Daddy Has To Be A Soldier - Historical Fiction

“Come back daddy,” I remember my daughter telling me with her big, soft eyes pleading me.

I clearly remember looking her straight in the eyes and confidently saying, “I promise.”

Then, I gave her a big hug, and I left. I left her with my sister looking after her. I left to war. To the war that would end thousands of lives.

So here I am now. The date is exactly June 26, 1950. It is one day after the war between South Korea and North Korea had started. Thousands of other soldiers like me are standing right beside me, in an orderly line. The soft whispers of worry, and anxiety flows through the dry, cracked lips from soldier to soldier. But I stay quiet, not wanting to say anything. The rhythmic beat of the feet shuffling are inevitably loud. With every step, clouds of dust are flying everywhere, causing soldiers to cough.

My once shiny black boots are being spoiled by the dirty brown dust. It is now coated in mud and dirt. But my green cotton trouser and shirt are immaculate. But in the hot, scorching sun above, my cotton uniform is causing me to sweat. There is no breeze of air, and it is extremely humid. Straight ahead of me, I can see heat waves, waving up and down. I desperately need water, but I am too afraid to ask my general to give me water. The trees to the side do not wave back and forth, but instead, they stand perfectly still. The grass is turning yellow, and mosquitoes are eating us alive.

My brown helmet is shielding my head and my long black hair. Sweat slowly trickles down my short, stubby face, and my big, clumsy hands are clamped onto my gun.

I hold my gun straight against my chest, as I march. I had never held a gun before. To be honest, I am quite afraid to be holding this gun at the moment. I remember when my general handed me this gun. I was almost afraid to accept it.

“Do you know where we are going?” suddenly asks one of the soldiers next to me.

I look over at him, and he is sweating bucket full’s of water. He has a worried expression to his face, and he looks as if he is going to faint in any moment. But for some odd reason, his eyes are twinkling, as if he is excited for something. “No,” I respond. “I’ve got no clue where we are going,” I say truthfully.

“Okay,” he simply replies.

Straight ahead of me, I see some armored tanks and cars. They are strolling along in search of any danger. The grey, suffocating steam bubbles out of the back, and rise into the perfect blue sky.

“Where are the North Koreans?” asks the same soldier beside me.

“I don’t know,” I reply with the same answer.

“This is going to be so much fun. I’ve never used a gun before, and I finally get to use one now. This is such an exciting adventure,” he says, with his eyes gleaming with excitement.

I look over at him, and I think that he is crazy. How can war be so much fun? In a way, I wish that I am as excited as he is. I wouldn’t have the fear and the nervousness inside me. I wish that I can pretend that this is all an exciting adventure as well. But I can’t. I’m not that type of person. My tame, quiet personality doesn’t allow me to even think and pretend that sort of way.

I look at my watch and the two arrows point at exactly 12:00. We are still walking down this lonely, dirty path. It is soon lunch time. I can feel blisters start to form underneath my feet. They hurt, and I try to walk on the sides of my feet, so I can avoid popping the blisters.

Suddenly, a loud roar coming from every side deafens my ear. Through the entire deafening rumble, I hear what sounds like a whisper, “Down! Down! Down!”

Obediently, I collapse to the ground. My heart beats so fast, that it feels like it’s all the way up my throat, and sweat quickly rolls down the side of my face. I place my arms over my head, and I try to regain my focus. Through all of the madness, I realize that all of the loud noises are the sounds of the gunshots ripping through the air. With every gunshot, my hands tremble with my gun.

Through all of the gunshots, I can still hear the loud shrieks of the soldiers that are getting shot at the moment. All around me, I see soldiers falling down onto the ground, with big red stains on their chests. I frantically look around my surroundings, and I can’t help but feel my stomach feel oozy. My stomach hurts, and my ears are deafened.

Everywhere I see, I see grenades being thrown. Soon after, those grenades rock the ground beneath me, causing me to quiver even more. The grenade blows up a deep hole into the earth, and couple of men shoots up into the air, with blood splattering out of their bodies.

I look away, horrified at what I’m experiencing. Beside me, I see the young soldier who had just conversed with me a while ago. His face is smiling with excitement, and he shoots his gun like a mad man. He shouts in delight.

The sky is being replaced with dark, thick clouds, darkening the battlefield. All of the mosquitoes have flown away, for they don’t want to be caught in this war as well.

Suddenly, I realize what a coward I am. I can barely stand up and use my gun. All around me soldiers are dying, but here I am huddled up, protecting myself from all of the madness and evil. Why did I even sign up to fight in this war? Was it because I was so patriotic for my country? Was it because I didn’t want my country to become communist?

I don’t want to be in this war. I want to feel the warmth of my daughter in my arms, and I want to protect her. My heart’s racing, but no matter how much I regret signing up for this war, I have to help fight for my country now. There is no backing out now. I signed up, and I am a man of integrity.

So I stand up, with my legs trembling with everlasting fear. With my legs shaking, I try to balance myself, and focus on the enemy. Through all of the madness, I spot a North Korean. He has his back faced towards me, and it’s a clear shot for me.

I lift my gun, and I focus on my victim. My fingers are placed on the trigger, but I can’t shoot. I can’t help myself to shoot him. If I shoot him, I am no different from everyone else here.

As I stand there with my fingers trembling on the trigger, I think to myself. Is war the real answer to any conflict? Why is violence the solution to everything? Why can’t we just talk everything out? Mankind has become so violent and evil. Is it so hard to love everyone and treat everyone like our brothe… “AHHH!” I yell out in pain.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my leg. I collapse onto the ground, and everything is dizzy. My leg goes numb, and I start seeing things. I still see the soldiers shooting, and I can still hear the loud rumbles of the war, but something is different. I can’t put any pressure on my left leg, and I topple onto the ground.

My head is suddenly light, and then I feel the pain in my leg. The numbness disappears, and excruciating pain takes its spot. My leg throbs, and I beg for help, shrieking as loud as I can. But my shouts are not heard through the madness. Why can’t anyone hear me? Why can’t anyone help me? I wave my arms back and forth, but no response comes forth. I sit there stranded. I feel isolated, and I suddenly feel lonely.

I look down at my leg, and I see the red stain growing bigger and bigger. Finally, my trouser and shirt are dirty. It wasn’t dirty before, but it is now…

Then, I see drips of blood falling onto the dirty ground. Drip, drip, drip. Oh no, I think. It can’t be. I place my hands on the side of my neck, and all I see is a puddle of thick red blood glued onto the palm of my hands. There is no pain, for I am dazed. I just sit there while the war continues. The throbbing in my leg continues, and the bleeding from my neck continues.

Then out of nowhere, a soldier collapses onto the ground, right beside me. His chest is stained with the blood. With the energy that I have, I look over at him and I realize that it is the soldier that had just conversed with me before all of this insanity. His eyes are cold, and he touches my arm, wanting my help. I just sit there, staring at him. I watch his slow, painful death. His hands are icy cold and his face is white. He tries to talk, but nothing comes out of his bloody lips.

Soon afterwards, the soldier dangles in my weak arms. His cold eyes stare at the grey sky above us. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t talk. The bleeding stops.

I look at him, and I whisper, “Is this what you wanted? Was this that fun?”

He doesn’t respond. I know why he doesn’t respond.

As every second passes by, I am losing more blood from my neck. With every second, I start to feel dizzier and dizzier. Soon, my vision starts to fuzz up and I know that I am becoming blind. My body aches, and my ears hurt from all of the traffic around me. I let go of the soldier. I feel like staying here. I feel like dying too. I want to give up too. But just as that thought passes through my mind, I see my daughter standing right beside me. Her bright white dress illuminates everything around me and her glowing eyes makes me want to smile. But she has a worried look on her face. With her outstretched arms, she says, “Come back daddy.”

I look at her, and I can barely force the two simple words out of my mouth. With struggle, I painfully force out, “I promise.” Then suddenly, she disappears. I frantically look for her, but she’s gone.

Soon, it feels like there’s hope again. I can’t die. Not when I had promised my daughter that I would come back.

Suddenly, I try to focus onto something with my blurry vision. That something gets closer to me. I look at his uniform, and a red cross is taped onto his shirt.

“You’re going to be fine,” says the gentleman with the red cross on his shirt. “You’re in good hands…I promise.”

The Anonymous - Not Proof Read Yet

I don’t mow lawns, I don’t read to the elderly, I don’t walk people’s dogs. I don’t go fishing in the morning, I don’t ride my bike to the tracks to watch trains hurtle by. I don’t care about the rest. It is dusk, and I wait behind Bob’s Liquors for you, my hair in my eyes and my hands in my pockets. I try to look tough.

And there you are, as serenely rigid as a .22 pistol. I watch you approach through my eyelashes and your hands are white and beautiful. You hand me the Ziploc and I gruffly press some bills into your glowing palm. You don’t ask what I’m going to do with it and I assume that you don’t care, but I desperately want to tell you that I’m only the middleman. I’m not going to lose control like every other man you’ve known. I want to see that knowledge in your dark eyes. You glance at the shadows where my face should be for a quick moment, and I’m tempted to tear off my jacket and shirt and grab your hand and press it to my throbbing chest right there under the grungy neon sign shrieking Liquor! But you’ve already turned around and all I can see is the black silhouette of your boots hitting the asphalt in a rash of poise and dignity. I put the baggie into the deep recesses of my jacket and turn to walk in the opposite direction. The runny yellow of the streetlights washes over me and I am exposed. There is no one here to see me.

***

He has a real knack for finding people’s weaknesses, their insecurities. I spend half my time trying to block his subtle attacks and the other half trying to find his holes. “No, I know,” he says, his hands fiddling with the metal spring of a mousetrap. “I know that.” I watch him warily.

“Then why did you ask?” I demand angrily. I am sitting on the porch steps a couple of feet below him, and I see him glance at me quickly. Damn, I let him frustrate me again. I hate that he makes me seem like someone who gets riled up easily and for no reason at all.

The mousetrap snaps out of his hands and clatters down the steps. I reach down to pick it up but he is already bored with me. I can smell a faint whiff of men’s cologne under the layers of sawdust and sweat as he gets up. He works at his dad’s construction company during the day, doing mindless things like unloading lumber. He is clearly on his way into town. He lets himself out the iron gate with a grunt and a nod. He doesn’t ask me if I want to come.

I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to, though. I don’t want to be his wingman while he charms the high school girls at Holly’s Diner with soggy burgers and stale jokes. Every Friday night neither the girls nor the burgers nor the jokes change. I imagine the same girls sitting in the plastic booths 20 years from now, their hairstyles outdated and their skirts too short, but still giggling whenever Michael forces the younger boys to fetch him a soda or some fries.

But I wanted to be asked.

I sit on the porch for a while until the sun sets and I can see the pale flashes of fireflies followed by blank expanses of dark as they are snatched from thin air by bats. Catherine calls me for dinner but I stay outside a bit longer until I can’t see the outlines of the leaves on the oak trees anymore.

Dad bellows from upstairs, “Listen to your stepmother, young man, or you’ll be having no dinner at al­l!” The night air is burnt and there is no wind. I stand up. I can hear the muffled thumps of Louise and Brian stampeding down the stairs to the dining room. I go inside, leaving the mousetrap on the wooden banister.

***

I sit down at the dinner table as Catherine carries a pot of spaghetti from the kitchen, steam rising to the ceiling with nowhere else to go. Louise swings her feet in her chair because she can’t touch the floor yet, and Brian ­teases her because he can. Dad scolds them for horsing around at the table. He says a quick grace and Catherine serves us a pile of noodles and cooked broccoli. Dad glances at her affectionately as she ladles out his serving, and I have to look away.

“How was work today?” Dad asks when she sits. Catherine is the manager of a coffee shop and works ten hours a day to keep it running.

“Tiring,” she replies. “Bruce never comes in on time and I always end up picking up his loose ends. I’m sick of it.”

Dad pauses with a mouthful of spaghetti dangling on his fork. “You shouldn’t have to stand for that,” he says. “You work hard enough as it is.”

Dad has an overdeveloped sense of justice. He is a lawyer for a firm in Clarke County and takes his job very seriously. I push the bottoms of my broccoli to the side of my plate and watch Louise and Brian bicker over who has the least milk in their cups. They hate milk, but Catherine insists that it contains vital minerals for growing children. They pour it down the sink when she isn’t looking.

“So, how’s Michael? He doesn’t seem to come around much anymore,” Catherine says in an attempt to simultaneously include me and nose into my affairs.

“He’s fine,” I reply.

“What’s he doing this summer?”

“Working,” I say. “At his dad’s construction company.” She smiles, thinking I’ve opened up to her. I look at her blankly.

“You should find a job too,” Dad says. “We can’t have you hanging around here all summer.”

“What is there to do in this godforsaken town?” I ask ­irritably. “All the jobs are taken by people’s kids or ­Mexicans. I have nothing to do.”

Dad glares. “Don’t talk like that in front of your little brother and sister,” he reprimands, his eyes narrowing. “Find something to do. I refuse to let you stay home and play with your model airplanes all summer.” I haven’t played with model airplanes since seventh grade. I don’t bother to correct him. Catherine looks at her lap, and I hate her for not stepping in and for being here at all.

I am about to argue with Dad but decide against it when he raises his fork and Louise and Brian start paying attention. I ball up my napkin and throw it on my plate, then carry it to the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

I hate the idea of stocking shelves at the only grocery store in town for weeks, but I know my belligerent comment only served to further Dad’s resolve that I get a job. I resent that he sees Michael as successful and responsible just because he has a job, even though it requires no skill. Michael sits in the woods with his dull friends most nights and drinks beers filched from the local liquor store. I stalk to my room and throw myself on the bed without turning on the light. A job – somewhere to go during the day. Some way to make money. I lie there thinking until it is pitch black and I am asleep.

***

It is a Friday night and the humid August air weighs on my chest and shoulders like Atlas’s burden. I tuck the thick plastic bag I just received into my jacket and pull my black hood over my eyes. You left not a minute ago and the stunning white of your hands is still resounding on my eyeballs in bright flashes of color like after I stare at the sun. You’ve never said a word to me in all the time we’ve met behind old buildings, so I am forced to imagine what your voice sounds like. I like to think that you sound worldly, cultured, refined, as if after collecting freezer bags in dark alleys, you change out of your black boots and into a pastel-colored dress and eat cucumber sandwiches and drink tea.

But I know that isn’t true, not just because the hard lines around your mouth tell me you would never wear a dress, but also because in this crumbling town no one does.

The headlights from the street recoil around the corners of the alley and disappear as I make my way into the open. I can hear girls’ voices and the deep laughter of the boys driving them around. I turn down the street and am about to walk away from town when I hear Michael’s sudden laugh. I turn into the shadows of Ed’s General Store and see him in the driver’s seat of his dad’s dark blue Cadillac, his two hoodlum friends and their girls in the back seat. His arm is around a blonde, and she is gazing at him as though he is about to give her everything she ever wanted. Michael doesn’t see me, but his thick friends do.

“Hey, jerk! Yeah, you. C’mere!” The larger one is coming toward me and before I can see his face, I can almost see who he will be in 15 years – big, fat, drunk, and still here in this forgotten town in Texas. I step out of the shadows to meet him, and his face is ugly and hostile in the streetlights.

“What you doin’ creeping around like some kind of freak? You tryin’ to mess with us?”

I don’t say anything. “Answer me!” He reaches to grab me but I sidestep him. Michael gets out of the car and his other friend steps closer.

“Just get out of my way,” I say. My hood is still obscuring my face, and I’m sure that none of them know who I am. I reach into my jacket and wrap my fingers around my pocketknife but don’t pull it out. Michael and his friend are coming closer.

“Look, you don’t want to mess with me,” I say and tighten my grip on the knife. “I’m not like the rest of the kids you beat up. I’m not going to just stand here. I’ll fight back.” They stop a few yards away.

“Oh yeah? Well, it’s three against one, buddy,” threatens the shorter one, his hands balling into fists. I raise my head so my hood slips a little and the lights from Holly’s Diner illuminate my features. I hear Michael’s intake of breath. The other guys still don’t know who I am.

“Just don’t mess with me,” I say. “Just turn around and go back to playing with your girlfriends and I’ll walk away.” Michael doesn’t say anything, but when I look at him, I see a slight stain of fear and know he won’t fight me. But he also won’t step in to save me if his friends ­decide to.

I don’t give them the chance to start anything and turn my back to walk away. “Yeah, that’s right. You walk away from us!” the larger one shouts. I keep walking. After a minute they go back to Michael’s car and get in, the girls praising them in low voices for their courage. I release my grip on the pocket­knife and instead feel for the plastic baggie in my jacket. And I relax. The watery moonlight gets brighter the farther I walk from the bright lights of the diner.

I’m sure that Michael won’t be coming over to my house anymore. I’m not upset – in fact, I’m almost relieved. He knows what I’ve become. Maybe he’s good with inheriting his dad’s construction company and marrying that blond girl, but he knows that I’m not. I’m going to do anything to get out of this place, and I ­already have been.

I can feel the grooves in the dirt road from years of ­tractors and Jeeps and bikes. The trees are dark shapes but the wind seems to pull at me, back toward the smutty music and the dead-end cravings of town. I stop at the gate and see the flashes of color on the wall; Catherine and Dad are watching TV. Louise and Brian’s room is dark; they are ­already asleep.

­­­­­It is quiet and I am wedged in the middle. I want you to see me here, with one hand on the iron gate of civilization and one on the plastic bag in my jacket. I want to tear you away from the vicious neon cycle that I have only scratched the surface of. But if you won’t, I will do it alone. I can’t move – yet – but I know where I’m going.

Status Update

You guys are great.

Today I saw my best friend for the first time in 4 years! Missed you Brad :)
and thank you Tommy for being so cool about it.
I really hope I can get them to meet, but you know boys. Too cool for the Earth -rolls eyes-

Please

Please don't ignore me. I'm not
Letting this go.
Ease my tension,
And tell me what's on your mind.
Share with me,
Everything.

Past Path

Don't forget that it's okay,
To grow up and move away.
Don't let your past upset the present,
You don't always have to stay on the pavement.

Make your own choices and pave your own path.

Avenged 'Prayer'

I changed a word to make it personal to me

Dear God the only thing I ask of you, is to hold him when I'm not around, when I'm much too far away. ♥

Have a look at http://coffin-kiss.blogspot.co.uk/
Also known as Tommy's blog. Ever expanding, and such a dedicated artist.

The second cutest thing today...

...was these stats! Thank you so much. It's amazing what the internet can do for you.

The first thing? Oh, well...that would be my boyfriend. I know I post about him a lot but honestly, he means the world to me. What's this cute thing he did? I'll tell you.
He's just sent me a message saying 'Look under your sharpener'
Not a normal message, I know. I have a really big, round pencil sharpener and underneath it there's a pile of sticky notes for general nots.
He wrote
"I Love You"
then put my sharpener on top of it without me noticing <3
It might not sound like a lot to you, but it made me smile a LOT.
Thanks baby x