THE RETURN OF PRIVATE DUPOY
by Raymond I. Ross in Fate magazine
Private Jerome Duppoy was one of the most popular men in the ranks of Company D, Seventh Regiment. Soon as word reached New York that good old Abe Lincoln called for men, Dupoy had lost no time in enlisting his services. And he was the jolly type, the kind of soldier that helps his buddies keep happy.
When he fell dead at the battle of Olustee, Florida, with a bullet in the back of his head, a cloud of sorrow settled over Company D Camp. The report of his death in the official war records might have read "killed in action" except that Sergeant Frank Broes had the strange conviction that Private Jerome Dupoy had been shot by someone in his own outfit.
Sergeant Broes voiced his suspicion and the camp buzzed with the question "Who did it?" Each man looked at his buddy and wondered. A week later on a calm moonlit night Private John Rawley, a substitute for a New York drafted man, came off guard duty looking very unwell. Beads of sweat zigzagged down his sunburned cheeks. His gray eyes stared in terror. Sergeant Broes noticed Rawley's hands trembling. "Are you ill, John?" he asked. "No-no," Rawley chattered, "I'm-I'm fine." With shaking hands he spread out his blanket and lay down. Sergeant Broes removed his own boots and lay down too—still puzzling over Rawley's nervousness.
It later seemed to Broes that he was asleep only a few minutes when the dead Jerome Dupoy stood before him. He was pale, bloody, his lips moved several times but Broes couldn't make out his words. The sergeant sat up, shook his head, and was awake. His dream seemed very real. It was over an hour before Broes could go back to sleep.
During the next day Broes was haunted by the dream. It seemed that whenever he looked at Private John Rawley the dream and the vision of Dupoy returned to him with renewed impact. That night a full moon rode the sky along an avenue of clouds. Sergeant Broes leaned against a shell-torn tree watching some of his men clean their rifles. His eyes fell on John Rawley who sat against a water keg. Broes saw a slow mist rise up behind Rawley. He watched it, fascinated as it formed a human figure — even the features became plain. It was Private Dupoy! Chills ran up and down the sergeant's spine as he saw the figure point to Rawley. Then it was gone.
Broes now felt he knew the meaning ofhis dream. He walked over to Rawley. "Private Rawley," Broes' voice rang like steel, "I just seen Dupoy!" Rawley leaped up. His face was drawn; his eyes started from their sockets; his mouth opened but no sound came. Then he bolted past Broes. But the sergeant grabbed his arm and spun him around. "Rawley, listen, you can't run away from the dead! Speak man, speak what's on your mind! What happened to Dupoy?" "Please, please Broes," Rawley begged, "keep Dupoy away. I'll confess. I'll tell you everything. He's—he's been appearing. That other night on guard I seen Dupoy, his face pale, bloody. Oh God, Sergeant Broes, please, I'll confess!" A few minutes later in a candle-lit tent Sergeant Broes, with several picked soldiers, listened as Rawley told what happened at Olustee.
"Dupoy and I," Rawley's words were slow, "had a quarrel in the barracks in St. Helena. He stabbed me. I swore that if I ever got a chance I would kill him. Then at the battle of Olustee he was beside me. I fell back a few feet and raised my rifle. I got him in back of the head." Broes saw hate building up in the eyes of the listening men. Outside the company troops were waiting. "That isn't the only man I killed!" Rawley continued. "I killed a sailor on a gunboat coming down here. I killed a man in New York too, one who fixed it so I had to leave my family and go as a substitute for a drafted man last fall. But Dupoy is the only one that has ever troubled me. Since I killed him, I dread the nights, for I see him—see him plain as I see you. I see him standing in front of me, his face and head covered with blood. In my dreams he comes, he stands—I can't bear it any longer."
Before Broes could stop him, one of the men slipped out of the tent. Broes knew he would spread the news of Rawley's confession. "Hang the rascal!" were the words that raced through the camp. Broes opened the tent flap and stepped into the circle of men. "As long as I'm in command here and until an officer arrives to take over, there will be no killing. Rawley will stand a just trial." Broes never finished. From inside the tent came the sound of a shot. He ran toward the tent.
Inside Rawley lay with a bullet in his chest. His guard had been knocked out by a blow on the head. "Sergeant," Rawley gasped, "look! Look! Dupoy! Keep him away . . . Broes." Rawley tried to rise, then fell back. Thus Rawley died—to escape from the ghost of the man he had killed—Private Jerome Dupoy.
