I never really knew Uncle L.J. He left for the war in 1943 when I was less than a year old, and I was not yet two when word came in July of 1944 that he had been killed at St. Lo, France, after surviving the Normandy invasion. I do remember well, however, that cold, dreary day in 1948 when his body finally came home to rest. As best I could understand, he had been buried four years in France, but my grandparents couldn't bear the thought of his remaining there for an eternity when all his loved ones lived thousands of miles away.
The army did all it could to fulfill the wishes of the war dead�s family. The train stopped in Winfield, and a young soldier got off the train. He talked with my granddaddy for a few minutes before instructing the conductor to open the door to the mail car. As the door slid open, we could see the flag-draped coffin resting on two heavy crates. My grandmother fainted. Tears were welled up in Granddaddy�s eyes; he tried to break her fall on the platform. The oldest son, for whom they had grieved so long, was finally home.
The young soldier stood at attention and saluted the coffin as it was loaded onto a freight cart to be transported the short distance to a waiting hearse dispatched to Winfield from the funeral home in Mt. Pleasant. The hearse moved slowly the three blocks to Mamaw and Granddaddy�s house where Uncle L.J. would lie for two days prior to his burial. A crowd walked silently behind it. In the 1940�s, it was the custom for neighbors, friends and relatives to hold a vigil for two days and nights. Several men even sat in shifts with the flag-draped coffin in the parlor and talked in hushed tones while women prepared meals and attended the family�s every need.
The soldier, who had accompanied the body, dressed in a clean, starched uniform and prepared to take his leave once the services had concluded. Mama had taken me to funerals before, but these were services for the newly dead, and most of the bodies I was allowed to see were old people who had lived their lives and whose deaths were natural and expected. People cried, but nobody fainted or wailed uncontrollably like my aunts and grandmother had done for almost two days. Even Granddaddy�s face seemed drained of all its color, and his hands, toughened and tanned by years of working on the railroad, wouldn�t quit shaking.
As the time to begin the final journey to the cemetery drew near, the adults planned the processional. Only Mamaw, Granddaddy, and the older relatives would ride in the cars provided by the funeral home. The rest of us would walk behind the hearse the mile to the cemetery. Mama made sure Bill and I had put on our heavy coats to ward off the chill of the early March wind.
�Bill, you watch your little brother because I may need to tend to your mamaw,� Mama reminded my brother.
I resented, just a little, the notion that I couldn�t look after myself. I knew, however, this was not the time to argue.
After the flag-draped coffin was carefully loaded into the hearse, the mile trip was underway. Suddenly, Bill, who was close beside me, said, �Do you suppose Uncle L.J.�s really in the coffin?�
�Are you crazy? Who else would be in there?� I blurted.
�My science teacher said that sometimes the army sends empty coffins home just to make people think the soldier is coming home. Besides, who would know the difference. Nobody�s gonna look inside, him being dead for four years and all,� he continued.
�You just shut up,� I told him. �What if Mamaw heard you talking like that?�
Nevertheless, Bill had gotten me to wondering, and as the line of mourners inched along, I imagined that I could see inside the coffin, and Uncle L.J. was smiling at all the attention he was getting. �Oh, he�s in there all right, and he�s smiling,� I reassured Bill who didn�t believe me, but then he didn�t believe much of anything I told him. He said I imagined things because I was too little to know any better.
Fortunately, everybody made it through the graveside service without fainting, though Aunt Mildred looked kind of peaked and swayed a time or two like she might be thinking about keeling over. When the soldier who had come home with Uncle L.J. played taps and then gave the flag to Mamaw and Granddaddy, everybody cried, even the men, and I noticed Bill wiping his eyes when he thought nobody was looking. I never brought it up because I knew he�d say I�d been imagining things.
When we all got back to the house, Mamaw didn�t cry any more, and Granddaddy�s hands finally stopped shaking. Everybody got a big plate of food and sat around the big table in the dining room. Though the kids had to eat in the kitchen, we could hear the grownups laughing in the next room.
Bill said they were telling stories about when they were all younger and Uncle L.J. was still alive and nobody in Winfield knew about the big war that would touch all their lives.
It still didn�t seem right to me that they were all laughing so soon after such a solemn occasion, but then I remembered that vision I�d had of Uncle L.J. in his coffin, smiling broadly as we had made our way to the cemetery, and I figured he�d approve. In fact, if all the stories I�d hear about him were true, he probably would have been laughing loudest of all.
| Back to The View From The Chinaberry Tree |
|---|
