Free The Cove by Ron Rash

Chauncey stared in the mirror, he thought how a soldier in Europe could be a fool or a coward for months and act brave one time, maybe for just a few seconds, and everything he’d done wrong was forgotten. Or maybe not even brave for a few seconds. From what Chauncey knew, all Estep had done was stand in a trench, probably cowering there because he was too chickenshit to leave it. The same was true of Hank Shelton. Some folks would think him quite the fellow because he tried to take water to a wounded soldier. They’d forget all about the cove and that witchy sister of his. But Shelton himself admitted he’d thought it was a Tommy since the man called for water in English. He’d probably figured there wasn’t a Hun within miles. Shelton hadn’t gone alone either. Another American soldier went with him and he got the worst of it, shot in the chest and nearly dying. If Hank Shelton had known it was a German sniper, or that one was close by, he’d probably have been afraid to go. Yet they’d both been given purple hearts, like Shelton and Estep had done nothing but be heroes the whole time. And now they got to come back and act like Chauncey Feith wasn’t near the man they were, even mock his first name, too ignorant to know that the name Chauncey meant chancellor, a leader.
    What Chauncey did took courage too. It wasn’t the kind where you had a scar or ribbon you could show off, but instead a day-to-day courage as you stood up for what you believed no matter what. An unsung hero, because you couldn’t go around telling people that any man could hold a rifle and stand in a trench but only a select few could do what a general or commodore or recruiter did. Regular soldiers needed to believe they were the ones who mattered most, and that’s what Chauncey did with every recruit. He made each one feel special and he never forgot for a single moment that a few of them would be special, real heroes like Paul Clayton, who’d wiped out two Hun machine-gun nests and won a Silver Star.
    Another of the old men raised his empty glass.
    â€œI’d like to toast you as well, sir, except I’ve got nary a drop.”
    Chauncey pushed another silver dollar in Meachum’s direction and the bartender filled the glass.
    â€œI’m glad to buy any man in this room a drink as long as he’s not a shirker,” Chauncey said loudly.
    â€œTo you and the uniform,” the old drunk slurred.
    â€œWho are you calling a shirker, Feith?” Estep asked.
    The old men quit talking and Meachum stopped wiping the bar.
    â€œI said, who you calling a shirker, Feith?”
    He watched in the mirror as Estep pushed back his chair and stood.
    â€œI’m not talking about you,” Chauncey said.
    â€œWho are you talking about then,” Estep asked, “besides yourself?”
    Meachum came around the bar and stood in front of Estep.
    â€œThis doesn’t concern you, Meachum,” Estep said.
    â€œIt does if it’s happening here,” Meachum answered.
    For a few moments no one spoke.
    â€œYeah, I guess it does, especially since the savings and loan’s got a note on you,” Estep said.
    The veteran turned and shoved through the swinging doors, so late in the day now that no light flashed in from outside. Meachum returned to the bar with the table’s empty glasses. He doused them in a bucket of gray water and wiped each one dry before setting it on a cloth.
    â€œEstep knew I wasn’t talking about him,” Chauncey said.
    Meachum didn’t turn around. Chauncey picked up his change and turned to leave, but the room tilted and he grabbed the bar edge. Give yourself a minute, he told himself. Chauncey tried to recall why he’d come into the Turkey Trot in the first place and remembered. He thought about how Paul Clayton hadn’t waited to be conscripted but had come into the recruiting office on his eighteenth birthday and volunteered