literature

Another Soldier Down

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Another Soldier Down

   For most of the men in the prison camp, the day the mail arrived was the best day for them. News from home was welcome. They looked forward to letters from mothers, fathers, siblings, girlfriends, wives, children, friends, and cousins. It was a welcome break from the monotony of prison life.
   So when Sergeant Schultz came into Barracks Two with the mailbag, he was immediately swarmed by prisoners clamoring for their mail, shoving each other out of the way. The sight would have terrified any other guard, but Schultz knew the men well and wasn't scared.
   “Back! Back back back! Everrrrybody back back back!” Schultz yelled. “Back!”
   “Fellas, settle down!” Colonel Hogan pushed the men back. “You’ll get your mail! Newkirk, get out of the bag. What did I just say?”
   The men backed off, grumbling, their eyes fixed on Schultz’s mailbag.
   “Sergeant James Kinchloe!” Schultz began to hand letters out. “Slim! Andrew Carter! Ah, this one is for you, LeBeau! It smells vunderbar!” Schultz passed a perfumed letter to the Frenchman. “Corporal Peter Newkirk! Jake Blakeley! I think it’s from a cousin.”
   “Oh, wonderful,” Jake made a face. “I’ll bet it’s from the crazy one,” he opened it. “Yeah, it is.”
   Schultz continued to pass out the letters. “Garth! Walters! Addison! Colonel Hogan! Harrison Gray!”
   “Looks like another one of those d@#* water bills my brother keeps racking up,” Gray glowered. “Yup,” he opened it and his eyes bugged. “WHAT THE #$%&?!” the doctor swore loudly, staring at the letter. “FIVE HUNDRED $%#ing DOLLARS?! Five hundred d@#* dollars in THREE MONTHS?! How does he do it? OK, that does it! He is leaving my house! I’ll have a neighbor take care of it. George, you’ve made your last d@#* water bill!”
   “Good grief,” Hogan muttered. “That guy scares my pants off when he’s mad.”
   “He is more frightening than anything I’ve seen in both World Wars!” Schultz remarked.
   “Oh, I dunno,” Kinch smirked. “He was in World War One.”
   “‘E WAS?” Newkirk stared. “‘Ow old is ‘e?”
   “I’m 56 years old!” Gray called over his shoulder. “Born in 1887 and a corporal in the First World War.”
   “What was it like?” Newkirk asked, eyes wide.
   Gray turned and looked the RAF pilot right in the eyes, as solemn as the grave. “Hell, Newkirk,” he said. “It was Hell.”
   “Oh,” Newkirk said, looking awkward. “Schultz, do you ‘ave any more letters?”
   “Ja, I do!” Schultz nodded. “Olsen! Jonathan Boule! That is it for today! Guten tag!” the sergeant left the way he had come.
   “Well, all I got was a very confusing letter from me sister,” Newkirk put down his letter. “What ‘ave you got there, Boule?”
   “It looks like a letter from my mother,” Boule ran his finger along the edge of the letter to open it and yelped as he got a paper cut. “OW!”
   Newkirk cracked up. “Oh, that’s brilliant! You’re a bloomin’ disaster, mate!”
   Boule glared at him. “Oh, shut up.”
   “Sorry,” Newkirk snickered, not sorry at all. “Well? What’s it say?”
   “Well, it’s from my mother, and-” Boule broke off suddenly. He stared at the letter in disbelief, his eyes widening. A mix of shock, horror and despair came over his face. “Oh, no...” he murmured. “No, no, no! Oh, no...”
   “What’s the matter, Boule?” Carter looked up in concern.
   Boule didn't respond at once. He stared down at the letter in his hands, which had started to shake. His face was as white as a sheet, and his eyes had turned moist. “I-” he broke off, as if not trusting his own voice. “Oh, Lord...” he turned quickly and left the barracks.
   “What was that all about?” Newkirk asked.
   “I dunno,” Kinch stared after Boule, looking worried. The young man was his best friend in camp, and he was concerned. “I wonder what was in the letter?”
   “Maybe someone died,” Gray suggested. “I’ve seen men look like that when they hear someone they know has kicked the bucket.”
   “GRAY!” everyone yelled at the same time, looking shocked at his crudeness.
   “Sorry,” Gray shrugged. “I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it.”
   Hogan stood. “I’ll go see what happened to him,” he left the barracks. After a quick exchange with one of the guards and much searching, he finally found Boule behind the laundry house, sitting against the wall. His head was buried in his arms, and his knees were tucked up to his chest. The letter was still in his hand.
   Hogan frowned. “Jon?”
   Boule lifted his head quickly. His cheeks were streaked with tears, and more hung in his pale greenish-gray eyes, threatening to fall. His face was white and a terrible expression of grief was painted on it. “C-colonel Hogan? W-what are you doing here?”
   “I came to check on you,” Hogan said. “Are you OK?”
   “I-” Boule stopped and buried his face in his arms.
   “Oh, Jon,” Hogan sat down next to him. “Jon, what’s the matter?”
   Boule didn't reply. Hogan sighed. “Jon, you can tell me. Was there bad news in the letter?”
   Boule nodded.
“What did it say?” the colonel asked.
Boule shook his head and pushed the letter toward Hogan. Hogan raised an eyebrow. “Can I read it?”
The pilot nodded and Hogan opened the letter.
“Dear Jon,” he read. “I’m afraid that I’ve got some very bad news. Your friend Harry Lewiston has been killed in battle in the Pacific, on an island called Iwo Jima. Harry’s squad leader says that he died bravely, holding the enemy off from his friends. He was shot and nobody could do anything.
“I’m so sorry, Jon. I hate to send you this news. I know it’s hard enough to be in the prison camp without getting such an awful letter. Harry was your best friend. I remember you two running around all over the town and through the hills together, and staying up all night scaring each other with ghost stories. I also remember when you two took a joyride on the tractor and nearly ran over a pig when you were only seven. It was impossible to stay mad at you.
Stay strong, honey. I know that Harry would hate you to be so sad. Do your best to carry on, and remember that God is always with you. I love you very much. Love, Ma.”
Hogan stopped reading. It was a short letter, but it carried an agonizing message: the death of a best friend. Hogan knew what it was like to lose a close friend; the feeling that you heart is breaking in half, the crushing pain every time you remember that they are no longer there. It all seems like a dream; a terrible dream; one you can't wake from. The reality that you will never their face again; the reality that you will never hear their voice again.
Poor Boule.

Boule felt like his heart was breaking. When he read the letter and saw those terrible words, he felt numb and dead. His heart seemed to stop, and he felt nothing but a dim shock. He was aware of his friends around him, but their voices were muted. There was a buzzing in his ears that he couldn't hear through.
Someone asked if he was all right, but he couldn't make out his own reply. He turned around and stumbled to the door. Somehow, his feet still carried him. He didn't know where he headed. His mind had stopped and his body had taken over. Finally he slumped to the ground, his back against the wall of some building. He sat there, his body shivering with shock. And then the crushing heartbreak hit. The tears began, and there was no stopping them.
He buried his face in his arms, sobbing his heart out. Harry was gone. Gone. Harry, his best friend. They had grown up together, shared everything. Grade school, middle school, high school.
They had been through it all together. They had run through the woods and hills and streams of Anaconda and stayed up all night, looking at the stars and just talking. They had hunted for raccoons and coyotes together, and they’d explored quarries and woods and canyons and coulees. They’d looked for bones and rocks and Indian artifacts and come home covered with dust and mud and leaves and scratches, but grinning all over their dirty faces.
They’d studied together and helped each other through every hardship. Harry had been there to encourage Jon to ask Mary Ann out, and Jon had been there for Harry when his mother died. The one couldn't imagine a life without the other.
They’d joined the military at the same time, and they had sworn to protect their beloved flag and stand by her and fight for her until the last man. They had loved America as much as anything, and they had both been outraged when Pearl Harbor was bombed. They had promised to be best man at each other’s weddings and to be the godfather of the other’s children.
But Harry was gone. Dead. Buried beneath the sand of some island far away. Had he died quickly, without any suffering? Or had it been long and slow, painful and unbearable. Had the others given him the last rites and laid him to rest with love? Had they played Taps for him? Or was he still lying on the ground far away, his sightless eyes still fixed on the sky as his body decayed? Did the animals tear at him? Did the fires of the flamethrowers burn him?
Had his death been in vain? Had it been worth it? Would it help anything? Would this war really end the rest? Was the suffering and pain and horror and slaughter do anything, or was it doomed to happen again? Boule didn't think so. The deaths would all be forgotten and the soldiers and their actions and names would be buried where they fell. The sacrifices of his friends and countrymen would be forgotten. Even his name would be forgotten.
World War One had been named the War to End All Wars, but in only a few decades a bloodier war had begun. The suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame, the killing and dying it was all done in vain. It would happen again and again and again and again and again.
In the First World War, Boule had lost a father. Now, in the second, he had lost his best friend. He gave an agonized cry and sobbed even harder. “Harry, why? Why you? Why did you have to go?” he looked up at the sky. How could God let this happen? “Haven't I suffered enough?” he screamed, tears streaming from his eyes. “You took my father! You took my grandmother! You took my cousin! Why did you have to take Harry? Haven't I lost enough? Or do you just want to make me suffer more?”
How could this happen? “Harry, why did you leave me? We promised to be there for each other! I can't go on pretending you were never there. Harry, I wish you hadn't died. I wish this whole war had never happened! D@#* YOU, JAPAN! D@#* YOU!” he screamed, then buried his face in his hands.
A voice spoke next to him. Colonel Hogan. He asked what was the matter and Boule shoved the letter toward him. There was silence except for Boule’s sobs as Hogan read it.
“Oh, Jon… I’m so sorry,” the colonel spoke at last. “I’m really sorry.”
Boule nodded. “My-my best friend... gone. Why? Why did he have to die?” he lifted his head, looking at Hogan with tearful gray eyes as if the colonel could answer his question.
Hogan sighed. Boule’s question broke his heart. “Jon, I don't think there’s any good answer to that.”
“But there has to be a reason!” Boule cried. “Or does God just hate me?” new tears sprang to his eyes. “Haven’t I lost enough? Does He hate me?”
   That question, along with the agonizing look of loss on Boule’s face, would stay with the colonel forever. “Oh, Jon, God doesn't hate anyone. Least of all you,” he put a hand on Boule’s shoulder. “He loves us all. Everything happens for a reason. I can't think of a reason for Harry’s death, but it wasn't to punish you. Harry was a wonderful friend. I know he’s gone, but he’s still with you in all the memories you have.”
   “But why?” Boule persisted. “Why? And how can he just be gone?”
   “Jon,” Hogan looked right into Boule’s eyes. “I know that it hurts. I know that it seems like it’ll never get better, and that you’ll never smile again, but that’s not true. It’ll get better with time. It’ll take a long time to heal, but it will.
“Harry died bravely. He died for his country. He died for his friends. He died for me. And he died for you. He will never be forgotten. His sacrifice will be remembered long after Iwo Jima has regrown and the graves are covered in grass. His blood is on that flag, and so is the blood of his comrades.
“Listen to me, Jon. His death wasn't in vain. There will be other wars, other deaths, but he will NOT be forgotten. His deeds will live forever. And your heart will heal. You’re strong, Jon. You are strong and brave and you are the best person I’ve ever known. You can get through this. I promise. And I’ll be right there for you. We ALL will. You have friends here too. We’ll always be there for you, even when WE’RE gone. Do you understand?”
Boule looked back at him, his gray eyes full of tears. After an age, he nodded. “I-I understand,” he took a deep breath and then broke down. He clung to the colonel’s jacket, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
Hogan put his arms around the young man, holding him close. Boule’s whole body shook with grief and the colonel sighed. “It’s OK, Jon. It’ll be OK. We’re here for you. We’ll always be there for you,” he patted Boule’s back, trying to give him some comfort. “We’ll always be there.”


END
I've been feeling pretty down lately, so I turned to writing to vent my feelings of sorrow and anger. But even though it feels like nothing will ever get better, I know it will. God doesn't hate me. He isn't punishing me. And I have my friends. That's the most important thing.
© 2014 - 2024 DisplacedSoutherner
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cascadeninjawolf's avatar
Very...sad. Good job though. Very truthful.