Vilhelm Moberg - The Last Letter Home

He mumbled something between swallows — the pancakes tasted awfully good; he had only had a sandwich in Stillwater, he was quite hungry.

He had stilled the worst of his hunger when he said, “Kristina do you want to know — I’m not going to war. .”

“You’re riot! Didn’t you enlist. .?”

“No.”

“You changed your mind in the end? You’ll wait till they take you?”

“No. I didn’t change my mind.”

“What happened. .?”

“They rejected me in Stillwater. I’m not up to it. .”

“They rejected you!”

A powerful feeling of joy pierced Kristina’s heart.

“I’m not good enough to go to war. Because of my leg. My lame shank. .”

Karl Oskar pulled out his left leg from under the table, held it up for his wife to see. It seemed she had never seen her husband’s left leg before. Meanwhile he sat and looked gloomily at the floor.

She had been wrong a moment ago; he had not regretted his decision. Instead he felt disappointed, ashamed. Yes, by jiminy, he was ashamed and gloomy because he had been rejected!

He bent down and felt the leg across the injured bone which he held pointed toward her.

“Some doctor had to examine me first, to see if I could do military service. The doctor rejected me, because of my leg. .”

She was told how everything had happened. The recruiting office in Stillwater was housed in the old tailor’s shop across from the bank, and Swedes and Norwegians who wanted to join the rifle company had to go there. It was called a rifle company because they were to use the new guns with rifles in them to make them shoot much faster than the old guns. An officer in gold-braided uniform with many stripes and tassels had received him and the other volunteers. His name was Captain Silversvärd; he was a Swedish nobleman who had emigrated and he spoke the mother tongue. So in the beginning it was quite like home there in the office. And that man, the captain, was quite a decent sort of fellow and treated them all as equals, since they were all in America where soldiers are free men who themselves select their company commanders. In Sweden a simple soldier had only one duty — to obey — but here he could help select his own officers. The captain had told him he would make a splendid soldier and warrior, so tall and strong as he was; most settlers were of course accustomed to heavy work and severe conditions. He had been a little embarrassed by this talk and had said that he thought his big nose might be in the way when he tried to find the sight to aim at the enemy.

He was promised thirty dollars recruit money the moment he was accepted. During his term of service he would receive fifteen dollars a month besides food and uniform. Old Abe was to his soldiers as a father to his children and saw to it that they received everything they needed, the Swedish captain had said. Karl Oskar would have nothing to worry about while he was in the war.

Then came the physical examination and he was shown to another room where a doctor took charge of him. He had to take off every thread of clothing from his body, standing there so naked in that room that he felt ashamed even though only the doctor and another man were in there. The doctor looked over every part of his body, listened to his chest when he breathed, peeked down his throat, felt him in the groin, as if he must be able between the legs also, or whatever it was for. Then the doctor went to a corner and whispered words he had to repeat and showed him a picture with terribly small letters he had to read. And the medical inspector said the same thing as the captain: He was a fine soldier. Lungs, heart, vision, and hearing were as good as they could be in a human being, each part of his body was in excellent condition, all his faculties perfect.

Finally he was asked to run across the floor, just to try the legs a little. He ran around, strutted about, and stretched out his legs and it did hurt a little in the left shank, as it always did when he moved it quickly. He always dragged that leg when he was tired. After a few turns the doctor asked him how long the leg had bothered him. He told the truth: He had injured it the first year he was in America and it had never healed properly.

He was told to run a few times more. Then the doctor said: “Sorry, your left leg is not good enough for a soldier.” No one could go out in war with such a leg. He limped on it when he ran, and a soldier could not limp in any way, he must be able to run perfectly if need be. He should have taken care of his leg, attended to the injury while there still was time for it to heal right. Now it was grown together in such a way that he would have it as long as he lived.

Karl Oskar himself felt that his leg had improved this last year, he had never for a moment thought it would prevent him from enlisting. Nor did he think it would be so important for a soldier to be able to run fast. The most important thing, in his opinion, was to hold his post and not turn and run away from the enemy. And he had told the doctor as much; he knew he was no runner, but he didn’t think the troops of the North would have to run away all the time. The doctor laughed and said, on the contrary, he was afraid Karl Oskar couldn’t run fast enough to pursue the enemy.

Because of his left leg he had been rejected. The Swedish captain felt very sorry about it, and before Karl Oskar left, this nobleman made a speech and thanked him for having shown his loyalty as a citizen in honestly offering to do his duty to his adopted land. However, since he was a farmer he could still do great service to the Union. He could sow and harvest his crops and raise cattle; those who were in the war needed food, said the captain, probably to make him feel less bad because he had been rejected and was useless for military service.

Kristina pricked up her ears at the last words: Perhaps he needed to be consoled. She said, “Now you can stay home without anyone reproaching you. I hope your conscience is at rest.”

But she had understood right along that he wasn’t satisfied.

“It’s galling to be a useless person,” he said, “one who isn’t quite worthy of full measure. .”

Kristina exclaimed hotly, “Are you ashamed because you aren’t worthy to slaughter people? That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard in my whole life!”

“You don’t quite understand this sort of thing, Kristina.”

“Oh no! It’s an awfully vain man who is ashamed because he can’t go out and kill!”

“Well, I was a little disappointed and hurt when I was rejected as a useless weakling and not up to standard.”

Kristina knew Karl Oskar had some great shortcomings, the shortcomings of all men. He suffered from pride and self-assurance, he thought he was good enough to do anything. This was the original sin in him. Deficient! Because he was rejected as a soldier! If she were a man she would be proud that she was found unsuitable to kill people!

She resumed: When cattle were chosen for slaughter, usually the injured or old or deformed came first, worn-out oxen or cows that gave little milk. But when they sent men to slaughter on the field of battle then they took the healthy and young and perfect first! Those best fitted to live were sent away to die!

Karl Oskar rose slowly from the table this evening. He set down his left foot heavily on the floor, as if he wanted to test it, to assure himself that the leg still was able to carry him. Then he shook his shoulders and threw out both his hands as if shaking off a burden of long standing: “Don’t let’s talk about it any more! You’ll have me here at home now as long as the war lasts!”

If he had heard Kristina’s prayer the evening before, he would have known who had prevented him from going to the Civil War where he might have lost his eternal life.