The Soldier has left the main channel to go back far upstream. He'd been there before, but it wasn't here, where he was now. And he did not want to be where he was now.
Hard landing
He was wet, clothes soaked through. He gathered his wits together slowly, with a lot of effort. He recalled flying. What a wonderful sensation.
Flying could be marvelous, the landing not always, even as a boy. He remembered flying through the air with the greatest of ease. A snippet of that catchy little tune registered in his scattered thoughts. It was an old song, but like a lot of old songs, it was still popular. The kind of song that people would sing in the evenings gathered around a campfire or while doing chores. A busload of people even sang it in a recent popular movie*. Grandma told him it was about a real trapeze artist, a French one.
His grandparents teased him about being a "daring young man on the flying trapeze," when he started jumping off the swing set out on the farm. Grandpa built it out of sections of well pipe and put in six big wooden seats, one for each grandchild. Vera and Ida Marie, his artistic cousins, painted pretty designs all over the swing set. Wheat fields and sunflowers on the legs; blue skies and clouds up high and on the cross bar. Not only was it the tallest, but the prettiest swing set anybody had ever seen. The memory warmed him.
All the grandkids loved that swing set. They could go so high; they imagined they were flying. Of course, they weren't content to stay on the seats, they had to jump out and really fly. Sometimes they stood up on those wooden seats so they could launch off better, with a little extra push from their legs. Most of the time, though, they just flew off from a seated position. He loved swinging up high in the air and then jumping out at the highest point in its arc.
They'd have contests to see who could fly the farthest. They'd pick out a spot and dare each other. Grandpa made a big sandpit out in the yard after he saw what the kids were doing. He and Grandma thought it was perfectly fine to fly; they just didn't want them to get hurt too bad if they landed wrong. All of them landed wrong from time to time. It would hurt; sometimes, a lot. They developed a little ritual for the big hurt occasions. They'd all gather round and sing the "trapeze song," while Grandma or Grandpa would check the fallen flyer over for bruises and scrapes. The more painful the landing, the further down the song they'd get. If it was one of the girls, it would always be the "daring young girl." The grandkids and Grandpa would always make sure they made it through the second verse, where there was something about undressing the girls with his eyes, or the other way around. Naturally, that was the grandkids' favorite verse. Grandma acted as if she hated that verse, but as he got older, he knew it was her way of distracting the unfortunate flyer from their hurts.
They were invincible. Even when they really did get hurt. Sometimes he'd get the wind knocked out of him and it felt like he'd almost died. Now, he knew better what almost dying felt like. Not like sundrenched summer days. He wished to be invincible again. He sure didn't pick his spot good this time. hmmm. Memories of summer days out on the farm accompanied him as he drifted back into unconsciousness.
A bit later. Still wet and even colder. No pleasant return to the farm but rather to a muddy, badly cratered field in France. A bit more intelligence as he began to recall what had happened. Grenade, mortar, or artillery? Oh, yeah. There was that barrage. A whistling, a blast of air lifting him off his feet, stuff hitting him, then just black. He'd come to, ears ringing and head hurting; completely disoriented. Wet and cold. Side of his face pressed into the muck. Feeling weaker than he'd ever felt, oddly empty. No wonder he'd rather be back on the farm. But now he had to get out of this mess and get back home.
He went to wrap his jacket around him a little tighter. No jacket? Where was his jacket? He remembered. He'd been captured earlier. Someone had taken it. Roberts? No, Robertson. Bad man. Evil. Gave him back some of his things, but not things that could help him survive, like his jacket, a gun, or his lighter. Then, strangely, they'd let him go. But not really. He'd been tied up to a big stake or something like that; he couldn't remember why. But those men, they laughed, thinking about what would happen to him as they'd left him out there. He'd almost managed to get free when the barrage started. He could think about that later. That was past. Now, he had to survive the present.
He lay there on his stomach, as still as possible while he counted arms and legs. Two of each. One head, still attached and throbbing. Warm and sticky fluid ran into his eyes; blood most likely because that rain was cold. His cousins would sure be teasing him over that bad landing. But then they'd get all worried when he couldn't get back up right away. He'd have to get up, to show them he wasn't hurt.
That little flight through the air and rough landing didn't do his arm and shoulder any good. Or his leg. That was new. The pain was so intense he thought he would throw up. It felt like someone was stabbing him in his leg, low down. Thankfully, there was nobody there doing the stabbing. He started to push himself up but dropped back immediately. He'd better wait just a few minutes while his world quit spinning. They'd make it all the way through the song, all the verses, and be starting over at least twice, the way he was feeling now.
He gathered himself for another effort. This time he was able to push off the ground and drag himself several yards. He was at the mercy of the terrain. He found himself sliding down the side of a crater, only stopping near the bottom. Dirt cascaded around him; he heard splashing as the clods hit water. He had to get out of this crater and up on level ground. He thought he'd drown if he stayed in the shell hole. The rain hadn't stopped, and the water was beginning to rise. If he lost consciousness, he might slip all the way down. And he couldn't risk staying down there. He might not be found until it was too late. And he did not want to die out here in some farmer's postage stamp of a field.
Those thoughts galvanized him into action. Hard going and exhausting. He finally reached what passed for higher ground in this pockmarked field. His head still ached, he figured that would stay for a couple of days but become less. The pain in his leg was different. It was impossible to ignore, not quite incendiary but beyond throbbing. He knew without a doubt it was broken. He just hoped, broken, not shattered. He found a rock or tree, something, to rest against, something that might protect his head or hide him. And he slept.
A/N. The song, "Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze" was written in the mid 1800s about a French aerialist. Jules Léotard (from whence comes the word leotard, named after the costume he devised.) In the early to mid-1930s, the song enjoyed a resurgence in popularity. Several versions of this song are out there, some a bit more risqué than others. Naturally, Grandpa chose a slightly more daring version than Grandma would have wished.
The chorus.
He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease
A daring young man on the flying Trapeze
His movements were graceful, all girls he could please
And my love he purloined away
A/N. * Frank Capra, It Happened One Night.
A/N. My father had a swing set built for us children out of drill pipe segments. It was quite tall, taller than the house roof. I cheerfully admit I did more than my share of flying off that swing set. And occasionally landed bad, really bad.