Scrabbling Things to Writes

Lord, I cry unto Thee...

2012-01-28T07:34:00.003-06:00

Draw me close to You, O Lord.
Never let me go.
I lay it all down again
To hear You say that I'm Your friend

You are my desire
No one else will do
'Cause nothing else could take Your place
To feel the warmth of Your embrace
Help me find the way
Bring me back to You!

You're all I want
You're all I've ever needed
You're all I want
Help me know You are near.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiFwnE1IuIU&feature=related

The sound of silence calling...

2012-01-26T11:03:00.002-06:00

"Like one who takes off a garment on a cold day, or like vinegar on soda, is he who sings songs to a troubled heart."

Yes, I have done this to a few poor people. But the songs I sing are always sad and meet you on the troubled level where you are. They make things worse, if I may confess to that.

"Like a thorn which falls into the hand of a drunkard, so is a proverb in the mouth of fools."

And last but not least, my favorite verse ever ... (I hope you can pick up on sarcasm) "May deceitful lips be made DUMB."

"Sometimes Love...

2012-01-20T08:34:00.002-06:00

"...has to drive the nail into it's own hand."

There's only one man who has walked on this earth who loved perfectly. He personifies perfection through His selfless love. And He made it look simple. His faith in His Father trusted so completely that He could say: "My Father, if this cannot pass away unless I drink it, Your Will Be Done." He loved perfectly; not perfect people, but broken, sinful wretches who needed an example of what love looks like.

Love isn't easy, and for myself, I find it hard to #1, accept it, and #2, return it wholly. It may just be me and the way I look at it, so tell me if I'm wrong or if you see it differently, but isn't it a battle, a struggle between soul and emotion, mind and heart to let love become the spool around which the thread of your life is woven? Love changes and disarranges everything! Love takes people away; love gives people to you. Love can break your heart; but a heart without love is dead.

I am talking about both kinds of love; the love of family and that "brotherly love" genre, but also the romantic love that draws together two very different people who have to overcome much to be together. It's a battle for me to let that kind of love into my life. One part of me, and I have to admit it is likely the greater part, desperately wants it, hopes for it, prays that it'll happen someday. But the other part of me wants to cling to what I've always known, the attitude I've always had toward it (that being a very Debbie Downer Outlook, sadly), and not admit that I, along with my siblings and dearest friends, are not children anymore. We can't blindly run through the days, failing to look behind us or ahead of us.

This is my life, am I who I wanna be? I don't know, friends. Some days I have so much hope that I'm finally growing up; finally beyond some of this confusion. But then I forget those days and become shrouded in the much more memorable and recurring feelings of hopelessness that no, I'm not growing up, no, life isn't easy, and no, love is not perfect.

I feel like Anne Shirley, after she's discovered that her best friend, Diana Berry, is engaged to be married. In a tone of utter despair and loneliness, as she's feeling left behind, she laments to Gilbert, "Why do people have to grow up and marry, change?"

Wisely, he who had loved her since grade school, tells her, "Oh, you'd change. If someone ever admitted that they were head over heels for you, you'd be swept off your feet in a moment."

And like the prickling answer she gave him, I would find myself saying the same: "I would not, and I defy anyone who would try and make me change."

Stubborn, bullheaded, willful, stupid, blind...
If I lose this one chance at love that I've been given, and blow it by feeling sorry for myself and pouting about others, then I'm not such a sucker for happy endings as I thought. And my life would be over if it, no, if he were taken away from me now.

"Children, it was more fun to be children...blink of an eye and it's over!"

Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation!

2012-01-15T13:07:00.002-06:00

There is nothing more beautiful than the sinner in a white robe, standin' in the water, holding the Preacher's hand, getting' right with The Man! Amen!

We had a baptismal service this morning and it was anointed by the precious and all-consuming power of the Holy Spirit! I cried a lot, first during Sunday School when the Holy Spirit touched me by the testimonial in Jim Cymbala's dvd series "When God's People Pray", and then again when my dear friend Josiah was baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. His life is consecrated to the Father's will; Josiah's Dad baptized his son with Pastor Brian, and that to me was a testimony to the fact that from generation to generation, the name of Jesus lives on. (As one of our songs sang this morning.) Our little church body needed the encouragement of that wonderful service, the public confession of faith and obedience to Christ. We are to be like Christ. We are to begin with revival in us and unity among us.

The sermon was exceptionally good today too; Jesus inhabits the praise of His people and He was in the house this morning. There are mighty things happening to this little church; over 100 people were in attendance today, and that alone has made me pause and realize that if we're praying and believing for growth, we better be prepared for it, because as people of God, our words have power, and He listens, and He answers, and He acts!

I'm so encouraged. It's truly the beginning of something new; something heavenly, eternal, and magnificent!

Now to enjoy the lovely sunshine that we DEFINITELY don't deserve in January! ;-] I'm out for a walk...we'll see if I can scrounge up a friend to go with me, maybe in the underbrush...

Just...wow.

2012-01-13T11:54:00.003-06:00

My sister is in a public, facebook-official relationship with a young gentleman?? What?! When did this happen...! I think I could cry a little, or maybe dance a lot, or scream maybe? It's a lot to take in but at the same time ... not so surprising after all. Her being the dashingly beautiful and multi-talented young lady she is, he being a smitten kitten. ;-) And this is what we're all waiting for in life, right? At this age, we think it'll never happen while always hoping it'll happen the next day. And now it's happening and what do I do? I blog about it! haha, someone has to know. ;-)

Well, God bless Leah and Jared...I'm happy for them. :-)

~Joanna~

Worth a Share

2012-01-08T21:30:00.001-06:00

For some of you this will hold weight and amazement. For others it won't. For those of you, kindly exit.

http://www.wimp.com/davebrubeck/

Punch Lines and Ironies

2012-01-07T13:40:00.003-06:00

I was reading a friend's blog earlier today and began thinking of my own, realizing it has been abandoned, and secretly I am thankful for that. I realized, as I read my friend's blog, that I only half-comprehended the writing, and that isn't because it doesn't make sense, it's because it makes too much sense. I have always wondered what geniuses were really like; this friend is one. And I respect him for it, but man do I wish he'd share some of his neurons with me!

But then I remembered the line from a song and it comforted me a little. Geniuses and silly fools alike are all at the mercy of punch lines and ironies. Punch lines and ironies swirl through the galaxies, like snow in a snowglobe that falls outside my window. We've all seen the glories and we've all heard love stories that are stranger, much stranger than this. There is something amusing about God's sense of humor that is funnier than anyone else's and we get little leaks of it here on earth...

I've been an angry pessimist most of my life (don't get me wrong, I had a good cover, when things were going my way) and something in the last year changed dramatically for me and I realized this is my one shot at life and when I want change, I must be willing to change something. And that's when change began; the most important and on-going change is God's proving me wrong at every turn. I've never been happier to be proven wrong. I can't put it all into words; it's much bigger than that. But God is on the throne even as we enter into a brand new year and a new vision for a future full of hopes and dreams coming true.

This is the blog of a silly fool saved by the grace of God; I'd reference you to the blog of my genius friend, if I had permission, so you'd have something of worth to read. That's another funny one, huh? ;)

But we're at the mercy of this punch line for now: "Don'tcha know that dreams come true?"

And this irony: "I love you."

2011-10-20T10:09:00.002-05:00

I had a dream last night that I was wedding-gown shopping. (Before rumors begin, no, I've not been proposed to. ;) ) It was such a lovely dream. I was walking in a fairy-tale land (something like rolling green hills with a castle at one end, a forest in the middle, and a brick wall we walked beside to get from point A to point B), and I suppose I was getting married that night, for I took to glancing through a window-display of dresses and saw a white, floor-length dress that was sleeveless but high-necked with glistening beadwork from neckline to mid-skirt. It was a very specific design in my dream and so simplistic, I fell in love with it at the start. In my mind, the wedding was simply a life-changing addition to my night, not really a huge deal, and the dress was a last-minute, "I'm so happy I'll burst! And then who needs a dress?" sentiment. The shopkeeper was a funny old lady who tried to get me interested in prom gowns, and I had to stress this was my wedding...

It was such a sweet and excited feeling in the dream. I only wish it were real! Being in on so much wedding planning (and in the last few weeks, five more friends have gotten engaged!) has made me realize that the joyful times in years previous absolutely, shockingly pales in comparison to the actual joy of the months and weeks and now days leading up to the date of getting married! It's a time of detail and self-reflection, yes, but the overriding joy for the bride and groom almost changes their personality! Or at least, boosts their personalities to be giddier than anyone's seen them before. (I can't see myself ever giving in to being giddy, but I might just become exceedingly...nice.) There comes a time before an event when you're so nervous and excited and anxious and have weighed the possibilities for the future so much that you have to just plunge in and begin the process or you'll go mad. You've prayed and talked and laughed enough and now you're going to just get sick if you can't get it over with. And two weeks to my brother's wedding is about when that's begun to happen to all parties concerned.

And yet there are still SO many things to get done before then!! I can't lose it now! Here I am, helplessly, hopelessly, brainlessly dreaming of getting married. What a fantasy, huh?

Quotes that sustain

2011-10-13T10:11:00.002-05:00

I'm sorry for the last few posts - they have been very random and "not me". If I've worried you, I apologize. Life has become a cycle of confusion and hope, and no matter how hard I try to 'muddle through', God is seeing us through and giving us strength for the new day, and refining us through the fire. It is not always fun, but it is beauty from pain. And I've found another quote that lifted my heart this morning.

"I have always found that the writing out of a pain makes it at least bearable." - L.M. Montgomery

What a lovely thought and a lovely way to feel; I've always written better when my heart was weary and sore.

Right NOW, however, I'm pleased as punch because we passed our CPR class last night!! Today the ball of my hand hurts from a million compressions...I hope that dummy realizes I saved his life enough times for ... a lifetime! ;-)

Autumn IS so beautiful and His Grace is enough for me. Remember, He gives us the grace to keep from falling, even when there's mercy waiting to pick us up.

Love to all,
~Joanna~

Inspiration

2011-10-04T09:00:00.002-05:00

"There is so much in the world for us all, if we only have the eyes to see it and the heart to love it and the hand to gather it to ourselves." - L.M. Montgomery

What an inspiring quote, for anyone, but in particular, those who are stepping out in confidence and a little bit of trepidation to try something new in life. Life has thrown a little bit of a curve at me, but much prayer, too much worry, and a load of thinking about it has convinced me to take a scary step and commit myself to a class that will test me mentally, emotionally, physically, and very possibly spiritually as well. Lord, be my strength!

"Let the words of my mouth, and the meditations of my heart, be pleasing to You, O Lord."

Pass it on...

2011-10-03T14:39:00.002-05:00

He is a Chief Master Sergeant in the USAF serving in Afghanistan
As high as you can go in enlisted ranks (E-9)
John Gebhardt's wife, Mindy, said that this little girl's entire family was executed.

The insurgents intended to execute the little girl also, and shot her in the head...but they failed to kill her.

She was cared for in John 's hospital and is healing up, but continues to cry and moan.

The nurses said John is the only one who seems to calm her down, so John has spent the last four nights
holding her while they both slept in that chair. The girl is coming along with her healing.

He is a real Star of the war, and represents what the combined service is trying to do.

This, my friends, is worth sharing. Go for it!! You'll never see things like this in the news.

Please keep this going.

Nothing will happen if you don't, but the world needs to see pictures like this and needs to realise that what we're doing over there is making a difference.

Even if it is just one little girl at a time.

At last, closure.

2011-10-02T22:27:00.001-05:00

~~<>~~

Julia was right. Kate welcomed me back and let me be part of the planning for Dickens’ funeral. In two days she would lay him to rest in the cemetery where his entire family had been buried from the Civil War on. On our visit to the gravesite to place the granite marker with Dickens’ name engraved in the stone, Kate tearfully told me of the Dickens’ men who had died at Gettysburg. There had also been many close cousins lost during the Great War in Europe.

“And now Alex too,” she swallowed the lump in her throat, her fingers absently caressing his name in the stone.

I stood a respectful distance away with my hands clasped behind my back. Kate blinked away her tears and kissed Alex’s name one last time. She stood and reached her gloved hand to me, slipping her small fingers into my hand as I led her back to the car.

“It should have been me,” I confessed, opening her door and then sloshing through the muddy snow to the driver’s side. “I wish I wasn’t the one here, Kate.” She started to protest but I held up my hand to stop her. “I don’t mean that other than trying to say I wish Dickens were here instead.”

“Don’t say that, Jon. Do not wish you were dead. That’s no way to live. You’ve been given life, again and again. Don’t wish you were not here.” She stopped looking at me with the intensity in her eyes that almost frightened me and stared ahead across the snowy churchyard. “So many boys won’t get to come home, Jon. They’ll never get to be men. But I suppose they already are men, if they’ve fought this long. What a horrible way to grow up. They’re just kids; they all are, and in a moment of battle the thing they think of is their Mom, isn’t it? Thinking of her praying for them at home, hoping they’ll come walking through the door unharmed. Only if they were lucky enough to know marital love would they think of their sweetheart. And if they do make it through the war, everything means so much more. Their chance at life has been given back to them. But it still is only one shot at this thing called life…one shot to grow up and grow old and somehow survive it.”

I couldn’t tell if she was speaking to me or to Alex, but I knew her heart was hurting, and not even I could fix that.

~~<>~~

Kate and I continued our friendship because we understood each other. Each visit I made to Kate’s in the weeks following Alex’s funeral, I became aware that Kate and I desperately needed each other. Her little Reuben became my shadow whenever I was there, and in turn, I became Kate’s preferred escort. I wasn’t one to keep secrets, so I spoke my mind to Kate and made it clear to her that my friendship was at her disposal. If she wished me to stay around and offer my help, I would be glad to do so. In fact, I wanted nothing more in life at present. But I would never try to replace Alex. She understood that and I willingly took on all manner of odd jobs and around her house and yard that had fallen into disrepair in the absence of a man. By summer, we had planted a victory garden in her overgrown backyard and I claimed responsibility for the upkeep and harvest. Townsfolk began to call me Kate’s hired help, but instead of dissuading their suppositions, I just smiled at them and hurried home to supper.

It was a good time for both of us; we grew through our grief together and could talk freely as friends. I was kept so busy that I didn’t have time to entertain my own worries about how I would readapt to civilian life; it just happened as I walked through every day, my limp becoming less noticeable as the summer passed. Once or twice I thought it odd for me to spend so much time in a widow’s home, but when I approached the subject, Kate cut me off and insisted that she needed me. Or that Reuben needed me.

We listened to the radio to keep informed on the war news, but it was so distant that I felt removed from the soldiers who still fought over in the South Pacific. Kate preferred not to listen to the news late into the evenings, and I respectfully consented. The guilt was awful for me to bear that I had begun living again and my fellow soldiers were still fighting Japanese invasion.

On those evenings when we shared the front room, Kate reading or stitching Reuben’s play clothes, and me fiddling with the radio to find something other than depressing headlines, I would sneak glances at Kate and for as long as she didn’t notice, I would openly stare at her. I loved her. I knew I did, and one day I would have to address the fact. For the moment, though, it was enough to just be friends, enough to watch her blossom as a mother, enough to keep her on her feet in Alex’s absence.

Tonight, her jaw worked in concentration as she worked out a knot in her thread, then resumed sewing a button on the collar of Reuben’s Sunday shirt. I sat on the floor, one leg under me, leaning my arm on my other knee, and watched her intently. Her brown shoulder-length hair fell around her face, and with a quick swipe, she tucked one side behind her ear. I smiled slightly, noticing she was wearing the little pearl earrings I had given her on the anniversary of their springtime wedding. I had then presented her with the letters Alex had kept through the war, the same letters I read after he died. Writing down his dying words spoken to me on a piece of delicate stationery, I had also given her his last token of their love.

“Tell Kate…love her…Kate, I love you. ~ Alex.”

I stopped myself mid-thought, struck by something I hadn’t noticed before. What was it he’d said? I replayed the scene as I remembered it, hearing his words again as if for the first time. “Kate…Love her…Kelly…” Was it that simple? Whatever the chance was that he had actually been telling me to love her and take care of her, I had to take a chance now.

“Kate?” I said aloud. Without looking up, she murmured a response. “You know I’m going back to Iowa on Saturday.” Another murmur; yes, she knew. “I have some…thing I need there. But…would you mind if I came back next week? Is that too soon?”

She looked up and considered me where I sat on her rug, the results of my radio tuning finally scratching through the speaker with a slow Benny Goodman swing. A curious smile curved her mouth and a twinkle lit up her blue eyes.

“It is not too soon. I haven’t admitted it before, but it’s lonely when you’re not here. Even people in town miss you.”

I smiled, feeling like a kid with good grades. I drummed up enough gumption to say, “I’ll miss you too,” and then she returned to her sewing, and I turned in for the night.

Ever After, if Ever

~~<>~~

As told by Kate Dickens

When Sergeant Jon Kelly proposed marriage to me on the eve of September ninth, 1943, we were in the middle of the dance floor, swinging the boogie with twenty other happy couples. Flushed from the evening of enjoying many jitterbugs, I took his hand and left the dance floor, swinging my black polka dot skirt as we brushed by tables and then found a quiet hallway near the coat rack.

I turned to face Jon and found that my hesitance to answer immediately had creased his face with such worry that I had to laugh. I touched the worried lines tenderly with my fingertips and then reached up to kiss his cheek.

“What was that for?” He asked, pained.

“You’re a dear man, and a wonderful friend. You’ve become the only Daddy Reuben knows. And I couldn’t go on living without you.”

“But it’s too soon, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have asked. It’s too bold - ”

“Of course I’ll marry you, Jon.”

He looked at me sharply and I could see his mind working behind his eyes as he processes my answer. A slow smile spread over his face and he made an unsteady motion toward me, shyly putting his lips against mine. It was our first moment of romantic intimacy, but somehow, we knew we were right to fall in love. I felt him tighten his hold around my waist. My arms clung to his neck as if I could never let him go. I buried my face against his neck and squeezed him tightly.

“I was afraid I was going to have to ask you,” I giggled, feeling my heart spark to life again with the joy that overflowed us.

“I would have said ‘yes’, you know,” he grinned, easy with himself and me once more. I was proud of him; he was handsome and smart. Smart to wait to ask me until I was ready, although I knew he had loved me even before we had met. The proof I had was the picture I had found, of me, in his uniform pocket one day. The photo was one I had given to Alex before he left. Jon’s subtleness in his intentions toward me had been warming me to him for months.

Hand-in-hand, we returned to the dance floor and celebrated our engagement with Glenn Miller’s “Lover’s Serenade”.

At last, closure.

2011-10-02T22:27:00.000-05:00

~~<>~~

“And now Alex too,” she swallowed the lump in her throat, her fingers absently caressing his name in the stone.

I couldn’t tell if she was speaking to me or to Alex, but I knew her heart was hurting, and not even I could fix that.

~~<>~~

“Tell Kate…love her…Kate, I love you. ~ Alex.”

“It is not too soon. I haven’t admitted it before, but it’s lonely when you’re not here. Even people in town miss you.”

I smiled, feeling like a kid with good grades. I drummed up enough gumption to say, “I’ll miss you too,” and then she returned to her sewing, and I turned in for the night.

Ever After, if Ever

~~<>~~

As told by Kate Dickens

“What was that for?” He asked, pained.

“You’re a dear man, and a wonderful friend. You’ve become the only Daddy Reuben knows. And I couldn’t go on living without you.”

“But it’s too soon, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have asked. It’s too bold - ”

“Of course I’ll marry you, Jon.”

“I was afraid I was going to have to ask you,” I giggled, feeling my heart spark to life again with the joy that overflowed us.

Hand-in-hand, we returned to the dance floor and celebrated our engagement with Glenn Miller’s “Lover’s Serenade”.

Sunday

2011-09-25T20:02:00.002-05:00

Guy Penrod has blessed my life immensely today. What a beautiful voice, sweet spirit, joy-filled eyes, and wonderful concert! If you don't believe me...Photo to prove it!

I don't know how he got to come to Holdrege, but we were certainly very excited to have the chance to see him! We've now seen the best of the Gaithers (minus David Phelps) without actually attending a Homecoming concert. Though we would desperately love to do that too, one day! Kevin Williams - outstanding guitarist and singer and comedian who travels with the Gaithers still - was with Guy, but we failed to nab him for a picture. (Guy's son Logan went joggin' off to bring Kevin back for us, but unfortunately he was already changing clothes) The concert was more a worship encounter, if I may use that expression. The Spirit of God was there at the Tassel; "Nothing but the Blood" and "Oh, the Blood of Jesus" were prayerful and heartfelt songs that took us to the throne of Jesus.

Guy's eyes are the most peaceful, sweet, smiling eyes I've ever smiled into. At one point, he came down onto the floor and since we were on the front row (arriving 45 minutes early has its perks!), he came right in front of us and spoke directly to me. To Leah. To Jacob. He was talking about bringing in heavy burdens and the freedom to leave them behind when we left that afternoon; he said to us, "You've got College needs. Y'all in college?" We answered yes, "and highschool". In a very gentle and fatherly way, he clapped Jacob's shoulder and said, "Ya got troubles in highschool too, don't you?" I could have melted and cried from the tenderness he displayed. The rest of the concert was a blast as we made continual eye contact with him and he smiled and read our enjoyment.

Kevin Williams kept his eyes and smiles and winks on us too. I suppose part of it was, we were the only young people in the audience!! Plus we were enthusiastic and couldn't help raising our hands in praise, or crying and being moved by the performance. Kevin also winked and grinned real big when we clapped for him especially when Guy introduced him. ;-] Come to think of it, we were the first, and some of the only, who seemed to adore Kevin from previous antics. No wonder he liked us.

It was a brilliant day; perfect for a sibling date, and even more perfect that we got to meet and talk to Guy Penrod!!! <3 I'm so glad we were able to do that; it was a huge blessing and an enormous encouragement to me. His heart truly ministered to me. I pray that God continues to bless Guy Penrod and his family, while he's on tour, and when he's home. What a wonderful guy...heh heh! <3

Jon Kelly - Second to last part. ;) (it keeps growing, I know)

2011-09-22T12:25:00.000-05:00

~~<>~~

This is not the close of my story; the years I felt I had lost in the war were only a fraction of my lifetime. Only a fraction of the war. While our boys fought on through the Asian jungles, the battles with Nazi Germany continued to rage in the West. Now that I was stateside and could only read about the war, its scale confounded me. I realized how little I had known when I joined up. It was the patriotic call of my country that I had answered, not to be a hero against the truest of evils. Stunned from reading the latest newspaper on that long train trip home, I relapsed to feeling misplaced. The word “home” frightened me. Where was home anymore? I couldn’t deny my physical placement of being home, but my heart was thousands of miles away. Part of it I left with Kate, in the sadness of losing Dickens, but the greater part of me was overseas, not longing for the heat of fighting, but feeling as though that’s where I belonged.

The thought that I could reenlist came to me, and it was then that I discovered I had an even greater desire to protect what was in my reach. Kate. I hadn’t protected her husband, as a comrade should have. But if I could shield her from any more pain in this life, I wanted that to be my duty. My sole honor.

I remembered my sister; her husband was a doctor, so he hadn’t been sent to war. Instead, he worked nights at the Marine hospital in Galveston, Texas. He had been transferred, as a first-responder, when Pearl Harbor was attacked, and Julia had been left to raise her two children alone for the duration of the war. She must have felt the acute pain of separation that Kate felt, and I had been blind to it until now. If it was in my power to protect these women from that kind of pain, I wanted to prove myself. It was all I wanted to do in the aftermath of the horrors I’d witnessed. Protect. Wasn’t that the creed I had sworn when I joined? To always place my mission first; never accepting defeat. To protect the defenseless, and bar the way of injustice.

Death was injustice to those who gave their lives willingly. It was a lousy trade for such patriotism. Dickens was only one of thousands, maybe millions. But his death was on my conscience, and therefore, the promise I made to him as he died to take care of his family became my mission. I understood that Kate might refuse my help; that was expected, I suppose. But I wouldn’t accept defeat. I had sworn to never leave a fallen comrade. Never to quit in my course. I am an American soldier!

~~<>~~

It was a short distance to walk from the Rock Island Northern Railroad station in Greene, Iowa to the home of an old high school teacher of mine. He was the only person I could think of who would be up at this time in the morning. He also had a car and would drive me home to my parents’ farmstead. My first view of my hometown was one I’ll never forget. As I mounted the rise that lead down through the heart of Greene, the sun became a vivid, tangerine ball – reminded me of the orange grove Dawson, Thomas, and I had hidden in for three days when separated from our company soon after landing – and splashed its color over the rippling hills of dormant wheat and corn fields. It was a chill morning, but the sight of snowy evergreens, bare-limbed maples, and a down-home sunrise made me warm inside. The tingling sensation lasted to the end of the block, when I finally had to drop my bag and pull up the collar of my uniform against the frigid temperatures.

I wished it was Christmastime; Greene was such a welcoming town anytime of the year, but my homesickness had been the worst during my first jungle Christmas. Until now, I hadn’t realized how much I wished to come home to the sound of carols and sleigh bells. Nothing meant “home” to me like that, and I could now claim I’d searched the world over and not found a replacement.

During the summer, the sun was one of the last things to awaken to the day in that part of Iowa, but this morning’s winter dawn met with the silent streets that I marched down, smiling at everything. Everything that had changed; everything that hadn’t changed. Shop windows and garages, street-signs and advertisements. It touched me to see the number of stores advertising that they accepted scrap metal. The slogans were ironic to me. One poster in the window of the nuts and bolts shop read, “Make sure they’re sunk! Bring in your junk!” The caricature was a crude drawing of a ship blowing out of the water, to the chagrin of a surprised, Japanese face in the upper right corner of the poster. The saying on the barber’s window caught in my throat as I remembered Thomas and Dickens. I had to force my feet to continue walking, but the words rang clearly in my head: “They’ve got the guts! Back ‘em with metal.”

There were so many people here at home who sacrificed their sugar, flour, and gasoline for soldiers, and if that wasn’t enough, they donated and collected and bargained for every little scrap of metal for drives that would produce armaments and weapons for the boys overseas. Since I was alone with my thoughts, I let my throat constrict. If only these good people knew how grateful I was, for all the boys in my battalion.

Suddenly, home seemed an eternity away. I slung my bag across my back and jogged down the street, a bit awkwardly on my stiff foot. Mr. Heyes’ home was the most distinguishable on the block; it was still the hideous pistachio color I remembered from my high school days, but all the more dear to me now. I laughed when I burst through the gate, tripping on the snow shovel leaned against the post, and saw my old history teacher in the doorway already, alerted to visitors by my pounding footsteps up the walk.

“Mr. Heyes!” I shouted, throwing my bag down and leaping up to the porch. “The British are coming by sea!” I hailed him with a reference from his favorite poem, my bursting excitement overshadowing the fact that he had ruthlessly hammered us with that Longfellow poem until we seniors revolted at the name Paul Revere.

“Is that you, Kelly? By golly, boy! When’d you get home?” The screen door clattered in his wake and his bear hug enveloped me fully.

My face, smashed in his burly shoulder, was wet with tears when I pulled away and clapped him heartily on the back. We were greeting each other man to man, but he still ruffed my hair as if I was yet a student who had made him proud.

“You made it back, Jon. Boy, am I proud of your service, son! You and your brother-in-law, the doc, are the heroes of Greene! Come inside! I’d be honored to drink my coffee with a hero.”

I accepted his invitation, putting down my arguments against being called a hero for later. I was really only a lucky survivor; and one that carried too much guilt. Mr. Heyes took me to the kitchen and laughed at himself for the mess of lesson plans scattered across his tabletop.

“I don’t get many visitors,” he confessed, scooping up textbooks and tossing them onto a chair and then scooting that under the table. He had always been a bachelor, as long as our town had known him, and his house was painfully void of a woman’s touch. He paused to wipe the dust off another mug, then poured two black cups of coffee and set one before me. I could understand why people didn’t just pop in on him; but I was glad I did. He made me feel at home, like I had been missed while away, and in his own queer way, he brought me up-to-date on some of the news of the area.

I learned the latest gossip on old high school friends, who had gotten married, who had won the season’s baseball game, and who wasn’t going to church anymore. I grinned and nodded, eager to get to the point of my visit. Not that I disliked his talkativeness. He finally slurped the last of his coffee and set down the mug with a thump. “It’s good to see you whole, Kelly.”

“I got hit in the lower part of my leg, and the Jap who tried to set the bone did a lousy job. It’s healing. It’s hardly anything compared to what some guys survived.”

“Darn right,” he agreed. “You been to your sister’s yet? Her poor husband’s got to look firsthand at those boys that come in so burned and shot up, you’d think they had nothing left of them to live. But they are. They’re breathing; some of them are more than breathing, but some…” he shook his head.

“I haven’t been home at all yet, Mr. Heyes,” I said, then explained, “I had to take the news of my buddy’s death to his widow in Indiana. But I was hoping I could borrow your car to get to my folks’.”

“Borrow? Heck, I’ll take you there myself! Greene will announce a holiday, now that you’re home.”

Whether or not that was true was left for later debate. I took him up on his offer and we pulled out of his garage just as the clock in the bell tower in the square chimed the hour of seven. I asked him if my parents were well. I’d have hated to come home and find that they had fared worse than I had, but Mr. Heyes assured me they were fine, and were soon to be ecstatic over my arrival.

I thought of things I could say to Mr. Heyes; apologies for being a distraction in his class, wishing I’d learned more during his international history sessions, and stuff like that, but my tongue was tied. I couldn’t say the words out loud, almost as if I was unsure whether or not this was a dream and I could speak. The drive was pleasant, with the sun on the snow nearly blinding us as we crossed the familiar distance of dirt roads to my family’s farm. Without warrant to do so, my stomach flipped with excitement when I saw the barn with its sagging hayloft door and the amber colored dog we had named Jack shambling through the yard like he was the sole proprietor. The house came into view after we had crossed the creaking footbridge and turned off the road into the driveway. It was just as I had always known it; the trellis by the front door was empty of foliage, but the inside warmth of the home spilled onto the snowy porch anyway. Even if I had been a stranger, the house would have felt welcoming on this visit, with affectionate smiles waiting indoors. But because I knew this house, I knew I was right.

The car hadn’t even stopped when I grabbed my duffel and threw the door wide. “Thanks Mr. Heyes! I’ll never forget you for this!” Without another word, I slammed the door and jogged up the front walk. Mom’s flowers had all been prepared for winter by piles of leaves that now poked through the snow in brown mounds all along the house. I searched the windows for a sign that someone had noticed me. The curtains to the living room were drawn, but I could hear my Dad’s voice from the back of the house. Was he discussing the news in the morning paper? I had forgotten his habit of doing so, even when no one listened to him. At the first step of the porch I paused and listened closer. I heard the oven door clatter shut; was it fresh bread coming out, or muffins going in? I couldn’t wait anymore. Just as I laid my hand to the knocker, the old dog Jack came wandering around the corner of the house, took one sniff at me, and then set up a howl.

Laughing, I jumped off the porch and scratched his head vigorously while he continued to bark. Behind me, I heard the screen door squeak on it’s hinges; then I heard a suffocated scream, and I turned around just in time to catch my Mother as she flew off the porch and latched her arms around my neck. She repeated my name until it sounded funny and only then did I let her go and look up to see Dad grinning at us from a safe distance.

“Chores are done; but you’re home in time for breakfast,” Dad greeted me with the tightest hug I’d ever gotten from him.

“I’ve improved my timing, see?”

“Why didn’t you let us know when you’d be coming?” Mom ushered us inside and I could tell at once what had been cooked for breakfast. A plate of fresh bread and scrambled eggs sat half-eaten on the table. The kitchen was familiarly messy, with newspapers and mail stacked on the counter nearest the door in the never-ending pile that needed organized. At that moment, I felt willing enough to settle down and sort through old hometown mail just to sit for hours in the kitchen and soak in the hub of activity in my family.

“I just got stateside yesterday,” I spoke around Mom as she bustled to seat me and put food before me.

Dad spoke then with a note of worry in his voice. “Was your tour up or…are you injured?”

I shrugged one shoulder, not wanting to seem irked at the question, even though it was already old and it was asked in a way that suggested I might be sensitive about my injury. “I caught a bullet in my foot, but I hardly notice it anymore. They sent me back because they wanted me to give the news about Thomas and Dickens to their families personally.”

“Men in your squad?”

“Thomas was. Dickens and I were POWs in a Jap camp; he got the Japs to take me to hospital and try setting my foot straight.”

“He didn’t make it, huh?”

“I couldn’t tell if it was the sky or the earth itself that opened up and started firing on us. Explosions everywhere. Fires roared and smoldered all around us. Hospital wards blown to bits, doctors dead before they even heard the incoming whistle. Dickens dragged me out and somehow we managed to get across the tarmac to a hill. We thought we’d find refuge. But the building blew just after Dickens went inside to scout it out. That’s when I realized that our boys had finally taken the island. He missed the victory by seconds.” My voice grew hoarse and embarrassing tears wet my cheeks, but I couldn’t stem the flow of words. As I poured out my heart to my parents, I kept wishing that for just one second I could go back and keep Dickens from going in that trap. It would be so easy to stop him, or to go in his stead.

Mom put her arm around my shoulders and I cried like her little boy again. She and Dad didn’t understand my tears, nor did they pretend to, but they let me get it off my chest and didn’t pry. I felt a little foolish; I’d been so composed off the battlefield until now. Maybe I didn’t realize fully what I’d be losing if I had been in Dickens’ shoes. Being home changed all that for me. But I couldn’t stay here forever, content just to hide out and return to a level of normalcy. Two little reasons made me buck up and swallow my tears, determining to be strong. Those reasons were miles away now, still in Indiana, still in my mind. And they would be every moment I was home. Every moment I thought about my life as a civilian again, Dickens’ family came to mind, and my duty stateside was reinforced. I knew I had another message of doom to deliver to Thomas’ family, and so after being welcomed home by my sister and her exuberant children, I fueled my Dad’s car, set my jaw, and repeated the trip to Kate’s home.

~~<>~~

The sun was setting as I drove out the lane that wound between the hills and disappeared just before reaching the Thomas home in southern Missouri. I gripped the steering wheel hard, feeling like a man hardened to sorrow after all that I had seen and inflicted. The women of the Thomas family had welcomed me with doleful hospitality while the men regarded me with open respect for my service to this country. Willingly, I stayed in town for the memorial service for Keith Thomas, but the grief was a different kind than I’d been witness to before. It left me feeling that I was cold and lifeless for not crying at his funeral. I hadn’t quite accepted the words of condolences people offered. I still expected Thomas to run in to the service, apologizing for being late. He never did and the military salute that closed the service left bullet holes in my heart. I was anxious to go home. The Thomas family was large and strong. They had each other and with me in their midst, I was just a painful reminder of the soldier who had died to give them continued freedom. So after the afternoon service, I quietly but firmly said I was leaving, and began my quiet drive home.

There was one thing on my mind as I stopped at a roadside filling station, paid for gasoline and drank a cup of hot coffee. My sister had told me that if she were in Kate’s shoes, the first person she’d want to see on her doorstep in the morning was the man who had done what he could to save her husband’s life and was now offering her his strength to get by. I’d been a lot of things in my life; intruder wasn’t a common one, but I was ready to face anything. For love of country I had faced hell; for the memory of servicemen, I would face anyone.

~~<>~~

Jon Kelly - Part the Later ;-]

2011-09-08T16:58:00.004-05:00

Pick-up from two posts ago...

I didn’t know what to answer. The honest reply was, “No,” but I had already acted the part of the cad so well in front of Kate, I didn’t want to now appear eagerly unattached. I lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug, as if I didn’t know, didn’t care. “I had a girl back in high-school. But we parted ways some time after graduation. It wasn’t ugly.” I didn’t want her to think I was nursing a broken heart. I was fine. I’d survived the worst year of my life without a girl – now that the war was over for me, maybe I could think about women. I pretended I didn’t care either way.

Her next question surprised me. “Do you have family waiting for you?”

I looked at her with the expression of an insulted child. “Yes, of course I have family,” I responded defensively, even though her meaning stung me deeply. It had never occurred to me that I might be the only soldier whom my family worried about, prayed for, and longed to see home again. I was their son, brother, and uncle, but I figured they had a list of names to pray for and think about. Suddenly, in light of feeling cared about so singularly, my Mom, and my dear little sister’s faces became more special to me. I hadn’t given them any notice of my coming home. I had been so consumed with my grief and the duty of delivering the painful news to the Dickens household that I had seemingly forgotten that my family would begin to worry and wonder at my absence too…

“Do they know you’re home?”

Kate read my mind. I shook my head, swallowing the painful truth that I was a rounder.

“You should let them know,” she stated plainly. I realized then what she meant. It was unfair to my family; if I was stateside, they deserved to see me strolling up the sidewalk, waiting outside their front door. Kate Dickens was wiser than I in matters of the heart. She knew how much it meant to wait months, sometimes without a word, for her soldier to return safely.

Gently, almost apologetically, she forced me to take my bags and board the train for my hometown. She left her sister at the house and drove me to the station herself. The car was an older model, and as it chugged to a start, filling the garage with smelly fumes, Kate confessed that she hadn’t taken it out much since Alex left.

“I have taken to walking the few miles into town. Fuel has been rationed since the beginning and after he left, I didn’t have the heart to waste the money when I could send him extra boxes with the postage.”

The moon was full over the snowy Indiana pastures and we passed the minutes in comfortable silence. The windows frosted around the corners from our warm breath against the cold panes. I felt stabilized inside for the first time since Dickens’ untimely death, and I was disappointed when I saw the lights of the town growing brighter in front of us. I suddenly needed a plausible reason to stay, or an excuse to return to Indiana after my homecoming.

The train station was on the far side of town and our drive through the lamp lit streets, quiet after a short and cold winter day, was pleasant, but all too fast. Kate pulled the clutch and the car idled just outside the wooden veranda of the station. I didn’t move. Neither did Kate. She folded her gloved hands in the lap of her red coat and said nothing.

“I’m a little nervous about returning. I know Mom will want a town-wide reception. Either she’ll be upset at me for coming without warning, or will have the town show up at our place tomorrow.”

We both chuckled, and what Kate said next warmed me from the inside. “Well, if it’s too much, you can come back up here. You can hideaway; our town won’t mind.”

Finally, clutching at what bravery still burned inside of me, I turned and looked her in the eye. The interior of the car was too dark to see her beautiful features, but I could see her eyes, glistening as she looked steadily back at me.

“Kate, I promise to come back. I think I’d miss Reuben if I didn’t. You’re just right about my family. I’ll see them, but…”

“Would you come back for Alex’s funeral?” She sounded hopeful that I would answer yes.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. His legacy will affect many.”

Kate started to cry again, this time against my shoulder. “I wish Alex had known you before the war,” she whimpered and I tried to comfort her but all I could do was hold her tightly.

“Katie, I’ll come home soon,” I heard myself say.

When the midnight train pulled out of the station, the last image I had to remember was Kate’s pretty face, worried about me as my mother might have been, waving and watching as a sweetheart might have done.

NOTICE: I have removed the last part of this post as an editor's correction; I was told it was too choppy an ending. (So...the reader *coughJacobcough* could tell I just wanted to hurry up and end it, huh??) The new and hopefully improved ending will follow shortly. :-) Stay tuned!

Another story...not the same one...

2011-09-06T18:08:00.003-05:00

Well, as Sgt. Jon Kelly awaits closure on his story, Grant Martin has made a name for himself in early 20th Century London...Be prepared, by this mini trailer for my story: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsRgUtFKL9o

And enter, Chapter One! :-)

Rogues to Riches

Started on Nov. 10^th, 2008, by Joanna Ott

Chapter One

The winding staircase behind Grant vanished as he flew down yet another corridor. Swinging around the corner, he felt his body vault forward, then whiplash back as he slammed into the granite wall at a ninety-degree angle. His mad dash halted abruptly. Backing up a few steps, he searched with his hands to discover the cause of his delay. With a grunt and a strain, he wrestled his cape away from the jagged stone in the wall where the flowing material had caught, bringing him to the painful stop. Ignoring the sweat that caused his mustache to droop, Grant glanced over the hallway behind him and saw that his pursuers were either likewise detained or had given up the chase.

Grant flipped his full-length, heavy black cloak over one shoulder, tugged his fedora lower over his eyes, took a breath, and slipped noiselessly through the archway just ten yards yonder. Now out in the garden, he fled quickly over the flagstone paths, through the ivy-covered gateway, and careened down the dewy grass incline just outside the castle walls.

“Who-o-a-u-a,” he grunted mutedly as he turned over and over on his quick descent from the garden. “Forgot about the drop,” he muttered and picked himself up once he had slid to a stop on the wet grass. He arranged his cape in a heroic manner and plucked his hat off his head in a sweeping gesture of his departure. He looked up at the turrets rising above him, set as if grown out of the crown of the hill itself, and lifted his hand.

“Tah-tah and fare thee well,” he panted into the wind. “For though my time has been cut short and I have been found out, I wish thee not bad luck. I beseech thee…give up your search for me, yea though I may be a scoundrel. If this must continue, please give me ample time to at least make headway into the city before daylight. Later, my valiant pursuers,” he declared in a passionate whisper, and if you could have been there listening, you would have thought it heartfelt and sincere; the smirk on his face, however, deepened as he chuckled mysteriously and jogged away.

A light burning in the castle’s uppermost chamber had been overlooked by Grant, the despot who had slipped silently through the black night. A pair of keen eyes watched his escape with interest, marking the route Grant followed along the old highway northward into London.

“Better to fool a fool and give him his ten minutes start than to act hastily.” The voice was young; young and assured. “Going to London, are we, Grant? Lead the way,” and they passed before the window, extinguishing the light and placing a pocket-revolver in the hidden compartment in their coat.

Grant Martin kept to the open road, believing that to attempt an escape by secrecy was to openly declare your flight. “No one notices one who doesn’t creep about,” he murmured through the side of his mouth. He was oblivious to anyone watching him as he walked briskly, and he patted his pocket triumphantly, a sense of pride and accomplishment filling his heart. If ‘accomplishment’ was the right word to satisfy a heart as black and shallow as his.

His conscience used to nag at him, but he had made such a life of his crime that he no longer heeded the sick feeling in his gut at the thought of what he had just done. “Ole’ Grant Martin isn’t going to be noted for his cowardliness that would cause him to turn yellow-bellied and give up crime,” he had told a close friend once.

The walk to London’s city limits took him the rest of the night, and he appeared on the doorstep of his friend’s apartment shortly after eight o’clock. “Grant, what are you doing here so early? Weren’t you staying for two weeks? Why, it’s only been one,” the friend greeted Grant warmly by shaking his hand.

“Complications arose and you are the only man I know who is ready for company with no notice. Now, if I could have a cup of tea and some breakfast, I’ll take a short nap and then tell you all.” Grant pushed through the doorway and removed his coat and hat before helping himself to the meal spread out on the dining room table.

“So, tell me Hugh, what’s new in London that I might have missed while I was away?” Grant reclined on the sofa and surveyed the elaborately decorated room. Typical of most high-class apartments of the era, the ceilings were tall with ornately carved trim, the drapes that hung at the windows were of rich colors of velvet, and the woodwork of the room was expensive mahogany.

Hugh averted his eyes over the teacup and grunted, “Oh, I wouldn’t say you missed anything too important. Mr. Lorentzen is ill.”

“Again? Why, the fellow must have a poor immune system,” Grant said slowly, and then brightened. “I think I’ll just pay him a visit. That’ll surely make him feel better.” He chuckled and dumped another teaspoon of sweetener in his tea.

“Well, as long as you don’t say anything to him,” Hugh warned and took another muffin for himself.

“Why do you say that?” Grant questioned after blowing on his tea to cool it.

“Grant, you speak five languages and can’t say anything polite in any of them.” Hugh leveled eyes with his friend. “It isn’t that I blame you. In fact, I pity you. If it weren’t for me to stick close and keep my eye on you, you’d probably get caught up in a discussion of political importance and before long you would say something that landed you in a heap of trouble,” Hugh finished casually, watching Grant’s reaction over his biscuit.

“A heap? Are you sure?” One dark eyebrow lowered in reproach.

“Yes, quite sure. Probably killed even.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating at least a tiny bit?” Grant scowled fully in annoyance at Hugh, who sat, munching on his sweet-roll in a satisfactory manner as though he had pinned Grant and called his bluff for once.

“No. When you visit Mr. Lorentzen, make sure you speak French to him. That way when you say something disagreeable, he won’t get offended.”

“You do go on,” Grant growled, enjoying the banter, yet prickling at the personal remarks.

“And it serves you well. Someone who gallivants as you do deserves a little trouble for all the strife you cause.” He gave Grant a correcting glance, but Grant brushed it aside.

“Now for a wink of sleep, if you don’t mind.” He stretched himself out on the sofa and kicked his feet over the arm. He mumbled a complaint about Hugh needing a longer couch and then closed his eyes.

Hugh put his butler to work clearing the breakfast away and then took a seat near the couch with his newspaper in hand and his morning cigar between his teeth. He read over the paper twice and finished his cigar before he looked up. Grant was still asleep, and Hugh had a funny idea to pick up his cape and search the inner compartments.

He slid his hands first in the front pockets, and then he felt through the inside. “What’s this?” he murmured and watched Grant for any sign of stirring. His hand had fallen upon a flat, oblong object, and he slipped it out of the pocket carefully. It was a black, shiny booklet and Hugh looked it over curiously. “Grant, care to explain these initials scratched on the back?” He asked noiselessly, his scowl deepening and his respect for Grant wavering.

Hugh studied the back with keen interest. C. R. H. The initials meant nothing to him, but he did wonder how Grant came to be in possession of the booklet that had a name on it other than his own. “Well of course, you stole it, didn’t you, Marty?” Hugh shook his head.

The black booklet seemed to call out to him to be opened, so Hugh snapped it open. What met his eyes was a stack of bills large and small, rolled together. His heart fell to the pit of his stomach, and he felt as though he should take a seat before weakening in a surprised faint; he then realized that he was sitting, and that this act of Grant’s shouldn’t have surprised him so.

“What are you looking at?”

Hugh’s already cautious nerves failed him at the sound of Grant’s voice and he fumbled around until he had dropped the booklet, scattered the bills, and tossed the cloak far away from him. He looked up with a wide, innocent look on his face.

“What?” He asked and tried to sound clueless, but his voice was a strange high pitch which gave him away at once. Grant was not a foolish man and knew exactly what had been going on.

“You’ve been digging through my cloak haven’t you? Spill it, Hugh,” Grant lunged off the couch and swiped the bills off the floor and into his pocket in one, swift move. He proceeded to the chair where his cloak had landed and slung it over his arm, stooping to pick up the booklet and then glaring at Hugh.

“Yes, I did,” Hugh managed in a slightly less frightened tone.

“Well, to put your curious mind at rest, I did take this cigarette case from Colonel Habrych’s castle last night, but don’t worry your naughty little head about it. It’s my business and I’ve been handling it quite well up until now. Wouldn’t you agree? It was necessary to take this with me, you see. I always have reasons behind my actions, Hugh, and I’d appreciate if you left your discrepancy for other areas. Now, I think if you’ll just promise to not spill any of this to anyone for a while, I’ll pay Mr. Lorentzen a visit.” Grant examined Hugh with a scrutinizing eye and then twitched his black mustache. “I see you’re agreeable. Goodbye then.” He sailed to the door, flinging his cape around his shoulders and snapping his hat over his dark hair before he fell his hand on the knob. With a glance back at Hugh, who still sat dumbfounded and shaking in the chair, Grant left with this remark, “I’ll be back in time for dinner, and I think it would be nice to have it be a dressy occasion.” He delivered a pert nod and exited.

Hugh sat for a long while in his chair, trying to discern if it would be best to turn Grant into the constable or let him go his way without delay. He decided against turning his friend in and called his butler immediately to prepare a lavish dinner. Hugh then composed an invitation to be sent to the Lord and Lady Beck, Leopold Miner, Lady Sterling, and Jeremy Sindt.

* * * *

The great clock chimed above his head and Grant counted the strokes with a twitch of his mustache. “Huh? Oh blimey!” He gasped at the eighth chime and flicked his cloak over one shoulder, pulling out his own, gold pocket-watch to compare the time on it to that of the Cathedral’s bell. “Right on,” he muttered, stuffing his watch away and turning briskly from the mural he’d been studying. His escape route would be greatly hindered, thought he, since the evening Mass was now in session. He’d long overstayed his welcome, Grant knew, and he must make great hast to leave before the pious Bishop discovered the missing donations.

Grant sidled behind the massive organ pipes on his way around the balcony, trying to avoid all possible glimpses of the sanctuary full of people praying. He slid his feet along the beam, placing his gloved hands on either side of him to keep his balance. (Gloved, because he felt no need whatsoever to leave fingerprints for the constables to trail) The last set of tall, grey pipes passed, and just as he caught onto the railing around the skinny ledge on which he now found himself perched, the organist struck a high chord that peeled throughout the entire structure. Grant roared and clutched at the rail tighter, startled nearly dumb from the sudden sound right in his ear. A furious scuffling of his feet righted him, but his hands and knees still trembled from the mighty vibrations of the organ.

He grasped the pillar a few feet away and wrapped shaking arms and legs around it. Our deceitful Grant was soon flying down three stories at a speed exceedingly fun to the mischievous young man. He came to a sudden halt when his feet caught on another protective railing and he let go of the pillar with a triumphant smile at his successful escape.

Grant’s balance on the thick rail proved to be quite skilled, and he pivoted swiftly to survey what he was standing over.

Triumphant smile turned to gaping frown and his sure footing became difficult. Grant had hoped that his eyes would behold a back passageway through which his further flight could be made, but to his horror, when he turned around, he found himself standing on the side balcony railing overlooking the filled sanctuary. His gasp caught the attention of nearly everyone below, and eyes and heads rolled up to see who was disturbing their prayer. Always quick-witted, Grant replaced the shocked, open-mouthed stare with a nonchalant grin as he crossed one foot in front of the other, leaning casually against the pillar. The rogue rippled his fingers in a wave and quickly made the decision to act as cool as possible and give nothing away, even if caught. A few folks returned his smile and one young boy dared to laugh, but the bishop brought them all sternly back in order with a low, rumbling sound from his throat.

The wad of bills burned in his pocket, but repentance was not a character trait Grant was known for. The opportune moment came to him just then and he launched himself off the rail, down two stories, and landed in a heap of cloak folds on the stone floor.

As a whole, the congregation shrieked at his way of descent, the women uttering wordless cries of distress and the men exploding with curses, but the priest called order again with the same grunt and they returned reluctantly to their prayers.

Grant groaned and felt the ache in his body grow. “That was stupid,” he confessed as he picked himself up off the floor. He knew how stiff and sore he would feel on the morrow, but he felt victorious anyway. His long cape flowed easily behind him on his way out the front doors and down the cathedral steps. His sigh was lost on the wind and he whistled for a taxi. Even taking the car, it was forty-five minutes after eight o’clock when he finally arrived back at Hugh’s.

Grant took a moment to straighten his top hat, flip his cloak over his arm, smooth his mustache, and arrange his shoulders in a dignified position before entering. His sudden appearance in the house gave the guests ample questions as to where he’d been the last hour, why he hadn’t informed them he’d be late, why was he wearing that ridiculously happy grin, and why in the world didn’t he answer them?

Grant offered Lady Beck and Lady Sterling formal greetings, giving a light kiss to their fingers, and bowed flexibly at the waist to all others present.

“Hugh, my apologies for being late,” Grant took a seat to the right of his friend at the dining-room table, acting as though his demeanor was completely normal. “I stayed longer at the church than I intended.” Grant helped himself to every dish on the table, ignoring the others’ disdainful glares.

At the word “church”, Hugh straightened noticeably and looked Grant over studiously. “What were you doing at the church?” He asked as though never believing Grant would enter a church on his own accord.

Grant looked up from the roast he was sawing and replied over a smacking mouthful, “Uh, I was praying.” It was lame, but no one noticed his deceiving attitude around the noble words. “Yes,” he began again, more assuredly. “I was praying.”

“What about, friend?”

“Different things,” Grant laughed it off, but saw that he was expected to say more, so he added, “First one thing and then another. Got a lot on my mind these days. Mr. Sindt, could you please pass the bread pudding?”

Mr. Sindt gravely handed the dessert dish to Grant, who accepted it with a low whistle of admiration and heaped a large portion onto his plate, drizzling the glaze plenteously over the slice.

“What kinds of things on your mind?” Hugh fidgeted with his napkin, then lit his cigar and let it dangle loosely between his teeth.

“As I said,” Grant stuffed a forkful in his mouth with a ravenous air. “This and that. Business, family…” Grant’s lies began to lose their convincing nature, and he quickly replenished the amount of gravy and potatoes in his mouth.

“You have family? How charming,” Lady Sterling drawled, touching her hair to ensure every blond curl was perfectly pinned.

Hugh began to answer for Grant when the latter silenced him with a single glance and muted shake of his dark head. “Family can be a charming thing, Ms. Sterling, at times,” he smiled a wan smile and sipped his wine.

“Yes, Mr. Martin,” Ms. Sterling laughed nervously, thinking what an odd attitude he bore. “It is true what you say about family. I have three brothers, and each can be charming in his own way, but-“

“You have brothers?” Grant knew how to direct the conversation down another road and he skillfully chose to do so now.

“Why, yes, I do,” she chuckled and took her wine glass delicately in her hand.

“Where do they reside? I think I’ve not met them,” Grant pushed his chair away from the table, having snuffed his meal very rapidly. He stood, taking his goblet and motioned them all to the parlor.

“The eldest are business partners here in London – Sterling Silver Jewelers – and the third lives near Carlisle. You’ve heard of the jewelers, I presume?”

Grant thoughtfully nodded his head, setting his glass on the mantel where he stood, and taking the cigarette case from his pocket to light up. “Before my fiancé jilted me, I looked at rings there, I believe.”

A soft murmur of sympathy came from the mouths of the guests, but Grant shook his head and leaned heavily on the mantel. “She was unworthy of me,” he spoke dramatically, his mustache curling gently with his frown. “I am glad to be rid of the lady. After only four months of knowing each other, she was ready to tie me down to a life of catering to her every whim. I do wonder, however, if we couldn’t have parted on more pleasant terms. That is, if the man who stole her away from me had not complicated things so. See, I was just about to break off the engagement when she wrote to me and said she wished to be free of the union, having met her former lover again. They made things right, and suddenly I was out of the picture. It didn’t hurt me,” he spread his hands in a gesture of careless release, “But I have sworn not to engage myself to a woman again.”

“Mr. Martin, do you not think that is going quite far?” Ms. Sterling asked with a purposeful glance of reproach.

“Not a bit. For my life, a woman is just someone to spend a pleasant evening with, not propose marriage to. I shan’t make that mistake again.”

The evening progressed slowly, their talk of small things. Grant felt ill whenever his hand brushed the roll of bills in his pocket; his mind was distracted from their conversation, and many times he had to be brought back to the conversation by a gentle nudge. Why does this spree bother me more than my others?

Though he knew it was rude, he excused himself from the party around ten o’clock and went upstairs to the guestroom Hugh always kept ready for him. He fell asleep that night, troubled and restless, without a solution to this crazy, confounded, new feeling of guilt. His only reassurance was Hugh. “He never has, and never will, turn me in. Every old boy ought to have a friend like Hugh Pargetter.”

Sullivan Entertainment Contest!!

2011-08-25T11:09:00.002-05:00

Follow this link and you'll know all. ;-)

http://www.anneofgreengables.com/blogs/category-news/item/762-the-most-i

Woohoo, I like the taste of success!!

My Home-Front Duty

2011-08-18T20:34:00.001-05:00

My Home-front Duty

~~<>~~

As told by Jon Kelly

Blank, I stared at the doorway, half expecting Alex’s wife to come back and apologize for her outburst, as if nothing were wrong. As if she hadn’t exploded like an Mk II grenade. I could handle the heat of the battle explosions, but a woman’s anger was a different matter. I sat dumbly where I was and didn’t move. The absent thought that I should leave came and went without acknowledgment.

Twenty minutes passed and I started to notice the home. The decorations were simple and soothing, not cluttered with knick-knacks like my Grandma’s house always had been. It felt peaceful in the front room, with the walls papered taupe, the wooden floor shined and graced with a brown throw rug between the davenport and windowsill. The fireplace in the corner was the focal point of the room, with a doily under a vase with a bouquet of dried white roses peeking over the frame of Kate and Alex’s wedding photo. Alex must have had some money; I mused and rose to look at the picture.

I hardly recognized Charlie. I’d only seen him after the intensity of battle and POW had given him an afternoon shadow and the filth of the war. In the photograph on the mantle, he wore a black pinstripe suit that made him look taller and slimmer than I remembered him. His face was clean-shaven, and young. Dear God, he was so young. Kate too was a mere girl in the picture. Her long white dress was obviously wedding attire, and her dark hair was piled fashionably under a white hat and veil. Her pert little nose was turned with a smile toward Alex’s happy face. They were married in the spring. The happy couple stood in the doorway of the chapel, fresh flowers bending in the breeze, almost as if they were bowing to laude the new liaison. It would be springtime again soon, I realized. How much heartache would surround the anniversary this year?

It was a silly question, because I knew how hard it would be. I was still struggling with my own two losses. Can’t imagine how Kate felt to have a stranger show up and tell her that her beloved…”the hero of her dreams”...was dead. I must have looked like the meanest joke, talked up to be a friend of Alex’s just so she wouldn’t slap me.

I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stay. She doesn’t want me to stay and explain the story. She and Reuben will muddle through the initial shock. It was a hardened thing to think, but I couldn’t formulate another answer to their tragedy.

I rose to leave, and as I put my hat on, I jumped at the impatient jangle of the telephone from the hallway. My brain was muddled and I didn’t even think before I rushed out of the front room and grabbed the receiver. Halfway through my hello, I swore at myself for being such a cad. Who answers another’s telephone? Really.

A woman’s voice answered mine and sounded almost as uncomfortable as I felt.

“Is this…I’m calling for Kate Dickens.”

“I’m sorry. Kate is…she can’t take a call. This is Jon Kelly; maybe I can help you?”

“What do you mean she’s not there? How did you get in her house? If you don’t tell me the truth…”

“Ma’am, I’m a Sergeant in the United States Marines. As a friend of her husband’s, I was commissioned to come and tell her what happened. Kate took it badly and is upstairs alone. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Silence. And then a muffled sob, and a hurried, “I’m coming over!”

I really panicked then. Still holding the phone, I frantically looked around the house and wondered what I was supposed to do. Should I wait? I could catch the midnight train and find myself suddenly gone from this mess, on my way to tell Thomas’ family the news about him. Or I could stay and meet this lady who was coming to find out what I had done to Kate. She would grill me for information and I would have to tell the story again.

These options played around in my head as I stood stupidly by the telephone. It was only fifteen minutes later when the backdoor flew open and I was caught with my hands in the dishwater where I had started tackling the mess in the kitchen. It kept me busy to begin the process, even though the mountains of dishes would have been a discouragement to anyone else. For a moment after the door flew open, the lady who entered with a bundled child on her hip just stood and stared at me.

“Kate’s upstairs,” I finally said. The lady, a slightly older, lighter-haired version of Kate, put the child on the floor and left the room with an unintelligible instruction for what I was to do with the kid. As Kate’s sister pounded up the stairs – I deduced the relation in seconds and surmised that she must have been keeping Reuben for the day – I dried my hands and knelt in front of the little boy. I smiled into the face that looked so solemn, wrapped in scarves and hoods suggesting wintertime snow play. “You must be Reuben, huh? Have you been playing in the snow? Let’s get you unwrapped…” I babbled like I was comfortable playing the role of babysitter as I unbuttoned his coat and playfully tugged off mittens. My efforts were rewarded with a toothy smile as I whipped off one mitten and tickled his face with the fringe on his scarf.

Once he was down to shirtsleeves and corduroy overalls, I could tell without a doubt whose son he was. The chin was a perfect replica of Charlie’s. Dark gray eyes blinked at me while his mop of curly hair stood on end with the static from his hood. For a minute, I found myself staring into his face with the feeling that he was much older than two years. Did he know about his Dad? Had he guessed by the tone in everyone’s voice? No, I told myself; he was just a baby. Impulsively, I scooped him up and cradled him against my chest, cupping his little head in my hand. I wanted to cry again. This tiny imitation of Charlie had lost the most important man in his life and for the moment, I was the only substitute. He didn’t resist me, so, still holding him close, I stood and made my way toward the stairs.

The hallway was only dimly lit, but I could make out shadowy faces in picture frames lining the stairwell. It surprised me how difficult it was to keep walking up those stairs with pictures of the once contented, now broken family looking back at me as I carried the silent boy through the corridor of silent smiles. It was a feeling I hoped to never relive; I felt like the traitor, the Jeremiah to the Dickens family.

Before I even reached the landing at the top of the stairs, I could hear the women’s voices as Kate’s sister tried to console her. Wrenching sobs interrupted the hushed words of comfort. I swallowed hard. This devastated feeling engulfing the house was my fault, and I knew it. My words to Dickens played with ruthless clarity in my mind. “You take a look inside. I’ll keep watch out here.”

Why had I done it? Why, when I was the one with nothing to lose, had I saved myself and sent him in, alone? I should have died; either in his place or with him, but I should not be here, holding his son! I couldn’t get outside of my head, away from the raging guilt and the sense that I didn’t belong in the world.

I continued to ascend the staircase with the stealth of a man who knew that his position was unalterable, and he couldn’t rightfully just disappear, even though that was the only thought in his mind. My footfalls made the stairs creak and I heard the hushed gasp of dread that Kate uttered at my approach.

“Isn’t that man gone yet?” Her words, meant to be whispered but in the silence made loud, pierced me. I heard her sister hush the flow of accusations as my head appeared above the banister and Reuben’ tousled head turned toward his mother’s voice. I didn’t know which room along the corridor was Reuben’, but I made a choice and at the top of the stairs, disappeared into a small bedroom. The moonlight came through the window and lit up the room so I could see it was indeed the little boy’s. Crib and toys were lined up in the corner, with a rug and a rocking chair opposite the little trundle bed that peaked a teddy bear’s torn head above the corner of the pillow. Reuben squirmed out of my arms; I let him down gently and watched him scamper to the door, stand on his tiptoes, and wrench the light switch sideways to turn on the electric lamp. Over his shoulder, he grinned at me as if he was the smartest and I was the dumbest. I gave him an encouraging smile even though I didn’t feel like grinning.

It must have done the trick, because Reuben continued to look at me with baby delight, and then he trotted to the bed, struggled one leg up enough to hoist the rest of him up on the bed, and sat cross-legged with the teddy in his lap. I wasn’t very good at wordless communication; the last guessing game I had played had turned into the gamble of life or death.

I squatted to get eye-level with Reuben. “What’s your Teddy’s name?”

He nodded vigorously.

“That’s a good name.”

Again, the nod that shook his brown curls around his ears.

“Does he like bedtime stories?” I situated myself on the end of his little bed, tucking one foot under my other leg and sitting forward to look at him closer. God, it’s a perfect replica of Charlie. Reuben twitched his mouth and then frowned, shaking his head. “He doesn’t like stories? What does he like? Picture books? Does he like…puppet shows? Does he like a bedtime circus?” I acted through the motions I had watched my sister use with her children; the finger-puppets and the imaginary tight-rope-walking tiger at the circus, accompanied by a distant elephant’s high-pitched squeal. Reuben was giggling by the time the pillows on his bed had erupted in applause at the act and my tickling fingers had found his tummy. “Does he like the circus, yeah?” This time he nodded with a ferocity that bobbed his curls and a grin that displayed his perfect rows of baby teeth.

“Do the circus! Do the circus!” His scream of delight made me laugh, quietly at first and then more normally, like I used to.

I tossed him up in the air, balanced him on my shoulders, and began the commentary for the circus ringmaster. His chubby arms waved high above my head as the tightrope was raised; gymnasts positioned; drum roll begun. I had barely announced the opening act when Reuben screamed and pointed toward his crib in the corner with two-year old panic. The tiger had escaped his cage! Taking advantage of his imagination, I swooped Reuben off my shoulders with the ease of a trapeze artist and flew him in close to the tiger that was now on the prowl. His giggles and screams joined my running commentary and his bedroom sprung to very excited life. I didn’t suspect we had a real audience until I turned full-circle and caught the face of Reuben’s mother, glistening with tears, smiling at our antics. I stopped at once, afraid I might offend her with my brash ways of play. I set the little boy down, but he continued with the tiger-chase and only stopped when he stumbled into Kate’s legs. She bent and picked him up, planting a kiss on his cheek and asking what he was after.

“Tiger, Mommy!” He squirmed down.

As she stood up again, her eyes met mine and a silent look passed between us. Her eyes were soft toward me in unspoken forgiveness. Jane stood behind her, wrapping her arms around her sister’s waist and smoothing her tousled hair. I stood there awkwardly, staring at her, wondering if a reprimand was about to follow. But Kate just squeezed her sister’s hand and said pleasantly, “Will you put Reuben to bed, Jane?” Then to me, “Come down to the kitchen for some coffee. I even have a few dozen cookies to offer you.”

All my confidence weakened and I trudged unhappily behind her. I shouldn’t have taken such liberty with her son, in light of the news I brought to her. I had begun to feel more foolish than I ever had before in my life, when Kate turned to me over her shoulder and said softly, “Thank you.”

Confused, I fell into default. “Ma’am?”

“Reuben’s favorite books are those about the circus and the zoo. The Saggy Baggy Elephant, and the like, you know. He’ll go to sleep easily tonight. Thank you. I’m glad he’s happy. One day he’ll have to know; but for tonight, the circus was enough.” She smiled at me and pushed open the door to the kitchen. I stepped into the room with much relief, glad that I had cleaned up the greatest portion of her mess. Was I glad because she didn’t now have an excuse not to sit at the table with me? It wasn’t until much later that I came around to scolding myself for such a thought.

“I’ve got a nephew a few years older than Reuben. I learned how to play with him before I joined up. I thought I might have to re-learn the technique. But if the war taught me anything, it’s how to recall pointers from training.” I gave Kate a half-smile as she poured me a cup of black coffee and then poured one for herself and sat down across from me.

“Reuben wouldn’t let you forget how to play,” she laughed softly. “Sergeant, can you tell me about Alex? What was he like…at the end?”

“Ma’am, I wish I were here under different circumstances,” I fell into formality again. She nodded, now more understanding of my position. “I wish I had known him better. He saved my life, really. I was rotting in a Jap POW camp and Dickens managed to get them to treat my ankle. He came with us to the hospital to assist in the operation. I’ll never know why they let him come; must have been short-staffed. I was a lousy patient and they couldn’t even set my foot straight. Then our boys started tearing the place up with missiles and Dickens and I somehow escaped the rubble of the hospital –“ Kate gasped, her face registering shock that anyone would dare to bomb a hospital compound.

“Is that what it was really like?” She questioned, and, being brutally honest, I nodded. “Alex never even alluded to those kinds of details. I feel sick.”

I licked my dry lips, and there appeared before my vision, as clearly as Kate sitting in front of me, the horror of the bombed hospital again and again, more gruesome in my mind than any other aspect of the war. I had read about the heinous war crimes of the Great War and I had even been in the midst of the gruesome details of this war. Would the theaters of World War Two be the encore piece of such dastardly actions?

“Details like that never find their way into letters home, ma’am. Even over there, we kind of turned a blind eye. We didn’t really talk about it in the barracks. We all knew, but we only talked about what we could do to stop it.”

“Were the barracks full of talk about home and girls?”

“Yeah, full of it,” I chuckled, staring into my coffee as I remembered the longing in all the talk.

“I imagined it would be. Alex always wrote to me when he was sitting on his bunk, listening to the guys go on and on about their last dance, their last kiss. Some of the boys were so young they’d never had a first kiss. Then Alex would start to remind me about our first dates, how he had tried for so many months to get up the courage to ask me to a dance. Every letter closed with him telling me how much better I was than all those other girls combined.” Her face flushed a delicate rose color, as if she were embarrassed to tell me what her husband thought of her. She glanced up at me and asked, “Tell me, Jon Kelly, do you have a girl, or a wife, waiting for you?”

Part VI - The Home Front

2011-08-08T10:46:00.000-05:00

~~<>~~

Settled in the darkened berth, at last, from sheer exhaustion and nearly days without sleep, I fell into a dreamless slumber. It was a good idea, but it only lasted a mere two hours. The first bellow of the whistle just east of the Rockies sent me into a spasm of panic. Where was I? Incoming missile? Where was Dawson? I awakened fully, violently almost, thrashing one arm out beside me; it struck the empty seatback and the rest of my body reacted more slowly to the jarred awakening.

I sat forward, my eyes groggy and my neck stiff from my odd position. At first I was confused, but the questioning stares of those seated around and behind me brought my senses back quickly. Idiot! I chided myself for getting so lost mentally. They must think you’re some kind of psychopath! I rubbed my neck and tried to smile reassuringly into the wide eyes of the porter as he made his rounds, checking our tickets.

As soon as he had punched my ticket and moved on, the man who sat across the aisle from me leaned over and started talking jauntily. “Hey Mac, where were you stationed? Returnin’ home with a bum leg?” His brown eyes pried into me; I had the instinctive call that he was a newspaperman on the hunt for a survival story that would thrill readers across the nation. His Eastern twang was not one I could trust too readily.

“Just been overseas a few months,” I replied noncommittally.

“Get the bum leg on Pearl or in the Solomon’s?”
“I’m not at liberty to…” I started to lie, but he interrupted me before I got too far into it.

“Pilot or foot-soldier? You can tell me, Macky. I’m not out for a story. I just wonder about yours,” he pressed with practiced ease.

“How did you know I was a soldier?” I quizzed him with a sideways glance at the other passengers watching us.

“Military bearing. Only a soldier would awaken to a train whistle like it was an incoming mortar,” he smirked impishly, and I despised him for his attitude.

“It was a long tour,” I snapped. Without apology, I turned away from him and glared out the window. All the injustice of the field that I had experienced seemed to physically crash through the curtained window and assault my senses. I winced at the barrage of memories. My heart drummed violently against my chest; I never knew myself to feel so passionate about something, and this was an uncontrollable anger that welled up in my gut.

A “long tour”. What an idiotic thing to call it, Jon. It was a lifetime you spent over there. A lifetime you sacrificed. It wasn’t just a long tour. It was sudden and complete adulthood, thrown at you from the barrel of a gun. I sighed deeply and closed my eyes. It’s over for you, Jon. You survived, if barely. You’re not the same kid who left ten months ago. You may not understand the war, or the feelings you’re experiencing, but you’re a bigger man because of the things you’ve seen. Don’t let the smallness of the people back home bring you down, Jon Kelly.

I fell asleep again with the reassuring voice telling me that if anyone would understand how I was feeling, it would be Kate. She understood the war; she would know my sincerity about Dickens. Indiana was only a few hours away now…

The Home Front

~~<>~~

As told by Kate Dickens

Nine weeks had passed since I received a letter from Alex. It was a dark time for me, during that Indiana winter of 1943. My little boy and I spent many long afternoons at my mother’s home, trying to pass the hours until I heard from Alex again. I couldn’t stop myself from worrying, though I never voiced my fears aloud. My mother was a hopeless optimist, and we would only argue if I let her know my strain. Besides, Titus always knew when I was unhappy, and to see a two-year-old subdued by the mood of a gloomy household would break even the hardest heart.

This afternoon, however, I was alone at home; Titus was with my sister, Jane. She had invited her children’s schoolmates to their home for a sledding party on their country hill and had taken Titus off my hands, “So you can make cookies for all of us and bring them over this evening,” she winked jokingly.

Well, I was the Martha in my family. It was four o’clock and I had three-dozen sugar cookies cooling on my counters. Granted, they were made with rationed sugar and wheat flour, but Jane would be pleased. I put on my coat and packed the cookies in a brown bag. There was a scattered array of bowls, dishes, spoons, food stamps and towels, all dripping with water droplets that had escaped the sink as I baked.

“What a mess to come home to this evening,” I mused unhappily. It nearly undid me to leave my kitchen in such a wreck. If Alex ever sees it like this, he’d…

Before I knew how I was going to finish the thought, the knocker on the front door sounded and I froze with wide eyes, glaring at the mess in the kitchen and wishing I hadn’t just heard what I had. Not company! Not today!

I stashed the bag of cookies and unbuttoned my coat as I rushed through the front hall to the door. Without a thought to my hair or my floured skirt, I peeked through the window by the door before opening it. The winter evening had begun to fall and under the shadow of the porch, I couldn’t make out any features.

When I opened the door, the hall light behind me spilled out onto the snowy porch and I saw only the silhouette of a tall, broad shouldered man in uniform, his hat brim level with his eyes so I could only see shadows of a face. No words came to me. I stepped out onto the veranda, my legs shaking, and threw my arms around my Alex’s neck, crying his name and wetting his shoulder with tears all in the whirl of seconds. Strong arms enveloped me gingerly; and then, gently, he pushed me away.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m Jon Kelly. Marines. I’m here because of Alex.” He put me away from him and removed his cap. It must have been his military bearing; the straight and staunch posture, the firm resolution to show no emotion on his face. Whatever it was, my tears dried suddenly and I felt the weakness dissipate from my joints. It wasn’t Alex, but instead of embarrassment, I only felt the extreme need to be strong.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Kelly?”

“I’m here about your husband, Gunnery Sergeant…Alex Dickens,” he seemed to stumble over the name, as if unsure. I frowned and indicated that he go on. “I was with him on Guadalcanal; we were caught during the last battle to secure the island. Dickens and I…” he stopped, fighting some inner battle that brought the kind of pain to me that you experience when you see, almost in slow motion, a tragedy unfolding and you cannot stop it.

“What about Alex?”

His tough exterior broke and through his words, I saw into his wounded heart. “He died in an explosion on the top of the ridge, just as our guys broke through their lines,” the words escaped in a rush.

Then, everything blurred before me and I couldn’t breathe. Sergeant Kelly reached out to steady me, comforting my crushed soul with the strength of his embrace. I sobbed against him, choking on my labored breaths, unable to overcome the sense that I was dying from the inside out. I realized, even as he held me firmly, that he too was crying. The truth that my husband was dead hit us with the force of a gut-blow.

A gust of cold wind whipped a flurry of snow around our legs and Sergeant Kelly lifted me easily off the ground to carry me inside. I felt so weak. So very small… The surprising gentleness that Jon Kelly had as he laid me on the couch made me feel as though it were Alex who held me again. The memory of Alex and the way he used to hold me made me cling to the Sergeant with a panic I didn’t know existed in the real world.

My husband’s friend let me cry, until I pulled myself together and let go of him. He backed away; I heard him rise and close the door, then go into the kitchen. For the time, I couldn’t think of anything but Alex and the emptiness swallowing me. Face buried in the throw pillow on my davenport, I cried harder and suddenly felt angry. I heard Mr. Kelly return to the living room and take a seat in the windowsill. My anger formed the words that I spat as I raised my head and wiped my eyes.

“If Alex is really dead, why didn’t they send a telegram? Why didn’t they send an officer to tell me?” Indignantly, I stood up to glare into the face of Sergeant Kelly.

“I’m…they did. They sent me. They wanted you to hear it from someone who really knew him. They said…”
“They who? Alex is dead! Do you think it matters how they tell me? Do you think it really matters? He’s dead; he’s not coming home! All the promises he made about us growing old together in this house are dead with him! He’s not coming home to me, and you think it matters who tells me that?” Uncontrollable emotions gripped me. I deserted him and ran blindly upstairs to the seclusion of my bedroom.

Part V - The Tour is Ended

2011-08-02T14:36:00.001-05:00

The Tour is Ended

“We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight on [Guadalcanal], we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills: we shall never surrender.”

Slumped in the cargo hold of the C-47, I dozed on and off during the long hours of the flight between Guadalcanal and Maui. My foot was wrapped tightly in white cloth and stuck out in front of me like a stiffened marshmallow; I couldn’t move on my own once I boarded the plane. There were other fellows in the hold like me, arm or leg bandaged and immobile, but I was the only one from Guadalcanal. The other fellows were on their way home after months at sea in the Navy. It was good to see the fellows that had been our seaward support all those months on the island.

They were a quiet bunch, nearly all of them falling asleep in the first portion of our flight. During the times when I was awake, I tried to chronicle what had happened in the last forty-eight hours, so I could explain the deaths of Thomas and Dickens better to their families.

Somehow, saying that they were good men and had died valiantly seemed to be stabbing them in the back with some kind of unfeeling sentiment that would keep the peace for a while. But they deserved so much more than that. Thomas’ face flashed through my head; the grasping of his fingers on the turf, the labored breathing that filled the air as I surged past him and fought through the jungle grass. It had been a split-second of realization for me when I saw his eyes glaze and his broad shoulders fall limp, but it felt like an eternity as the image danced ruthlessly in my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut and threw my head back against the wall of the cargo hold. I’ve got to get away from the thoughts. I’ve got to escape the memories!

The engine throttled and an air current of turbulence rocked the gigantic body of the C-47. It jolted me awake, but only to spur the memory of the blast that had killed Dickens. The heat prickled my neck again, as if the exit light above the back hatch of the plane was a live flame. The sound of the thrumming engine coursed through the metal body of the airplane, bringing back the sensations of crumbling earth…crumbling lives! Twisting metal beams, cement bricks contorting into rubble around him…

God! I can’t think like that! I fumbled in my pockets to pull out my half-empty cigarette case. My fingers were clumsy getting it open and sticking the rolled paper between my lips. I figured it would help my brain keep off the phantom images if I gave my hands something to do. I held a faint flame to the end of the cigarette, but it was hardly aglow for more than ten seconds before the man across from me choked, woke up and glared across at me in the semi-darkness.

“Hey pal, it’s smelly enough in here without your fumes. Save it for later, will ya?”

His raw New York accent was unmistakable. Wordlessly, I conceded and put out my light.

“I don’t smoke anyway. Just. Bored, I guess.”

He closed his eyes as if to shut me out, and then replied, “What put you here?”

“Ambushed on Guadalcanal. Two of my buddies didn’t make it. I was nominated to tell their families.”

The New Yorker grunted and opened his eyes. “That’ll be a tough day.” His bulky physique certainly didn’t have the appearance of sympathy, but his tone was genuine. “I lost a buddy a few months back. They didn’t send his body home right away; they sent a telegram to the family. I tried to let them give me leave so I could do what you’re doin’. Not a chance, they said. Gotta keep up the fight, they said. Okay, I know they want to win the war. But I remember when I was a lad and we got the telegram at the door that Da’ had been killed in France durin’ the last war. There weren’t no sympathy on the officer’s face when he handed Ma the paper. Me and my sister had to catch Ma as she collapsed. I’ve hated telegrams ever since. They should never do that to the family. So you may not like your job, but you showin’ up in person to testify to the legacy of the man killed will mean the world to ‘em.” He nodded, agreeing with himself.

“Point taken. I’m sorry about your Dad.”

He shifted positions and grunted again. “You ever lost anyone close before now?”

“No. My only relation to die was my Grandma, before I was born.”

“Strange how a war grows you up so quick, huh? I’d never seen a man die before. Never felt a bullet strike me. Never felt so much anger toward one particular person.” He reached down and indicated his knee, swathed in bandages and elevated like mine was. “I couldn’t tell at first that I was hit. But then, I went down. We were in the water, making our way toward the beach when it happened. The bullet just cut me down and I landed in the two-foot water like a floundering fish. I never imagined a man could drown in such shallows, but I nearly did. My head was under, my guts were convulsing, my leg was on fire. And I had one thought. Just one. Murky, bloody water swirling just inches from my mouth, I wished that the Jap who had shot me down would get cut to a million pieces by someone’s bullet. So much surged through my head and it all ended with the Jap responsible getting blown to bits. I don’t feel that kind of rage now, but it gave me strength in the moment to get up and crawl to shore. Gosh, it wasn’t even an injury bad enough to send me home for right away. But it felt like hell. Can’t imagine the torture for the guys who survive a landmine…or a grenade.” His eyes blanked, and I could see it written on his face that he had witnessed men blown apart by one of the deadly hand-held missiles, yet surviving the blast and living to face recovery.

“They’ll never know the hell that we’ve lived through, will they?” I stared at him without seeing him for a moment, but he knew whom I was speaking of right away. He and I were brothers in that moment; made to be understanding, made to feel the pain that the other had experienced.

“They’ll be surprised the first night we can’t escape the nightmares. Even here, I feel the same as I did on the ship. Like every thrust of the throttle is an incoming bomb…”

I didn’t know his name, but I knew his heart, and he knew mine. It was a connection we would have for a lifetime. Only we, the surviving few, would know what the coming days would be like.

~~<>~~

There's so many different worlds so many different suns, and we have just one world, but we live in different ones.

Now the sun's gone to hell and the moon's riding high. Let me bid you farewell. Every man has to die. But it's written in the starlight and every line on your palm: We're fools to make war on our brothers in arms.

~~<>~~

As we stepped off the tarmac in a small costal town in California, the sun was just setting over the ocean, and I shook the Major’s hand in farewell. “Take care of yourself,” I heard myself saying as I clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good luck, Sergeant.”

I stood silently and watched his bulky frame disappear through the doorway of the hangar. He had told me he was going to fly shotgun with the US mail flight – pilot was a friend of his. So. I was on my own now. I didn’t know Southern California very well, and my first taste of it was settled in the gloom of evening. I walked away from the landing strip, my limp making my gait awkward. I carried only my army-issue duffel.

The sidewalks were full of people as I emerged onto the boulevard and made my way toward the heart of the city. It had been so long since I mingled with civilians, I felt immediately out of place. I felt like everyone was staring at me and my limp; wondering why I hadn’t showered and shaved before joining the city people. The noise of regular people making regular commotion almost deafened me. It was a suffocating feeling to walk silently through the crowds.

Our three-hour layover on the Hawaiian island chain had profited only a short walk down the sandy landing strip before we were too tired to do anything but wait for the next flight. I was astounded that civilized life was what it was in California. It was a weeknight, but there were crowds spilling from the theaters and restaurants like it was a normal Saturday night. That’s what struck me about it. It was all so normal.

Pausing at the street corner, beneath an electric lamp, I turned in a circle and let my eyes and ears block out the neon signs and the brass bands that played inside the corner joint. This is life. The panoramic view was silent, moving before me as if in slow motion. This is a normal evening. A boy held the door of a gift shop for a girl in a pink sundress, and I watched as they waltzed down the boardwalk arm-in-arm. This is what young people ought to be doing. This is what I’ve been protecting. Faintly, I heard the strains of a band playing a fanfare. I imagined that they played for the heroes who died overseas. This is what Dickens and Thomas died for. They died so these kids could spend their quarters at the cinema! They died so one of these boys could buy a hamburger, so one of these girls could step out with her boy!

I felt a surge of anger and resentment toward this kind of frivolity. Sure, I saw the signs of war on this side of the pond. There were posters and newsreels and headlines that marred this kind of innocence with news of the war. There were curfews posted, and the ratio of young girls to young men was a staggering reality that most young men had been drafted. But there was such blindness in this scene.

I wanted to shout and knock some reality back into these kids’ heads! “There’s a war on, kids! Why aren’t you thinking about the soldiers on Guadalcanal? Do you even know what Guadalcanal is?” I began to sweat from the desperation to get out.

“Excuse me, sir, are you lost?”

I jumped at the sound of a voice behind me. I whirled around with my defense ready. “Am I lost?” I started, but stopped when I saw who was asking…

She was probably twenty-five, not slim, but dressed in a white suit that accentuated her womanly figure in a pleasing way. Her auburn hair was full around her face, wisps of it blowing across her cheek as she peered quizzically at me and awaited a response. The thought struck me that she was very pretty…until I realized she was holding recruiting cards in her hand and had an emblem on her lapel that read “Red Cross Recruiting Office”. I flashed a sarcastic grin and gave her my answer.

“I just stepped off the airship from the Solomon’s. The limp isn’t a cop out, it’s a legitimate wound.” I pounded my chest for emphasis, “I got a Purple Heart and everything, Madame!”

Her expression didn’t change as I ranted. When I finished, my face was flaming red from my anger toward her for taking my service for granted and asking such a pointed question. She simply blinked and replied coolly, “I can direct you to our office, or you can stop circling like you’re a lost pup.”

Instantly I was ashamed of my conduct. I ripped my hat from my head and smoothed my hair. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have no excuse for ripping into you. It’s the stress I’m under speaking; not really me, ma’am. I don’t suppose you’d forgive a jock for being dumb, would you ma’am?”

Halfway through my apology, the girl had dropped her eyes coquettishly and wouldn’t raise them to meet mine again. So I leaned down and glanced hopefully into her face; when I perceived from the smile toying around her mouth that she wasn’t really put off, I made a decision.

“Buy you a coke and forget the apology?” I proposed, hearing in my voice the youth and fun I had forgotten I had.

She raised one eyebrow and stifled a smile. “One coke, with lime.”

“Okay, with lime. What’d ya say?” I probed hopefully, ducking my head another level to look in her eyes.

She brought her head up, linked her arm through mine, and said with a bright grin, “I’m sorry I offended you. It’s only my job to recruit young men. Now that I look at you, I can tell you don’t need me to tell you your duty.”

I asked her what the best place for a coke was in the district, and we walked three blocks down the square to a little joint, quieter than the others, and took a window booth. By now night had fallen in full, but artificial lights kept the boulevard bright and we watched the world hasten toward a silent night from inside the restaurant.

“Betty,” she said suddenly, sipping her coke with the air of an heiress drinking her wine.

“Kelly. Jon, First Sergeant.”

“You’re a Marine?”

“I am.”

“Why are you home, Sergeant?”

I answered without thinking. “Oh, I’m not yet. This is only the first leg home for me.”

Faint disappointment flickered on her face. “Where’s home, then?”

“I’m going back to the Midwest. But I have two things to do first. I guess you could say I’m putting them off.” I swirled the ice cubes in my drink and watched them dunk beneath the surface, then pop up with carbonated bubbles riding the lip of the cube. It had been months since I’d drunk a soda…I almost forgot that in the time lapsed since being stateside, I had grown up into a man, and soda was for kids.

Betty was speaking again. “What kind of things?”

I looked up and studied her. I didn’t know her story, but I could see on her face that she had seen something that had made her grow up too. We weren’t youngsters; we were adults, fighting some kind of battle internally that made us relate to each other and accept the unlikely friendship. I knew I could tell Betty what was bothering me.

“I lost two of my buddies over there. One was real close. He and I were in training together before we were shipped out. I lost him right before the Japs picked me up. This other fella was in the same POW camp. Our guys got to fighting real hard there, made a final advance and took the island. Dickens and I thought we were safe. Then the building he was hiding in just went up in flames. I was standing outside. I should be dead too. But all I’ve got is this lousy foot, and they’re both dead, see? My Captain nominated me to come home and tell their families face-to-face what happened. Dickens has a wife, and a boy, in Indiana.” I sighed heavily; Betty just listened intently to me talk. “One half of my heart wants to run away from this duty, but the other half is desperate for them to know it from me.”

“You don’t trust the telegraph service to get it right? Neither do I.” She looked at me…no; she looked through me, making me feel mildly uncomfortable under her piercing gaze. “They never get it right,” she went on to say, piquing my curiosity. She laughed humorlessly at my expression and explained. “My young man was on Pearl when they attacked.”

“I’m sorry.” It sounded so limp to tell that to a girl who had experienced this world’s worst kind of heartache.

She took a shuddering sigh and shook off the emotion. “Well, we can’t rewind now, can we?” Betty stood up and gave me a sad smile. “I must get going. Good luck, soldier.”

“It’s…Kelly,” I reminded her, struggling to work my stiff foot out from under the table.

“Right. Kelly,” her smile softened and I took her hand in mine as a way of saying goodbye without exuding any feeling. “Quickest route to where you’re going is by train.”

With that last tip, Betty excused herself and left me in the diner alone. I watched her cross the street, hips swinging in a womanly saunter, and then she disappeared around the corner.

I picked up my gear and decided to take her advice; if there was a midnight train, I hoped to be on it.

Part the Fourth

2011-07-28T16:50:00.002-05:00

~~<>~~

The time of day was hard to gauge because of the lingering smoke in the air. As Dickens forged our way through the rubble, I kept him posted on the scene outside.

“I can’t see nobody runnin’ around. Must’ve been caught with their pants down. What I want is a jeep…you think the Jap’s lorries are as hard to maneuver as the beasts in our army?”

“Probably worse, if you consider the terrain they’re made for.” Dickens was grunting under the strain of holding me upright and trying to find a clear pathway outside. I gave up asking him questions and speculated on the heaps of rubbish that had once been the medevac center.

“Looks like our boys cleaned ‘em out pretty good. There’s some smoldering debris upstairs, so watch your head.”

“How can I when you’re hanging over it like my own personal raincloud?” Dickens growled. I chuckled, because he wasn’t kidding; I was kind of hanging over him in an overly possessive, desperate manner.

“Sorry. I’ll keep an eye out for both of us.”

“Don’t mind if you do, pal. Now, where do you think we can hide out ‘til we’re rescued?”

I scanned the scene before us. The hospital was in ruins but there was a stretch of barracks – probably extensions of the hospital and their mess hall – that were still standing. The rest of the area was surrounded by tall trees. And there was not a breath of activity aside from the smoldering heaps of plaster and concrete. I felt strangely that we were being watched, that there were patrols in the trees just beyond the perimeter. My inkling was spot-on. The moment we stepped outside, there was the unmistakable ping! of a bullet flying past my head. We both ducked and I thought then that that was likely the last time I was going to escape death that day…

“Is there an open building with a roof we could use for cover, but also for watch?” Dickens’ voice was muffled, since I lay on top of him. But his brain wasn’t muffled. I liked his idea and said so. “I think there’s an ammo dump behind the hospital. I didn’t see much when we were coming in, but I saw enough. Our boys likely have their eye on it. And the Japs won’t blow us up if we’re in their ammo dump and they think they have a chance of saving it from our boys in the sky!”

“We’re going to have to scuttle our way under cover as best we can. You. Go first.”

“What about your foot?” He protested.

“I’ll manage. I’m a Marine! I love this stuff! Now, get!”

Down on his belly, Dickens crawled forward, over a twisted doorframe and beneath a broken archway. I followed his lead, scraping my elbows and raking my stomach along the painfully sharp debris. It felt like boot camp all over again, only now the strain of physical exertion was coupled with stabbing pains. The mental process was the same. I broke a sweat, and with every trickle I felt down my forehead, I repeated the drill sergeant’s orders. His bark had been completely equal to his bite; but the thought of him kept me distracted enough from my pain that we made it safely across the ruins and into a closet of relative shelter without even one bullet hitting us.

“Where to from here?”

“Indiana?”

We were both breathing hard, huffing for air as though we were middle-aged women who weren’t used to the exertion. I grinned and panted my response, “I’ve never been to Indiana.”

It was the oddest time to think of it, and Dickens’ reply held a touch of homesickness that distracted us from our imminent death. “My little wife Kate would love to show you all of Indiana’s charm. Look me up after this…blows over.”

“I’m as good as my promise to do it.” I grinned into the brown-eyed laugh of Dickens. He started to say something more, but I interrupted and pointed over his shoulder. “We can get through there.”

He led the way that I showed him and within ten minutes, we had skirted the remaining half-acre of rubble and were secluded in the shadows beneath the awning of a Quonset building. We were somewhere behind the hospital, up on a hill overlooking the valley where the medical center had been strategically laid. With a quick glance, I could see the outlook posts along the ridge of the opposite hill. If any of them are still up there in their nests, they’ve probably got their sights on us!

“Dickens, they’re probably watching our every move.” He followed my eyes and nodded his agreement with my speculation. “Follow me,” I hissed, climbing backwards up the hill.

“The Quonset hut?”

“You take a look inside. I’ll keep watch out here,” I offered. He didn’t object, and with his hands on the window frame, he pulled himself up and disappeared inside. I backed up against the wall and looked over my shoulder. Underbrush fanned out up the hill behind us in variegated shades of green. It made me feel as if I were slipping off the edge of the hill to look up and see only green beyond me, breaking only when it hit the sky. I scanned that sky, that overcast, hazy Asian sky, and suddenly remembered there were supposed to be bombers – our guys – up there to pick us up! I threw my fist against the wall as a warning to Dickens, inside the hut.

I’m not sure what happened right then, but the sound of bursting machinegun fire erupted inside the Quonset hut and there was searing heat nipping at my neck. I flew to the ground and rolled in the grass, tumbling down the slope a few yards as I watched the building Dickens had gone into ignite and become a pyre of burning debris and black smoke.

There was the wail of an incoming mortar to pierce the next moments. I could feel the ground quake underneath me, shaken by the reverberating explosions.

God, what’s happening?

The world seemed to be engulfed entirely in a surreal glow of orange flames. The sky, foliage, and buildings were tinted black from the spewing smoke, and there was no one in the world but me to watch the enormous ejections of spewing ammunition cascade to the earth around me. After recovering my temporarily damaged hearing, my only thoughts concerned Dickens and how we were going to get out of there. It didn’t matter anymore who had done the shooting, or if our guys were near enough to rescue us…

“Charlie! Charlie, answer me!”

Adrenaline forced me to claw my way toward the fire, tears from the smoke streaming down my face. I could feel my weakened physical status lagging behind my desire to rescue Dickens, but I forced one foot in front of the other until I was so near the inferno that I could smell the hair burning in my nostrils.

“Charlie, where are you?” The smoke made me choke on my own words. It was like inhaling chemicals intentionally, almost as a dare to see how much I could handle. I shielded my nose and mouth with my arm and wondered if I too were going to be caught in the burning structure when the roof collapsed. “Charlie, answer me!”

Blinded by tears and smoke, I ripped apart the twisted doorframe that blocked my entrance into the Quonset. I yelled Dickens’ name with every breath, hoping that he could hear me…hoping that he wasn’t dead…hoping I could reach him in time.

Sounds of battle – the angry bursts of a machinegun, the whine of a grenade, the grunts of the wounded – followed me from down below. I envisioned the hand-to-hand combat unfolding on the tarmac just beyond the hospital grounds. Part of me was relieved that our guys were forcing their way through the jungle and had caught the Japs with their pants down. Again. But the other part of me determined that none of that mattered; I just had to reach Dickens.

I hollered his name again and paused to listen for a response. There was a faint voice coming from beyond the opposite wall of the hut; an American voice. Dickens! I scrambled back from the wreckage of the building and breathed in heavily of the cleaner air outside. The building was not large, and the concrete wall built into the side of the hill still stood intact. It was there, leaning against the cement blocks, holding his shattered arm with his other, blood soaking his green uniform a stained black, that I found Charlie Dickens.

“Charlie!” I dropped to the turf beside him, taking his bloodied but uninjured arm in a firm grasp. I didn’t know what to say. His face, so handsome before, was now a jagged gash from scalp to jaw. His curly hair was singed and blood spurted from the wound onto me as I held onto his hand.

He knew, better than I did at the time, that he was dying. His shuddering breath and agonizing search for strength to speak shot me straight in the heart. “I…I…tell Kate…show…Indiana…you’ll…love…”

“Don’t talk, Charlie, just tell me what to do. I’ll get you to the tarmac. There’s a medic down there who’ll fix you up. God, you look…”

“Tell Kate…love her…and…” Bruised eyelids dropped shut, broken sigh escaped his chapped lips.

“I will, Charlie, I will. Don’t…don’t…”

His hand went limp in mine. I touched my trembling chin to his fingers and bit back tears. He was gone.

~~<>~~

Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.

I sat beside Dickens’ still form for a long time, not looking at him or imagining the horror of those moments inside the Quonset, but just staring straight ahead of me, wondering how I was going to tell Kate what he had asked me to. Knees folded to my chest, arms wrapped around them, I cried a little, asking the unanswerable question of the ages: Why?

Suddenly, I heard the victorious shout of American soldiers, “Oo-rah!” My silent grief turned into reluctant rejoicing as the meaning of the victory sank in on me. I got up and jogged out of the shadow of the demolished ammo dump. The scene was mayhem below me, but I could identify the Americans from the Japs with no trouble. Our guys wielded the guns and the Japs stood in a cluster of some hundred-odd men with their hands raised above their heads. I could hardly believe it. This means we’ve taken Guadalcanal! Six months of fighting for this moment!

The loss of Dickens made the moment hard to grasp. Reluctant to rejoice too heartily, I raised my arms and waved them for attention. One of the American soldiers caught my eye and trained a gun on me, lowering it only when I shouted that I was an American and needed a stretcher to bring my friend down.

A medic and two stretcher-bearers came jogging up the hill, yelling the story of what had happened to profit the capture of the island in snatches of detail. I felt the excitement swell over me. This news was like the changing of the scoreboard in your favor at a ballgame you’d sweated and prayed for during all nine innings.

“Sergeant, where’s your gun?”

“I was in the hospital you bombed,” I snapped, mad of a sudden that they had dropped their bombs on me and then expected me to escape, find a weapon, and join the fight.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Sergeant,” the medic grinned. “You look OK for it.”

My composure surprised me as I led them to Dickens and explained what had happened. “He’s a hero, fellas. He saved my life. Carry him down the hill for me, will ya?”

Suddenly tender toward me, the three men nodded grimly and carefully placed Dickens’ broken body on the stretcher. “Are you all right, Sergeant?”

“I’ll let you know when my senses return,” I told him.

We made a solemn party as we filed down the hill. I could see temporary American headquarters being strung up on the tarmac and was suddenly tired. So tired…and my foot…god, it ached.

~~<>~~

These mist-covered mountains are a home now for me. But my home is the lowlands, and always will be. Some day you'll return to your valleys and your farms, and you'll no longer burn to be brothers in arms.

Through these fields of destruction, baptisms of fire I've witnessed your suffering, as the battles raged higher. And though they did hurt me so bad in the fear and alarm, you did not desert me, my brothers in arms.

~~<>~~

I held the letter in my hands, a letter from Dickens’ wife Kate, dated two months ago. The yellowed paper with bloodstains around the edges crackled in my shaking fingers.

“My darling husband, December 2^nd, 1942

I am just at the end of my day. I figure you are just beginning yours. Wherever you are tonight, I hope you understand the feelings surrounding these pale words. I long to see your face, your curly head, your broad shoulders filling our bedroom doorway as so many times before when you would stand and watch me write to my sister, glowing to her of the kind things you did for me every day of our early marriage, before the war separated us. But I just checked and there is no one there. The frame is empty. When will you be home again?

Titus is too young to understand why Mommy cries sometimes when she looks at him or tussles his hair. But he can identify you in our wedding photo as “Da’y”. He has your chin. I hate the reality that you’ve never met your son. He will be two years old by the time you receive this letter. I feel that I am getting old. I haven’t changed so very much, but I feel altered. The war has done something to me internally. I am not the carefree Kate you married. I know we will all be different people when this is all over. There is one thing I know has not changed:

My love, you are still the darling of my dreams, my hero, and my most treasured earthly possession.

Come home to me soon, Alex.

My love always,

Goodnight,

Kate”

Tears stung my eyes as I read the close of the note. What must the young soldier truly been feeling as he slipped away? I had barely known about Kate, and that Charlie was a father to a little guy named Titus was a complete surprise. I suddenly felt sick, angrier than before at the injustice of my life for his death.

With the letter were photos – a baby boy playing with a kitten, both seated in a bassinet. “Titus Michael Dickens – 9 months” the caption read. Toothless smile…wispy baby hair…Charlie’s chin. I reverently placed the picture with the letter and thumbed to the next photograph. The girl smiling at the camera was a blooming nineteen; thin, willowy, and amused by something that made her dimples crease deeply in her cheeks. It felt very personal looking at this photo of Kate, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the milky depths of her eyes. Her face was radiance personified. I couldn’t help but think that Charlie was probably behind the camera and her smile was for him alone. Reluctantly, I put that picture down, but the next photo in Dickens’ wallet made me blush a deeper red. I stuffed it away like it was aflame. But not before glimpsing a very happy, giggling pose of Kate in her bathing suit, dangling her long and shapely legs in the water from the dock. I was thoroughly embarrassed, especially because I had noticed her.

My rummage through Dickens’ uniform ended there and I sat down at a table in the makeshift hospital to think. Soldiers and medical officers roamed in and out of the tent, setting up operating rooms for the soldiers wounded in the battle. I knew outside on the tarmac were the dead, wrapped in sheets and labeled for home. I thought I should write to his parents, and then to Kate, but I could barely think of the words to say. This was going to be the hardest duty the war had yet forced out of me.

Alexander “Charlie” Dickens, an Indiana boy with a heart of gold and nerves of steel, had become my best friend before I even knew him. What a short time I had known him. But there was a lifetime of connection between us that I couldn’t deny, no matter how tough it was for me to acknowledge it.

What did a guy tell his buddy’s parents about their son’s last day on this earth? Should I tell everything, from the heat of the inferno, the roar of the explosion, the crush of his body? Or should I say he died of unknown causes? I wasn’t a writer; I didn’t know how to put the pain that I was feeling into words.

I twiddled my pen between thumb and forefinger. There were no words to describe the goodness of Alex Dickens; his eulogy was not one that had been written before, nor one that could ever be written by a human hand.

“Having trouble, Sergeant?”

I started, violently, you might say. I threw the pencil down and leaped to my feet at the sound of the voice. “Dawson!” My Captain stood staunchly beside the table, braced, as it were, for the savage embrace I threw around him.

“Jonny…so glad the Japs didn’t…”

“I thought you and Thomas were…”

Neither of us could finish what we wanted to say. I was so relieved to have him there; almost disbelieving that it was really him. But he was there in the flesh, hugging me and clapping me on the back with wordless condolence for the loss we were both feeling.

We sat down at the table then and rehashed the horrible moments that led to our separation. The only injury Dawson had caught was a flesh-would to the arm, but he had stayed down and the Japs took him for dead long enough for him to disappear when they had gone. One of the medics brought us two cups of coffee, fresh brewed and hot. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a fresh cup of coffee. It tasted foreign, too black and too warm for the adrenaline I was experiencing. I fingered the handle but did not drink more.

“I guess our fight’s done.”

“You’re done,” Dawson agreed, and then regretfully acknowledged, “I have eighteen more weeks before my tour’s up.”

“I’m going home?” It sounded so strange to say that, and to match those words with the reality that we had taken Guadalcanal, at long last.

“You’ve got a duty to do back home. Don’t you think?”

I raised wary eyes to meet his look and without asking, I knew what he was talking about. I nodded mutely. The prospect of telling Kate the news about her husband face-to-face dampened the victory we had just made. I didn’t care about the island anymore. What’s an entire island without Thomas and Dickens?

“I don’t know if I can do it, Captain.”

“I know the kind of man you are, Jonny. You’ll feel like you can’t follow through until you get to her door; and then you’ll know why you’re there, and you’ll know what to say.” The Captain’s face was creased with lines of sympathy for me, his brown eyes filled with confidence in me.

“I’ll do my duty, Captain, sir.”

“You better get on, then. Your flight leaves tonight. You have one stop along the Hawaiian chain, and then straight to California. The medics will set your foot and you’ll be good as new by the time you reach Indiana.”

I nodded, grateful that Dawson had his head and was keeping me grounded. Without him there to keep me level, I might have felt like curling up to die. “What are you going to do, Captain?”

Dawson looked at me strangely, then shrugged one shoulder and downed the rest of his coffee. “I’m going to stay with the squadron. Fight on up the chain. You left some work unfinished, old boy,” he grinned.

“I wish you were goin’ home with me. It’s just not right this way.” I frowned, then asked suddenly, “Where’s Thomas?”

“They took his body to the base this morning in a chopper. His family doesn’t know yet; I told the Army not to send a telegram. I…kinda figured they ought to know it from someone who knew him.”

Realization flooded my head; my stomach sank to its very pit and hung there, dragging my heart and energy down with it. “Yes sir, Captain,” I replied dully. It was no suggestion; it was an off-handed order, and I couldn’t refuse it.

“I’m sorry, Jon. So sorry about all this.”

I often thought later that he couldn’t have decently said anything else, but it was still the hardest thing the Army had ever required of me.

Part III

2011-07-26T13:25:00.001-05:00

For Rachel. ;-]

~~<>~~

“Come on, buddy, you’re going to make it. Come on. Don’t let yourself think of the pain. Think of something nice. Come on, soldier. They’re gonna take your boot off and treat your leg. You’ve got to let them. Lay still!”

Someone was sitting on my head, forcing my shoulders to remain on the chilled metal of the operating table. I resisted with every fiber in me that wasn’t affected with the searing pain. My strength was small and my attempt fruitless. In the haze of a drugged sleep, I could but barely identify the arm that fell across my forehead to steady my thrashing. The voice continued to soothe.

“Don’t think about the pain, boy. Remember the kitten? Remember…uh, Julia?” The words, meant to calm my fevered trembling, sent a spasm through me that angered the voice of the man who held me down. “Stop it, Sergeant! You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had. Now lay still, dammit!”
Scissors began to cut away my pant leg. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, but the only conscious thought I had was that they were amputating my leg at the foot. I screamed bloody murder at them, but it only warranted a heavy slam to my head from the deadweight sitting on my chest. I smelled something funny…something that resembled the chemical lab in my old high school, and I had the strangest sensation that I could feel myself falling. Whether it was off the operating table or only deeper into a trance, I couldn’t tell.

Then, without warning, there was the distinct sound of an incoming mortar that brought me right back from the drugged stupor that they had tried to dupe me into. My soldier instincts came alive and I threw off the bulk that held me down.

“Get out of the way! Incoming!” I shouted and tried to open my eyes, but because of the morphine pumped into my system, the grogginess wouldn’t leave me. My eyes refused to open, like I was in a really bad dream, so I was fighting blind. But I was fighting, relying on adrenaline to be my strength. A shouting match broke out between the other two men in the room. Between yelling at me to lay still and at each other to hold me down, the bombs continued to fall on the hospital. I yelled right back at them that I wasn’t going to lay there and let the bombs rip my guts out. “We’ve gotta ge-!” The next explosion rocked the room adjacent to the one we were in and I felt the floor shift and the walls give way. Ceiling tiles caved in to my right and the heat of the fire burned my neck.

The sensations of battle aroused me to the mission at hand. Forcing myself to sit up and open my groggy eyes, I shifted from under the slab of wall that had crumbled on my legs. Under the plank I saw the horrified face of the Japanese doctor, frozen in agony and captured by death.

Looking around the strewn room, half expecting another bomb to land in my lap, I caught sight of the doctor’s assistant who had held me in place for the (unsuccessful) operation on my leg. He knelt on the floor, clutching his head in his arms for protection from the raining debris. I was sitting precariously on the table, a perfect target for falling shrapnel. Quickly I slid off the operating table, never minding my twisted foot and aching muscles. Pain was no match for my determination to get out of that deathtrap.

“Hey, you alive?” I asked of my hunched companion.

Shell-shocked, but unhurt by all appearances, he raised his head. “You’re alive?”

“We better scram, before our own guys shoot us to bits.”

“You think it’s our fellas?”

“Uh-huh. They’re just mistaken that we’re in here. Let’s go.”

He agreed with me and helped me to stand. I threw one arm over his shoulder and together we limped toward the doorway. It was partly blockaded by rubble on the floor, but my companion kicked our path clean. As he did, I introduced myself with the tone of a man who believes names do matter, even if we were going to die within the minute. “I’m Kelly. Jon.”

“Dickens,” he grunted, supporting me with one arm and shoving the door open with the other.

“Charlie?”

There was a smirk on his face as he answered, “Sure.”

~~<>~~

As we ran through the abandoned halls of the military hospital, Charlie explained the situation to me. I noticed his more refined way of speaking – compared to myself only – and wondered if his name really was Charlie Dickens.

“Here’s the long of it, Sergeant. This is a Japanese hospital in the bush of a Japanese-held patch of jungle. Only fifty klicks or so away from the spot where they picked you up. I was just a regular POW. You’re a special one, I surmised, when they ordered me to accompany you to the hospital. I was the last-resort medic in my unit before the Japs nabbed me, so I at least know what wounds look like. Yours isn’t so bad as they thought. The bullet made a clean hole anyway, without leaving residue or infection.” Here he grinned at me, aware that I was in worse shape than all that, and also in pain. I said nothing in reply, silenced suddenly as we staggered around a corner and discovered the wing of the medevac building that had been hit the hardest in the raid. Japanese doctors and nurses had been trapped in their kitchen, blown to pieces over a cup of coffee. Coffee cups were shattered and the dark liquid dripped like charred tears down the crumbled stones and partial walls. Tables and chairs were thrown haywire, tilted and positioned in disarray. Splinters from ruptured chairs decorated the rubble with broken smolders.

Dickens and I couldn’t have made it across the shambles without discovering and/or climbing over the dead bodies of those trapped, which neither of us wanted to do, so we turned back and hunted for an alternative route. Dickens, startled like me into silence by the scene we had accidentally found, started talking again.

“I know where we are only by the navigation it took to get here. If we follow the road back…”

“No need to be stupid, Dickens,” I retorted. For a minute he looked hurt and I hurried to explain. “The road cuts through the jungle. Our pilots will never see us from there. And Jap patrols would pick us up like that-” I snapped my fingers in his face and felt superior. My senses were returning to full speed.

“If there’s a place with any height advantage…” he nodded in understanding.

“They might pick us up,” I finished his thought. We looked at each other, I think for the first time really caring if the other survived or not, and grinned. He had such a positive face; blue eyes and cheerful smile. I hadn’t seen anyone look so doggone happy in a long time. It made me miss Thomas and Dawson…

“Do you know any more about the skirmish that took place just before they got me?”

“You mean, did they capture anyone else?” He eyed me as though reading my thoughts. “They didn’t. I’m sorry. They were boasting in the camp just after you came in that they shot the rest.”

I groaned and a wave of nauseous regret swept me over, gut to head, settling heavily on my heart. “My Captain. And Thomas too.”

“I’m sorry, Kelly.” Then, a little unsure of himself, or maybe unsure of me, he said, “You’re not going to quit on me, are you?” He held onto me extra firmly, as if to tell me he wasn’t going to let me down, even if I disappointed him.

“Nah. I’ll get by.” I wiped my sleeve across my eyes. “I’ll make sure the Japs know they didn’t win by killing Jimmy and Keith. They’d have to break a lot more of me than my bones to make me let my buddies down. I just hate the Japs, that’s all.”

“Turn that hate into determination and maybe we’ll both make it.”

“That’s my plan!” I clapped him on the shoulder. He seemed to like that we were now friends, comrades in our own personal conflict for life. Honestly, I did too. We weren’t alone. In a way we were, but we were alone together, and that changes things.

~~<>~~

Part II

2011-07-24T18:43:00.000-05:00

Feedback, anyone?? :-)

Part II

エスケープ！

“Those who hammer their guns into plows will plow for those who do not.”

Of the approximately 130,000 American POW’s in World War II, 27,000 or more were held by Japan. American POW’s in Japan were forced to labor for the Japanese army. Those injured were often shot right away instead of the expense of patching them up.

I could feel the hard grain of a wooden plank beneath my head even before I fully regained consciousness. In my mind’s eye, I was sitting in the dugout trench somewhere along the south shore of Guadalcanal, a meager, half-consumed C-ration meal in my hands, and the squadron’s radio airing some of the best jazz Louis Armstrong ever played.

My mind had barely processed all this when I really woke up. The first thing I noticed was the empty growling of my stomach. There were no C-rations. I was tied to a board, lying horizontally, but I couldn’t make out anything above me. No sky; no stars; no trees; only blackness that never altered. I couldn’t define the seams of a roof, and the distinct smell of damp earth concluded for me the idea that I was in an underground bunker. I did hear something that sounded like a radio, but there was no music. Only haunting, chilling words spoken in Japanese alone.

There arose in my throat suddenly a desperate, panicked feeling, and I thrashed my head to the other side. There was nothing around, above, or below me that I could see. My temples throbbed with every rushed heartbeat, as if someone was persistently beating on a kettledrum, and the abused tympani was my head. I couldn’t bear the pain, and, writhing against the bonds that held me down, I yelled out for my Captain. My throat ached with the strain of my voice cracking again like it had when I was fourteen. I could taste the blood in my mouth that broke loose from my cracked lip. In the end, the effort to cry out only rewarded me with a strangling feeling of choking on my own blood and saliva.

I was still pinned down, alone in a dank cell, and muscles I had only read about in high-school biology ached and trembled with spasms of pain. Hopelessness consumed me. Without the strength to fight back, my eyes misted over and I closed them in resignation. There was a moment when I could feel the sobs in my gut, but the sound was muffled and came out only as a pitiful, choked sigh. I was completely abandoned in the vast darkness, crying like a baby, hurting like…

“Shizukani!”

I jerked myself awake and craned my neck to where the voice had come from.

“What, sir?” I mumbled, only half-conscious that I didn’t recognize the voice, or even the language.

The sounds of someone on a rampage, throwing wooden beams out of his way and grunting with the effort, as if rummaging for something just beyond the wall of my dark enclosure, preceded a brilliant flash of daylight, and before I could comprehend the inflection in the unintelligible words, the angry face of a Japanese officer stood above me.

“Quiet! One sound more and you will die!”

I understood his perfect English with the kind of recognition one feels when you’ve come face-to-face with a deadly, venomous predator that you’ve only vaguely heard about. He was the first Jap soldier I’d seen. His face was close enough to mine so that I could identify his features perfectly. He was hardly astounding or incredible, but I guess I looked pretty stunned and couldn’t say anything either. He took my silence as a victory on his part.

“That’s more like it,” he snapped, drawing back from my pale face. “You’re fevered, soldier. You’ll die anyway.” He added this as an after-thought before striding toward the door he had opened. I caught a glimpse of the outside surroundings before he slammed the door in his wake. There was jungle all around, it was raining, and the row of barracks I had glimpsed seemed to be sinking right into the mire, up to the rooflines. I lay on the pallet in a daze, my eyes having difficulty readjusting to the blackness. I’m going to die. It was the first time in all the war that I actually believed that. It was no longer a wild idea of something that would never happen to me. It was my reality. Just when I was going to die was still undetermined.

Maybe if I pester him, he’ll…morbidity hadn’t yet conquered me and I forced myself to stop the train of thought. I knew I was in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. Probably somewhere in the jungle near our position in the south of Guadalcanal. After all, it hadn’t even been a day since we – Dawson, Thomas, and I – were stranded in a foxhole…had it?

My mind grew foggy as I tried to reason myself through the chain of events that had brought me here. I knew only one thing for sure. I was set to die, and god, did my foot hurt.

~~<>~~

The next time I awoke, I immediately sensed something was different. I was no longer chained to a pallet. Instead, I lay facedown on a slab of cool metal and my knees were curled up to my chest. I rolled onto my side and groped for something in the darkness.

There was a reassuring voice to let me knew escape attempts were futile. “Save it for later, kid.” I grew still and listened. The voice was an unfamiliar drawl, lazy like the speaker was half asleep. “You and me are headin’ for some nice, clean hospital somewhere, I reckon. Far away from the slime of the POW camp. I don’t speak Japanese, but I think the Jap Officer promised us at least two girls apiece, where we’re headed.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but the pain was too intense in my jaw, shooting up to the crown of my head and filtering through every thought until I could only concentrate on that ache. I shut my mouth and waited for the throbbing to ease up before mumbling a reply.

“You’re not in good shape, are you? I wouldn’t suppose you to be after what they did to you. But I guess you’re alive. That counts for something, right?”

“I’d rather be a stiff!” I snapped. His words had jarred my mind from my pain for a minute and I had enough force in my reply to cause the speaker to sit back in silence for a moment.

The vehicle we were stowed in bumped over the ruts in the road at a painfully jarring top-speed, and I heard the driver growl as the truck swerved violently to the right. I couldn’t understand what he said, but I guessed he was cursing in Japanese. It didn’t sound friendly, and the vehicle’s wild careening warranted an expletive or two. I braced myself with my unhurt foot against the end gate and grasped in the darkness for the wall.

“We’ll probably die en route anyway, kid!” My companion drawled, and I heard him grasping for the slats in the wall of the truck for some kind of grip. “These Japs may know how to fight, but they’re motorway skills stink like the plague!”

I just gritted my teeth and hoped that death would come swiftly. I had no other hope; I was in too much pain to think of survival. The truck rounded a sharp bend and I was thrown away from the wall, landed on my uninjured arm and lolled to and fro like a limp ragdoll. I felt like a tortured dolly, entirely at the mercy of the unbending will of a tyrannical bully. I wanted to cry out, but my head wouldn’t form the words I wanted to say. All I could envision in that moment was the defenseless kitten I had once taunted and tormented when I was the foolish age of nine. I could hear my kid sister, crying and pleading for me to stop hurting the calico’s poor ears…

“It’s tail, Jonny! Stop it at once! The kitten’s going to cry! Oh Jonny, stop it! Kittens don’t like their ears touched! You’re going to hurt it! Jonny, please!”

It was torturous to my mind to replay the scene, worse than any physical suffering I felt. I had boasted to my schoolmates that I had whooped the kitten. The memory made me sick now, as I was tossed around and injured at the will of the Japanese driver. How could I, as even a little boy, have been so mean? I realized now just how little I knew about the way life worked. People were bullies, but meanness hurt more than just the one to whom the bullying was directed. I had hurt my sister, perhaps more than the kitten I teased; perhaps I had made her fear me with a terror that I had been too young to understand.

The road leveled beneath us and the jolting ride was momentarily tamed. I relaxed the muscles in my arm – the only barrier that held me from flying into the metal side of the vehicle – and wiped the sweat from my cheek. I was very feverish; I could feel the creeping ache and the prickling sensation under my clothes. I grew desperate for answers, desperate to get out.

“Why was I such a bully? I’m just like him!” My talk was deranged, I guess, because my companion grunted his reply and then told me it was the fever.

“Just like who? You’re talkin’ through a haze, boy.”

“Just like him; I hurt her and he hurt me. This truck. I am no better. It wasn’t even hers, but she defended it. And I was a jerk!”

“Hey, enough about bein’ a jerk. It’s the Japs who’ve got you like this. And we better be on our way to the medevac hospital, or the fever’s going to do you in.” His voice sounded tired, like I was already a lost cause but he’d say what he had to in order to keep me alive. Or at least calm.

“If I die,” I said suddenly, panicked that I might die without saying what I wanted to. “Tell Julia I didn’t mean to hurt the calico. Tell her I’m sorry.” I groped in the darkness for my companion, and I found him by his foot. I grabbed the leather sole and shook it to get his attention. “Tell her…I’m sorry. Promise me, friend! Tell her I died a better man.”

He shook his boot free of my grasp, twisting my wrist as he did so. My arm went numb and the combination of pain from my injured leg and bruised ribs overwhelmed me. I passed out before I could hear him promise to honor my last request…

100th Post! Better make it a good one.

2011-07-23T11:26:00.002-05:00

I have reached a sort of milestone, I guess; 100 times I have rambled to you and you all have forgiven me graciously. So this time, I won't give my own ramblings (I did write this, but it's not my personal experience. "And thank goodness for that!", you'll say, when you've read how I treat my characters.) I have written 24 pages on this, but I will give it to you section by section and make it last longer. Like a piece of gum; halvsies make it last twice as long! ;-] Without further ado:

Are We Dead Yet?

The Account of U.S. Marine First Sergeant Jonathan Kelly

Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands

February, 1943

Part I

Deathtrap

After three months of intense and bitter fighting, U.S. Marines under the command of Major General Alexander A. Vandegrift continued to battle their way up the Solomon Islands chain in the South Pacific. Japanese resistance was fierce on Guadalcanal; control of the island seesawed back and forth in a lose-lose game for several months. Sergeant Jon Kelly was with the first wave of Americans to land on Guadalcanal, mid-September, 1942. This began the first of many rigorous Jungle Campaigns in the South Pacific. The battle for Guadalcanal lasted five months, and Jon Kelly was there for the duration.

There were only three of us in that cramped, muddy foxhole that night. Our squadron commander: Captain Dawson, Jimmy – ht. 5’ 10” – wt. 160 – hair and eyes: brown. Then there was Corporal Thomas, Keith – ht. 6’ 2” – wt. 160 – hair: blond; eyes: blue. And then me, First Sergeant Kelly, Jon – ht. 6’ – wt. 155 – hair: black; eyes: green.

We didn’t mind that we were closed off from the rest of our band. We only minded that we didn’t know where the rest of our band was. The heavy shelling had started but twenty minutes before, and we scrambled for cover, leaving the fifteen others to save themselves. Just as quick as it started, the mortars stopped and the gunpowder cleared from the air, leaving us three alone, huddled in a shallow trench with our heads barely covered by the protrusion of underbrush. We hunkered down in the black mud, did a quick injury-check, and prepared to wait out the night. We’d done the like before; the three of us together was as strong a resistance group as any. And I say that without being prideful.

We were all stalwart American boys; we were close in age – graduated only two years apart from our respective high schools – and we had no quirks between us. When I say “no quirks”, there’s only one exception. Thomas and I, we’re New York Yankee fans, but Dawson was a diehard Boston Red Sox boy. Our differences started and ended on the ball field, but even that didn’t keep us from sorting out the best and the worst plays we’d seen. We had made a sort of gentleman’s agreement not to put down the players from teams we disliked, so our conversations stayed tidy. There were a few in our unit who picked fights, but when it was just the three of us, we could talk ball without an argument.

I was a ballplayer myself; I guess we each were, in a way. Between Dawson’s kindhearted but firm nature, Thomas’ easy humor, and my cool head, we knew what it took to stay together and fight like a team. A lone player couldn’t win a baseball game, and neither could a unit of soldiers win a war if they were fighting in their own barracks.

We’d been together since the start of the war, nearly ten months. When Thomas and I were assigned our platoon, Dawson was second-in-command, only a Sergeant Major. The first skirmish we fought on the beach after landing in September (they called the place “Edson’s Ridge”) cost us our commander and his aide, so Dawson was promoted on the spot and became our Captain. He’s a good man; awfully quiet when we’re not in battle. He’s a weapons expert as well as a commander of men, and we all have deep respect for him, I guess. He’s the one that kept us from worrying about the rest of our guys that lonely night; he was sure they were safe as we were. Nobody said it, but I bet we had the same thought: “How safe are we?”

As the night progressed, the darkness deepened around us with an eeriness that I’d felt before in the misty, tropical nights. It left your skin crawling, particularly when there was unseen movement in the grass, almost as imperceptible but as almighty dangerous as shockwaves from an earthquake.

After sitting in our shallow dugout for three hours, waiting for something to happen, or for someone to tell us that we were clear to come out, Dawson’s face began to reflect the worry in my own head. He gave me a silent, six o’clock warning and I, who sat opposite him, glued my eyes on the shadowy forest just above our hideout. It was a weird feeling, being trapped halfway underground, unsure if the Japanese soldiers were on top of us or if our men were moving through the grass, securing our position. Thomas wanted to stand up and scout the perimeter, but Dawson held him in check.

“We’re sittin’ duck as it is, Corporal.”

“What are our chances, Captain?”

“Granted, we have a chance at all,” I interjected in a whisper.

It was the first conversation we’d had since crowding into the foxhole. Our voices sounded too loud in the small space. Dawson immediately silenced us and nodded his head toward our weapons. Silently, Thomas and I pulled the bulk of our guns across our laps and checked the loading mechanisms. My Johnson rifle was in good condition; I cleaned it every night and it always worked slick for me. I was really lucky to have a good rifle, I guess. I’d seen boys whose guns jammed in the thick of battle, and the sight of a soldier fighting his own weapon always made me sick in my gut. I always thought we had enough to worry about when we were out in the brush without adding the trouble of unreliable armaments. The elephant grass that covered the floor of the jungle stood taller than even Thomas, who’s the tallest man in our unit, and we had to wade through it, well hidden behind the hot, humid stalks. There was a fog over the Solomon Island jungle too; a wet, warm fog that never dissipated completely. The climate had a lot to do with the rifles that jammed and became useless, but in the few months I’d served, my trusty Johnson may have gotten dirty and rusty, but it still fired straight.

After Thomas silently reloaded his automatic rifle, Dawson motioned for us to get ready to cover him with some furious fire. “I’m just going to have a look. Don’t shoot if you don’t need to. If we can keep our location a secret, we may survive being cut off.”

Right. We understood his meaning. If what we found was that our unit had disappeared and we were surrounded by Jap soldiers, we’d know when to shoot and how long to keep up the fight. Shoot to kill, or die trying. Which isn’t funny if you’re facing death, like we were.

Thomas and I took up our positions and gave Dawson as much room in the crowded foxhole as he needed to stand and keep his head down. Almost before he had crawled forward two feet into the brush, his helmet barely sticking up above the outcropping, Dawson took in a mouthful of dirt and leaves kicked up by the immediate rifle fire that exploded. It took only a split-second for Thomas and me to get our rifles aimed in the direction from where the sniper shots came and we were firing quick and loud. Even though we couldn’t see what we were aiming at, we could hear footsteps and grunts of frustration when the thick grass hindered their getaway.

Dawson had traded places with me and was rubbing his eyes clear of the shrapnel. I had a fleeting, panicked hope that his eyes weren’t damaged. I’d seen injuries and what shrapnel could do at such close range…but it had never been a good friend hit, before. I was suddenly scared.

But I kept shooting, Thomas shooting with me, and we stitched a steady line through the dark stalks, hoping to cut down at least one enemy soldier in all the confusion. Thomas emptied his clip and slid back into the dugout to reload. I kept firing, but I had one eye on Dawson and Thomas, hoping that they were thinking the same thing I was. We could read each other’s faces and thoughts better than most, I guess, because as soon as Thomas had fed another magazine into his rifle, Dawson gave the order I had been thinking to myself.

“We’ve got to get out of here.” He was amazingly calm; Dawson was incapable of becoming riled. “When I start shootin’, both of you get over the edge and then dash. Wherever you can. Back to where we were this morning, before they ambushed. Try to make it to one of our nests. I’ll follow under your fire.”

We didn’t need much pushing, and Thomas and I got out of that foxhole quicker than Dawson figured we would. His fire didn’t cover us like he hoped, but we were well on our way in front of him, crawling along on our elbows through the wet, marshy ground, hoping that the fog and dark of night combined to cover us from any of the Jap prowlers. I was leading the way, in front of Thomas by a yard or so, and when I stumbled onto the dead body of Private Wesley Conrad, I felt the rare, but sickening feeling of panic tighten in my chest. Wesley was our navigator, our radio operator, and a fiery Baptist from Alabama. A good kid. To see him sprawled, drowned in the muck and his own blood, was like seeing a part of me lying there. The better part of me. The innocence in myself that still believed in miracles.

To say we were experiencing hell on earth would be unfair to hell; and there wasn’t going to be a miracle. I craned my neck around and hissed at Thomas to skirt my path by a few feet. “We’ve got trouble. Come alongside me.”

That’s when the searchlights bathed us in their cruel light and the ruckus of battle began in earnest. The Jap snipers had their sights trained on us and were shooting at point-blank range. I heard Thomas’ muffled cry from behind me and even without looking, I knew he was hit. Before I could think, I was struggling my way on my belly deeper into the mire of the jungle floor. I found myself praying for cover, but with their floodlights on us, there was little or no chance of escape.

I somehow managed to wedge myself behind the trunk of a tree, with half my body in a crater left over from a bomb. The grass I had just waded through obscured most of my vision, but I could see Thomas, lying stilled in the grass. His forehead was smeared with blood and his eyes stared vacantly back at me. I cursed the searchlights for illuminating the horrific scene for my viewing.

Then suddenly I felt it, like the weight of a fifty-pound millstone dropped around my ankle. My leg collapsed from under me; from my knee down, it was a dead weight, and my boot was cutting off the circulation. I could feel the blood pumping and pulsing in my thigh. Then, mercifully, I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My gun clattered against the tree, the floodlights swam in front of my eyes, and I heard the confused chatter of Japanese soldiers yelling orders to each other. The last sensation I remember before blacking out was the smell of gunpowder in my nostrils and wet grass encasing my head as I collapsed to the ground.

Smile of the Unknown Soldier

2011-07-14T21:48:00.003-05:00

It's a strange thing to think that it was already (but somehow just) four weeks ago that I had the thrill of my life, only a few days into our Westward Expansion. I'll have to crunch the details a bit, as I'm short on time, but I will take a bit of time this afternoon to chronicle our vacation, for those of you interested persons. The title of this post will come into play about Day Three.

Date: Friday, June 17th, 2011
Place: Ott Acreage, Holdrege, NE

Waltons and Pitchers arrived at our place around 11:30AM; we loaded the 12-foot enclosed trailer and ate a quick picnic lunch. Then, the troupe of 19 made the first of MANY, LONG lines to the restroom, filled our water bottles, and started dividing us up between the two suburbans, one trailblazer, with Aaron and Sarah on their own Champagne Charger. ;-] Here's the trailer and how it was loaded: (It was a life-saver; we were cramped for space in the vehicles!)

Let me introduce the crew above: Leah in turquoise, Arin in pink, Sarah in orange, Amelia in pink, standing by her mom and dad, Alan and Alicia.

That first night, our aim was Laramie; a lovely KOA awaited us, with tent-spots on BAKER STREET, no less! (Sarah and I were thrilled, being diehard Sherlock Holmes fans.) We made it to Laramie in great time, with plenty of evening ahead of us, so we made a quick camp, and then went and 'et at the Hut, enjoying some good old-fashioned Pizza Hut Pizza. Our first night under the stars proved to be cold and windy. And One Member of our Tent snored and we had a rough time getting to sleep. We were up at 5:30 to start the next day...

Date: Saturday, June 18th, 2011
Starting Place: Laramie, WY
Destination: Jackson Hole, WY

We put in yet another day of traveling; a long several hours in the car, but we had such a good time, singing, laughing, playing games, sleeping, counting pronghorns, taking pictures of our first sight of the mountains, and generally being as girly as possible in the girl-sub, that we didn't notice the long hours! We had lunch in a little town with a cute park and charming bridge; we took pictures, we drank from the river (It was Sierra Springs, and it was FREE!) and then hit the road again. We stopped in Jackson WY (a charming western town with all the false-front shops characteristic to an authentic western town) and saw the Antler Arches (photos below). We also saw a real stage-coach (we would have commandeered his team, but he looked intimidating!!). Then we headed out to our campground and got settled in another chilly, wet night. We had delicious food to warm us up, and we found bear-scratches on the trunks of some of the trees. Then we spotted a moose and took loads of pictures; Aaron crept up on her and took some really close shots. Rained that night. We had oatmeal the next morning and broke camp early.

The Stagecoach

The Arch

The Town

Date: Sunday, June 19th, 2011
Place: Jackson Hole, WY
Destination: West Yellowstone, MT

Moments after leaving our campground, we arrived at Yellowstone, through the southern entrance!! :D It was a most momentous moment.
We spent the day taking pictures at nearly every overlook we came to. Rivers, ravines, lakes, trees, snow (in June!), and Other Tourists. ;-] We stopped at the Norris Geyser basin, took pictures of elk and moose, bubblin' mud, steam, and sulfur. Old Faithful was on the list next, and we got to the Old Faithful site forty minutes before she erupted. So we toured the Lodge and the Inn while we waited. It was a most drizzly afternoon...And the Old Faithful Inn was most cozy! We had walked the boardwalks, seen the eruption, trekked back, and made one of those typical "tired, but happy" groups of individuals.
Mom, Dad, and I had gone into the Inn earlier (while it rained and we wanted a reprieve) but now we all returned so everyone could see it. It was a beautiful thing to see, for sure! And it was here that something spectacular happened to me. Laugh if you want to, but a hopeless romantic like me will never forget the depth of emotion that this incident inspired.
The lobby of the Inn was gorgeous and homey, warm and friendly. (as seen in the picture)

As we milled the lobby, I noticed a squadron of soldiers in camouflage fatigues and one of my first thoughts at a glance was, "I'd like to thank them for their service." It's no lie to tell you that soldiers are my favorite people; those who defend our freedom, no matter what kind of bumbling, non-patriotic Commander in Chief we have in office at the time, are to be revered and thanked and prayed for fervently. I respect our freedom fighters and always get excited to see a "real" one. ;-] You can imagine, therefore, my thrill when they, along with their commander, idled their way toward us. I caught the eye of one and grinned. He was fair enough to look at; tall, dark, and in uniform. If you were me, you wouldn't have been able to contain the smile either. But then. Ooohoho, then...I can hardly keep from grinning and letting my heart flutter when I think of the following minutes. It makes me think of the song-line, "You're a little bit of heaven, so earth ain't so bad!"
After the smile of Cadet #1, there came another sweet face to join the squadron and this one was on the physique of a 5' 9" fellow, with military-short-cropped hair, and a positively innocent look about his features! His eyes drooped down at the corners; I don't remember their color specifically, but it seems to me that they were soft gray, "Like the sea after a storm." Anyway, I'm going to post a picture of him; and the man that he looked like, so you can visualize this heartthrob. =]

He's the one with the rolled up sleeves. ^_^

This is what I imagine he looks like on Inspection Day at the Base

Here he looks just like he did ... *sigh*

So, there we were, his group standing in a circle just feet away from our circular gathering. And then, three of us girls went upstairs to the second balcony to look around and so Aaron could take pictures of the Inn. The fireplace, the gift shop, the stones, the logs, the framework, the candles...everything was so perfect within the interior of that Inn! From the second-floor balcony, I kept an eye on our soldier-boys and saw when Joe Farnetti started taking pictures with his camera and I saw immediately that he got several pictures of the place where we stood. I couldn't help it; I grinned and waved, and from behind the camera, he grinned and waved and took another picture of us standing there, this time smiling purposefully at his lens. He turned back to his squadron and I could sort of make out what he was saying. His commander motioned and gestured something like, "Go on then!" and I turned my back so as not to be caught staring at them...
But I knew what they were doing. I felt instinctively that they were coming up to talk to us; though I pretended not to notice. That is why I had my back turned to the balcony and was admiring the staircase and the dimly lit hallway of cabin rooms that made me feel as if I'd stepped into the Tyrol when they approached us. Joe - for that is what I will call him as I don't know his name (SAD!) and he reminded me of Joe Farnetti from Foyle's War - asked Leah,
"Ma'am, will you take a picture of us?" Indicating him and me, and then he put his arm around me and Leah took our picture. My heart was racing against time, trying to keep up with everything that was happening.
Mom came over (from somewhere) and mistook the situation for what it wasn't. She took the camera, assuming without question that we girls had approached these men and it was our camera. Graciously, Joe pulled the rest of his buddies and Leah over and we had a group picture. Again, he put his arm around me; heads together. You know the pose. It was really sweet. We chatted a little after that; their military respect drove them to call Mom "Ma'am" (which she despises), but she forgave them because they were so charming. :-]
We learned that one of the fellows was from Montana; Joe was from California, but he has relatives IN Nebraska! They were at special forces training and on leave for the weekend so they were seeing Yellowstone. It was adorable when Mom suggested that when Joe visited his relatives in Southern Nebraska that he stop in. He said, "Yes ma'am, I will, ma'am." Unfortunately, we had to part ways then. They returned downstairs and we regrouped with Aaron, Sarah, Lori, and the rest. Of course, I couldn't think at that time. It was insane to think that it had happened to me. The very thing for which I envied 1940's girls had happened to me, and I was floating far above cloud 9!
It physically ached to say goodbye to that magical place!! You may laugh at me, and I would be surprised if you didn't, but it was truly a heart-stopping event. I don't think I'm pretty; I don't think I'm worth a double-take. But the fact that Joe thought me stunning enough to ask for a picture, to "stare and follow" all the minutes before and after our photo, absolutely is an answer to the prayer of my young heart! Mom says every girl needs an experience like that. Mine sure did suffice. ;-]
As I followed our clan back toward the door, I cast a look over my shoulder and kept catching his eye. His smile was so soft. His face just so tender, he didn't seem real. (In fact, he may have been angelic...) The last time I looked behind me, smiling and waving, wishing all the while that I had the guts to run back and ask him for his name, and a picture on my camera of us two, he nearly floored me with his goodbye! He blew a kiss to me and then waved! A true gentleman; not going to go further to make it uncomfortable, but bidding farewell with an action I will never forget! I'm sure I blushed; I'm not sure if I waved, or if I returned the blown kiss. I honestly don't know what was going on around me or within me. It was so special. I wish to goodness we hadn't had to leave. Driving away from Old Faithful was the saddest thing I've ever done!

I hope I've bored you to death so that you'll not even care about the rest of the trip, because I'm truly out of time right now and can't write it all today! :/ Let me quickly end with this:

I love “the West”, and I’d do anything to go back. It’d have to be with the same group, though. They were awesome. Our girls were sweet and fun, our guys were hilarious, entertaining, and nice as well, and all six parents made it flow smoothly, and even though we had our ups and downs, heat and freezing cold, snow, hail, rain, soaked tents, sopping gear, a lost wallet, a lost camera, three lost teeth (this was an exciting thing to lose, for Caleb, our seven-year-old toothless-grin-n-lisp fellow), mosquitoes, and buffalo to bar our way, no one complained!

The REST of our trip to come later. ;D

Historical Times

2011-05-20T10:03:00.002-05:00

If you'll just kindly scroll down to paragraph SIX of this post here (http://paulbyrom.blogspot.com/) and take note of "the kid" who sent $5 to Paul Byrom, famous Irish Tenor, you will be reading a nameless mention of ME!! By a famous singer!! I sent the five bucks! I am that kid! I sent him a card and five dollars and said, "P.S. Here's a little something; go treat yourself to a Starbucks." And he got it, opened it, read it, and then chose that fan-card to mention specifically in his post. I just fainted when I read it!! =O I couldn't believe my good fortune, nor my express delight!! Dear Paul....he made my month! =D

Some of the weirdest witticisms, strangest facts, and most pointless statements you will ever read:

2011-05-05T10:27:00.003-05:00

If tears fall like the rain, then mascara smudges like the thunder-cloud.

If Murphy's Law is always consistent, unfailing, and fully relied upon...I want to marry Mr. Murphy.

If there's a song for everything, the I have a song for that phrase. It's called: "As long as I'm singin'!"

Microwavable soup will always pop all over the interior of your microwave. And it will always burn your tongue.

One of my biggest fears is sleeping in too late, getting caught in bed, missing my alarm clock, or being late for a morning appointment. The embarrassment would crush me.

Tomato and basil Wheat Thin crackers are like individual bites of lasagna...in that case, you could eat a whole pan of lasagna by yourself!

Easter Sunday morning is always sunny. And rightfully so!!

April Showers bring May Yard Work, which brings June Fertilizing, which brings July Watering, which brings Augusts Without Entertaining 'Cause the Grass is too Brown, which brings the cooler September Beauty, which brings October Skies, which brings November Snows, which brings December Nights in Warm Satin, which brings January BLUES, which brings February Restlessness, which brings March Spring Fever, which brings April Showers. :P

I'm debating whether or not I should cry myself to sleep again tonight. Sometimes the tears are never spent. I need to find the place that I can simply rest in, the soledad, the keeping for the lonely, and spend a holiday there. I'm weary of feeling nothingness consume me.

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

2011-05-02T10:32:00.005-05:00

The news of the day has rapidly progressed from the highlights of The Royal Wedding of England's Prince William Arthur Phillip Louis, and Catherine Elizabeth, now Duchess of Cambridge, to a story of a more sinister nature. The death of Osama Bin Laden has created a stir around the world. Apparently, President Obama is receiving the credit for his lack of action during three years of his presidency, and now that American troops have killed the mastermind of the terrorism that rages in the Middle East, we are a success? I beg to differ, and I urge those of you who read this to be completely sober as you do consider what all this entails.

Regretfully...unfortunately...but truthfully, world-peace is not just around the corner. The death of one man, Osama Bin Laden he may be, is not going to quell the cries of "Jihad!" that echo through the souks and the canyons of the Holy Land. It is an age-old conflict that America has sent her troops to help put to rest in the Middle East, and even while I don't have a forceful opinion on the question of whether or not our soldiers should fight that war, I think they are right to be there trying to restore and preserve the peace. This Holy War has been raging since the time of Abraham's sons Isaac and Ishmael. If you've studied the prophecies of old at all, you will know that there can be no peace between these two factions until Christ returns as the victor to rescue and redeem His Children, the children of Israel, the children of Isaac.

Osama Bin Laden was a lost man. His choices and actions in this life - sadly, mistakenly committed under the guise of "Allah's Will" - have determined where he will spend eternity. Where he is, in fact, already. The gnashing of teeth and the raging inferno of hell is his eternity, for the lives of innocents that he took. It is not a light matter; his death is his eternity in the lake of fire. But God loved him; He did not wish for Osama Bin Laden, no matter how evil his heart was, to perish. There could have been redemption for one like him. But the world cheers his death instead; he got what he deserved, right? Yes. The answer is "yes", but that is not the end that God had in mind for him. Perhaps you think I am too harsh to say outright that Osama Bin Laden is in hell. Perhaps you think I am too rash to say that he could have spent eternity in heaven. Call me what you will, it will not change the facts that Jesus loved Osama Bin Laden and Jesus died on the cross, already having forgiven evil men like Bin Laden. "Father, forgive them," Jesus prayed. "For they know not what they are doing."

He is dead. This world will not see Osama Bin Laden again. But the Holy War will continue. The fighting between Arabs and Jews will not be won until Jesus' return. The Scriptures foretold it. I urge you, then, to pray for Israel. I fear an outbreak of renewed wrath from the Arabs upon the Israelis in the near future. Stand for Israel - don't waste time cheering the death and destruction of one man. Bin Laden was, after all, created in the image of God just as you and I are. Hate the SIN, not the SINNER. Instead, pray and be vigilant. The end of time may be near, friends, and we cannot let ourselves get caught up in the violence of this world.

"For since the beginning of the world, men have not heard nor perceived by the ear, nor has the eye seen any God besides You, Who acts for the one who waits for Him. You meet him who rejoices and does righteousness, Who remembers You in Your ways. You are indeed angry, for we have sinned = in these ways we continue; and we need to be saved. But we are all like an unclean thing, and all our righteousness are like filthy rags. We all fade as a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away. And there is no one who calls upon Your name, who stirs himself up to take hold of You, for You have hidden Your face from us, and have consumed us because of our iniquities." Isaiah 64:4-7

"Sing praises to the Lord, Who dwells in Zion! Declare His deeds among the people. When He avenges blood, He remembers them. The Lord is known by the judgment He executes; the wicked snared in the work of his own hands." Psalm 9:11

I have a dream!

2011-04-22T18:07:00.000-05:00

It’s no wonder I awaken so often, feeling that I’m as exhausted or more so than when I crashed in bed some 7 to 8 hrs before. Last night my mind was as wide awake as my body was sound asleep. Without conscious effort, I invented an entire movie plot, cast and crew, back-stories for all the actors and actresses involved in this film, and conflicts enough to make anyone’s brilliantly awake mind swim. All accomplished in my sleep, my dreams revolved around a movie that had just been released, had won every award there is to win, and had sequels coming out in the Fall already. It was a trilogy of unfathomable magnitude and had stunned the world with its overnight success. During the night, I attended the Oscars where this film won “Best Film of the Year”, but I don’t even know the title! And none of the actors were real names. I am fairly sure the main lady looked like Marilyn Monroe, but I don’t know why. Something makes me think that Source Code and Secretariat influenced the plot and the interviews that I witnessed during the night. But what can I say? There was adventure and heartache, trials in the movie and in real life, and I awoke feeling as if I’d been through it all with no sleep during the whole affair. I don’t even know why I would invent such a plot. Nothing happened yesterday to warrant the excitement of the red carpet. Nothing is going to happen this weekend that should make me anticipate it so through my dreams. Wait a sec! Maybe I’m onto something. We are going to a wedding tomorrow…perhaps it’s that excitement of seeing some favorite people and dressing up and having special things happen. Perhaps that’s it. Whatever it is, I can’t take credit or blame for my brain’s activity during the night. It leaves me wondering, and quite pooped, to be honest!

Good Friday

2011-04-22T13:31:00.002-05:00

It's a very simple message, but somehow it encompasses the world. Watch it. It won't take long. It will break your heart for what breaks His.

I am His. And He loves me.

Fix your eyes on Jesus, for He is the Author and the Perfecter of our faith!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPIOkdNL-QQ

30 Day Shred

2011-03-31T08:21:00.002-05:00

Jillian Michael's exercise routine is killing me. And this is only Day 1! "You've just finished level 1 of your 30-day shred workout." She says that as if to inspire me or congratulate me on a job well done. Not only can she not see how dead I almost am, but that was just level one. This could be the worst month of my life. I could be sick right now; nauseous and light-headed. Yuck, I really don't have even a tiny soft-spot in my heart for dear Jill. ;-) I'm working to build up muscle tone and build resistance before our camping trip in June. I'd hate to be soft and mushy and feel this weird and weak after a day of hiking. So I am trying to be prepared. I might just meet the Maker of the very hills I'll be hiking sooner than I get there by Trailblazer in a few months! You never know.

We've begun working in our neighbors' greenhouses again this week. Every March we go through the routine. Every March I battle not wanting to, then decide it's more fun than doing nothing in the afternoons. Besides, I always lose myself in my imagination when working in and among those long, army-barracks-style tents (Dave calls them Greenhouses, I call them army-hospital-tents, and trust me, it does my imagination good.) It's almost like experiencing the dirt, the fatigue, the aching neck, and the endless rows of (im)patien(t)s that I make my characters live through without dying. I guess I can do it too, then.

Finally, I awoke to sunshine this morning after a week of straight gloom! It's amazing what sun can do to my spirits!! Even when *life* looks or feels bleak, sunshine diminishes all such rottenness, but without it, everything is a dark, Communist gray. I'm glad the sun came shining through for me. "If there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by! It may be raining but there's a rainbow above you." I had almost stopped believing in those kinds of words. But my faith has been restored.