The Yanks Are Coming

A Story by Jay Wallaco

The young man sat stiffly upright, in an uncomfortablo position on a straight-backed chair. He was a fair, pink-cheeked young man with baby-blue eyes and a sweet, angelic expression. In his pale, delicate hands he held wide-brimmed khaki soldier hat, twisting the braided cord between nervous fingers. The collar of his army uniform was tight against his white throat; and his legs wero oncased in what appeared to be yards of khaki bandage. He was sitting stiffly, listening, sitting in a huge oldfashioned room, listening to the mellow notes of an upright piano, played by a dark-eyed young woman. Occasionally, he stole timid glances at her, but she seemed to be completely absorbed in watching her slender fingers move across the yellowed, ivory keys. In his mind, he fitted the words of the song to the music she was playing: "Over there...Over there...Send the word over there... That the Yanks are coming... The Yanks are coming... The drums drum-drumming everywhere..." For this was the year 1918, the first World War was dragging to a weary ond; but the pink-cheeked young man had been called to serve his country. He didn't look like a soldier; he looked like a nice young man, in a soldier suit; a sweet young man with a cherubic oxpression, who couldn't possibly know anything about war; a fine young man who was going to pose for recruiting posters.

As he sat listening, he glanced around the huge parlow, seeing the ancient rocker that had belonged to Granny, between the high, lace curtained windows. Granny's knitted shawl had been placed across the back, as though she had Just stepped out for a moment, but would return soon. Near the old, lonely rocker stood a small, square, knobbylogged table, on which had been placed a lace doilio, and a maroon, velvet-covered photograph album. Next to this stood a faded picture of Granny, with a black ribbon draped significantly across one corner of the wide gold picture frame. Near her portrait stood a black vase filled with artificial paper roses. The young man turned his gaze to the dark red portiers to his right; and he sighed. The heavy curtains swayed uneasily, as though an unsoon presence had passed by.

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