Chapter One: Tears Like Daggers
Like Sisyphus he walks, pushing his pain to the crest of a hill. Pain that you wouldn't see to look at him, for it had been forced back again and again by the throws of war. Forced back, and replaced, some may say, by a madness of sorts. A pain that was stagnant, yes, dormant, maybe, but there all the same.
Going prone, and putting his rifle's scope to his eye, the soldier looks through his hawk-eye to see the vast expanses of "No Man's Land," the very borders of which he was tempting. Sweat drips from his head, stinging his eyes, as a smile cracks his once stern visage. For, down beneath him, in a small patch of bush, sat a figure, huddled, clutching at life, trembling with fear. Bayonet in hand, the boy (for he couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen), looked out before him, eyes shifting nervously. The soldier squints, trying to maintain focus, as his crosshairs close on the boy's helmet. The German helmets had become all too familiar to him; he had begun to lose count of how many he had killed. As he pulls back the bolt on his Garand, and hears the bullet fall into the chamber, it took all his strength to stifle a laugh. Nearly jumping at the sound of the crows squawking overhead, he slowly tightens his finger on the trigger. And, for what seemed like the hundredth time, gunfire fractures the silence. The boy down below hears the gunfire and cries out in terror, "
Nein, bitte!"
He had missed. Whether his grip had shifted, or his attention, he didn't know. The bullet ricocheted off a rock next to the boy, creating a loud, grating sound. The boy's eyes dart this way and that, searching frantically for his attacker. Pulling his bayonet close to his chest, he braces for death; and it meets him head-on. The soldier takes another shot, and hits his target. His grin widens maniacally, and he feels an odd sense of satisfaction. As the young soldier's body slumps to the dirt, head to his chest, his helmet falls off and rolls to the right. In it, the soldier sees a ray of light pierce the hole he had left, through a circle of blood.
Placing his hand on his thigh, he pushes himself to his feet and turns. As he begins his descent down the hill and back to camp, he hears a soft laugh like the brushing flow of waves against the sand. Turning, he sees a German soldier laying prone, just as he had, in a small patch of grass, pointing a rifle directly at him. "
Jetzt sind sie meins, Amerikanisches schwein!" The man chortles cynically, and grins. He grabs the soldier's arm firmly, and turns him. Feeling like a sheep in a line, he winces as the soldier screams, "
Diese weise! Bewegung!"and pushes the barrel of his rifle into the small of his back.
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The wind whips through the elms which regally stand outside the Crenshaw home, sending wails of discouragement wafting toward the door. As the family gathers around the dinner table, anticipation grows to fear in the pits of their very souls. The wife, Mary Crenshaw, turns to her husband with a look of sheer fright. "Brian," she pleads, "Is there nothing you can do?" Brian Crenshaw, for what seemed like the hundredth time, shakes his head, chagrined. "Like I told ya before, babe, this is a war," he responds disparagingly, "It's the way it's gotta be. It's us or them. Those're the facts." Both parties return to the blank solitude of their plates, leaving the issue hanging unresolved above their heads. As she spoons more apple sauce into the waiting mouth of their only child, Mary's concern turns to fury. Like the minute hand of a clock moves from one number to the next, so her emotions change. Welling up in her like a dormant volcano awakened, it gets to the point where she can no longer handle the pressure. She drops the spoon, which rings sharply as it hits the floor. She leaps from her seat. "I refuse to lose my family in someone else's war," she screeches, tears forming in her eyes, "Think about it Brian! What more can one soldier do? Don't they have enough of our men over there as it is? Aren't enough lives in jeopardy? You have a family to consider, so, do it! Think about us!" Brian had, at this point, had enough. He slams his fork down, grabs his coat off the rack and storms out the door, leaving behind an air that tasted of tension.
With the slam of the door on its copper hinges, all noise is stopped dead. Confronted by the silence of the room, and tormented by her own thoughts and fears, Mary finds herself overwhelmed. Her head swims withh emotion. Her feet no longer feel the need to support her body, sending her small, limp frame tumbling in a crumpled heap to the floor. With a thump and a groan, her heart pours out in waters of sadness.
With his mother in a symbiosis of tears with the floorboards, Daniel sits silently in his highchair trying to comprehend his surroundings. Now, many think babies have no spatial awareness, but I would beg to differ. In fact, I would say the opposite. You see, as we age, our minds get so weighed down with "knowledge" and stress that we begin to lose our sense of true reality. It has often been said that if one could tap into the mind of a small child, the secrets of the universe would be found. I, on the other hand, would go as far as to say that children are the secret. Sheer innocence. No corruption, no blemishes, no media implanted ideals, just pure, blameless perfection. Parents stake a claim as "teachers" of their children, but if one were to sit back and observe a child, just watch, the key to true peace would reveal itself.
Daniel's small eyes dart around the room, looking closer at all of the familiar objects around him. From a child's perspective, the world is significantly larger, and therefore all the more intriguing. Hunger once again makes its home in the pit of his stomach, and he begins to cry. Like a mother wren to her nest, Mary immediately resumes her position as sustainer of the household, stifling her emotions like a candle-flame long past needed, swallowing back the tears. On her face she places a mask of complacency, and she hugs her son with the utmost tenderness. Although, on the outside Daniel appears appeased, in his mind he knows the truth. Emotions are not so easy to hide as people think; especially given the depth and capacity of the minds of children. As he eats in silence, feigning contentment, Daniel wonders whether his father would even come back. He can only begin to recall all of the stories he had overheard from the women his mother talks to. "Did you hear what happened to Tracy Willis last week?" Asked old Mrs. Carvello (a wretched elderly woman with more cats than any human should have, and a fiery temper that could make the devil himself cower in fear), checking her makeup in a pocket mirror, "Albert just up and left, leaving her and the kids alone and hungry!" Oh, how he detested their incessant squawking. And, now, he finds himself in the same place as sad Mrs. Willis.
"We're gonna be okay, aren't we Danny?" Mary says, in a self-assuring, sing-song tone, as she takes another spoonful from the applesauce jar. She begins twirling it moronically toward his open mouth. He laughs. Not out of amusement from his mother's comic endeavors, but at the fact that she could not see herself when she did this. Her mouth drooped to a crooked snarl, releasing gravely grunts that more resemble a head-on collision than an airplane. Her eyes, however, are different. He had never seen these eyes before, almost as if they were not those of his mother. They are somehow distant, as they stare into his. Her pupils bear the scars of sadness; red tendrils branching from the root and out to the edges of her lids. Bags had formed under them. In these bags are the tears of the many sleepless nights in which she found herself besieged by thought of fire and ash. War. It consumed her very soul, the essence of her being. Sadness stains her once beautiful face, her features distorted from her lamenting. Looking caringly into the endless pools of blue that stared vacantly into his, an unfamiliar face greets him. The face of fear is an ugly one. It rips at his soul like a vulture, threatening to tear his family apart. When fear makes a visit, laughing jovially in an evil tone, two paths are forged: The path of submission and the path of victory. He could only wonder which his mother would choose.
The New York skyscrapers bear down on Brian like butchers at a slaughterhouse, casting short shadows in the dark upon the sidewalk. The cruel, bitter night air kisses his skin with brutal frigidity. Walking the lonely streets, he finds himself confronted with the horrors of past and future. Not knowing whether you will be alive to see your son grow is a very sad place to be, and a seemingly hopeless one.
Passing a street corner, Brian hears a small, whispering voice. "Hey, soldier boy." He turns to see a very young woman in an utterly depressing state. Her shirt hangs loosely about her chest, useless. It sports stretch marks in the neck area, as though it had been pulled in some sort of struggle. On the woman's face, beneath the mask of makeup, are bruises and cuts. Seeing him eye them, she puts up her hand ashamed, and attempts to hide it with an inviting smile and twirl of her blonde hair. Around her waist, a skirt clings tightly to her legs, allowing plenty of visual for those interested. "You lookin' for a good time?" she asks, her voice hoarse. He takes one final glance at her mangled frame, in all its misery, before taking a step away. Her eyes, like radiant almonds, gaze at him longingly as he turns and makes his way down the sidewalk.
Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets in a futile attempt to shut out the cold, Brian becomes consumed by his thoughts. Why am I throwing my life away? he ponders, for that woman back there; others like her? Surely that's not what our nation needs. My family is my priority, yet I have to set them aside for someone else's. Is that right? Yet, another voice rips through his thoughts like tissue paper. "Change, sir?" He turns his gaze to see a man of unknown age, sitting solemnly on a bedroll. His ratty hair hangs loosely about his shoulders like a dense fog hovers over a tepid swamp. His beard has grown so long and thick that it had begun to knot and tangle. Brian slips his hand in his pocket and begins searching for any sort of charity he could bestow upon this desolate soul. He fishes around momentarily and finally finds a nickel, lying lonelily in the bottom of his pocket. He pulls his hand out, and with as much compassion as he could muster, drops the coin slowly into the man's outstretched palm. Although he sincerely doubts this would make a significant difference to him, it was the best that he could give. And by the look on the man's face, he could see that it was appreciated. With a nod, Brian continues on his way. Maybe there is a method to this madness, he thinks, War isn't intended to enslave the free, it is to allow liberty for those who have been confined. The question of their confinement is relative. Maybe, if I do this, the enslaved, like this man here, won't have to spend one more night on these filthy streets. Equality is in our hands now.
"I won't fail you," he says to the man, kneeling down, "This will change."
Although the man appears confused, it seems to be just the thing that Brian needs. With a smile of satisfaction on his face, and a sense of peace in his mind, he turns around and heads back toward home.
Silence had kept its place in the Crenshaw household, and the only sound to be heard was the slow, rhythmic slide of Mary's rocking chair as she eagerly awaits the return of her husband. Daniel has long since been put to bed, and she nearly was losing consciousness herself. Glancing at the clock, she was beginning to lose hope as the hours flew by like a speeding train. The time had passed when her anguished, desperate cries and prayers hit the ceiling, and now all she had left to do was wait. Wait, and hope that they would not have been in vain. Just as the stage of her life begins to darken behind the curtain of her eyelids, she is jarred by the long-awaited sound of a key slipping into the lock on the front door. One by one the lock's mechanics fell into place. Mary cannot remember a single point in her life where things had ever gone so slowly. It was as if time were preparing her for what was behind the door. Swinging loosely on its hinges, it revealed Brian, standing in his long, brown overcoat; collar pulled up to hinder the frigid night air, and his charcoal fedora tipped slightly to the side. She always thought he looked sort of like Frank Sinatra in that hat. He grinned, and his eyes glistened. She could barely contain her urge to run up and hug him, but she did. Why? She didn't know. She was not angry with him; yet, she could not bring herself to express her deep longing to see him. His smile fades like a flower out of season. "What's the matter?" he asks.
"This is a hard time in our life, Brian, the kind of trial that makes or breaks a family. And this is just the beginning. If I can't trust you to stick with us through the bumps and bruises now, what am I supposed to expect when things get worse?"
"I'm sorry, Mary," Brian entreats, "I was scared. You just hear so many stories, you know? Stories of people dying, getting lost, going crazy, I—I just didn't want to think about it any more. There was so much pressure put on me as a child to join the service, and now that the time is here for me to prove my worth, I don't think I can," Brian slumps down in his black leather armchair, it stretches under his weight, and sighs slowly. "'You'll be a fine military man, someday,' my dad always said. And now, it seems, whether I'm ready or not, someday is here."
Mary runs to her husband with desperation and throws her arms lovingly around him. She grabs his face and kisses him slowly. "We'll be fine. I know we will." He nods, and they kiss again before walking to bed, both of them knowing that, if only just for a while, this was the last time they would share a bed together.
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Tires roll along the pavement, leaving skid marks of despair. An exhaust pipe expels the scent of tears and sadness. Inside this instrument of lament, sits a family. A family battling demons of their own. Each of them has their own fears and ideals ripping at their soul endlessly. Brian, in the driver's seat, plays it cool, his eyes mechanically locked on the road, every turn stiffer than the last, as his thoughts brings him into a state of further tension. Mary, to his right, is not so adept at masking her feelings. She sits with her head in her hands, doing all that she can to hide the sobs that so greatly longed to eek out between her interlaced fingers.
As his mother once again lets her sadness overtake her, little Daniel sits peacefully in the back of the car, inspecting his hands meticulously. In his speechless world, he sits with confidence. He knows his father. There is no doubt in his mind that he would come out of there alive; probably with medals, too—Purple Heart, maybe. Faced with hardship, the best qualities of men emerge. Under the worst of circumstances one will be surprised at the clear-headedness of some. And Daniel believed that his father was one of those few. Or so he hoped.
Few minutes of calm and quiet passed in what seemed like hours. Just as the family seemed at ease, their doom takes shape before their tired eyes. The train station looms menacingly before them, its brick walls and steel bulkheads seeming almost to mock their pain. Mary looks to see other women bidding their loved ones a sad farewell. She sees one woman hug an older man, probably in his late thirties, dabbing her tears with a pink kerchief. She then looks down at a young boy, he can't be older that fourteen or fifteen. Mary knows why he is there. He stands bravely in his army green, keeping close to the older man. The woman kneels down and takes hold of his hand. Tears well in his eyes, and hers as well. They embrace espondently, and both of their bodies quiver ith weeping. As the older man grabs his shoulder and starts to lead him away, the woman is reluctant to let go. She clutchesat his hand like precious silver, shaking her head fervently and screaming, red-faced. Finally able to pry their hands apart, the man walksaway with the boy, leaving the woman wailing on her knees.
Mary looks at Daniel, her own mascara running, and starts to unhook his seatbelt. She picks him up and holds him tightly to her chest, trying to stop the tears from rolling down her face. Brian opens the driver's side door and steps out. His combat boots hit the pavement with a loud thump. As the threads of the tapestry of war begin to take shape with his every step, Mary feels a sinking in her soul. She felt the strong urge, as the woman at the gate had, to cling to the life that they had worked so hard to build. It is a mystery to her that one could not. Brian's words return to her; so many lives are lost in battle, but none had been as clear to her as this.
She watches as a single tear careens down her cheek and seems suspended in air for what could have been hours. As its translucency catches a ray of light coming through the window of the car door, she feels as though her entire livelihood were tumbling to the ground, only to splash and separate sporadically, leaving her heart in pieces.
