Malvern

Sergeant Malvern

I now regret burning the brittle paper which showed who was to blame. As I write, I realize I will have no actual proof of the events I have witnessed. As midnight nears on this bleak winter night, I smell that pungent tobacco, ever stronger. I cannot remain constantly vigilant. I can keep all the lights blazing but my eyes will close, and he will come whenever I am not looking. Yet I will persevere to record what has happened, in my last grasp at the definite and real.

Due to a mild medical condition, I was the only male in my family never to have gone to war. My father died in the swamps of Vietnam , my grandfather in the air over Germany . My great uncles, Bob and Will, two bachelors who raised me like fathers after my mother died, were in World War II, on the Pacific front. They had enlisted together, and by coincidence, even fought side by side for several months in 1944. When my son decided to join the military, I was pleased that our family tradition was continuing, although it had skipped a generation.

History has been my passion since I was a boy. I have never been ashamed to say I live in the past. I believe history is the greatest story to learn because it is true; yet, there is so much mystery, so much shrouded in unrecoverable time. Like most boys, I came to love war the most, and became a professor of military history at a small college.

The touchable, tangible remnants of history have been of particular interest to me. Starting with a modest childhood collection of Civil War bullets, I came to make a substantial profit trading uniforms, flags, guns, swords, and more on EBay. I could judge their value as well as anyone on Antiques Roadshow . To possess any of these objects thrilled me. I have held a bullet that had whizzed over the battlefield of Gettysburg ; I have pointed a rifle that had aimed above the muddy trenches of France . Dealing in these items -- buying and selling these murderous instruments from the past -- fetched me a small fortune. I made thousands of dollars. That is how I so easily recognized the uniform of Sergeant George Malvern.

All my life I longed to pore over my uncles' collection of genuine wartime memorabilia, which was kept in a rusted chest in the cellar. My uncles possessively controlled the key that opened it. They would occasionally agree to retrieve a few items in an attempt to appease my curiosity, but due to a faulty memory or some other unknown reason, they repeatedly presented me with the same mementos. I was always under the impression that there was much more that I was never shown. As a boy, I contemplated stealing the key and conducting my own private examination of the collection. The opportunity did not arise, and so I never looked inside the chest until this year.

For what I did not accomplish in real life, I compensated in patriotism. I encouraged my great uncles never to miss a parade. Each year, as I watched Uncle Bob and Uncle Will ride through the streets in an old Jeep on Memorial Day, I grew sentimental, fancying that this would be the very last time I would see them honored. I wanted to record their experiences in the military before they took these memories to their graves but they ignored my frequent encouragement to discuss them with me. They were from a more reserved generation. Now I feel they might be right; some things are better left forgotten.

The most I could ever persuade them to express about war were some general remarks about the popular attitude when they were young, ridiculing the cynical detachment of later generations.

"People didn't think twice about going to war in our day," Bob would say.

"There was no arguing, protesting, or other such nonsense. You just went!" Will would exclaim. After this proclamation, I always felt they were at the verge of opening their memories to me, but inevitably an impenetrable silence would affect them simultaneously, like the descent of a paralyzing fog. They would stare into the distance with a peculiar expression.

On our last Fourth of July together. I was in the yard, cleaning the grill after our typical American barbeque. Distant booms from evening fireworks echoed beyond the trees. The flashing sparks lit up a sky shadowed by smoke hanging limply in the air. Nearby, our neighbors detonated shrieking firecrackers in the streets. Despite the din, the covert mumblings of my two elderly uncles caught my attention.

"He's waiting for me," Will murmured in a deep tone, "I could swear to you, Bob, I saw him at Larry Miller's wake. As we were leaving, I saw him in the back row staring at me!"

"You're imagining things. I can't believe you're still thinking about that after all these years. There's no reason to feel guilty. You have to remember, as I tell you every time you bring this up, it was not our fault! We had no choice. It was either him or us. Everyone agreed, and we made the decision together. All of us could not be wrong."

"I never felt right about myself since then, and nothing you can say will change that. We're the last ones left, Bob, now that Larry is gone. I feel that we two are left to carry all of the guilt."

What hidden secret from the past was this? I was captivated, and strained to listen, but they said no more. I never let them know what I had heard, although my attention to their every word was henceforth heightened.

***

In September, Will passed away suddenly from a heart attack. I was the one to find him collapsed on the cellar stairs. It was at his funeral that I first saw Sergeant Malvern. I strode beside Uncle Bob in the somber procession behind the casket as we left the ceremony. Despite the distraction of my grief, I noticed a beefy, thick-set man standing in the back of the room. It was obvious that he was trained in the military; he had that distinct rigid posture and stiff bearing. What was most remarkable was that he was wearing what appeared to be a genuine World War II Army uniform, or else a perfect replica of one. I was intrigued; I wished to ask this man about his clothing, which interested me from a collector's standpoint.

I thought at the time that he might be an eccentric relative I had never met, or perhaps it was the strange whim of another history buff to attend funerals of veterans in genuine military garb. Who was this man? I turned to Bob to question him, and my words were stopped in my mouth by his stunned appearance and chalky pallor. He was as pale as his coffined brother.

I should have probed Bob's memory while I had the chance, for within a month, he perished from a stroke. His death was not as instantaneous as Will's. He spent days in the hospital struggling to speak and move, his eyes filled with anguish. I tried in vain to communicate with him. That long week I saw mortality personified, not in its statuesque rest, but in its futile struggle for life, any life rather than the oblivion of the grave. My two fathers had left me in quick succession and, for me, it seemed that an entire generation had gone with them. Whether they like it or not, people represent their generation. Tempered by their personality and memory, the collective experience of their time exists within them; in spite of all we do to preserve history, we cannot sustain its living essence.

I vigilantly watched for the appearance of the stranger during Bob's wake and funeral. At the time, I was curious, not afraid, but he was nowhere in sight at the public ceremonies.

***

I lingered long at the graveyard after Bob's casket, covered with flowers and bows, was lowered into the earth. I stood in quiet contemplation until I noticed a shadow moving out of the corner of my eye. I raised my eyes, and spotted the military man in the distance on a rolling slope of the cemetery, still clad in the same uniform. He was just far enough away for the features of his face to be indiscernible. I called out, and started toward him. My shoes crunched on the dead leaves. He turned in retreat, making no noise as he stepped. I was appalled by what I saw. The back of his uniform was punctured by several small dark stains which spread like spilt liquid as he ran. The man veered to the left, behind a tree. I followed, and rapidly darted my glance in every direction, but he had utterly vanished. In his wake was a peculiar odor of tobacco, I was left standing aimlessly in the chilly autumn mist.

It was then apparent to me that I had seen a ghost. I was personally delighted. I had for so long touched the material, physical remains of history. Now a spirit of the past had appeared before me in human form. I felt honored to have been chosen to see him. I assumed it must have been my deep appreciation of history which entitled me to this privilege. This spirit knew that I would recognize his uniform. But why did he run from me? Do all ghosts tantalize us only to defy our capture and understanding? Why can we never reach them? Most of all, I wondered what he was trying to tell me by showing his back riddled with gunshots.

I was the only heir of the two bachelor brothers. Now at long last, I had the full legal right to explore their war relics. It took days to find the key to the chest. Bob had taped the old skeleton key underneath a drawer. Was he trying to hide it as if I, an educated adult, were a destructively groping child?

Initially, the collection was a disappointment. I found pins, tags, leather scraps, and various moldy curiosities. I was disappointed that there was nothing of worth. There were many more photographs in the chest than Bob or Will had ever shown me. They were taken in the Pacific islands with a primitive camera. The pictures may not have been crystalline depictions even then and, after decades, only dim images remained, many of them meaningless shapes and shadows. Photographs of places were almost indecipherable apart from the jagged outlines of what appeared to be the branches of tropical trees. Many images of people were only vaguely discernable, almost like the random swirls and patterns made in a puddle of gasoline.

I could not believe my eyes when I came upon one larger, clearer photo of an entire group of men. In the left corner of the rectangular image, standing to the side of a cluster of soldiers, stood the individual glimpsed in the graveyard! From the man's clothing to his posture, there was no doubt that this man was identical to the ghost I had seen. In back of the photo, written in a spidery script, was a list of names and dates. The dates varied over the period of the last half century. One date had recently been added next to Will's name. It was the date of his death, inscribed in Bob's handwriting. Apparently, Bob had been the last survivor.

One name was crossed out so thoroughly that the photograph was dented from behind. Upon examination, it was the name belonging to the mysterious stranger. I turned the chest inside out for any other clues. The bottom of the box was lined with an old newspaper from the 1950s. It disintegrated in my hands. Beneath this, however, I found a small notebook, once belonging to Will. The pages were stained with grease. The journal must have been written in dangerous places and uncomfortable positions. Yet the contents were a revelation.

It happened when Will and Bob were together in the same squad. They had been at first a lucky group, for the most part staying clear of the front lines. They had not lost any men until Sergeant George Malvern took over. The men suspected him of insanity. He gave illogical commands and made obviously erroneous decisions. He caused deaths which could have been easily avoided. He prescribed punishments unwarranted considering the brutal conditions of day-to-day life. Also, the journal noted his propensity to chew a particularly strong variety of tobacco.

Survival in those conditions depended on being able to trust each other, and the men could not even trust their own leader. On a remote island, they were isolated from any recourse against him through the normal chain of command. The men privately mutinied and conspired against the sergeant. A pact was made that they must shoot the madman as soon as the Japanese were near enough plausibly to have attacked and done the deed. The men swore a lifetime of secrecy. The journal did not note who fired the fatal shots, but Sergeant Malvern was shot from behind. It was a desperate act justified only by the desperate times, but from what I read in this journal, the men had no other choice.

So this was the secret which hushed my uncles. They never wanted me to know it while they lived. They could have permanently prevented my discovery by destroying this journal.

From the storehouse of common knowledge of ghosts, many questions came to my mind. I had assumed ghosts appeared near the site where they died. Why then did this ghost appear thousands of miles away? Why did he haunt the soldiers? After all, they were not guilty of an act of malice. It was either kill or be killed.

It seemed that the sergeant wanted to be remembered, not forgotten. He wanted something from me personally. I thought I was chosen to be his crusader, and wondered where to begin. I decided to research whatever traces of information could be obtained on him.

My internet war memorabilia trade was flourishing. I also had a website of my own. To this website, I posted several war photos from the old chest, including the photo of the men with their sergeant. I tried to use the capabilities of the computer to zoom in and enlarge the images, but they had deteriorated so completely that it was impossible to get any finer level of detail from the faded blurs.

I posed an open question to the world, asking whether anyone could tell me anything more about the sergeant. The ghostly images were broadcast around the globe. I labeled him as Sergeant Malvern in blinking, bold font. Perhaps some relative or descendant of the sergeant or of the other soldiers would contact me and provide more information. I received no e-mail responses from my internet post, but just the same, the sergeant seemed enlivened by whatever public notice he had received. I was not expecting to see him again because I assumed that he would only appear at the funerals of the veterans, and they were now all deceased.

Outdoors at twilight on an early winter evening, he appeared to me in my yard, standing at a distance in the misty shade of trees, just far enough away for his face to be indistinct. He glowed from the reflection of the dying sunlight on the freshly fallen snow. I was overjoyed; I tried to approach him. I wanted to encourage him.

"Sergeant Malvern, I know who you are! I know what happened to you!" I called boldly. There was no response or recognition. I walked toward him. Instead of turning in retreat, this time he faded and disappeared. Behind him were the traces of the odor that has become all too familiar to me.

Following this episode, he began to appear more frequently, even inside my house. It was apparent that he must have some specific intent. As he does now, the sergeant appeared only at night, when he could be more easily disguised. He very cleverly avoided making his face any more visible than in the old photograph. At night in my study, peering into an adjacent room lit only by the residual light of my desk lamp, where the furniture was visible only as colorless shadows, I saw his outline, standing at attention. With the lights off as I attempted to sleep, I began to smell his tobacco. I tried keeping the lights lit, which seemed to work to a point, but as soon as I closed my eyes, I could smell that smell and feel him near. When I switched on the lamp and opened my eyes, there was never a visible trace.

His presence did not seem either malignant or benign. He just was there, and had the quality of simply being. Writing this, I note a paradox; he, or it, was not real and could not be changed; he no longer existed, with the sole exception that he still had the ability to influence me.

I felt I had done something to provoke him. I impulsively removed his image from the internet. That did nothing. He was relentlessly present and unforgiving. If I had offended him, I was unable to take back what I had done and undo the past. I next guessed that he wanted me to sell my World War II memorabilia. I auctioned off much of my collection at a loss. I briefly considered selling the contents of the chest, but disregarded this impulse because they were priceless to me as family heirlooms. Now I fear there will be no one to whom they can be bequeathed. My only son is missing in Iraq , and as illogical as it might sound, I know that he, Sergeant Malvern, is responsible! His presence, once desirable, has turned into a horror.

But why torment me? Why take my son and my sanity? Do ghosts only appear when they want something? What revenge can he have on me, when the conspirators who murdered him, whether excusably or not, are dead? As far as I can ascertain, they lived to an old age, dying of natural causes. I know I will not. I fear that this winter will last forever and I will never see spring.

Out of desperation, I have burned the ancient journal, which was invaluable as a first hand description of the war in the Pacific. Foolishly, I have not even made a copy of the document that shed light on the event that had haunted Will and Bob for decades. I thought that destroying the last trace of evidence might rid me of his loathsome presence, but this was a futile act.

I, a civilian, am under the command of this mad sergeant, who is issuing silent orders from beyond the grave. His insanity did not die with him. I do not understand what he wants me to do. I am constantly driven and goaded by unknowable demands. I proclaim it was not my fault. That does not seem to matter. His presence is forceful and commanding. He wants me to obey. But his wishes are inscrutable. I can do no right by him.

It is the dead of winter and the nights are long. The light of day is brief, ineffectual, and pale. My only solution is to remain forever awake, with all the lights on, cornered, with my back against the wall.

I cannot maintain that forever and despair of trying because I am only human, and the fall of darkness, whether within me or around me, is inevitable.

END

Louise Norlie has published fiction in Runes Magazine, Skive, Humdinger,
Long Story Short, and Raging Face. Her literary essay on Susan Sontag's
"Against Interpretation" appeared in elimae. She also has published stories
and non-fiction in various disability publications, including Audacity
Magazine and Ragged Edge. Her writing is forthcoming in The First Line,
Breath and Shadow, Toasted Cheese, and Bewildering Stories."

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