A Kindness For Ernie - A Hero

Kindness for Ernie by Gene Poore When I met Ernie Fletcher--if one could call it a meeting--he was sitting on a café bar stool, the back of his pants ablaze. At least it looked like his pants. Instead, it was a newspaper flopping from a rear pocket that someone had set afire. He seemed unaware of what I considered certain cremation. From my nearby booth I tossed the contents of my drinking glass at the creeping flames, only to be rebuked by the many robust commercial fishermen who crowded the waterfront café. "Ah, Why'd ya do that for?" "Why didn't ya let it burn?" "He'd a never felt it." "He's an Army war hero! Didn't ya know?" My friend, sitting beside me, interrupted his sales conference with a fishing boat owner long enough to explain. "That's Ernie Fletcher. He's a disabled Army veteran.” Ernie dismounted from his stool and limped toward me. I cringed from the wispy-haired Army veteran who confronted me with an age-wrinkled face and a toothless smile. Slightly stooped, he held out a withered hand. Apprehension warned me about touching that hand, yet, when I looked into his weathered eyes, a friendly warmth of sincerity calmed my heart. I took his hand, and through his grasp forged an amity I had never experienced. He spoke mainly by tongue manipulation, yet his speech clarity surprised me. "Thanks for being the fire department. But you shouldn't have worried. No one here lets it get out of hand. It's the usual big joke on old Ernie. Setting his newspaper afire is big fun. Someone always beats out the fire saying something about old Ernie having hot news." Ernie paused, licked his lips, then continued. "The fishermen buy me drinks and ask me to tell them an Army story. About when it was really rough in combat. It's good for attention for an old, disabled Army vet, ya know. I provide the entertainment." He winked, turned, and motioned for the barkeeper. "Refill for my young friend." When the server brought the drink, Ernie fumbled through his pockets. The server hesitated then, impatient, she reached toward my change on the table. "No!" Ernie snapped. Finally, his eyes reflecting triumph, he withdrew a crumbled bill from a tattered pocket, and pressing it firmly into the server’s outstretched palm, waved her off, defiantly. He leaned closer to me and touched my Marine uniform. Winking, he said, "We could have military rivalry, you know. Me being an old Army dogface. Been in combat?" "Not yet," I answered. ”I'm glad, boy. War rains death from the sky down, from the earth up, and horizontally between. And, sometimes, it isn't enough to watch out for your own skin. Another soldier may make a mistake and someone has to help him out, with consequences." Ernie spoke the last few words rubbing his spine, at the point from where he stooped. "A wound," I asked? "Yeah. Not as bad as some received, though, but it was the million-dollar wound that got me home. Then discharged from the Army." Ernie puckered his lips inward and shook his head once. "I didn't want to leave the Army, you know. I loved it. Loved that companionship! If it hadn't been for the wound . . . But, no matter, who cares about an ancient serial number in a musty Army file cabinet. Besides, I have companionship. I entertain the fishermen."

As if on cue, someone yelled. "Hey, Ernie. Come 'ere and tell us 'bout the war." Most everyone laughed, except me, as the stooped Army veteran shuffled off toward the voice to trade a war story for attention and companionship. After leaving the waterfront café I quizzed my friend. "What does Ernie do?" My friend snickered. "Do? Why he's just a stumblebum . . . He lives on the street. Gets a small Army pension, I suppose, but a moocher nonetheless." My heart sank. My friend even despised Ernie for what he appeared. But I could not forget Ernie's warm and sincere handshake or his determination to pay for a stranger's drink flung in his behalf. Ernie responded with an act of kindness. I should return the favor. The next day, since Ernie had loved the Army, I sent a letter to Army Headquarters. I assumed the Army would help a homeless, disabled Army veteran. Months passed. Involved in my own military career, I forgot about Ernie Fletcher. Then a letter from my friend arrived. His casual comment about Ernie Fletcher is still quoted in my mind, but it was the P.S. that hurt. My friend wrote: "Someone sent a letter to the Army a few months back, and in Ernie’s files they found evidence of a long forgotten battlefield heroic. An Army officer came and presented a medal to Ernie and Ernie become a headlined newspaper story. It surprised everyone, and, after that, the fishermen no longer set Ernie’s newspaper afire or yelled to Ernie for war stories. In fact, the Café crowd didn’t talk much to Ernie after he received his medal. After all, a real Army hero deserved respect. "P.S.: Ernie died the other day. Everyone thinks it was from loneliness."