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******
Two nights later, Race was shaken awake by Dino's frantic voice. He groaned and rolled over, mumbling to himself.
"Pop! Pop, get up!" Dino shook him again. Race opened his eyes to glare at his son.
"Whut?" he moaned.
"It's Vinnie! He's gone!" Race was up in an instant, out of bed and rushing into the small children's bedroom beside his own. Sure enough, Marina and Zaria were up and clinging to each other, staring at the empty bed in the corner. Race stumbled to it and ripped the covers aside, finding no Vinnie, but only a note.
Dear pop,
I'm sorry to do this, but you always taught me to do what I think is right. I believe that I belong over there. I can't just sit here and do nothing while people are dying. You know how I feel, I know it.
I have to do what I feel is right, Pop. I don't want to hurt you, or Dino, or Marina, or Zaira. But I have to. If you were sixteen, you and Uncle Jack would have been the first in line.
All my life, you've told me about how you stood up to the oppression you suffered. Well. I'm going to make sure others are freed too. Please, don't be mad, Pop.
Love,
Vinnie.
Race let out a shuddering breathe. No, no this can't be happening, he thought. How could Vinnie do this? How could he? In an instant, Race thought of something and grabbed his pants, rushing out of the apartment and down the stairs to his best friend's apartment.
He pounded on the door, caring little for the hour, but needing to know. It was a good while before a comatose Jack answered the door, glaring at Race through sleep-blurred eyes.
"Race? Wha?" his voice was low and mumbling. Race ignored it.
"Jack, Vinnie's gone." he said, making it final by speaking the words. Jack frowned.
"He's probably on da roof." Race shook his head.
" He's gone. He and Snickers. Dey're gone." Jack shook his head.
"Anthony's safe and sound and asleep. Like you should be." Race shook his head again.
"Go look. Go and see if yer son is dere." Jack rolled his eyes, but beckoned his friend inside, before disappearing into his children's room. Race waited what seemed like forever, even when Sarah, Jack's wife, left the bedroom and inquired about his presence. Race told her what he'd told Jack and she frowned.
Jack burst out of the bedroom, a look of horror on his face. In his hand, he held a scrap of paper, much like the one Race still clutched in his own. He slumped at the table, hardly noticing his wife or terrified daughters, who entered the main room. Race shook his head, biting his lip hard and vanishing back upstairs.
Once back in his own apartment, he took his little girl, his little Zaira, and held her close. Marina took her father's hand, feeling so helpless. Dino watched, wishing he'd done something, wishing he'd made more of an effort when he woke up and saw his brother close the window behind him.
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November 4, 1917.
Stars lit up the sky as the Higgins family crowded on the roof. Dino held Zaira on the ledge so she wouldn't fall, as Marina talked with Shannon and Brianna Kelly, jacks two daughters, ages fourteen and ten respectively. Race was smiling for the first time in a long time as they wandered down afterwards. He and Jack shared glances as the Higgins family went into their apartment.
"Pop, whut is it?" Dino asked, jumping up a and down. Race smiled, reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. It was mud stained, frayed and dirty, but the handwriting sent the Higgins children into fits of joy.
"It's Vinnie!" Dino hollered.
"Is he coming home?" Zaira begged. Race laughed and ripped open the letter.
"I dunno, I ain't read it yet."
"Papa, don't say ain't. It sounds so common." Marina said, scolding her father. He laughed.
"I'se been sayin' ain't since before youse wus born. I ain't stoppin' now." He said, grinning, "Now who wants to hear whut Vinnie has ta say?" a chorus of cheers erupted as Race unfolded the letter. To his surprise, out fell several scraps of paper.
One was a small postcard of the beach, a French beach, and on the back was written, To Waves, you should see the waves they have here.
Then came a picture of Vinnie and Anthony, dressed in full military dress, and waving merrily at the camera. They seemed perfectly happy. That one was for Zaira.
Lastly there was a picture of a man, with a cowboy hat on, doing a fancy rope trick, for Dino. The children's face's lit up and Race smiled.
Dear Pop, Marina, Dino and Zaira,
Hello, I hope everyone's fine. Again, I want to say I'm sorry, Pop, but I was right. This place is amazing. I'm in France, but I can't say where. Orders in case the mail is intercepted. Sorry.
I've met boys from all over, from America, and England, like Ma, France, and even some from Italy! Thanks for insisting that I learn Italian, Pop, it came in handy.
We've seen some scattered action so far. We're in encamped in a long trench and the Gerries are just over the ridge. Every once and a while, someone will throw a shot and there will be some scattered fighting, but mostly, we just sit here.
Give my love to everyone and tell Dino, Marina, and Zaira, that I love them. Please write back, pop. I could use some news from home.
Your loving son.
Pvt. Vincenzo Higgins
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December 1, 1917.
Vinnie pulled his helmet down over his dark brown eyes, sighing deeply. He wished for home and his own warm bed, to hear his father laugh and to see his father's face light up when he came home,
But still, he was here and it was what he'd wanted. When he'd first arrived, things had been much different. But now they were in their third month encamped in these Goddamned trenches. Anthony was speaking to the Captain at the moment, wanting to know when the mail would arrive. He'd gotten two letters from Jack and his family already. Of course, the first had been furious, how dare they run away, how dare they disobey their parents, but the last had been softer, more heartfelt, and both boys had felt homesick for days.
Now Vinnie just felt sick. This was nothing like he had hoped. He'd been looking for the best of humanity and found the worst. Two days ago, he'd seen a new boy, only stationed there three days, be shot down under the fire of those new and deadly repeating rifles as he tried to help a dying comrade. There were no heroes here. Only death. Death in its cruelest and most brutal form.
He'd wanted to save the world, but from what? What was there to save at the end of the day? Nothing. The world was so much harsher, so much crueler than he had ever seen. How could civilized humans do this to other humans? He slumped against the mud wall, forcing him not to think about what was buried only inches from his back, and to pretend that the flash of pale pink in the mud wall was only a trick of the light and not the hand of a once living human.
His father had been right, more right than Vinnie could have ever imagined. He should have listened, should never have come. His father had seen so much more of the world than he had, so much more pain and heartache. He warned me, Vinnie thought, he warned me and I didn't listen. Why did I listen? Why did I come here? What can one boy do? One boy can do nothing when ankle deep in mud and filth and blood. When he's fighting over his foot with the rats and the lice. When he sits in a deep layer of mud, blood, and human bits.
He shuddered violently as someone shoved past him, stumbling up the steps over the trench. There came the fire of a gun and a sick thud. Vinnie closed his eyes, not seeing the man fall back over the edge of the trench and stare, with empty eyes, at nothing. No one noticed.
All around him, men sat, waiting the inevitable. The trench was muddy and only an hour ago it had been filled to the knees with water. Vinnie had written in his letter about the different men they'd met, but he didn't say that many of those men were now dead, or as good as, wandering around like lost souls, waiting to live, waiting to die, waiting, just waiting. Their eyes were empty, empty and glassy, no memory of the men they had once been. Fathers, brothers, sons, all gone in the flash of an exploding shell.
Vinnie slipped his hand inside his coat to feel the small book in his inner pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. The Game of Life, by R.A. Higgins. A simple paper back, but with much more meaning to Vinnie than any Bible. The Higgins children had never been brought up with a firm belief in God.
Race had determined as a child that God cared little for street rats like himself and rarely prayed. Victoria, Vinnie's mother, had been a devote believer, but with her death, so died any faith Race might have acquired. Vinnie had agreed with his father on this subject.
A raindrop fell on the book and Vinnie quickly pushed it inside once again, keeping it safe from the rain. He rubbed his eyes and lugged his gun over his shoulder, moving through the trenches to greet his friend.
Anthony smiled when he saw him. At least they still had each other. Vinnie opened his mouth when suddenly a voice called out above them.
"Mail Call!" A British captain jumped into the trench, not even wincing as his boots planted hard in the mud. In his hands he held a large packet of letters. Anthony and the other boys hurried forward, but Vinnie did not. No one had written to him yet, and he doubted they would.
"Kelly!" he smiled for his friend as Anthony ripped open the letter from his parents. At least he would know what was happening.
"Higgins!" his head jerked up. He was the only Higgins in this trench, but it couldn't be him. His father wouldn't write to him, would he?
"Higgins, get your arse over here and get your letter!" Vinnie leapt to his feet and all but snatched the letter from the captain who smiled at him, knowing exactly how the young American private felt. Vinnie ripped the letter open to find two pages of sloppy handwriting, spelling atrocious, and ink blotted, but Vinnie had no trouble reading it. He was used to his father's limited education.
Dear Vinnie,
I hope you are doing as well as we are. You have no idea how relieved I was to get your last letter. And the kids are thrilled now that their brother is some big hero. They couldn't wait to go to school and tell everyone that their big brother is off in the war.
But I do have to say, that as proud as I am, just be careful, Vinnie. I don't want to loose you. The Martians below us just got one of those horrible telegrams a few days ago. Please, Vinnie, don't let me get one of them. That is all I ask.
Your loving father
Racetrack
The next two pages were from Dino, and Marina, and Zaira. Vinnie smiled as he read them. he could almost hear their voices scrambling to tell him every detail.
But his father's plea struck his heart hard. He wanted to come home, to come home so bad. But he couldn't. Not now, not while his friends were dying here. He just couldn't.
Vinnie sighed and took out the book, folding the letter carefully and slipping it into the book, making sure that they were both safe and sound. It was his last link to home.
Suddenly, there was a horrible wail, and men everywhere dropped to the mud covered ground, Vinnie included. In a second of fumbling, he attached his gas mask, covering his face as the shells began to fall. He saw, through the pale greenish lenses, men fall back, struck by something they would never see. He saw men, who hadn't gotten their masks on in time, clutch at their throats and begin to flail around, was fling their arms for some kind of pity, for anything to make it stop. But Vinnie made no move.
He held on tight to his gun, unmoving, unwilling. It was always horrible and he had learned not to look. But today, he did. He watched as the attack lessoned and men jumped to their feet, leaping out of the trenches to cross No-Man's Land, only to be mowed down by German machine guns. These dreaded guns rattled on both sides. Against them, a man stood no chance, allied or not. The machines didn't care. All around him, shells fell and exploded.
The cries of men were drowned out by the roar of those dreaded planes, from both sides, bombing the hell out of the other side. Vinnie closed his eyes, trying got block the sights and sounds, just before seeing the horrible yellow gas, blanket the ground.
He leapt to his feet and began to run. Anything to get away from that gas. To stay was to die. In his rush, he stumbled over men, dead and dying, friends and foes. The gas cared little for the individual victims. It only needed human lives and it took them in the most gruesome way possible.
A shell blast hit only feet from Vinnie and he was blown away. He landed on something soft, but only covered his head, trying to block the blast. He was shaking, shaking so hard.
Finally the roar of the planes died away and instead, the air was filled with the voices of men, men dying, or dead, or crying for those lost. They were the voices of men, no of boys, boys crying for help, for water, for mother, for death. Boys who had no purpose dying on a battlefield meant for men. Each horrible wail blended with one until the air was filled with the cries of men, echoing across the empty fields where once flowers had bloomed.
Vinnie took a deep breath and lifted his head to find himself face to face with a body. It had been what he had landed on. The man's leg was gone, but his face, from what little Vinnie could see, was pale, with blood still streaming from his lips. Vinnie leapt away, grimacing at the sight of the gas victim. But slowly, he reached back to turn the man over.
At the sight of the bloated, blood covered, mud stained face, Vinnie gave a sob. He let out a long shaky breath, unable see as tears clouded his vision. Slowly, he reached into the man's pocket and pulled out the letter that was sticking out of it. it was unposted and recently written. He tucked it into his pocket and walked slowly back to his trench, stumbling over the bodies of men.
Anthony was waiting for him and Vinnie closed his eyes, tears falling steadily now as he told Anthony what had happened. Soon, both boys were crying.
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December 25, 1917.
Race sighed as he placed the small presents on the table and waited for the small explosion of noise that would come from the children's room any second. It was a Higgins family tradition to put the presents on the table in front of the person's selected place. Race's eyes drifted to the empty places at the end of the table and to his right. There was a time when all four places had been filled. But now they sat, empty, casting a dark shadow over this festive holiday.
Personally, Race had had little experience with the joy of Christmas. When his parents had been alive, there had been little enough money to go around anyway. And as a newsie, the older newsies would always pool their money and buy something for the little ones, some candy, maybe a top or some other toy. One year, the entire boarding house had worked together to buy little Crutchy a coat for the cold winter.
Race loved to be able to buy small things for his children. A new hat for Dino, a new set of pencils for Marina, and a pair of tickets to a small theatre in Soho for Zaira. He'd had Medda pull a few strings for those. It gave him a great joy to see the faces of his kids as they had so much more than he ever had.
But Vinnie, Race had sent a new pack of cards to his son in hopes that they might keep him occupied during his encampment. His son's letters were nothing short of enthusiastic, but Race had noticed that the tone had changed. His son was seeing things too horrible to write home about, he was sure. And he felt horrible for not being firm enough.
This would be their first Christmas without Vinnie. Race just hoped it would not become a pattern.
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January 18, 1918
Vinnie ducked the shell, and threw himself face down in the mud. Inches away, a comrade fell, screaming as the shrapnel forced its way into his body. Vinnie winced as the man fell silent, though nothing else did.
Above him, planes roared, dropping their deadly cargo onto the opposite sides trenches. Men from both sides swarmed from their trenches to cross the deadly no-man's land, and be gunned down by the horrible machine guns.
Vinnie began to crawl back to his own trench, caring little for the mud that now soaked his uniform. It was better than blood anyway, though he was sure there was more blood on that field than mud.
Another shell hit near by and Vinnie was almost thrown headlong into another body. He resisted the temptation to get to his feet and run for it. To do so was suicide. The instant he got to his feet, someone would gun him down, and if he ran towards his trench, his own men might shot him down. He'd seen it happen. Guns rattled around him as he crawled, inch by inch, ignoring the dead and the dying.
Suddenly one of the shells hit only feet away and Vinnie was thrown back, stumbling into a ditch. He slammed against the ground hard, and covered his eyes, before the blast died away. Then, quickly he began to check himself for injuries.
He breathed deeply in finding he was safe and sound. There was no wound, no shrapnel imbedded in his skin. He was alive and unharmed.
But a noise behind him made him spin around. To his horror, he found himself face to face with another man, who had found shelter in the same crevice. His uniform was mud covered and blood stained, but Vinnie could still see the German design under the filth.
The two stared at each other for the longest time, each unwilling, and perhaps unable to move. Then the man mumbled something in German. Vinnie frowned, knowing not one word of the man's language. The man glanced nervously downward and Vinnie followed his gaze. Then he jerked away. The man's leg was mangled and bloody, almost not even there. Only tattered bloody strands hung from where his leg had been.
Vinnie's face grew pale and he drew away, backing against the mud wall. He saw the man reach to his side and grab his gun, a small hand held revolver. Vinnie took a deep breath, swallowing hard.
His own gun, a large Tommy, had long ago lost any ammunition he had, and was a dead weight on his back. He had no bullets, no weapons, nothing. This man, this wounded German had both.
The man's eyes were wild, almost like a wounded dog Vinnie had once seen in the streets cornered by a pack of others. It's fur stood on end and it growled even though it was doomed. This man lifted the gun and pointed it straight at Vinnie, his eyes so much like that dogs, so much like an animals.
The man leveled the weapon in between Vinnie's eyes and paused. The deep blue eyes of the German looked directly at the dark brown of the American. For Vinnie the world had paused and the two of them were all that existed.
Then the man let out a sob and dropped the gun. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Vinnie paused, his fear gone and replaced with sudden sympathy.
From the moment he had stepped into that base, he had been told, hate the faceless enemy in the other trench. They are the faceless evil. And suddenly that enemy had a face. A tearstained heartbroken blue eyed face. He took a tentative step forward and put his hand on the shoulder of the enemy.
The German looked up at him, and took the gun. Slowly, he handed it to Vinnie and pointed to himself. Vinnie frowned as the man shook his arm and begged for something in his own language.
"Sorry, I don't undastand." He said.
"Beenden sie bitte es. Machen sie bitte das schmerz ende." He begged again, while Vinnie paused. The man pointed to the gun and then pointed to his head and Vinnie began to understand. He dropped the gun and stared at the man. Upon close examination, Vinnie saw that the man was not really a man, but a boy. A boy much like himself. The boy reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. He pressed it into Vinnie's hands before motioning again to the gun.
Vinnie could see that the boy was in pain and he'd seen enough to know that he wouldn't make it. it would be so much less painful.
"I'm sorry." He whispered. Then he picked up the gun, pointed it, and turned his head.
The shot rang through the now silent field, and forever ringing in the mind of one boy who would never be a child again.
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December 6, 1917.
Race laughed as Sarah began to franticly order Jack to fetch more ribbons, more tinsel. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs were sitting at the table, watching the children, as Davy, home from his job out west as a reporter in the city of San Diego, sat with little Dino on his lap.
The event was going to be big, with all the old crowd. Most were there in the old restaurant Tibby's already. Ex-newsie, Kid Blink, as he was still known, owned the place and often opened it to his old friends.
That night was to be a celebration, a remembrance of old times, when there was no war, and the newsies were all they had. But it became much more.
The party was well underway, as the night came on. Clouds began to cover the once clear sky and rain threatened. Race frowned at the idea of walking home in the rain, but shrugged it off and went back to showing Zaira how to play poker with his old friends. Mr. Jacobs watched with an amused smile from his seat next to Race.
"I learned a new song taday, Papa." Zaira chirped. Race laughed and shifted her.
"Let's hear it den." The little girl smiled and opened her mouth. The whole restaurant fell silent, waiting to hear the girl's angelic voice.
"Keep the home-fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home;
There's a silver lining
Through the dark cloud shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home."
When she had finished, there was scattered applause and not a dry eye in the place. Race swallowed hard and hugged his little girl, thinking of his first-born son, and where he was that night.
At first, no one noticed the messenger until he cleared his throat. Then, one by one, all eyes turned to him. Race's eyes quickly went from the man's face to the small envelope in his hands. It was strange how such a small thing could cause so much terror in so many people.
He shook his head, nonononono. Not Vinnie, please let it not be Vinnie, he prayed. Please, I'll do anything, but don't let it be Vinnie. The man began to make his way down the isle, glancing at each horror stricken face.
"Not Vinnie, please, not Vinnie, not Vinnie," Race began to whisper. Spot Conlon glanced at his friend next to him and realized he'd never seen Race so frightened as he held tight to his little girl and whispered faintly. He prayed for Race's sake, it wasn't his son.
"Is there a Mr. Mayer Jacobs here?" Race let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Mr. Jacobs stood up, looking strong, but Race could see the old man's hand shaking as he took the telegram. The man looked apologetic but vanished as soon as he could.
David stared at the small envelope as Mrs. Jacobs began to cry. Mr. Jacobs ripped it open and once he'd read the first line, he let it drop to the floor, taking his wife, son, and daughter in his arms and all of them cried softly.
Race did not notice them, only watched the telegram float to the ground, softly, as if time were suspended. It settled on the chair, the chair, Race realized, in which a much smaller much more innocent boy had sat not so long ago. He could see the boy, smiling and laughing, his papes under his arm and his innocence inspiring the rest of them.
That boy was dead, dead in some field in France, so far away from home. So far away. Dead. Gone, never to speak again, never to become the man he might have been. Just a boy, like so many others.
Race buried his face in his hands and cried.
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October 21, 1918.
Vinnie closed his eyes, listening to the deadly roar around him. It all seemed so far away. He could no longer feel his leg and he didn't want to look to see it.
The shrapnel had come from nowhere and as long as he stayed where he was, he might just live. He could feel the rats running by him, and still he did not open his eyes. There would be nothing to see that he hadn't already seen.
Finally silence settled over the valley and it was worse than the noise. It was the sound of death and Vinnie hated it. Finally he opened his eyes and saw that night had fallen.
Now, if he was careful, he could make his way back to his trench, only ten feet away. Slowly, he dragged himself back, his wounded leg a dead weight.
When he reached the edge, hands reached up to help him, to lower him to the ground and wrapped dirty rags around his wounded leg. He was lifted to his feet and helped to wobble though the maze of trenches to a few steps and to a small makeshift building, used as a hospital.
There he was lowered to a cot and waited. Anthony smiled down at him, his own arm covered in his friend's blood.
"How ya feelin'?" he asked. Vinnie shrugged.
"Alright. It ain't too bad." Anthony shook his head.
"Nah, you'll live." Then he got to his feet and summoned the attention of a doctor. The doctor came over. He was a young man, French with a young boyish face that would have been handsome had it not been so grim, so tired. He hated this war, hated telling men they'd never see their homes, their mothers, fathers, wives, and children.
But this young man was different. He gave the doctor a grim smile and kept his hand on something inside his jacket. The doctor rolled up his sleeve and shook his hand.
"Dr. Vincent Du Bar." He said, in his passing English.
"Private Vincenzo Higgins." Vinnie replied. "I ain't so good wid French, sorry." The doctor shook his head and bent over to examine his leg. He sighed in relief to see only a shrapnel wound. Carefully, he cleaned and wrapped the wound. Then he turned back to the pale young man.
"Congratulations, private Higgins. You're going home." Vinnie stared at him.
"Whut?" he nodded.
"You're going home. A wound like this is grounds for a discharge. I'll get the general to make up the order tonight. Sleep and rest well. You'll be on the next boat home." Then he was off to check on a man two bunks over.
Vinnie smiled, not seeing his friend in front of him, not seeing several soldiers carry a wounded man inside, his legs gone and screaming in pain as he died right there in the hospital room.
He opened his eyes, watching as a man was dragged in, fresh from the home front, and bloodied already. His friend had hoisted him over his shoulder and dragged him in as the man's legs were totally blown away. Blood was streaming from the bloody mangled stumps where healthy long legs had been only an hour ago. Blood coated the young man, running from his mouth as he moaned.
"Please doc," his friend begged. "do something." The doctor nodded, then reached over to Vinnie.
"Do you have your gun, soldier?" Vinnie nodded and handed it to him, turning his head from the sight he knew was coming. The gunshot echoed across the busy surgery, silencing it for just a moment. Even the dying ceased their wails. The doctor handed the gun back to Vinnie who stared at it, then threw it to the ground. It landed beside the weeping friend as he clung to the tattered remains of his friend.
"I'm sorry. "Vinnie whispered. The man lifted his strange blue eyes and looked at Vinnie. "He woulda died anyway, and a lot moa painfully. Trust me, it's bedda dis way." the man looked at him.
"He was my brother, my twin brother. You have any brothers at home?" Vinnie nodded.
"I gots a younga brudda, he's only twelve." The man nodded.
"You're going home, aren't you?" Vinnie nodded.
"It ain't soon enough." The man nodded.
"Say hello to Lady Liberty for me." Vinnie smiled.
"I will." The man took the ruined body, and drying his eyes, carried it into the room beyond the hospital, where no one ever came out of alive. The door closed behind him and there was another gun shot, this one worse than the first.
Vinnie winced, but a second later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Glancing back, he noticed an older man who smiled gently at him.
"He's in a better place, far from all this." The man's voice was soft and kind, with a British accent. Vinnie nodded and the man stuck out his hand. Automatically, Vinnie spat in his hand and reached to take the offered hand, only to realize. Blushing, he wiped off his hand and shook the older man's hand. It was an old habit and had caused several raised eyebrows from his British, French, and Italian comrades. Even other Americans thought it odd, until he had met a boy from Brooklyn who returned the gesture with zest.
"Davis Hartford." The man said, smiling again at Vinnie.
"Vincenzo Higgins." Vinnie replied. Davis looked at him, Vinnie was sure, because of his name.
"Two very contrasting names, are you Italian?" he shook his head.
"American. Me pop was half Italian and half Irish. Dat's where da Higgins comes from."
"Your father? You're going home, aren't you?" Vinnie nodded, smiling wistfully.
"Can't wait. Me pop's gonna be waitin' fer me and I just wanna go back home." Hartford smiled, just the same as Vinnie.
"I know the feeling, boy. I'm going home too. I can't wait either, my wife just had our third child, a boy, two days ago. She's waiting for me to come home before naming him. " He dug into his vest before pulling out a small wrinkled photograph of a pretty young woman, smiling gently. Vinnie grinned and took the picture, studying her.
"She's a real doll. Whut's her name?" he asked, handing the picture back. The man smiled gently at the still life like of his wife.
"Victoria." Vinnie smiled too.
"Dat was me ma's name." He said quietly. Hartford looked at him, smiling too. There was something he liked about this boy, something in the American's manner. It wasn't rude or obnoxious like so many other Americans. The accent was a challenge to understand sometimes, but once you got passed it, you had a brave and enthusiastic young man who had seen too much pain and just wanted to get home to his father.
Vinnie had reached into his own pocket and pulled out a photograph taken only a few days before he'd left. It was his family, his father, brother, and sisters, all proud all happy. Race sat in the middle, Vinnie beside him, his hand on his shoulder, Dino stood beside Vinnie and marina was on the other side. Little Zaira was seated on her fathers lap, beaming at the camera.
"Your family looks wonderful.' Hartford told him. Vinnie gazed longingly at the picture, as if the smiling faces were not frozen in time, but waving merrily back at him. he longed for home so much.
"Yeah, dere's great. I mean, my pop, he didn't want me ta come. But all I had ta do was remind him what he was doin' at me age."
"What was he doing?" Vinnie smiled. He was always proud to tell people that his own father had been one of the instigators of the 1899 strike.
"Ya eva hoid of da newsie strike a' 1899?" the man nodded.
"Yes, in fact. Stirred up quite a bit of trouble, they did. And my wife read an interesting book a few years ago about the newsies, written by one of the former strikers." Vinnie nodded.
"Me pop was part a all dat. He was one a da Lowa Manhattan newsies. Jack Kelly, da leada, he's me pop's best friend. We all call him Uncle Jack."
"What's your father's name?"
"Racetrack Higgins." Vinnie replied, waiting for the familiar look of disbelief that always accompanied newsie nicks. Though he could never remember anyone calling his father by his real name, including his mother, who preferred Race to Anthony.
But Hartford stared at him, mouth wide open. Then he shut it and smiled. He reached into his bag and pulled out the same battered edition Vinnie kept close to his heart.
"Your father is a fine good writer. Let me guess, you're the Vinnie he mentions." Vinnie nodded.
"I was jist a kid at da time, but yeah. He wrote jist afta ma died." A scream echoed from behind the curtain that served as the operating room, and interrupted their conversation. Vinnie winced and shook his head, turning away from the horrors.
Hartford sighed. "The sooner we get out of here," he whispered, " the better." Vinnie nodded. It had been his wish since he had spent that first horrible night in the trenches, since he'd encountered that first enemy soldier in the ditch, since he'd crawled out of his window that night so long ago.
Vinnie shut his eyes, and forced himself to ignore the horrors around him, the moaning of the man beside him, the screams of the men in the "operating room," makeshift curtains which hid the sights, but not the sounds, and thought of home.
If he thought hard enough, he could see his father's face when he stepped off the boat, little Dino as he leapt into his arms, Marina's usually so calm and collected manner fall apart as he took her in a hug, and little Zaira as he came home to them all.
He was going home. "Home." He whispered, the word never having so much meaning. Never holding so much hope. He held his father's book close to his chest, closing his eyes and whispering the word. Home.
****************************************************************************
Two nights later, Race was shaken awake by Dino's frantic voice. He groaned and rolled over, mumbling to himself.
"Pop! Pop, get up!" Dino shook him again. Race opened his eyes to glare at his son.
"Whut?" he moaned.
"It's Vinnie! He's gone!" Race was up in an instant, out of bed and rushing into the small children's bedroom beside his own. Sure enough, Marina and Zaria were up and clinging to each other, staring at the empty bed in the corner. Race stumbled to it and ripped the covers aside, finding no Vinnie, but only a note.
Dear pop,
I'm sorry to do this, but you always taught me to do what I think is right. I believe that I belong over there. I can't just sit here and do nothing while people are dying. You know how I feel, I know it.
I have to do what I feel is right, Pop. I don't want to hurt you, or Dino, or Marina, or Zaira. But I have to. If you were sixteen, you and Uncle Jack would have been the first in line.
All my life, you've told me about how you stood up to the oppression you suffered. Well. I'm going to make sure others are freed too. Please, don't be mad, Pop.
Love,
Vinnie.
Race let out a shuddering breathe. No, no this can't be happening, he thought. How could Vinnie do this? How could he? In an instant, Race thought of something and grabbed his pants, rushing out of the apartment and down the stairs to his best friend's apartment.
He pounded on the door, caring little for the hour, but needing to know. It was a good while before a comatose Jack answered the door, glaring at Race through sleep-blurred eyes.
"Race? Wha?" his voice was low and mumbling. Race ignored it.
"Jack, Vinnie's gone." he said, making it final by speaking the words. Jack frowned.
"He's probably on da roof." Race shook his head.
" He's gone. He and Snickers. Dey're gone." Jack shook his head.
"Anthony's safe and sound and asleep. Like you should be." Race shook his head again.
"Go look. Go and see if yer son is dere." Jack rolled his eyes, but beckoned his friend inside, before disappearing into his children's room. Race waited what seemed like forever, even when Sarah, Jack's wife, left the bedroom and inquired about his presence. Race told her what he'd told Jack and she frowned.
Jack burst out of the bedroom, a look of horror on his face. In his hand, he held a scrap of paper, much like the one Race still clutched in his own. He slumped at the table, hardly noticing his wife or terrified daughters, who entered the main room. Race shook his head, biting his lip hard and vanishing back upstairs.
Once back in his own apartment, he took his little girl, his little Zaira, and held her close. Marina took her father's hand, feeling so helpless. Dino watched, wishing he'd done something, wishing he'd made more of an effort when he woke up and saw his brother close the window behind him.
**************************************************************************** ******
November 4, 1917.
Stars lit up the sky as the Higgins family crowded on the roof. Dino held Zaira on the ledge so she wouldn't fall, as Marina talked with Shannon and Brianna Kelly, jacks two daughters, ages fourteen and ten respectively. Race was smiling for the first time in a long time as they wandered down afterwards. He and Jack shared glances as the Higgins family went into their apartment.
"Pop, whut is it?" Dino asked, jumping up a and down. Race smiled, reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. It was mud stained, frayed and dirty, but the handwriting sent the Higgins children into fits of joy.
"It's Vinnie!" Dino hollered.
"Is he coming home?" Zaira begged. Race laughed and ripped open the letter.
"I dunno, I ain't read it yet."
"Papa, don't say ain't. It sounds so common." Marina said, scolding her father. He laughed.
"I'se been sayin' ain't since before youse wus born. I ain't stoppin' now." He said, grinning, "Now who wants to hear whut Vinnie has ta say?" a chorus of cheers erupted as Race unfolded the letter. To his surprise, out fell several scraps of paper.
One was a small postcard of the beach, a French beach, and on the back was written, To Waves, you should see the waves they have here.
Then came a picture of Vinnie and Anthony, dressed in full military dress, and waving merrily at the camera. They seemed perfectly happy. That one was for Zaira.
Lastly there was a picture of a man, with a cowboy hat on, doing a fancy rope trick, for Dino. The children's face's lit up and Race smiled.
Dear Pop, Marina, Dino and Zaira,
Hello, I hope everyone's fine. Again, I want to say I'm sorry, Pop, but I was right. This place is amazing. I'm in France, but I can't say where. Orders in case the mail is intercepted. Sorry.
I've met boys from all over, from America, and England, like Ma, France, and even some from Italy! Thanks for insisting that I learn Italian, Pop, it came in handy.
We've seen some scattered action so far. We're in encamped in a long trench and the Gerries are just over the ridge. Every once and a while, someone will throw a shot and there will be some scattered fighting, but mostly, we just sit here.
Give my love to everyone and tell Dino, Marina, and Zaira, that I love them. Please write back, pop. I could use some news from home.
Your loving son.
Pvt. Vincenzo Higgins
**************************************************************************** ******
December 1, 1917.
Vinnie pulled his helmet down over his dark brown eyes, sighing deeply. He wished for home and his own warm bed, to hear his father laugh and to see his father's face light up when he came home,
But still, he was here and it was what he'd wanted. When he'd first arrived, things had been much different. But now they were in their third month encamped in these Goddamned trenches. Anthony was speaking to the Captain at the moment, wanting to know when the mail would arrive. He'd gotten two letters from Jack and his family already. Of course, the first had been furious, how dare they run away, how dare they disobey their parents, but the last had been softer, more heartfelt, and both boys had felt homesick for days.
Now Vinnie just felt sick. This was nothing like he had hoped. He'd been looking for the best of humanity and found the worst. Two days ago, he'd seen a new boy, only stationed there three days, be shot down under the fire of those new and deadly repeating rifles as he tried to help a dying comrade. There were no heroes here. Only death. Death in its cruelest and most brutal form.
He'd wanted to save the world, but from what? What was there to save at the end of the day? Nothing. The world was so much harsher, so much crueler than he had ever seen. How could civilized humans do this to other humans? He slumped against the mud wall, forcing him not to think about what was buried only inches from his back, and to pretend that the flash of pale pink in the mud wall was only a trick of the light and not the hand of a once living human.
His father had been right, more right than Vinnie could have ever imagined. He should have listened, should never have come. His father had seen so much more of the world than he had, so much more pain and heartache. He warned me, Vinnie thought, he warned me and I didn't listen. Why did I listen? Why did I come here? What can one boy do? One boy can do nothing when ankle deep in mud and filth and blood. When he's fighting over his foot with the rats and the lice. When he sits in a deep layer of mud, blood, and human bits.
He shuddered violently as someone shoved past him, stumbling up the steps over the trench. There came the fire of a gun and a sick thud. Vinnie closed his eyes, not seeing the man fall back over the edge of the trench and stare, with empty eyes, at nothing. No one noticed.
All around him, men sat, waiting the inevitable. The trench was muddy and only an hour ago it had been filled to the knees with water. Vinnie had written in his letter about the different men they'd met, but he didn't say that many of those men were now dead, or as good as, wandering around like lost souls, waiting to live, waiting to die, waiting, just waiting. Their eyes were empty, empty and glassy, no memory of the men they had once been. Fathers, brothers, sons, all gone in the flash of an exploding shell.
Vinnie slipped his hand inside his coat to feel the small book in his inner pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. The Game of Life, by R.A. Higgins. A simple paper back, but with much more meaning to Vinnie than any Bible. The Higgins children had never been brought up with a firm belief in God.
Race had determined as a child that God cared little for street rats like himself and rarely prayed. Victoria, Vinnie's mother, had been a devote believer, but with her death, so died any faith Race might have acquired. Vinnie had agreed with his father on this subject.
A raindrop fell on the book and Vinnie quickly pushed it inside once again, keeping it safe from the rain. He rubbed his eyes and lugged his gun over his shoulder, moving through the trenches to greet his friend.
Anthony smiled when he saw him. At least they still had each other. Vinnie opened his mouth when suddenly a voice called out above them.
"Mail Call!" A British captain jumped into the trench, not even wincing as his boots planted hard in the mud. In his hands he held a large packet of letters. Anthony and the other boys hurried forward, but Vinnie did not. No one had written to him yet, and he doubted they would.
"Kelly!" he smiled for his friend as Anthony ripped open the letter from his parents. At least he would know what was happening.
"Higgins!" his head jerked up. He was the only Higgins in this trench, but it couldn't be him. His father wouldn't write to him, would he?
"Higgins, get your arse over here and get your letter!" Vinnie leapt to his feet and all but snatched the letter from the captain who smiled at him, knowing exactly how the young American private felt. Vinnie ripped the letter open to find two pages of sloppy handwriting, spelling atrocious, and ink blotted, but Vinnie had no trouble reading it. He was used to his father's limited education.
Dear Vinnie,
I hope you are doing as well as we are. You have no idea how relieved I was to get your last letter. And the kids are thrilled now that their brother is some big hero. They couldn't wait to go to school and tell everyone that their big brother is off in the war.
But I do have to say, that as proud as I am, just be careful, Vinnie. I don't want to loose you. The Martians below us just got one of those horrible telegrams a few days ago. Please, Vinnie, don't let me get one of them. That is all I ask.
Your loving father
Racetrack
The next two pages were from Dino, and Marina, and Zaira. Vinnie smiled as he read them. he could almost hear their voices scrambling to tell him every detail.
But his father's plea struck his heart hard. He wanted to come home, to come home so bad. But he couldn't. Not now, not while his friends were dying here. He just couldn't.
Vinnie sighed and took out the book, folding the letter carefully and slipping it into the book, making sure that they were both safe and sound. It was his last link to home.
Suddenly, there was a horrible wail, and men everywhere dropped to the mud covered ground, Vinnie included. In a second of fumbling, he attached his gas mask, covering his face as the shells began to fall. He saw, through the pale greenish lenses, men fall back, struck by something they would never see. He saw men, who hadn't gotten their masks on in time, clutch at their throats and begin to flail around, was fling their arms for some kind of pity, for anything to make it stop. But Vinnie made no move.
He held on tight to his gun, unmoving, unwilling. It was always horrible and he had learned not to look. But today, he did. He watched as the attack lessoned and men jumped to their feet, leaping out of the trenches to cross No-Man's Land, only to be mowed down by German machine guns. These dreaded guns rattled on both sides. Against them, a man stood no chance, allied or not. The machines didn't care. All around him, shells fell and exploded.
The cries of men were drowned out by the roar of those dreaded planes, from both sides, bombing the hell out of the other side. Vinnie closed his eyes, trying got block the sights and sounds, just before seeing the horrible yellow gas, blanket the ground.
He leapt to his feet and began to run. Anything to get away from that gas. To stay was to die. In his rush, he stumbled over men, dead and dying, friends and foes. The gas cared little for the individual victims. It only needed human lives and it took them in the most gruesome way possible.
A shell blast hit only feet from Vinnie and he was blown away. He landed on something soft, but only covered his head, trying to block the blast. He was shaking, shaking so hard.
Finally the roar of the planes died away and instead, the air was filled with the voices of men, men dying, or dead, or crying for those lost. They were the voices of men, no of boys, boys crying for help, for water, for mother, for death. Boys who had no purpose dying on a battlefield meant for men. Each horrible wail blended with one until the air was filled with the cries of men, echoing across the empty fields where once flowers had bloomed.
Vinnie took a deep breath and lifted his head to find himself face to face with a body. It had been what he had landed on. The man's leg was gone, but his face, from what little Vinnie could see, was pale, with blood still streaming from his lips. Vinnie leapt away, grimacing at the sight of the gas victim. But slowly, he reached back to turn the man over.
At the sight of the bloated, blood covered, mud stained face, Vinnie gave a sob. He let out a long shaky breath, unable see as tears clouded his vision. Slowly, he reached into the man's pocket and pulled out the letter that was sticking out of it. it was unposted and recently written. He tucked it into his pocket and walked slowly back to his trench, stumbling over the bodies of men.
Anthony was waiting for him and Vinnie closed his eyes, tears falling steadily now as he told Anthony what had happened. Soon, both boys were crying.
**************************************************************************** ******
December 25, 1917.
Race sighed as he placed the small presents on the table and waited for the small explosion of noise that would come from the children's room any second. It was a Higgins family tradition to put the presents on the table in front of the person's selected place. Race's eyes drifted to the empty places at the end of the table and to his right. There was a time when all four places had been filled. But now they sat, empty, casting a dark shadow over this festive holiday.
Personally, Race had had little experience with the joy of Christmas. When his parents had been alive, there had been little enough money to go around anyway. And as a newsie, the older newsies would always pool their money and buy something for the little ones, some candy, maybe a top or some other toy. One year, the entire boarding house had worked together to buy little Crutchy a coat for the cold winter.
Race loved to be able to buy small things for his children. A new hat for Dino, a new set of pencils for Marina, and a pair of tickets to a small theatre in Soho for Zaira. He'd had Medda pull a few strings for those. It gave him a great joy to see the faces of his kids as they had so much more than he ever had.
But Vinnie, Race had sent a new pack of cards to his son in hopes that they might keep him occupied during his encampment. His son's letters were nothing short of enthusiastic, but Race had noticed that the tone had changed. His son was seeing things too horrible to write home about, he was sure. And he felt horrible for not being firm enough.
This would be their first Christmas without Vinnie. Race just hoped it would not become a pattern.
**************************************************************************** ********************
January 18, 1918
Vinnie ducked the shell, and threw himself face down in the mud. Inches away, a comrade fell, screaming as the shrapnel forced its way into his body. Vinnie winced as the man fell silent, though nothing else did.
Above him, planes roared, dropping their deadly cargo onto the opposite sides trenches. Men from both sides swarmed from their trenches to cross the deadly no-man's land, and be gunned down by the horrible machine guns.
Vinnie began to crawl back to his own trench, caring little for the mud that now soaked his uniform. It was better than blood anyway, though he was sure there was more blood on that field than mud.
Another shell hit near by and Vinnie was almost thrown headlong into another body. He resisted the temptation to get to his feet and run for it. To do so was suicide. The instant he got to his feet, someone would gun him down, and if he ran towards his trench, his own men might shot him down. He'd seen it happen. Guns rattled around him as he crawled, inch by inch, ignoring the dead and the dying.
Suddenly one of the shells hit only feet away and Vinnie was thrown back, stumbling into a ditch. He slammed against the ground hard, and covered his eyes, before the blast died away. Then, quickly he began to check himself for injuries.
He breathed deeply in finding he was safe and sound. There was no wound, no shrapnel imbedded in his skin. He was alive and unharmed.
But a noise behind him made him spin around. To his horror, he found himself face to face with another man, who had found shelter in the same crevice. His uniform was mud covered and blood stained, but Vinnie could still see the German design under the filth.
The two stared at each other for the longest time, each unwilling, and perhaps unable to move. Then the man mumbled something in German. Vinnie frowned, knowing not one word of the man's language. The man glanced nervously downward and Vinnie followed his gaze. Then he jerked away. The man's leg was mangled and bloody, almost not even there. Only tattered bloody strands hung from where his leg had been.
Vinnie's face grew pale and he drew away, backing against the mud wall. He saw the man reach to his side and grab his gun, a small hand held revolver. Vinnie took a deep breath, swallowing hard.
His own gun, a large Tommy, had long ago lost any ammunition he had, and was a dead weight on his back. He had no bullets, no weapons, nothing. This man, this wounded German had both.
The man's eyes were wild, almost like a wounded dog Vinnie had once seen in the streets cornered by a pack of others. It's fur stood on end and it growled even though it was doomed. This man lifted the gun and pointed it straight at Vinnie, his eyes so much like that dogs, so much like an animals.
The man leveled the weapon in between Vinnie's eyes and paused. The deep blue eyes of the German looked directly at the dark brown of the American. For Vinnie the world had paused and the two of them were all that existed.
Then the man let out a sob and dropped the gun. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. Vinnie paused, his fear gone and replaced with sudden sympathy.
From the moment he had stepped into that base, he had been told, hate the faceless enemy in the other trench. They are the faceless evil. And suddenly that enemy had a face. A tearstained heartbroken blue eyed face. He took a tentative step forward and put his hand on the shoulder of the enemy.
The German looked up at him, and took the gun. Slowly, he handed it to Vinnie and pointed to himself. Vinnie frowned as the man shook his arm and begged for something in his own language.
"Sorry, I don't undastand." He said.
"Beenden sie bitte es. Machen sie bitte das schmerz ende." He begged again, while Vinnie paused. The man pointed to the gun and then pointed to his head and Vinnie began to understand. He dropped the gun and stared at the man. Upon close examination, Vinnie saw that the man was not really a man, but a boy. A boy much like himself. The boy reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. He pressed it into Vinnie's hands before motioning again to the gun.
Vinnie could see that the boy was in pain and he'd seen enough to know that he wouldn't make it. it would be so much less painful.
"I'm sorry." He whispered. Then he picked up the gun, pointed it, and turned his head.
The shot rang through the now silent field, and forever ringing in the mind of one boy who would never be a child again.
**************************************************************************** *******************
December 6, 1917.
Race laughed as Sarah began to franticly order Jack to fetch more ribbons, more tinsel. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs were sitting at the table, watching the children, as Davy, home from his job out west as a reporter in the city of San Diego, sat with little Dino on his lap.
The event was going to be big, with all the old crowd. Most were there in the old restaurant Tibby's already. Ex-newsie, Kid Blink, as he was still known, owned the place and often opened it to his old friends.
That night was to be a celebration, a remembrance of old times, when there was no war, and the newsies were all they had. But it became much more.
The party was well underway, as the night came on. Clouds began to cover the once clear sky and rain threatened. Race frowned at the idea of walking home in the rain, but shrugged it off and went back to showing Zaira how to play poker with his old friends. Mr. Jacobs watched with an amused smile from his seat next to Race.
"I learned a new song taday, Papa." Zaira chirped. Race laughed and shifted her.
"Let's hear it den." The little girl smiled and opened her mouth. The whole restaurant fell silent, waiting to hear the girl's angelic voice.
"Keep the home-fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home;
There's a silver lining
Through the dark cloud shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home."
When she had finished, there was scattered applause and not a dry eye in the place. Race swallowed hard and hugged his little girl, thinking of his first-born son, and where he was that night.
At first, no one noticed the messenger until he cleared his throat. Then, one by one, all eyes turned to him. Race's eyes quickly went from the man's face to the small envelope in his hands. It was strange how such a small thing could cause so much terror in so many people.
He shook his head, nonononono. Not Vinnie, please let it not be Vinnie, he prayed. Please, I'll do anything, but don't let it be Vinnie. The man began to make his way down the isle, glancing at each horror stricken face.
"Not Vinnie, please, not Vinnie, not Vinnie," Race began to whisper. Spot Conlon glanced at his friend next to him and realized he'd never seen Race so frightened as he held tight to his little girl and whispered faintly. He prayed for Race's sake, it wasn't his son.
"Is there a Mr. Mayer Jacobs here?" Race let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Mr. Jacobs stood up, looking strong, but Race could see the old man's hand shaking as he took the telegram. The man looked apologetic but vanished as soon as he could.
David stared at the small envelope as Mrs. Jacobs began to cry. Mr. Jacobs ripped it open and once he'd read the first line, he let it drop to the floor, taking his wife, son, and daughter in his arms and all of them cried softly.
Race did not notice them, only watched the telegram float to the ground, softly, as if time were suspended. It settled on the chair, the chair, Race realized, in which a much smaller much more innocent boy had sat not so long ago. He could see the boy, smiling and laughing, his papes under his arm and his innocence inspiring the rest of them.
That boy was dead, dead in some field in France, so far away from home. So far away. Dead. Gone, never to speak again, never to become the man he might have been. Just a boy, like so many others.
Race buried his face in his hands and cried.
**************************************************************************** ******
October 21, 1918.
Vinnie closed his eyes, listening to the deadly roar around him. It all seemed so far away. He could no longer feel his leg and he didn't want to look to see it.
The shrapnel had come from nowhere and as long as he stayed where he was, he might just live. He could feel the rats running by him, and still he did not open his eyes. There would be nothing to see that he hadn't already seen.
Finally silence settled over the valley and it was worse than the noise. It was the sound of death and Vinnie hated it. Finally he opened his eyes and saw that night had fallen.
Now, if he was careful, he could make his way back to his trench, only ten feet away. Slowly, he dragged himself back, his wounded leg a dead weight.
When he reached the edge, hands reached up to help him, to lower him to the ground and wrapped dirty rags around his wounded leg. He was lifted to his feet and helped to wobble though the maze of trenches to a few steps and to a small makeshift building, used as a hospital.
There he was lowered to a cot and waited. Anthony smiled down at him, his own arm covered in his friend's blood.
"How ya feelin'?" he asked. Vinnie shrugged.
"Alright. It ain't too bad." Anthony shook his head.
"Nah, you'll live." Then he got to his feet and summoned the attention of a doctor. The doctor came over. He was a young man, French with a young boyish face that would have been handsome had it not been so grim, so tired. He hated this war, hated telling men they'd never see their homes, their mothers, fathers, wives, and children.
But this young man was different. He gave the doctor a grim smile and kept his hand on something inside his jacket. The doctor rolled up his sleeve and shook his hand.
"Dr. Vincent Du Bar." He said, in his passing English.
"Private Vincenzo Higgins." Vinnie replied. "I ain't so good wid French, sorry." The doctor shook his head and bent over to examine his leg. He sighed in relief to see only a shrapnel wound. Carefully, he cleaned and wrapped the wound. Then he turned back to the pale young man.
"Congratulations, private Higgins. You're going home." Vinnie stared at him.
"Whut?" he nodded.
"You're going home. A wound like this is grounds for a discharge. I'll get the general to make up the order tonight. Sleep and rest well. You'll be on the next boat home." Then he was off to check on a man two bunks over.
Vinnie smiled, not seeing his friend in front of him, not seeing several soldiers carry a wounded man inside, his legs gone and screaming in pain as he died right there in the hospital room.
He opened his eyes, watching as a man was dragged in, fresh from the home front, and bloodied already. His friend had hoisted him over his shoulder and dragged him in as the man's legs were totally blown away. Blood was streaming from the bloody mangled stumps where healthy long legs had been only an hour ago. Blood coated the young man, running from his mouth as he moaned.
"Please doc," his friend begged. "do something." The doctor nodded, then reached over to Vinnie.
"Do you have your gun, soldier?" Vinnie nodded and handed it to him, turning his head from the sight he knew was coming. The gunshot echoed across the busy surgery, silencing it for just a moment. Even the dying ceased their wails. The doctor handed the gun back to Vinnie who stared at it, then threw it to the ground. It landed beside the weeping friend as he clung to the tattered remains of his friend.
"I'm sorry. "Vinnie whispered. The man lifted his strange blue eyes and looked at Vinnie. "He woulda died anyway, and a lot moa painfully. Trust me, it's bedda dis way." the man looked at him.
"He was my brother, my twin brother. You have any brothers at home?" Vinnie nodded.
"I gots a younga brudda, he's only twelve." The man nodded.
"You're going home, aren't you?" Vinnie nodded.
"It ain't soon enough." The man nodded.
"Say hello to Lady Liberty for me." Vinnie smiled.
"I will." The man took the ruined body, and drying his eyes, carried it into the room beyond the hospital, where no one ever came out of alive. The door closed behind him and there was another gun shot, this one worse than the first.
Vinnie winced, but a second later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Glancing back, he noticed an older man who smiled gently at him.
"He's in a better place, far from all this." The man's voice was soft and kind, with a British accent. Vinnie nodded and the man stuck out his hand. Automatically, Vinnie spat in his hand and reached to take the offered hand, only to realize. Blushing, he wiped off his hand and shook the older man's hand. It was an old habit and had caused several raised eyebrows from his British, French, and Italian comrades. Even other Americans thought it odd, until he had met a boy from Brooklyn who returned the gesture with zest.
"Davis Hartford." The man said, smiling again at Vinnie.
"Vincenzo Higgins." Vinnie replied. Davis looked at him, Vinnie was sure, because of his name.
"Two very contrasting names, are you Italian?" he shook his head.
"American. Me pop was half Italian and half Irish. Dat's where da Higgins comes from."
"Your father? You're going home, aren't you?" Vinnie nodded, smiling wistfully.
"Can't wait. Me pop's gonna be waitin' fer me and I just wanna go back home." Hartford smiled, just the same as Vinnie.
"I know the feeling, boy. I'm going home too. I can't wait either, my wife just had our third child, a boy, two days ago. She's waiting for me to come home before naming him. " He dug into his vest before pulling out a small wrinkled photograph of a pretty young woman, smiling gently. Vinnie grinned and took the picture, studying her.
"She's a real doll. Whut's her name?" he asked, handing the picture back. The man smiled gently at the still life like of his wife.
"Victoria." Vinnie smiled too.
"Dat was me ma's name." He said quietly. Hartford looked at him, smiling too. There was something he liked about this boy, something in the American's manner. It wasn't rude or obnoxious like so many other Americans. The accent was a challenge to understand sometimes, but once you got passed it, you had a brave and enthusiastic young man who had seen too much pain and just wanted to get home to his father.
Vinnie had reached into his own pocket and pulled out a photograph taken only a few days before he'd left. It was his family, his father, brother, and sisters, all proud all happy. Race sat in the middle, Vinnie beside him, his hand on his shoulder, Dino stood beside Vinnie and marina was on the other side. Little Zaira was seated on her fathers lap, beaming at the camera.
"Your family looks wonderful.' Hartford told him. Vinnie gazed longingly at the picture, as if the smiling faces were not frozen in time, but waving merrily back at him. he longed for home so much.
"Yeah, dere's great. I mean, my pop, he didn't want me ta come. But all I had ta do was remind him what he was doin' at me age."
"What was he doing?" Vinnie smiled. He was always proud to tell people that his own father had been one of the instigators of the 1899 strike.
"Ya eva hoid of da newsie strike a' 1899?" the man nodded.
"Yes, in fact. Stirred up quite a bit of trouble, they did. And my wife read an interesting book a few years ago about the newsies, written by one of the former strikers." Vinnie nodded.
"Me pop was part a all dat. He was one a da Lowa Manhattan newsies. Jack Kelly, da leada, he's me pop's best friend. We all call him Uncle Jack."
"What's your father's name?"
"Racetrack Higgins." Vinnie replied, waiting for the familiar look of disbelief that always accompanied newsie nicks. Though he could never remember anyone calling his father by his real name, including his mother, who preferred Race to Anthony.
But Hartford stared at him, mouth wide open. Then he shut it and smiled. He reached into his bag and pulled out the same battered edition Vinnie kept close to his heart.
"Your father is a fine good writer. Let me guess, you're the Vinnie he mentions." Vinnie nodded.
"I was jist a kid at da time, but yeah. He wrote jist afta ma died." A scream echoed from behind the curtain that served as the operating room, and interrupted their conversation. Vinnie winced and shook his head, turning away from the horrors.
Hartford sighed. "The sooner we get out of here," he whispered, " the better." Vinnie nodded. It had been his wish since he had spent that first horrible night in the trenches, since he'd encountered that first enemy soldier in the ditch, since he'd crawled out of his window that night so long ago.
Vinnie shut his eyes, and forced himself to ignore the horrors around him, the moaning of the man beside him, the screams of the men in the "operating room," makeshift curtains which hid the sights, but not the sounds, and thought of home.
If he thought hard enough, he could see his father's face when he stepped off the boat, little Dino as he leapt into his arms, Marina's usually so calm and collected manner fall apart as he took her in a hug, and little Zaira as he came home to them all.
He was going home. "Home." He whispered, the word never having so much meaning. Never holding so much hope. He held his father's book close to his chest, closing his eyes and whispering the word. Home.
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