Colonel Blood
Ken wandered out of the apartment, made his way down the old, narrow servants’ stairs and onto the back porch. He walked by Toby’s window, knowing that his friend was still asleep. It was too early for anyone to be awake, except for his father, who had made him breakfast before returning to the Sunday paper and his coffee.
Walking down the battered steps of the porch to stand on the hard-packed dirt of the parking lot, Ken looked at the old carriage house and the low stone wall separating his apartment building from the tall Victorian next door. Ken let his eyes wander over the elm tree in the front yard of the other house, shivered a little from the chill autumn air and realized that he wasn’t alone.
An ancient looking man sat in an ancient looking wheelchair. His white hair was trimmed close and he wore a dark, thick sweater. A heavy looking blanket was over his lap and wrapped his legs, keeping his feet hidden. He wore a small pair of wireless reading glasses, a closed book on his lap.
The old man smiled at Ken.
Ken smiled back, waving. “Good morning, sir.”
The old man’s smile widened. “Sir? Very nice, young man. Very nice. May I ask how old you are?”
“I’m eight years old, sir,” Ken answered.
“Well, young man,” the old man said, “you are well spoken. My name is James Blood.”
“I’m Kendall Hall, sir.”
“Ah, a good name,” Mr. Blood said, smiling. “Do you know how old I am, Mr. Hall?”
Ken shook his head.
“I’m eighty seven years old.”
Ken felt his eyes widen.
“I know,” Mr. Blood said, nodding. “Have you ever met anyone as old as me?”
Ken shook his head.
“Neither have I,” Mr. Blood said with a wink and Ken smiled.
Ken walked closer to the wall as Mr. Blood turned his wheelchair to face him fully. “Now,” Mr. Blood said, “is that an Army hat that you’re wearing?”
“Yes sir.”
“Are you in the Army?”
Ken laughed. “No sir, it was my Dad’s. He was in the Army.”
“Ah,” Mr. Blood said. “You know, Mr. Hall, I was in the Army, too.”
Ken stepped up to the wall and put his hands on the cool stones. “You were?”
“Oh yes.”
“May I ask when?”
Mr. Blood smiled. “I truly enjoy your politeness, Mr. Hall, and yes you may ask.” Mr. Blood straightened up in his chair. “I served in the Army from 1916 to 1946.”
Ken closed his eyes and thought about his history. “World War One and World War Two?”
Mr. Blood nodded. “I even chased after Pancho Villa with Pershing.”
Ken frowned.
Mr. Blood chuckled. “Villa was a Mexican bandit. He’d raid from Mexico into the States then slip back into Mexico. Hell of a runner, that man. We might have caught him, with a little bit of luck and a lot more of everything else. But Wilson changed his mind about the war, and next thing I knew I was in France. Do you know anything about the war?” Mr. Blood asked.
“Only a little,” Ken said. “The Red Baron and gas attacks.”
Mr. Blood nodded. “Do you know what I was?”
Ken shook his head.
“A sharpshooter. What they would later call a sniper. I used to be an excellent shot, young man. Do you believe that?”
Ken nodded, pressing closer to the wall.
“I didn’t mind the shooting,” Mr. Blood said. “It was much like target practice, or hunting pheasants. Sometimes, though, sometimes they were only twenty-five or thirty yards away. Watch a man long enough, Mr. Hall, even thru a scope, and you start to know that man. Shooting him becomes something more than a distasteful chore.”
Mr. Blood smiled sadly, shaking his head. “I’ve seen a great deal of war, Mr. Hall,” he said, “and a great deal of death, I’m afraid.” He sighed at Ken. “So, young man, you said that you are eight?”
Ken nodded.
“And do you know what it is that you want to do when you get older?”
“Yes,” Ken said, “I want to be a soldier, sir.”
“You do?” Mr. Blood asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I love America,” Ken answered.
Mr. Blood smiled broadly. “That, young sir,” he said, “is the best of all possible reasons to enter the service.”
Ken smiled, feeling his cheeks get hot.
“You must remember, though, Mr. Hall, there is a price. A butcher’s bill to pay, if you will,” Mr. Blood said, his voice dropping slightly.
Ken leaned over the wall to hear the old soldier better.
“Yes sir,” Mr. Blood said. “Sometimes the bill is death, or a lifetime of nightmares and fears. Perhaps a bit of steel squirreled away in your body from a mine or grenade. Or, quite simply, the butcher comes along and takes your legs.”
Mr. Blood pulled the blanket off of his legs with surprising ease.
Ken looked at a pair of legs pressed tightly together wearing a pair of dark twill pants. Mr. Blood leaned forward and knocked on each shin with one hand. The unmistakable sound of wood being struck rang out in the cool air. He moved his hand up to his thighs and Ken heard the same wooden sounds.
“I paid for my patriotism, my love of our country, with my legs,” Mr. Blood said. “Was it worth it? Yes. I saved some of my boys, and that was good. I lost all three of my brothers in those two wars, though. When I think of their loss I ask myself, was it worth it?”
Mr. Blood closed his eyes and seemed to sink into his wheelchair. “Part of me, Mr. Hall, screams that the legs, my brothers, everything was worth it.
“But in truth,” Mr. Blood said, opening his eyes and looking at Ken over the stonewall, “nothing is. Nothing is worth my brothers’ lives. Neither God, nor country.
“Nothing.”
Mr. Blood smiled sadly at Ken once more and shook his head. “Nothing, Mr. Hall. Nothing.”