WITH BLOOD WE PAY

The General had one sister and two brothers. One brother, a Mr. Waye Poe, you’ve already met. He was the one helping out ol’ Trigger with animal control. The older brother’s name was Cleo, and a nice enough feller. He had eight lovely children whom I’ve always regarded as my dear cousins. Considering they don’t carry the Messer name, I’m surprised at my tender feelings toward them all. My Aunt Roxie Moore, as we knew her, was my mom’s older sister. You remember me and my beloved brother being at her house when My Daddy came to tell us of The Jeaner Jackson. Granny Poe, Roxie and the General were the central women in my life, as I was growing up. We all lived, within a half-mile of each other, and these three were inseparable in those days of the early 1940’s. My Aunt Roxie had married a man by the name of Carl Moore when she was fourteen. My aunt didn’t have the opportunity to learn things as she was growing up like other women. Therefore, Granny Poe and the General spent considerable time bringing her up to speed on things.

The General said my Granddaddy Poe never did like that ol’ Carl Moore. He came messing around after Roxie when she was only thirteen. All the threatening, bribing, spanking, cajoling of Roxie, it just didn’t do no good. Carl had been poisoned with chlorine gas during the First World War. He must have thought a one legged man was very little threat to a veteran who had faced the whole damn German Army. My Granddaddy threatened him with a shotgun giving him one last warning to stay away. It didn’t work though. Instead of leaving, he took my Aunt Roxie off to another county and married her.

My first recollection of the General having companions, is of her sitting with my Granny Poe and Aunt Roxie on the front porch in a white swing. They were praying that Jesus would hurry back to this earth and put an end to all the terrible suffering. Armageddon was at hand, and we were facing a certain doom. It seemed the only answer was to pray for the quick return of Jesus. For the life of me, I couldn’t see what the fuss was all about.

I became aware of this little feller coming with my Aunt Roxie when there were to be prayers sent up for our deliverance by the trio. He was my cousin, Don. He was ten months younger than I was. Me being bigger, stronger, and skilled in mortal combat with my beloved brother, I soon gained a benevolent dominance over my young cousin. I loved him from the first day we met and we developed a lifelong loving relationship.

The General felt that Aunt Roxie should do something about weaning Don, as it was unbecoming for a big five year old to stand up on the floor and suck his mommy. Didn't seem natural not to be holding a youngster that needed to be nursed. Don, when wanting to nurse, would run to his mom. He’d whine, pull, push, and tug at her. If she didn’t give in, there would come a temper tantrum one seldom sees. My aunt being robbed of her childhood, woman, training and not knowing what else to do, would always relent. She’d then go behind the door with Don and give him his titty milk. I’d given mine up three years before, somewhat reluctantly, so I was quite jealous. I’d steal his bottle that he had to resort to when his mommy was not available for his feedings. I’d take a few swigs just to even up the playing field. I didn't hold it against my companion at all. I figured that his mommy was just more generous than the General was.

Well, the General and Granny Poe got their heads together, talked it over, and decided to intervene in this situation. Aunt Roxie and my good friend, and now favorite companion in the whole world, showed up one fine summer day. The plan concocted by the General and Granny Poe was put into effect immediately. Granny Poe had taken some black soot from the wood cook stove and had my Aunt Roxie rub it on her breast. When Don started to insist on his feeding, she was to tell him her breast was sick and it had turned black. Then, she was to pull out her tit, and prove it to him.

I was not made privy to this plan. However, being trained in mortal combat and other survival skills, I did sense something in the air. I decided to pay very close attention and try to discover what was going on. There we were in the kitchen. Granny Poe and the General seated at the table watching and waiting. There was a heavy tension in the air. Suddenly, Don got the urge to eat and ran to his mommy. Her being well instructed, pulled out a very large size forty-four breast gorged with milk and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry honey, but I told you it was sick.” My favorite companion in the whole wide world stopped dead in his tracks. The look of utter shock filled his little face. He commenced to walk backwards a few feet. He then turned, ran and gave a blood-curdling cry. It was filled with such pain, anguish, and disappointment that I’m sure all three co-conspirators must have surely regretted such a dastardly deed.

The war was in full swing, and we grew up becoming aware of all this only by degrees. Being concerned only when it interfered with our eating, playing, drinking, napping, chasing chickens, eating crackers and sucking hard ice that was given to us by the iceman. There were pictures of soldier and sailors all over the homes of everyone I knew. I don't remember ever asking who any of the fellers were in those pictures. Sometimes the family would receive word
that their loved one would be home soon. The picture would be taken down, fondled and announcements made of their expected arrival on a thing called a furlough. I’d no idea what a furlough was, but imagined it was some kind of fancy thing soldiers and sailors traveled on. I gradually became aware my best friend had three brothers. One of them had been wounded in German while killing Germans. This killing of Germans was apparently a very good thing, as my Granddaddy was quite proud of his namesake. He said his grandson was in old George Patton's Army over there in Germany kicking the hell out of them OLE’ Krauts. I had learned that his name was Emmett and he was a 2nd Lieutenant serving in the United States Army. Seemed as a young man he had been in something called the CCC Camp before the war. He had had some training bossing fellers around. No doubt, he learned some of this from the man who spoke so proudly of him. He must have been good at it as they made him an officer.

I remember the big picnic we had for this handsome soldier and our hero. He had come home on leave to recuperate from his war wounds. He was my ol’ cuz's brother, and we were proud to be rendering him such an honor. On that day he was dressed in a fine uniform of the U. S. Army. He really loved playing with us kids. He’d pick us up, throw us into the air, and catch us. We'd scream, holler, and beg for more. What a grand ol’ time we did have. I knew he was a special person. My Granny Poe, the General, and my Aunt Roxie would just melt with smiles, hugs, and kisses when he was around. They liked showing off their special place with such a fine, young, handsome, American fighting man. I could tell they were the envy of the whole community. It was not a small affair, as there were over seventy-five people there that day. My Aunt Roxie told around to everyone that he didn't have to return to combat if he didn't want to, as he’d been wounded. He could now have one of them soft office jobs here in the States, if he wanted it. She sure was going to insist on that, as the Moores had paid their debt to Uncle Sam. One of her other sons, “Carl H.,” was still in the Pacific killing Japanese for MacArthur.

Don and I went back to our old games, but we’d started a new game. The object being to kill Krauts. Killing them became our passion. A many an argument we had over whose turn it was to be an old Kraut; whoever they were. The world was rolling on and a grand world it was too. The General, Granny Poe and Aunt Roxie praying to Jesus, through the Holy Ghost. They bombarded heaven with petitions to save this great nation, and protect all the boys in a far-off land fighting for peace and justice. They prayed that folks would read the Holy Bible, and understand its truths. They asked that Roosevelt be kept safe, and all things we held sacred be preserved. Ending always, of course, with the longest prayers for my cousins, the sons of Roxie and Carl Moore. We just knew with these saintly women praying, and the Lord being on our side that all was gonna be alright. Aunt Roxie would soon be able to stop looking so sad and acting so nervous.

One day Don and I were playing around in the front yard with our sticks that had fallen from the sweet gum tree. We were having a grand ol’ time pretending the rooster was a wild bull and ourselves very great warriors from another time. We’d locked ourselves in a life and death struggle with that ol’ boy, as he tried desperately to get away. Suddenly, turning into our yard was a very serious looking black automobile followed by an ominous dust cloud that began to settle around us as it stopped. It had writing on the side, which we couldn’t yet read. A very dignified soldier exited the driver's side, walked around and opened the door for another man with bars on his shoulders. We could see a very official looking, brown envelope in his hand. Don and I looked at each other. I started getting the feeling something very big was about to happen. I already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

The next thing I knew my aunt came running out the door, "Oh, God, No! Oh, God, No! Not my boy! Please, God, not my boy!" she screamed and fell down on her knees in front of the soldier with the official envelope. He tried to pull her up. Her hands and fingers were locked together and she was looking up, pleading with Jesus to deliver her. The General stood a few feet behind her sister weeping uncontrollably. Granny Poe was wiping her hands on her apron while the tears were dropping slowly on her bosom as she sobbed silently. The man with the bars made an attempt to read his very official paper. I don’t know if he ever got it all read or not, as my aunt collapsed right there at his feet. They carried her into the house and laid her on the bed. Soon my Uncle Carl Moore came in and was gently told that the son, who had been presented to him by his sixteen-year-old bride, had been killed in action. This big man weighing over 250 pounds, who had survived the gassing by the Germans in WWI, my Grandfather's shotgun, the Great Depression, tuberculosis, and a lifetime of hardships, now lay in a heap unable to control his grief. He cried, and cried and not even the General or my saintly Granny Poe could console this poor man. My Daddy came into the room and embraced the General. My Granddaddy Poe came in and he looked as though he had seen a ghost. The heart of his namesake had ceased to beat.

In the Mt. Zion Cemetery, in the Crowley's Ridge area of Greene County, Arkansas in a little low place about three hundred feet northwest of the little Baptist Church, right where you cross the blacktop, lies a little military marker. There on the marker it reads: “Emmett Moore, born 1922, died 1944." If I listen real close, when I walk on those hallowed grounds, and look at the graves of the Poes and the Moores, I can still see that little brown tent covering over a fresh dug grave. I can hear the uncontrollable sobbing of My Granny Poe, Aunt Roxie, and the General. I can see my Uncle Carl Moore refusing to cry in front of the multitude of grievers. I can see my Granddad Poe holding his hat over his heart, standing there on his wooden leg. I can see the military squad come forward with the big M-1 rifles. I can still hear a young voice bark out: ATTENTION; ORDER ARMS; READY, AIM, FIRE, READY, AIM, FIRE, READY, AIM, FIRE. I can hear the echo of taps being played as it floats across the soft rolling hills and seeps down into the valleys.

I never knew you as an adult Emmett, but I remember you and how proud all the family was of you. I salute you and as long as these humble pages about our family are read, we will never forget you. We’ll remember that you paid for our freedom with your blood and your precious young life.