Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [97]
He shrugged his shoulders, because Wilson was going to declare war any one of these days, and maybe the war would get him out of it. He might be able to go. In a few months he’d be sixteen. Next fall, he might be doing his bit for Uncle Sam, and then all his troubles about school would be forgotten kid worries.
Praying in church, at Stations of the Cross, he’d learned something about himself, and about praying. Whenever he prayed for something he really wanted, and he could see the thing he wanted clearly in his own mind, he could pray good, concentrating on God and holy things. But when he just prayed in general, with no particular intention in mind, he just mumbled out the prayer words, and his thoughts wandered over everything, and he couldn’t, not even to save his neck, keep them on God and holy things. Today, he’d asked God in his prayers to be on the side of America, if Wilson declared war, and let him fight and be a hero and not get killed or mortally wounded.
He remembered his history lessons from grammar school. We had, America had, the most glorious and bravest and noblest war record in all history. Old Glory had never kissed the dust in defeat. And now, maybe, yes, Old Glory would be flying victorious over the battlefields of the biggest war in history. But what would it be like in war times, because war times were the only important times in history? It was great to think that kids in the future might be reading about the times when Studs Lonigan had lived. They might even be reading of William Lonigan, the hero, just like he’d read about Hobson, the guy who had carried the message to Garcia in the war with Spain when America had set Cuba free from tyranny. He guessed he might still be too young, but he’d get there soon, somehow. He was prepared to fight, and, if necessary, die for his country. He paused under the elevated structure at Fifty-ninth and Indiana, and slowly, solemnly, as if taking an oath in the very presence of God, he muttered:
I pledge allegiance to the flag, and to the republic for which it stands. One flag, one nation, one people, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
He turned down the alley between Indiana and Prairie. He was going to be a soldier of his country. Suddenly, he trembled. If he was killed in action, it would be a hero’s death, but . . . he thought of the Stations of the Cross in the church, slow, sad, solemn, the story of Christ on the Cross, the sad singing, all the statues draped, death, and dying, people going, soldiers going, never speaking again or seeing anybody they wanted to see and speak to, and leaving the people they loved like he loved Lucy, and he was afraid of war because there was so much dying in it. He hastily muttered a Hail Mary to the Blessed Virgin, asking her protection, and promising always to remember her, pray to her and wear her scapular.
He fell into marching step, as if he were an American soldier going off to war. He imagined himself going over the top with the American army, not stopping until they captured Berlin. He saw Private Lonigan as the soldier who captured the Kaiser. He saw himself with levelled gun forcing Kaiser Bill to cower into a corner and yell Kamerad, like a yellow skunk.
“Take that, you raping sonofabitch!” he said, swinging on the Kaiser.
“And that!” he followed, massacring the air with a good old-fashioned American right uppercut.
A passing laundry-wagon driver leaned out of his seat and yelled:
“Hi there, Jess Willard!”
Shame blushed his cheeks. He walked circumspectly. Well, after war was declared and Studs Lonigan was a brave and gallant soldier of his country, he wouldn’t have to pretend, and he would make everybody and Lucy envy him and be proud of him, and recognize he was a somebody all right, and he’d win medals for bravery and have his picture in the papers, and maybe, years ahead, even in the history books.
Studs emerged from the alley and walked down to the northeast side