Free A Place on Earth (Port William) by Wendell Berry

to him like old pains. And
once they start they come at him one after another. They are worse than
nightmares; he cannot wake up from them, and he cannot go back to
sleep.

    And so he sits up by his window each night, waiting to need to sleep.
He waits to go to bed until he feels he can trust his sleep to last until
morning.
    He goes to bed a good deal later now than he used to. But he has kept
his old habit of getting up early. Long before dawn these winter mornings he will be out of bed and wide awake. After he puts on his clothes he
draws the covers back over the bed. And then he turns out the light and
feels his way to the rocking chair and sits down. When daylight comes
he will be there at the window, waiting for it.
    A single set of footsteps goes along the walk in front of the hotel, and
farther down the street somebody is talking loudly in front of one of the
stores. A door slams somewhere off in the town. Below him in the
kitchen Mrs. Hendrick is rattling the supper dishes.
    Up the street he can see lights in Mat Feltner's house. Wheeler Catlett
is there for supper, he remembers. For a few minutes he considers going
over to Mat's to pay a visit and talk to Wheeler. He thinks a lot of
Wheeler-admires him, in fact, a good deal more than he aims to let
him know. He imagines going in and sitting down and talking a while
with Wheeler and Mat. They are fine men, and have good heads on
them. And he would like to see Wheeler's little boys. Wheeler has taught
his sons to call the old man "Unde Jack."
    "Uncle Jack," the littlest one said, "you've got tobacco juice on your
shirt." That tickled Jack. And Wheeler's embarrassment tickled him
even more. That littlest boy of Wheeler's would walk right up and tell
Franklin D. Roosevelt he had tobacco juice on his shirt. Old Jack's face
creases into the shape of a large laugh, and he snorts. He thinks a lot of
those boys of Wheeler's. Every Christmas he buys a little something to
give them. Wheeler appreciates that.
    He would like to hear Wheeler say something about the war. Jack
stays troubled about the war. There is too much dying. Too many young
men dying. He mistrusts what he reads in the papers. The war is more
serious, it seems to him, than the papers make it out to be.

    It may be necessary to use up the lives of young men; Jack will agree
to that. He has no liking for defeat. But after a choice has had to be made
between terrible sacrifice and terrible defeat, it is a time of mourning.
    The newspapers add up the deaths of young men as if they were
some kind of loan, an investment in something.
    What is dead is gone.
    He reaches into the bib pocket of his overalls and takes out a small
notebook in which there is a carefully folded newspaper picture of the
President. He opens the picture and looks at it. The President sits there
behind his great desk. His eyes look direct and straight out of the picture
so that they seem to focus on Old Jack.
    The President's face is sober and tired, sorrowful. The strain of the
war shows in it, the burden of knowing of so many deaths. It would take
a lot of strength to know so much.
    A great man, with a powerful head on his shoulders.
    Jack thinks how it would be to sit in Mat Feltner's living room, and
talk with Mat and Wheeler and Franklin Roosevelt. It would be brilliant.
    "Mr. President," Wheeler says, "how much longer do you think it'll
last?"
    "I don't know." The President looks straight at Wheeler. "It's a hard
proposition. We'll have to fight them until they quit."
    That's a responsible answer, Jack thinks. He has to say so. "That's
right," he says. "Go to it. By God, we're for you, sir."
    "Thank you, my friend," the President says.
    It is too late, now, to go over to Mat's. They would not be expecting
him. He will see Wheeler later in the week, anyhow.
    Saturday afternoon, or maybe Friday, the two of them will drive out
to spend a couple of hours or so seeing to things on Old Jack's farm. And