When the Clouds Roll By Read Online Free PDF Page A

smoke and blood burning his nostrils. His gaze darted right, then left. Soldiers everywhere, a sea of army green. A constant clack-clack enveloped him, then a mournful whistle in the distance.
    “Padre?” Someone was patting his arm. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re still on the train.”
    “The train . . .” He gave his eyes a violent rub and focused on the face of the soldier next to him. “Guess I dozed off. Where are we?”
    “Somewhere between Richmond and Nashville.” The soldier slanted his lips in a sympathetic smile. “I suppose it’ll be awhile before we quit hearing the sounds of war in our sleep.”
    “Guess so.” Samuel sat up a little straighter. He tugged at the collar of his uniform and tried to draw a full breath. His thumb scraped the tiny gold cross, and he clamped his jaws together with a shudder. Where were You, God? Where were You in all this horror?
    As usual, he got no answer.
    Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .
    He tried hard to believe the Scriptures, but sometimes—too often of late—they seemed like empty words. Empty promises for a world gone crazy.
    He cleared his parched throat and stood, grabbing the seat back to steady himself. After finally growing accustomed to the ship’s rise and fall, now he tottered to the lurch and sway of the train.
    He edged up the corners of his mouth in a semblance of a smile and glanced at the soldier. “I’m going to find some water and then check on a friend. May I bring you anything?”
    “Thanks, I’m fine. Gonna try and catch some shut-eye myself before the next stop.” The doughboy scooted lower in the seat, tipped his hat to Samuel, and crossed his arms over his chest.
    Samuel nodded and stepped into the aisle. As he started toward the rear of the car, the men he passed glanced up to offer smiles and handshakes. These were the lucky ones—the ones who’d survived—the ones released to go home while thousands more remained behind as part of the Army of Occupation. The journey had been a long one, and fatigue shown in their eyes, mixed with joy and relief . . . and no small amount of sadness for those who’d never see home again.
    Making his way to the dining car, he found himself in another sea of bodies. Here the laughter and celebration rose to an ear-splitting cacophony. Civilians reveled with doughboys, sailors, and marines, many still sporting bandages and crutches. Only a few wore the ubiquitous white gauze masks that supposedly protected against the Spanish influenza. Instead, they lifted glasses and beer steins high to toast the end of the Great War.
    It struck Samuel as ironic that a microscopic organism could prove almost more deadly than the worst firepower the Germans had thrown at the Allies. Over the past several months, the disease had reached epidemic proportions, claiming thousands of lives at home and abroad, many of them soldiers who never even made it to the front.
    As for Samuel, he was almost beyond caring about an enemy he couldn’t even see. Death had stared him in the face too many times already. With a nod at a half-drunk sailor, he wedged himself up to the bar. “Just a glass of water, please.”
    “Sure thing, Chaplain.” The bartender filled a glass and slid it across the counter. “Rowdy bunch we got here, eh? Guess they got plenty to celebrate.”
    Samuel thanked the man and downed the water in three quick gulps. By the time he wove through the jostling crowd to the next coach, his ears were ringing almost as badly as in the trenches amid the deafening explosions of grenades and artillery fire.
    It was quieter in this car, more subdued. These men, still healing from massive war wounds, faced months of recuperation. Many had already departed the train in Washington, D.C., to be admitted to Walter Reed Hospital for further treatment. Others would continue their recovery either with loved ones or in a medical facility closer to home.
    Samuel had barely stepped through the door