bullet in his thigh.  He went down, but he kept on firing until the shooting stopped.

Horace lay in the dirt for nearly an hour before the medics came rushing over the ridge.  One of them slid next to him. With his red cross helmet pushed back on his head, he opened his bag and jabbed a needle into Horace’s hip.  It hurt like hell, but a few minutes later the burning pain of the bullet in his hip, no longer pained him.  Morphine helped take away his pain.

“We’ll get you out of here.” The medic patted Horace on his shoulder.  Sitting next to Horace the medic lit a cigarette and then gave one to Horace.

But then someone reminded Horace of that one thing.

“Private!” The first sergeant yelled, “Don’t give that colored a stick.” 

Alan Hickman was the first sergeant was from Alabama where they had a social code that was supposed to be enforced even in combat. Before Hickman could knock the cigarette from Horace’s fingers, the stretcher bearers came in to carry off the dead and wounded. 

“That punk Billy Rogers offed himself because he got his leg blowed off.” Hickman growled as they lifted his lifeless body out of the foxhole.

“Mop up!” Lt. Crause ordered his men from the foxholes.  The enemy shelling had stopped. It was now time for the rest to press forward.

“Boy, y’all be lucky it weren’t me hoisting ya outta here.” Hickman let some of his cigarette ash float down on Horace as he lay back on his litter. Horace just grinned at Hickman.  It was the only defense he had.  

As it turned out, Lt. Crause wrote him a citation earning Horace Nathan Wright Commendation Medal and a Purple Heart. Sergeant Hickman refused to attend the ceremony when the commander pinned it on Horace’s uniform at the field hospital.  

It was raining the day the cargo plane took off from Germany.  

“So, boy, dija get that for diggin’ latrines?” One of the passengers asked as Horace dozed off in the warm sun that was streaming into the bus as it bounced along Highway 95. “You boy, I’m talking to you.”

He jabbed Horace with his finger.

“Leave him alone Hank, he’s probably one of those no-accounts coming back from the war.” The woman sitting next to the man replied.

“Woman, shut ya trap.” He put his hand up to her cheek as she recoiled. From the way she reacted to him, Horace knew he had beat on her more than a time or two.  If it wasn't for that one thing, he would tell ol’ Hank it was him that was no-account, but here in the Jim Crow South, a colored man could get killed for saying such a thing. It was better to say nothing than to actually speak what was on your mind. 

“You know he probably took that medal off a dead soldier.” A man a few seats up spoke.

Hank laughed along with the other man, “You’re probably right.” 

“Savana in ten minutes.” The bus driver announced. 

“I got no use for that place.” Hank snarled. “Let the colored mix with the real people.” 

“Big cities ain’t got no use for proper behavior.” The other man added.

“Brother, ya got that right.” He glanced at the woman next to him who was doing her best not to look at him. 

“Where ya from?” Hank asked the man.

“Manning, South Carolina.” He answered.

“Been there a few times, I'm from Fayetteville, North Carolina.” Hank wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Work in one of them mills.”

“Ya got it made.” The other man chortled. 

“Horace Nathan, docha be talkin’ to no white boys.” His father Josiah warned him, “Getcha in trouble.” 

He mopped his neck with his kerchief as he chopped at the sun-dried soil with his hoe.  Before he left for the war, his father would be lynched for talking back to one of the bosses of the land.  It would be a night that would live in his mind, haunting his dreams.  He carried his anger into boot camp and onto the battlefields in Europe, but no matter how many white German soldiers he killed, Horace could not wipe away the memory of his father as he begged the white hooded men to spare his life. One of the men whipped the horses.  The wagon Josiah was standing on disappeared from under his feet.  The white hooded men cheered as Josiah kicked his legs one last time. 

After his funeral, Shantilly, his mother went north to work in Washington D.C. on invitation of her father.  Horace would never meet the man who taught in a colored only school, because he would die of a heart attack while Horace was in the army.  

He had known Luanne since primary school where students grades one through eight learned their lessons in one classroom.  Teachers would hover through the crowded classroom like angels while students wrote on slate boards.  She was always sweet on him as he was to her.  

"Boy." He heard A harsh voice rousing him from his sleep in the warm sun, "Wake your ass up, boy!"

When he opened his eyes, A rotund man dressed in a sheriff's uniform was poking him with a nightstick.

"What?" He sat up in his seat.

"Ain't no sleeping on the bus." He said from his mouth that was above his three chins.

"I ain't breaking no law." He wiped his sleepy eyes with his hand. 

"You in my jurisdiction now boy.  We got laws about coloreds napping in public places." He shook his head, "I is Sheriff Whitmore. I am the law and you are under arrest, boy."

"I has A bus ticket to D.C." Horace pulled it from his shirt pocket.  He could see Hank and the other passenger snickering to themselves. 

Sheriff Whitmore snatched the ticket from his hand and tore it into tiny pieces.  He tossed the pieces into Horace's face, "What ticket?"

The other passengers laughed as Horace stood there in disgrace.  He could feel his heart try to make a jailbreak from his chest, rattling his ribs like it did on the battlefield.    

"Deputy Dudley, put the cuffs on him." The sheriff ordered.

Horace felt the chill of the cold steel as the deputy clicked the metal cufflinks in place. Without any warning, Sheriff Whitmore brought his nightstick to Horace's midsection, making him double over sucking for air.  Putting his nightstick back in place on his belt, Sheriff Whitmore's pig-like eyes narrowed as he spoke, "That's for disrespect."  

Having taken off his uniform shirt, Horace paced his cell in his sleeveless white army issued undershirt.  His ribs still hurt from the unexpected blow from Sheriff Whitmore.  He could hear the low mutter taking place in the office just beyond his cinder block cell.  If it wasn’t for that one thing, he’d be on his way to D.C. and the arms of his beloved Louanne. Instead he was in a small ten by six cell that stank of urine.  Dinner was beef hash and while it lacked any flavor, it did satisfy his growling belly for the time being. 

His father warned him about being black in the Jim Crow south, but he hadn’t done anything wrong except wearing his class A uniform on the bus.  Most of his unit came home to fanfares and ticker tape parades, but they were white soldiers.  Just before the big push into Hitler’s Germany, President Harry S. Truman had issued an executive order ending segregation in the United States military.  At the present time, Congress was embroiled in a battle to see if this would stand up as law.  Several Dixiecrats were wholeheartedly opposed to any notion of mixing white and black soldiers in the same combat units.  From Horace Nathan Wright’s experience, all soldiers wore green making skin color irrelevant.  The only problem is that it was very relevant down here in Savanna, Georgia and in particular Sheriff Whitmore. 

Meanwhile the sheriff was on the phone with the head honchos in Atlanta.  He was told that Private Horace Nathan Wright was a bonafide hero. After the confirmation, Sheriff Whitmore sat at his desk stroking one of his chins, muttering to himself.   Deputy Dudley was cleaning his service revolver when he noticed his boss’ distress. 

“Hey chief, what’s up?” He asked, putting the pistol on his desk.

“That guy we got locked up, turns out he’s legitimate.” Whitmore shook his bulldog head.

“Legitimate?” Dudley was puzzled.

“He’s a decorated hero from the Forty Second Infantry.” Whitmore scratched his head. 

“Go figure.” Dudley snorted. 

“Yeah, go figure.” He sighed. “Didn’t reckon they gave out medals to the colored soldiers.” 

“Hmpt.” Dudley picked up his pistol and pointed it at his boss without thinking so he could finish cleaning a weapon he had never fired. 

“Times are changing.  Times are changing.” He shrugged with an expression of utter terror on his face. 

He lay on the metal cot covered with a lumpy mattress for over an hour unable to get to sleep as some of the ghosts from his memory came calling. 

“You over there! Yeah, you boy! You are a disgrace to the uniform.” His drill instructor called out to him.  

“Sir, yes, sir!” He saluted hustling to stand in front of Sergeant Willis. 

“You do not salute a non-commissioned officer, recruit.” He wore sunglasses so Horace could not see his cold steel blue eyes. 

“Yes sir!” He went to salute again, but stopped himself in an awkward hand gesture which made the stone-faced drill instructor nearly smile. 

“You’d better get in step with the rest or you will add credence to the myth about the colored soldiers.  They will not appreciate it and I certainly do not appreciate it.” 

Despite his dress-down by Sergeant Willis, basic training did not overly discriminate as did Macon, his hometown.  Everyone got yelled at equally by Sergeant Willis colored or otherwise. Even the dark skinned boys from south of the border, did not escape the wrath of the good sergeant. Knowing this made it much easier to tolerate the constant beratement.  

“You recruits will hear my voice when the shit goes down.” He walked through their ranks during their daily uniform inspection, “You will not fear no evil, because I am the biggest, baddest bad-ass you will ever encounter.  Is that understood?”

“Yes sir!” Rang out of each of them like a well-practice choir.

“Very good, carry on.” His face did not look quite right when he allowed himself to smile. 

“I will have you men dig latrines.” Colonel Turner addressed the colored company as the First Sergeant handed each of the men an entrenching tool.  “I need them all to be about seven to ten feet into this rocky ground.” 

“Yes sir!” Their voices rang out as the rain began to fall on them.

There could not have been a detail based on pure drudgery, unending toil.  It took them three days to dig over twenty latrines for the units that were being shipped in for the final push into Germany.  

“Be glad when this is over.” One of the mud soaked soldiers complained as he laid a shovelful of soggy soil on the pile.

“Ain’t never gonna be over.” Horace smiled as he dug into the rocky resistant soil.

Two enemy planes went overhead and strafed them.  A couple shouted out when they got hit.  

“Holy crap.” The soldier’s eyes were wide as he saw medics rush in to extract the wounded. “Coudda been us.” 

“But it wasn’t.” Horace shook his head. 

A week later, the men were put into the advancing companies racing across Germany.  In the weeks that followed, the fighting was heavy as the Germans were desperate to keep the invaders out of their Fatherland. The Russians reached Berlin on May 2, 1945 a couple weeks later in July.  Confusion reigned as Russian and American troops divided up the war torn city.  

Horace walked with a few of his buddies through the bomb riddled streets filled with bombed out buildings and rubble cluttering the streets.  

“Kinda reminds me of my old neighborhood.” One of the guys from Oakland remarked as they walked.

“Watch out for snipers.” Warned the senior enlisted man just seconds before taking a bullet between the eyes.  He fell back onto the ruined street.  They rushed the building where the shot had been fired from and found a ten-year old blond boy holding a Karabiner 98 Mauser rifle.  Horace took the weapon from the boy’s hands without any struggle.

“Es tut mir leid.” Was all he said as he surrendered the rifle. Horace nodded and gave the boy a Hersey chocolate bar. The boy’s face lit up in joy, nodding as he replied, “Danke.” 

“Horace Nathan Wright.” Sheriff Whitmore called out as he entered the incarceration area.  

Hopping off his uncomfortable bunk, Horace was at the bars when the sheriff ambled toward him, shouting, “Yes sir!”

“You are free to go.” He handed Horace a release order.

“What about my bus ticket?” He shoved the yellow paper into his pants pocket.

“I dunno.  I guess you’ll have to buy a new one.” He shrugged.

“No sir, I paid for that one.” He shook his head.

“Look, I am releasing you.  Some of your kind never make it out of here breathing.” The sheriff let his head tilt to one side.

“Am I a hero?” He put his hands on the iron bars.

“Seems that way.” Whitmore shrugged again.

“Then I wants my ticket.” He snarled.

“Looky here, you bes’ not be so uppity with me, son.” 

“I aincha son and I don’t ever wanna come to these parts again that stink of bigoted blockheads like you, sir.” He seethed.

“I got half a mind to keep you locked up for that disrespect.” He jabbed his finger threateningly at Horace.

If it wasn’t for that one thing, Horace would have grabbed the sheriff’s finger and snap it like he did a German officer who raised his Luger to fire at him during an attack. The officer hollered in pain calling him the German equivalent of what Sheriff Whitmore shouted at him from a few short feet away. 

But it was that one thing that prevented him from displaying his anger at the sheriff and his deputy.  It was the one thing his father had not restrained himself from that resulted in his murder at the hands of the KKK.  

He bowed his head and in a subservient voice, replied, “I do apologize for my behavior, Sheriff Whitmore.”

“Well that’s more like it.” Sheriff Whitmore smiled and nodded at Deputy Dudley.  Dudley added his own smile as the sheriff opened the cell door.

“Thank ya kindly, sir.” He nodded as he walked out of the cell. He walked across the street and bought a new bus ticket, leaving behind a note on the straw pillow with two words scrawled on it.  The words written did not say, “Happy birthday.”  Horace only wished he could be there to see the expression on Sheriff Whitmore’s face, if it wasn’t for that one thing.