Richard C. Cleary of Houlton, Maine, has won two literary awards. One for this work and one for, The Jury's Verdict. He has been practising two professions since working his way through law school, writing and law. He graduated com laude with a J.D. degreee from Western New England College School of Law. He's written for many newspapers. He formed his own law firm in 1996, Cleary & Gordon, P.A.
FATHER KIRKPATRICK'S PURPLE HEART
by
Richard C. Cleary (copyright 1997 All Rights Reserved)
"Forgive me father, for I have sinned," the cracked
and ancient voice stated with some hesitation from the
confessional.
Although I could barely see the figure seated in the
adjacent room, I recognized the voice of Father Kirkpatrick, the
oldest and dearest priest in the area. I felt honored that he
would confess his sins to me, but at the same time unworthy,
being only two years in the pulpit. My surprise threw me off
balance, but I quickly recovered,
"Tell me your sins my son, er _ uh, my brother in
Christ."
Great recovery, I mused.
Through the meshed partition I caught a glimpse of
Father Kirkpatrick staring at his cracked, gnarled hands as the
knot in his throat prevented him from speaking. A second deep
breath finally allowed him to begin,
"In 1942, well before your time, after I had been
accepted into the Woodham Hall Seminary, I was drafted by the
United States Army. I considered conscientious objector status,
believing my first duty was not to my country, but to God.
Looking back, I wish I had requested it, but WWII was like no
other war before or since. It was clearly good versus evil,
darkness versus light. It seemed that serving my country by
taking up arms would also serve my God. Hadn't the Israelites,
the children of God, vanquished their enemies with the sword,"
Father Kirkpatrick asked rhetorically.
He continued before I could comment, "Besides, you
should have seen me then, hair as red as the carpet in the
sanctuary, eyes like blue ice and as tall and lean as yourself,
except with maybe a little more meat on my bones. I was young,
strong and full of worldly pride, I _ I wanted to fight."
After Father Kirkpatrick's beginning statements
smashed the facade of anonymity this setting was supposed to
provide, but lacked anyway, I almost relaxed. He's not here for
confession, I thought, he's here to tell war stories. I soon
learned different.
He told me of his basic training days and of his
disappointment in being shipped to India near the Burma border
to fight the Japanese,
"I really wanted to take on the Jerseys," he informed
me.
He continued heavily, "In my first battle, we
counterattacked against the Japs in conjunction with British
troops. In the early years the Japs kicked our butts all over
the Pacific and this battle was no different. Soon we were
shooting each other through the smoke, screams, flies and thick
jungle. Someone gave the order to pull back but I never heard
it. The next thing I saw was Japs coming from all sides,
bayonets fixed. I heard that they didn't take prisoners so I
dropped my weapon and bowed to pray out loud for forgiveness of
sins. The Japs start kicking and punching me, but I kept praying
until one of them clubbed me sharply with the butt of his rifle
and I blacked out.
I awoke with a throbbing pain in my head and the taste
of blood in my mouth. I immediately thanked God for saving me
and as quickly wished I had reserved my thanks. The
first thing I saw, when my eyes focused, was bamboo bars.
Apparently the Japanese took prisoners after all. A heavy object
was laying across my legs and, as I kicked it off, it made a low
groaning noise. The "heavy object" I later learned, was Randall
Clark a private with the British Army. He was in a terribly bad
way with a broken left arm and a grotesquely broken jaw. I
ripped several strips from my shirt and fashioned a tourniquet,
tying it firmly atop his head. I did it more for my benefit than
his; I could not stand to look at the bone protruding from his
right cheek.
After seeing to my cell mate and regaining my senses I
turned to the next logical project, escape. Our present quarters
were clearly temporary, likely because the Japanese had not had
time to prepare for their rapid success on the battlefield.
Soon, however, better facilities for housing prisoners would
almost certainly be constructed by the very non-volunteers
destined to reside in them. Further, perhaps in their exuberance
over victory, or their belief that my wounds were more severe
than they actually were, I had been allowed to retain my boots
and, unbe- knownst to my captors, a standard issue knife tucked
neatly inside. This was my last best chance of escape. I
considered leaving Randall behind, but God, with that still
small voice inside, judged me sharply and I relented.
Even with these things in my favor, and apparently God
as my ally, it took many back-breaking hours to hack through the
thick bamboo. Sweat poured down my face and stung my eyes. At
any moment I expected someone to appear and put a stop to my
little project and my life. Frankly, I wept silently while I
worked and prayed without ceasing that God would deliver me.
Once I had a hole for my hand to slip through I grasped
frantically for the thong holding the door in place. Finally I
found it and quietly slipped it off. We were free from our cell
at least.
The next challenge was to get beyond the large wall
constructed around the prison complex, but I felt fear and
confidence at the same time. God had gotten me this far; he
would certainly take me the rest of the way. I spied a number of
widely separated posts and, dragging and pushing the
half-conscious Randall Clark, we managed to just squeeze
through. Yes, I thought, God had delivered me. Then disaster
struck."
Father Kirkpatrick paused. Through the partition I saw
him slip a flask to his lips. He fumbled over his next word,
"We surprised a woman and her young child asleep in
the field next to the prison. I found out later she was probably
there to obtain water from a nearby spring. Permission had to
first be granted by the commanding officer. I still remember her
face, eyes wide with terror and hair matted with grass and dirt.
She groped for her child causing him to awaken and I quickly
clamped my hand over the young boy's mouth. He bit me savagely
and kicked wildly. My God, my heart was pounding like mad, the
sun would be up in moments and I could hear the rustling of life
from within the the prison camp. What could I do, they would
have warned the Japanese of our escape if I had, if I had
let...?"
His voice trailed off and he began to sob
uncontrollably,
"They gave me a damn medal," he screamed as he
staggered, blind with tears, from the confessional, up the aisle
and out of the church.
I presided over the funeral of Father Kirkpatrick two
weeks later. I was not first "in line" for such a role, however,
I was very assertive and carried the day. I was equally
assertive to certain members of Father Kirkpatrick's family who
thought placing his Purple Heart in his coffin was a good idea.
I informed them, upon the highest authority, that such a course
of action was exceedingly unwise.
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