The Journal
Page 2
corner of her eye as she said this. “It won’t be the same around here without him.”
Being more or less one of the family in Gramp’s eyes, May had been included in many of our activities over the years. That they too had developed a special relationship of their own had always seemed natural to me, and had never been a source of contention.
Reaching up to May’s face, I gently wiped the tear away with my thumb. She smiled a sad smile, and reached over and gave me a hug.
“We’ll get through this together,” she whispered in my ear, “I promise.”
I hugged her back a little tighter for that, and we sat there for a couple of minutes that way, comforting each other.
Finally pulling away, “Your mom said the meal is ready, we should go down.” I nodded as she stood and then pulled me up with her hand, giving a squeeze before pulling me toward the hallway.
As I was leaving, I looked back over my shoulder at the journal lying on the bed. My last unexplored connection to my grandfather…I yearned to read more. I knew that after we ate, I would sneak back here at the earliest opportunity to continue reading his experiences.
Even with the sadness of his writings, it was comforting reading the thoughts that he had written. The words were alive on the pages, a living remnant still communicating to me even after his passing.
October 14, 1918
Well, the war is over for me, but from what I hear it sounds as if it may really be over soon anyway
My luck finally ran out on September 14, one month ago today. Bill and I had been on duty when a courier carrying dispatches for our unit was mowed down ten feet from our trench.
He was still alive.
We looked at each other and nodded, knowing what was on each other’s mind. We both pulled ourselves up the muddy wall and over the side. We then made our way toward the injured man amid bullets that were plowing up the earth around us. Finally reaching him, Bill started pulling one shoulder while I took the other as we made our way back toward the trench.
As we lowered him over the edge to others of our unit, I felt a burning sensation in my back. I quickly rolled over the edge, my head finding a rock on the way down. I was blinded by blood as it seeped quickly from the wound. I wiped it with my sleeve and got up, intending to make my way to the first aid orderly.
Dizziness swam through my head as I stood unsteadily, unable to fathom why I felt so weak. I looked up to see them pull Bill down over the edge, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky from where he landed.
The noise around me was getting quieter and my vision becoming blurry. One of the new men, can’t remember his name, ran to me with concern on his face and yelled something…but couldn’t make out his words.
“I can’t hear you!” I yelled.
Everything was starting to get dim as I made out the man pulling his face close to my ear. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was this man shouting into my ear.
“You’ve been shot!”
I was shocked! The whole time I had know him, he had never once mentioned that he had been injured in the war. He had truly put it all behind him I guess. But that was like him to the letter. Although it was also a painful time in his life, he was more willing to talk about living through the great depression than some other things he had endured. He had told me once that the only way he had survived the economic downturn was to get up every morning and go to work.
He owned his own business and it had suffered greatly during that time. But he said all he could do was plod on one day at a time. Most of his customers had no money, and he had been forced to take food and various animals as payment for things his customers desperately needed.
He also did many things on account, letting his customers pay as they could. He revealed that at one time, 80% of his business’ income was owed to him by customers that had no money.
I had asked him once how he was able to have enough trust in these people, trust that they would eventually pay him back.
He quoted something that he eventually made me memorize:
Without trust, there is no promise for the future.
October 15, 1917
I feel slightly guilty I think, getting out of this war with my life while my unit, or what’s left of it continue to fight.
Guilty or not, I have had enough. Far from the noble cause I once thought it to be, I now have a realistic attitude to the atrocities of war, and its causes. Not that one shouldn’t defend oneself if faced with a force that wants to take what is yours, but why does that force want what is yours?
All of this suffering and carnage over one man’s belief that he should rule so much more of the earth than he does, if not all of it.
Idiocy!
I have also come to another conclusion. During my time here I have gotten to know a fine French fellow by the name of Jacques. He has invited me to travel with him to Egypt to help with an archeological dig.
The thought of going back home with my present state of mind does not settle well with me. I am not the man that left Indiana last year, and I think I should see if I can find that man again before returning.
I’m not even sure if there is a God anymore. Surely a loving God would not let things like this war happen. Prayer was long ago lost to me, I feel like I have already lived through hell, so what’s the point?
My parents certainly would not understand the man that I am today.
The crickets were chirping outside my open window as I put down the book. Looking over at the clock, I saw that it was 12:30. I have been reading the journal nonstop since everyone left around 6:00. Rolling over onto my back, I stared at the ceiling and contemplated the story lying beside me.
It was hard to fathom that the man that I knew had endured so much by the time he had reached the age of 18. I felt guilty that he had gone through so much at that point, and that I still had no idea what I even wanted to do with my life.
The cool breeze flowing in through the window felt good on my skin. I closed my eyes to enjoy it for a moment, but apparently dozed off as the clock revealed it to be 4:30 when I again opened them.
I thought about just going back to sleep, but knew that I would be up in an hour anyway. Taking up the journal again, I read through some of his entries from Egypt. Most were the dry details of the mundane, day by day life as an Archeologist’s helper…digging here and there as well as mapping the location of their finds.
Finally, I skipped to the last entry.
March 3, 1919
I laughed today!
I had come to this place three months ago with no great expectations, and the daily monotony of our work gave me exactly what I wanted…nothing.
No emotions need be involved to dig into the lives of the long dead, and I fell into the work easily.
I worked hard when I was supposed to, giving it my all physically. This allowed me the deep dreamless sleep that kept out the nightmares that had haunted me since the war. It was all that I wanted out of the experience, and it fulfilled the need more than adequately.
Whenever there was a social gathering, people joining together to blow off steam and enjoy one another’s company, I would decline. I was broken, and I felt that no amount of social interaction would fix that.
Last night however, I deigned to sit with my friend Jacques around a fire with a few of the others. The coffee was good and hot, and I had missed the taste it as it was seldom available here.
We were all sitting there, mostly quiet, except for Kareem. Kareem is a monkey, a pet of one of the local workers at the dig. He was making his way around the fire, just being a monkey.
When Jacques found the monkey in front of him, he started talking to him in French. I could make out only a few of the words spilling out of my friend’s mouth as he gave the monkey a speech worthy of a politician. The monkey just stared at the Frenchman with a look of wonder as the words continued to spill out of my friend’s mouth.
Finally finished with his speech, Jacques put his cigarette back to
his mouth and took a long drag. In a flash, the monkey crawled up his legs, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. Turning around to face the rest of us, the monkey sat on Jacques’ lap and took a long drag himself.
Blowing out the smoke, he proceeded to start chattering while moving the hand holding the cigarette around like the Frenchman had done moments before.
I busted out laughing at the sight. Once started, I could not contain myself, continuing long past the time when everyone else had stopped. Concern passed on many of those around the fire as I continued my gut wrenching laughter.
Jacques however, lit another cigarette and just watched with a knowing smile on his face.
He had been there.
I felt life return to me in those moments. The love I felt for my family and friends, the need to do something worthwhile…to get on with my life. Even God seemed to have a chance of returning to me.
I have three more weeks to go in my commitment to this project. I will fulfill that with ease, but I am ready to go home now. I am ready to move on to the next thing, the next adventure.
Since this journal seems to be the story of my life in the trenches, this will be my last entry.
I have come full circle.
From the kid with the high ideals, into the depths of hell and back again, this is hopefully the story of only a small portion of my life. It will always be with me, be a part of me, but it is now over. I will store it like one is apt to do with any part of their lives, but it no longer