Echo Taps Read online

  Echo Taps

  By J.L. Salter

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  ECHO TAPS

  Copyright © 2013 J.L. SALTER

  ISBN 978-1-62135-177-1

  Cover Art Designed by FOR THE MUSE DESIGNS

  Dedication

  To my own Uncle Edgar C. Benny, who served in the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Fleet during World War II. And to my wife’s Uncle Gene Williams, U.S. Army Air Corps, who was stationed at Hickam Field, Hawaii, on the morning of December 7, 1941.

  Chapter One

  Late April, 1988

  Anderson, SC

  Echo Taps.

  When she heard those remote somber notes from the second bugler, Milly began to weep. Though, at age eleven-and-a-half, she didn’t even know the name of that arrangement, she sobbed with no handkerchief as she shivered in the cold late April breeze. Nobody had expected the previous two days’ rain to give way to a cold front and no one had brought jackets from the memorial service at the downtown church to the small county graveyard.

  Gazing through tears at the heavy gray clouds and trying not to watch the two buglers some fifty feet apart, Milly feared she might shiver to death right there in the cemetery. She didn’t know why she was alone among these distant relatives and Uncle Edgar’s many uniformed friends… and she wasn’t even sure where her parents were standing. Milly wanted to be with them for comfort and warmth, but it might seem like an admission she wasn’t quite as grown-up as she liked to think. Fortunately, the ever-attentive Aunt Mildred came over to her namesake, hugged the child closely, and let her wipe those profuse tears on the pleated polyester skirt of the dark suit Mildred wore to say farewell to her brother.

  When Edgar had moved to Anderson, South Carolina, from Somerset, Kentucky, Milly was an athletic girl just starting elementary school. He’d quickly become her favorite uncle and Milly loved him deeply. But she had not even known he owned a uniform, much less that he’d retired as a senior master sergeant after thirty-two years in the Army Air Corps and, later, Air Force.

  Most of the military men at his funeral were also World War II veterans who, in 1988, were typically in their late sixties. Though most wore dark green, there were three other uniform colors among those twenty. Milly didn’t know there were four major branches of military service because people didn’t speak to her of such matters.

  Each time seven old soldiers fired three vollies, Milly jumped — even though a man with six stripes on his uniform sleeve had alerted the grieving throng.

  So much of the graveside funeral was distressing. But nothing was as difficult as the part at the church: near the beginning of the memorial service, twenty old men in uniform marched, singly and very slowly, down the center aisle. In turn, they walked stiffly to the side of Uncle Edgar’s casket, clicked their heels as best as old men could, raised a crisp salute, held it, and went back to attention. Then each turned, tried to click his heels again, and rigidly marched along the front of the pews, back into the section where the other nineteen were seated. If only one or two soldiers had carried out this ritual, perhaps Milly could have held in her grief. But watching all twenty, some with tears in their eyes — struggling to control their own sorrow over losing a friend and comrade in arms — it just wrenched her young heart.

  Only after many years did Milly finally learn they were not saluting her deceased uncle — they were saluting their nation’s flag, draped over Edgar’s coffin. She wondered if it would have affected her tears to have known that at the time.

  Ah, the enormous flag on his coffin. At graveside, it took four soldiers to stretch it out — fighting to hold the colors against the stiff breeze — and fold it in a very precise triangle. A man standing ramrod straight, with five stripes on his sleeve, stopped them, made them flip over the flag, and had them start folding again. Milly wondered why. So many unanswered questions about her heroic uncle… if only she had known enough to ask them before lung cancer took him at age 69.

  ****

  September 30, 2007 — [Sunday, late afternoon]

  Somerset, KY

  Nearly two decades later, Kelly Mildred Randall suddenly recalled all these details of that memorial service and burial as though it had been yesterday. She’d only known Uncle Edgar for six brief years.

  All the ceremony of that cold day hinted that Kelly had lost much more than a favorite uncle. Something else was buried with him — something important in a different way — and also quite unrecoverable. The loss was greater than Aunt Mildred’s goodbye to her beloved brother and more sorrowful than young Milly’s tears over her uncle.

  “Those twenty soldiers at his funeral.” Kelly addressed her boyfriend, who was nearly dozing on the loveseat in her cabin. “They seemed to have known Edgar for a lifetime — including a few I’m pretty sure never even met him.” Though they’d never known her uncle personally, they seemed to know what he represented… what he stood for. So, as far as they were probably concerned, they knew Edgar. “I wonder why I’ve been thinking so much about my uncle lately.” Kelly was actually thinking out loud, but Bill Mitchell seemed to take it as a question.

  Mitch rubbed each eye with the heel of one palm. “Probably because of that special edition you’re working on.”

  “Yeah, that’s logical.” Kelly patted his socked foot to remind him to put his shoes back on. “But just because I’m interviewing old soldiers for the upcoming Veterans Day supplement doesn’t explain all these feelings about my uncle. In fact, when I was a girl, I hardly even knew Edgar had been in the service.”

  Mitch looked for his shoes, but Perra, Kelly’s female terrier, had evidently moved them. “Memories are often imprinted with emotions. So it’s likely quite vivid and painful to recall when your favorite uncle was buried.”

  She nodded. Kelly already understood that part. “But it’s not just memories of those services and how emotional I was at that time. I get a sense that Uncle Edgar — this might sound nutty — that he’s trying to communicate with me.”

  Mitch stood slowly, one shoe on and the other still not located. When he opened his long, strong arms, Kelly folded into his embrace. With his chin resting lightly on the top of her head, he just hugged her silently for what seemed a long time.

  Kelly had often heard that with her face and figure she could have any man she wanted. It turned out Mitch was the one she wanted. But Kelly hadn’t even been looking for a mate when widowed Mitch stumbled into town just over a year before. They’d started out just working together — researching and writing a special assignment. Then she’d been drawn into his personal life enough to want to help him wrestle some of the monkeys off his back. While Kelly was still grappling with that surprising development, she’d had to turn him away. It hurt them both. But, later, they came together again. And now she wouldn’t have it any other way… usually.

  “I have a nuttier thought,” Mitch said, interrupting her reverie. “It almost sounds like your uncle wants to be interviewed along with the rest of those soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen.”

  “Interviewed? How? You’re not suggesting a séance…”

  “Good gravy, no.” His smile was a little crooked, but quite warm. “Sometimes you can remember more details than you thought you k
new. And sometimes, you can ask yourself questions and dreams can jog things loose.”

  “Dreams? But if Uncle Edgar wanted me to know something, I don’t see how a dream could produce it.”

  Mitch relaxed his embrace until his large tanned hands rested on her shapely hips; he looked into her eyes. “Maybe I’m not explaining it very well, and this is only something I’ve read about when I did some article research a few years ago. But when you ask your dreams to help you solve something or resolve something, your subconscious can tap into parts of…” He struggled for the words. “I think it’s a bit like hypnosis — maybe it takes you past the barriers that your consciousness has put up.”

  Kelly knew dreams often possessed powerful imagery, but was skeptical about their supposed ability to help with real-world matters. “Well, thanks, Doctor Mitchell, I’ll take your advice under consideration. I’ve still got over four weeks to pull together this assignment.”

  “Who are you going to interview, besides your landlord?”

  She’d talked with Chet “Pop” Walter at length a few days previously. “Remember that meeting at my editor’s office I told you about?”

  Mitch nodded.

  “That was Gene Coffey, commander of the local American Legion post. I’m meeting with him sometime next week.”

  “He’ll probably hook you up with lots of interesting characters.”

  She spotted Mitch’s other shoe, near the terrier’s napping cushion, and pointed. “Now get ready so we can go eat.”

  Chapter Two

  March 31, 1988

  [About a month before Edgar’s death]

  Anderson, SC

  Milly peered into the hospital room before entering. A very old man and his wife turned from Edgar’s bedside to see who was in the doorway. The man looked back at Edgar and said something while he gently shook the patient’s feeble hand. Then he clutched his wife by the arm and they left quietly. The elderly man shook his head sideways as they exited and Milly could tell that Edgar witnessed his bleak assessment.

  “Uncle Edgar?” She had to ask because he looked so much different than the last time she’d seen him. Milly had not wanted to visit the hospital because — except in movies — she’d never seen anyone in the process of dying.

  “Yes, Milly, it’s me.” He coughed raggedly for a moment and then settled down. “I’m sorry if I look a little different to you. I guess it could be a bit scary.”

  Milly looked back toward the door. Her parents were just outside the room speaking with the elderly couple who’d just exited. “Well, I didn’t recognize you at first.” He’d lost a lot of weight from the lung cancer. She peered closely. “But your eyes are the same.”

  Edgar’s eyes blinked when she mentioned them.

  “Those special doctors didn’t make you any better.” It was not a question.

  Edgar shook his head very slightly. “No, Milly. I guess I’m getting a little worse each day.”

  She scanned all the tubes and monitors. “Are you scared about dying, Uncle Edgar?”

  He likely had not expected such a direct question. “Well, actually, I would say I’m ready. But despite being ready, I guess you could say I’m apprehensive… uh, nervous a little. You know, now that it’s nearly time.” He looked around the room as if he desired a prompt. “And I guess this is it.”

  She looked intently into his face. “Is this what you expected?”

  Uncle Edgar’s frail shoulders shrugged under the wrinkled hospital gown, stained with small splashes of his bland breakfast. “Well, I didn’t know what to expect… not really.”

  Milly wanted to inquire what it felt like to be in that final process while having the certainty that death was just weeks, or maybe days, away. If she could have figured how to phrase it, maybe she would have asked. But she just watched Edgar’s face and remained silent. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to explain anyway.

  A nurse entered and changed a bag of liquid on a metal pole by his bed. Then she checked her watch, wrote something on top of a cluttered clipboard, and departed.

  Edgar cleared his throat and spoke again. “You know, I think maybe I am a little surprised that my life wasn’t any longer… here on earth, I mean. I’d always figured on another, oh, fourteen years or so. Statistically speaking.”

  Milly didn’t know how to respond.

  “When I was a young boy and saw old soldiers marching in parades, I used to think one day I’d be in my seventies or eighties — like many of them — and still be marching.” A large tear formed in each eye. “Evidently not.”

  Before Milly could reply, her parents entered and then the adults hogged all the conversation. Just before they departed, Milly climbed part-way onto the bed and hugged her favorite uncle one final time. He didn’t feel like the same person either.

  ****

  October 4, 2007 — [Thursday]

  Somerset, KY

  It was scarcely eight a.m. when Kelly called Mitch and announced she’d purchased some honey buns. “Okay if I come over for a bit?”

  “Uh, sure. C’mon over.” He sounded like he’d been asleep. Some men didn’t wake up very quickly… or alertly. Mitch, for example.

  Kelly drove to Mitch’s rented cabin, situated on a slice of the vast cliffs above Fishing Creek. From its location, the main feature visible across the low water was Toad Hollow, which wasn’t much to look at from that angle. Just slightly around the bend to the northwest was a pleasant county park, but one had to be up in the channel a bit to even see it. Slightly downstream, just below Lee’s Ford Dock, was an island called Potato Knoll. Anyone who’d ever seen a map of the place knew why it had that name.

  It was supposed to warm up considerably by mid-week, but that October morning featured the mid-fifties. Kelly began to wish she’d worn more than a windbreaker.

  When she arrived, Mitch was seated on a front porch rocker; steam rose from his coffee cup.

  It didn’t look like Mitch had even washed his face yet. Only in movies do men look as good as Brad Pitt in the mornings. In real life, most men awaken looking like they’ve just been expelled from the Mother Ship after a night-long struggle with aliens. In the current particular instance, Mitch had seemingly lost that fight.

  Kelly held up the white bag of honey buns. “Also brought you a cream-filled.”

  Mitch hadn’t spoken yet, but the bottom of his stubbly face cracked open slightly with a sleepy smile. “Glad you came.”

  She hurried up the steps and embraced him tightly. She was thankful to note he had at least brushed his teeth.

  “So what’s the occasion?” He nodded toward the bag of pastry.

  “Are you looking a gift horse in the mouth?” She pretended to protect the honey buns from his potential capture.

  With a bit of extra grunting, he returned to his rocking chair and smiled again. “Just glad to see you out here. We spend so much time at your cabin, you’ve hardly been in mine at all. Have a seat.” He nodded toward the other rocker.

  “Might as well,” she said, smiling. “Since I’ve already invested five bucks in the pastry.”

  Mitch slid back into his own seat and squirmed a bit. Probably trying to find a comfortable position for his chronically sore hip. “Okay, so what really brings you way out here so early in the morning?”

  She cleared her throat and realized she still had the pastry in her hand. “Uh, let me put this down.” Kelly placed the white bag by the door, scooted her empty chair a bit closer to Mitch’s, and then sat. She looked out toward Toad Hollow for a moment.

  Without warning, Mitch lurched over the rocker’s side and tried to snag the bag of pastries. He missed, spilled much of his coffee, and nearly fell out of his chair.

  All Kelly had done was watch in amusement. “You don’t move too well in the mornings, do you?”

  A slow smile spread across his whiskers. “Guess I’m more of a night person.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Dreams! That’s why you’re here with honey
buns. You had another dream about your uncle, didn’t you?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a dream, but yeah, another flashback, just this morning. And I’ll tell you all about it, if we can go inside where it’s warmer… and you share some coffee.”

  “Only in trade for your honey buns.” His flirty smile indicated he was fully awake. Mitch scrutinized the inside of his cup, took a hesitant taste of what was left, and made a face. It must have been cold. With an expert flick of the wrist, he tossed the remaining coffee over the rail.

  Then they went inside the cabin where it was warmer. After Mitch rinsed his cup under the kitchen faucet, he reached into the cabinet and produced a clean cup for Kelly.

  Between sips of coffee, Kelly related every detail she could remember of her second flashback about Uncle Edgar. “I’ve been thinking about the other day…”

  Mitch’s eyebrows arched, though he likely wasn’t aware of it.

  “You know, when you suggested that dreams or whatever might help me… what’s the word… connect with whatever Uncle Edgar wants to tell me.”

  “Yeah. We were calling it an interview with your uncle, for your assignment.” He poured more coffee into both cups and pointed to hers. “So did you ask your dreams to help?”

  “Not really dreams.” Kelly added half a package of sweetener and stirred absent-mindedly. “But you know sometimes I’ll brew some of Aunt Mildred’s old tea and then just sit and zone out for a bit?”

  Mitch had not actually witnessed such, since she only did that when alone, but surely he recalled her mentioning it. He just waited without responding.

  “You remember how she used to have that soft, kind of raspy voice — a bit like June Allyson, the actress.”

  “I never heard it, of course, but I do recall your mention. You said sometimes you can hear her voice, or at least…”