The lieutenant glanced at his watch. “Sure. Have a seat.” He stepped around his desk and sat, then leaned on heavy arms on the desk, clasping his hands. “So, how has it been going for you?”
“All right, I guess.” Luke leaned back in his chair but a moment later sat forward and rested his arms on his thighs. Finally he straightened and folded his arms over his chest. “Actually, I'm frustrated. Pieces are coming back, but I can't remember where any of it comes from or who the people are that I see. I'm beginning to think I'll never put it together, and I can't stay here forever. Sooner or later I've got to go—somewhere, either to fight the war or … or I don't know where. I'd say home, except I don't know where that is.”
The chaplain didn't speak. He studied his hands, then finally said calmly, “You can't rush these things. You have to proceed with caution. The human mind is a tricky thing and needs to be handled delicately. I'd say if you're getting glimpses of people and places, then eventually it will all unfold—you'll remember. It could continue the way it has, one little piece at a time, or you might be flooded with memories all at once.” Setting his eyes on Luke, he added, “I know it's hard, but be patient.”
“You don't know what it's like. I feel like I'm stuck on a raft somewhere in the middle of the ocean, and I have no way to get my bearings. Which way do I go to find land?”
“I'd say that's a good picture of where you are right now. I know it's tough, but you've got a lot to be thankful for. You could have gone down with your ship. A lot of men did. Your injuries mended well, including your burns. I can barely see the scars. And from what the doctor says, what's left will heal.” He settled serious eyes on Luke. “It could be a lot worse.”
The chaplain spoke with a slight Southern drawl, which always made him sound as if he were calm. The constant serenity was usually quieting, but today it irked Luke. He wanted this man to feel what he was feeling.
He blew out a breath. “All right. You're right.” He pushed out of his chair and walked to the window. “It's not easy to wait for a life, especially when it's the one you've already lived.” He caught a glimpse of the nurse he'd seen earlier. Again he had the sensation of knowing her. He forced his eyes back to the lieutenant. “Either way, I need to move ahead, do something with my life. Even if I never remember who I am or where I come from, I can't stay here. I want to get back into the fighting, to help beat down the Japs.”
The chaplain removed his glasses. He pressed his fingers against his forehead as if he were soothing a headache. “I understand, but it's not that simple.” He replaced his glasses. “I tell you what. Why don't we start meeting a couple of times a week? Maybe we can sort out some of the images you're getting and pin them down. Then you might remember more.”
“Sounds good. Can we start today?”
The lieutenant chuckled. “Sure.” He pulled out a piece of writing paper and a pen from his drawer. “Why don't you start by telling me what you've been seeing.”
The next couple of weeks Luke met with the chaplain two times each week and gradually regained more of his memory. He saw faces of people he knew. He also saw images of a countryside and of towns. However, he still couldn't recall names, including his own. In the end he was no further ahead than when he'd started, and his frustration deepened.
One afternoon he sat on a stool peeling potatoes outside the mess hall. “There are always potatoes to peel,” he grumbled.
A lanky sailor wearing his dress blues walked past and said casually, “Looks like you'll be peeling all night.” He eyed a box piled with potatoes.
His voice sounded familiar. Luke studied his face, then asked, “Do I know you?”
“I don't think so. Should you?” He raised his eyebrows in question.
“Nah. I was just wondering.” Embarrassed, Luke focused on the potato in his hands.
“See you around,” the man said and strode away.
Luke glared at the potato. He cut out a dark spot, then turned it over searching for other spots. A sense of familiarity crept over him. The potato felt comfortable in his hand, and he thought he could smell the aroma of damp earth. He knew about potatoes. Why?
Staring at the scarred vegetable, he could see a farm and tilled earth. The image was fuzzy, but gradually textures meshed and became clear. Then he envisioned a house surrounded by farmland. It's my home! I remember! His mind moved on to a man driving a tractor and cutting perfect furrows into dark soil. Luke concentrated on the figure. He needed to see the man's face. When he did, he knew he'd recognize him. As if a camera were being brought into focus, the face became clear. “Dad,” he whispered. “Dad.” At the same time, pain scored his heart. His father was dead, and he knew how he'd died.
Gripping the potato, he prayed, “Lord, help me remember more. Please, all of it.”
Then it happened—his mother, sisters, brothers, Mattie, everyone—he remembered them all, and he knew he was Luke Hasper. He dropped the potato, ran into the kitchen, and yelled, “I'm Luke Hasper! I'm Luke Hasper!”
Striding up to the kitchen supervisor, he said, “I've got to go. I need to talk to someone. May I be relieved of duty, sir? Please, sir.”
The man grinned. “So, you're Luke Hasper, huh. Well, glad to know you.” He laughed, slapping Luke on the back. “Sure. Go ahead.” He glanced around the kitchen. “I'm sure I can get one of these blockheads to peel a few potatoes.”
Luke ran out of the building and headed for the chaplain's office. He moved past the secretary without waiting to be acknowledged, rapped on the door, and opened it.
John Atwood looked up, surprise on his face. He started to speak, but Luke cut him off.
“I'm Luke Hasper! Luke Hasper! My family lives in Alaska! And I've got friends there too. Palmer's my home, and that's where I belong!”
A broad smile creased the minister's face. “Well, it's nice to know you, Luke Hasper.” He stood and shook Luke's hand. “Do you remember everything?”
“Yep. I think so. My family moved from Wisconsin to Alaska where we have a farm. My little brother, Justin, and my father are dead,” he said quietly. Then in an acrid tone, he added, “A man named Ray Townsend killed him.” He could feel the bitterness.
“He killed your brother?”
“No. My father.” He remembered the wedding between his mother and Ray, and resentment burned deep.
“Sounds like you've remembered all the important stuff.”
“Yeah. Even that my father was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
Luke nodded. “Uh-huh.” He sucked in a breath. “And then the man who murdered him married my mother.”
Lieutenant Atwood's face went gray. “Luke, why don't you sit down.”
Toxins of hate spread through Luke as he poured out the story. To him it felt fresh, as if it had just happened.
When he finished, the chaplain sat silent for a long moment. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully. “That's a lot for you to absorb all at once. You sure you're all right?”
Luke squared his jaw. “Yeah. Fine.”
The chaplain rubbed his palms together. “It'll take time for you to sort all this out. I think it would be good if you continued to see me. I'd like to help.”
