"Story of a Soldier" by Kellen Begley

Second Place Winner, USF Bullitzer Prize in First-Year Composition

Too cold, always too cold in the activity room. My hand shivers as I fill in what’s left of Saturday’s cross-word puzzle. The man across from me sits in a tattered knit sweater reading a novel without a cover. Here we sit alone, just me and the random gentleman across the table reading and writing in silence. What should be a busy afternoon full of roaming nursing home "prisoners" is actually far from it. The hum of the air conditioner is broken as a young and vibrant family enters the room following a woman in a wheelchair. Their mouths move and what comes out is not the native language. It takes me a series of moments to understand this family; this family is unmistakably French. Just as I had, the gentleman across from me perks up. Scowling at the passing intruders, he mutters ever so softly, "damned French." I am immediately taken back to a cold winter night in 1943 when I had last heard those dreadful words.

* * *

"Rummy Again! You damned French!" For the fourth hand in a row Jimmy "Red" Horner beats the fire out of the rest of the crew. We don’t know why we call him "Red" on account that he has the greasiest black hair this side of the Atlantic. As Red starts gloating, Joey Walker, our pilot, throws his hand of cards clear cross the room and heads out for a smoke. I, Jack Winston Begley, am left shaking my head along with the other two crew members: Richard and Bobby Greene, comically known as the "Terrors from Texas". I push my chair back and head outside to join Joey. As I approached searching for my lighter, Joey stands shivering, cursing the blistering cold of England in January.

"If it were up to me, I’d bomb all of Germany and France, let God have his way." He mutters, exhaling through his nose. Joey, along with the rest of us, doesn’t look fondly upon our new found allies.

"France is no better than the rest of the Nazis. They are just using our good ole American boys, and for what? Because they can’t fight worth a damn."

I nod in silence, I can’t disagree. We are risking our lives to wipe the noses of the crying French. Some of us are here because we wanted to protect the country we love; others are here for different reasons, but we all do as instructed even if we don’t agree.

The night has grown late, and tomorrow at 1800 hours we depart for Germany. It’s time I rest.

"Night men" I call out as I walk slowly towards the bunks. I hear no reply, just the whistling wind and distant sounds of diesel trucks.

* * *

The sun blinds us as we exit the dark bunker in which we spent the past two hours huddling over maps of foreign territory, reviewing initial objectives, secondary objectives, and intended targets. Targets such as Berlin, the heart of Germany, munitions facilities and radio towers are just the start of what we are to destroy. The men seem excited, as though they are anxious to drop all 5000 pounds of fiery death on our hated enemies. Morale is high as we set off laughing to stow our gear and do our preflight check. As quickly as our laughs started, they stopped. We walk around our B24 silently examining the aircraft with extreme scrutiny. We checked every flap, every propeller, and every latch for any damage that might have occurred in the duration of our last flight. Things check out and we board the plane simultaneously with the rest of our squadron. I step over the throttle as I ease gently into the co-pilot seat. I feel my sole photograph crumple in my flight jacket pocket. With care I remove the photograph and stare at the love of my life, Elsa; my heart sinks as I am reminded of how I miss her so. I wedge the photograph right above the altimeter gauge and begin the preflight check.

"Engine one!" The plane vibrates violently as the propellers begin to turn. Within moments the engine is humming, and as soon as the throttle adjusts, I hear, "Engine two!" With the draft windows open, the sound of the engines is nearly deafening; I pull my flight cap on to help muffle the noise. "Engine three!" My safety belt is twisted and won’t lock, a sign of bad luck. I nervously untwist and try reconnecting. "Engine four!" CLICK, and with a little elbow grease, I am set for take off.

We wait our turn to taxi down the runway. It seems like hours pass until I finally release the brake. The tires screech as we begin rolling towards the rest of our lives, dead or alive. In a moment’s time the engines roar, the wind rushes, the vibrations become numbing and this intense feeling suddenly disappears. We slowly lift off the ground and all we can see is the golden-blue horizon. It’s beautiful really; it reminds me of being home with Elsa, sitting atop the Blue Ridge Mountains, holding her hand. God, I wish I could just be with her, holding her hand once again. I should be concentrating on the seriousness of the mission. Berlin is no easy target; bombing at 800 feet is no easy raid.

* * *

The men have been silent, the morale has dropped, and everyone is staring into infinity, contemplating life, love, and what exactly they are doing here. My thoughts have not strayed far from that. The seriousness of the situation has sunk in. In war, they say not all battles are created equal, and now we understand that this one is far more dangerous than the rest. The gearing sound of the bomb bay doors startles the cockpit crew as Bobby runs through some last minute checks. It’s time. We begin our decent to 800 feet; until we hit our target, we must stay below radar. We know what lies ahead of us. We all take our positions and wait. All we could do was wait. Wait for the Germans to see us coming. Wait for the Germans to open fire. Wait to see if we will make it out alive.

Without warning, the sounds of hundreds of hammers start pounding on the fuselage. We are taking heavy enemy fire; there is no place to run, and we must keep our focus on the task at hand. We are fast approaching our primary target. I turn to make sure Bobby has seen the warning light and as I lock eyes with him, I see him drop to his knees. Ricky leaves his turret and runs to his brother’s aid. There is no helping Bobby who is now lying face down in a puddle of his own blood. Hit in the neck, Bobby is dead. Ricky kneels wordlessly over his brother’s limp body. I feel sympathy for him but now is not the time to grieve. I pull Ricky off the ground and direct him back towards the tail gun. He resists.

"But, we need you now!" Tears roll down his face as he slowly turns and heads back to his position. Before I get back to the co-pilot seat Ricky screams and begins to avenge his brother’s death. Without direction Jimmy releases the bombs; we have a green light, bombs away. I pause next to the bomb bay doors resting on the cold metal floor, mesmerized by the fiery orange glow beneath us; only for a moment do I feel the heat warming my bitter face. As soon as the last bombs are released we manually close the bomb bay doors. Chaos, total and complete chaos. I never imagined fairing so badly. I had to focus, I had to get back to my position. To my horror, all I saw was green out in front of our dilapidated bomber. I leaped over the throttle and pulled hard on the yoke. I briefly saw other bombers explode from anti-aircraft fire. As I pull out of the nose dive I notice all of our gauges soaked in blood. Wind rustled through a small window near the floor board. Joey was dead. My rage is only fueled by Ricky’s sobs over his brother. I turn to check on Red and there he sits, still upright in his chair, eyes open, covered in blood.

* * *

Ricky and I sit silently, wind rustling our hair. The plane sits like a ghost, flying, just flying. With our gauges destroyed from enemy fire and blood, we pray we are heading home. In the dark, we judged our planes level by blood rolling across the floor. Here we sit, eyes wide open. Here we sit waiting--waiting for something, an illuminated landing strip, death, something, anything. Our fuel is low and we have two options, land the plane or parachute. With no lights and no visible landmarks, we figured the landing would be more like crashing. I reach out and grab my unscathed photograph above the altimeter and put into my flight jacket. We stood up and left the yoke unattended, walked to the cargo door, and turned. We gave an inaudible salute to our fellow soldiers, to our fellow friends, to our family. Ricky motioned me to go first; I took one last look and then stepped into the infinite black night.

* * *

I awoke very warm, bundled in a blanket. Was I home? Was all of this a bad dream? I saw nothing, nothing but the deepest black, not a hint of light to be found. I laid my head back down and was asleep.

I opened my eyes again; I could see a crack of light coming from underneath a door. I stare, perplexed and frightened. I try to move, I can hardly lift my body and then all is dark again.

I hear voices, they are not speaking English, and I cannot understand what they are saying. I slowly open my eyes for the room is bright, very bright. As I manage to sit up, every bone and muscle in my body aches. I lean my head back on the head board. I look down at my tender body, and to my surprise, I am wearing unfamiliar clothes. Black pants, off-white button up dress shirt, and a pair of ragged socks. It sure doesn’t look like a hospital; it appears to be a bedroom. Questions begin to flood my mind; where am I? What time is it? Where is Ricky? Who are these people that have taken me into their home?

A creaking door startles me; a woman comes and sits on the edge of the bed. She carries a plate of bread and a glass of water. She looks attentively at me, almost studying me. Smelling the fresh bread only intensifies my hunger. I quickly take the plate from her.

"Tu caches! Fair mes la bouche." I had not a clue to what she had just said but with a soft, uplifting tone, it sounded beautiful. While leaving the room, she turned and gave me that pleasing smile again. I finished what was left of the bread, then laid back down to rest. I closed my eyes and dreamed of being home. I dream of Elsa, pruning the rose garden. I dream of her famous fried pork chops. God, I wish I was home again.

I awoke abruptly, the woman from the night before along with another girl and guy are standing over me.

"Vite Vite, Allez! La Voitue, c’est part." They grabbed my arms and pulled me out of bed. My limbs dragged the ground; they were far too sore to operate alone. They hurried me into the back of a covered truck. I had just gotten my bearing when the truck jolted into motion. I was forced to sit. I sat with my knees pressed tightly against my chest, unsure of what was going on account of my lack of ability to speak French. There were four of us, the three people from the house and someone driving. They seem caring instead of hostile. I follow their actions so as not to be obtrusive. No speaking, no moving, it was as I was practicing to be a statue.

Morning turned into afternoon, afternoon turned in to evening, and there I sat dozing off occasionally. What was worse than the bumpy, uncomfortable conditions was remembering how I got here. Reliving the battle over and over, wondering what I could have done to save my crew. I still don’t understand what happened to Ricky; he was supposed to be right behind me. Did he stay with his brother? Was he captured? I feel like I should be with them, where ever they are. At that moment I stick my hand into my shirt pocket and to my surprise, I find my sole photograph of Elsa. I could not help but to smile. They must have removed it from my tattered uniform. The gentleman sitting next to me pointed and smiled; he said nothing but I knew exactly what he meant. I stare at Elsa, imaging the day we reunite. I suddenly feel no more pain; I am pleasantly engulfed in love.

* * *

We suddenly stop, I peer out the back of the truck, and I see the ocean and the remains of the sunset. The tail-gate falls and we pile out of the truck. We quickly move toward a ship pulled onto shore. A small motor boat with a canopy, the same man who silently smiled at me led me onto the boat and gave me a small burlap sack. It contained my uniform, dirty and foul.

"Au Revoir, Americain. Bonne chance trouve ton amour, ton femme, ton tute les monde." He smiled and then jumped on shore and began pushing the boat off the beach. He stepped back and waved along with the rest of his family. I watched them appear smaller and smaller in the wee light of dusk. I was in awe as the reality sunk in. They risked life and limb to save me, to return me home. I had never been so touched by a perfect stranger. I never even knew their names.

* * *

The room no longer feels cold; I feel warmth and love as the family passes. I know nothing about them. They are perfect strangers, but ever since my last experience in the war, I will never judge unfamiliar persons. I painfully ease myself out of my chair and stand with my own power. The old man across from me glares; I can say nothing to him. I am enraged at his ignorance, yet I say nothing. I return his malicious glare and walk away. I slowly walk back to my room where I find Elsa, peacefully napping. I ease onto the bed and lay beside her. I grasp her tightly and fall fast asleep.