by John Snyder
Chapter Two
As Tom walked up the street, images of his father came into his mind with every step he took, his limp a poignant keepsake of his father’s recklessness. His recollection of the man oozed like an open wound. All his life, Tom had struggled with the scars left behind by his father. He tried hard to remember the good times he’d experienced as a child, the times he’d gone fishing and attended ball games with his dad, but these memories were overshadowed by his father’s drinking, carousing, and bad judgment.
Tom and his siblings had been raised by his mother’s brother, Uncle Phil, and his wife, Aunt Mildred, while Jacob remained incarcerated. Growing up with relatives, Tom could never remember anything good ever being said about his father. He often made a conscious effort to block even the good memories of him. Missing his mother, though, he yearned for just a whiff of her sweet perfume or the gentle touch of her soft hands. What a wonderful woman. He could only imagine what it would be like to have her in his life.
Though taller than his father, Tom favored him remarkably, especially in his younger years, handsome and muscular. He married his childhood sweetheart, Betty Matthews, and they were the proud parents of a small child, Michael, age three. A devoted family man, Tom loved fatherhood and made a concerted effort to spend as much time with Michael as possible.
He shared a good relationship with his siblings, especially with Frankie. In many ways, Tom shouldered more of a father’s role with Frankie than that of a brother. Before entering the Army and being shipped out to Europe for the war, Frankie had lived with Tom and Betty. Never really living on his own, he relied on Tom for guidance and support.
Tom arrived at work a few minutes late, something he pawned off on his lame leg, another thing for which he could blame his father. He worked in a machine shop as a skilled machinist. His impressive work ethic made him the perfect employee and well liked, but the lack of opportunity for advancement in the small shop frustrated him. Being short on seniority further inhibited his prospects. He yearned to own a business, but lacked the self-confidence, not to mention the financial resources, for such a venture. So he settled for being a dedicated underling.
At lunchtime, Tom walked outside and ate at the picnic table behind the shop. The afternoon sun warmed the chill in the air. He preferred the solitude of eating his lunch alone. It afforded him the opportunity to think about his life. Before lifting his sandwich to his mouth, he bowed his head for a short prayer. While chewing his first bite, he began thinking about his son. Last weekend they’d gone to the park and done a little fishing. The fish weren’t biting so he and Michael walked around the lake, enjoying their time together.
This prompted a memory of one particular Saturday afternoon when he was a young boy. His father took him fishing. Tom caught all of the fish and his father didn’t catch any. He thought that was great—out-fishing the old man. He later learned that his father was fishing without bait, letting Tom win the bragging rights for the day. That’s the kind of dad Jacob was in the earlier years, unselfish and tremendously thoughtful. It brought a slight smile to Tom’s face.
In some ways, Tom was conflicted about his feelings for his father because he had some great memories. But then Jacob changed. He became selfish and hard, spending less and less time with the family and more time carousing and drinking with his no-good friends.
I wish things had turned out different, he thought. I would love to have a relationship with Dad. And Michael would have love having a grandfather…if only he hadn’t changed so.
Tom occasionally wondered if his father could ever revert back to the man he used to be. After these many years, he doubted it. But to be honest, he never really gave Jacob a chance, too afraid to open his heart, only to have it smashed once again.
About five years earlier, Jacob had actually showed up and asked for a fresh start with him and Frankie—fat chance, as far as Tom was concerned. He told him he’d missed his chance and slammed the door in his face. His father had fooled him before with promises that he’d changed, only to go back to being an irresponsible drunk. Never again would Tom fall for that line. Part of him knew this was wrong. As a Christian man, he realized the importance of forgiveness in his faith. When he sought the advice of his pastor and friends, they told him he should, at least, give his father an opportunity to apologize and see where it went from there. But like his father, Tom had a stubborn streak.
Five o’clock came fast. As Tom packed up his things to go home, Randy Fleming, his best friend and co-worker, approached him.
“Me and some of the boys are stopping off at Mattie’s Pub for a beer or two on the way home. Want to join us?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said. “Betty’s expecting me.”
“Oh, come on, Tom. We won’t be late. Have a beer and a few laughs with us.”
Tom thought for a moment, then agreed to go. Once there his somber mood lifted as he joked with his friends. They began throwing darts, a game at which Tom excelled. After beating his friend, he and Randy returned to their table and let some other guys have their turn.
“How’s Virginia and little Billy?” Tom asked.
“Oh, they’re doing fine. Billy’s really a pistol, though. He’s so excited about the prospect of having a little brother or sister.”
“Well, at least he doesn’t have long to wait. Virginia’s due anytime now, isn’t she?”
Randy nodded and took a drink of beer. “It’s about time for you and Betty to start thinking about a little playmate for Michael, ain’t it?”
“Not on my wages. It’s all I can do to put bread on the table as things are now.”
Suddenly, Tom’s attention focused on a drunkard at the corner table fumbling for a cigarette, swaying unsteadily in his seat. People were laughing at the man as he tried to light his smoke. Randy noticed Tom staring at the man, watching his expression change from one of happiness to pain. He knew what he was thinking. He let Tom sit silently for a moment before saying, “Thinking about your father, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. That’s what he’s probably doing right now, wherever he is—dead drunk and making a fool of himself.”
“What if he’s changed?”
“Oh, not to worry—he hasn’t.”
“You don’t know that, Tom. He’s getting up in years. He may have changed his ways. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. I know you think about him.”
“I try not to.”
“Come on, Tom. He’s your father.”
“He’s a disgrace.”
“What if he showed up one day and told you he’s changed?”
“I’d probably pitch him out like I’ve done before.”
“You wouldn’t give him a chance?”
“No! Can we change the subject?” Tom said, raising his voice. “Whose side are you on anyway?”
Randy let it drop.
“Let me get us another round,” Randy offered.
Tom’s eyes turned back to the drunk. “No, this is it for me.”
Tom had a healthy respect for alcohol. He usually stopped at one or two drinks, swearing he would never be an alcoholic like his father.
He stayed another five minutes, took the last swig of his beer, then grabbed his coat and headed out the front door of the bar. On the way home he couldn’t stop thinking about the drunk in the corner. It made him wonder about his father and what he might be doing.
Upon arriving home, Michael, his toddler son, ran up to greet him. Tom stooped to pick him up, then kissed Betty. She was beautiful…small boned, sharing many of the same qualities as Tom’s mother: kind, warm, and pleasant to be around.
“How was your day, dear?”
“It was good. I stopped by Mattie’s with Randy and some of the guys after work for a beer.”
“I wondered what was taking you so long to get home.”
“You’re not angry, are you?”
“Oh, no. You deserve time with your friends. How’s Randy doing? Any news about the baby?”
“He’s doing great. Said the baby’s due anytime now.”
“That’s wonderful. Now little Billy will have a playmate.”
“Yeah, if it’s another son…that will be twice the trouble.” He laughed. “I’m starved; what’s for supper?”
“I fixed a meatloaf. Let me put Michael to bed and then we’ll eat.”
Tom took a seat at the table and began thumbing through the newspaper while Betty attended to Michael. The alluring smell of the meatloaf stole his attention. He walked over to the stove, opened the oven door, and inhaled deeply, taking in an unfiltered scent of the dish. Snatching a fork, he bent over the meatloaf, carefully guiding the utensil toward its target.
“Ah-hum,” Betty interrupted.
“Oh…I was just checking it.”
“Sure you were.” She laughed.
“All right…You caught me red-handed.”
“Sit down and I’ll get you a slice in a minute. Do you want mashed potatoes to go with it?”
“What do you think?”
“I thought you would.”
Betty cut off a generous slab of meatloaf and spooned up an extra helping of mashed potatoes, Tom’s favorite. She set the plate in front of him, then fixed a plate for herself before taking her place at the table. They graciously bowed their heads as Tom said the blessing.
“Tom, I was thinking today…Do you ever wish your relationship with your father was better?”
“What made you ask that question?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I just think it would be nice for Michael to have his grandfather in his life, especially since my daddy’s gone.”
“What’s with everybody today…all worried about me and my relationship with my father?”
“What do you mean, Tom?”
“Randy got on me about the same thing at the pub.”
“About your father?”
“Oh, never mind! Let’s just drop it!”
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She placed her hands on his to comfort him.
“Look, it just isn’t within me to forgive him. Not right now anyway.”
“It is within your power to forgive. I know he has his faults, but don’t you think it would be good for Michael to know his grandfather?”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t want my son anywhere near that man. He’s a terrible influence.”
“What if he’s changed?”
“You’re talking about the impossible.”
“Miracles happen, you know.”
“Now that would be a miracle.”
“It’s certainly a dream of mine.”
“You know the havoc he’s brought upon me and my family. I would prefer to keep Michael out of my father’s wake of destruction. Let’s talk about something more pleasant.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how beautiful you are.”
Betty smiled.
“Especially when you smile.”
“It’s been a while since you spoke with Emma.”
“I received a letter from her a few days ago.”
“What did she have to say?”
“Everything’s fine in Baltimore. She said she got a letter from Frankie.”
“We got one today, too. I forgot to tell you.”
“Where is it?”
“Here, I’ll get it for you.”
Betty jumped up from the table and retrieved the letter. Setting it down by Tom’s plate, she said, “Read it out loud, will you, please?”
Tom put down his fork. Using his knife, he opened the letter.
Dear Tom and Betty,
I thought I’d write to let you know I’m okay. It is cold over here. Snowed today a little bit. I know I’ve been out of touch for a while, but the Germans keep us pretty busy. Yesterday we kicked their butts in a battle. Two of my buddies were wounded…not badly, but they’ll be out of commission for a while. I’m trying to keep my head down. Maybe this thing will be over soon, but there doesn’t seem like there’s an end in sight. How’s my little Michael? I’ll bet he is growing up fast. I’d love to give him a big hug right now. You know, Tom…I would love for Dad to see me in my uniform. I think he’d be proud of me. I know how you feel about him, but my time over here has made me do a lot of thinking. I’d really like to see him. When I get back, do you think we could work on that? Think about it, will you? I’ll write again as soon as possible. We have a mission tomorrow, and then I’ll be off for a few days. I’ll write then. I love you both.
—Frankie
As he gently placed the letter down on the table, an empty stare occupied Tom’s face. Betty put her hands on his again. A tear rolled down his cheek.
“Maybe God is trying to tell me something…about Dad, I mean.”
“Maybe. Do you think he’s all right?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’m worried about him, Tom.”
“Don’t waste your time worrying about him.”
“Tom!”
Chapter Three
Frankie and his fellow soldiers had just settled in when word came down that the Germans had broken through the line and were still coming. Frankie’s division, among others, stood by waiting to mount a counterattack. Soon, their orders came to proceed ahead to the front line and to prepare for combat.
They traveled light, one blanket, one gun, and one knapsack per man. The route to the front line was entangled with Germans, the going exceedingly tough as casualties mounted. Frankie walked cautiously, carrying his gun at the ready. Many of his comrades who walked with him fell wounded and dead, and they were still miles from the front, where the combat was supposed to begin. This was not a drill, not a training exercise, but the real deal…war and all its horror.
Artillery explosions peppered the night sky, lighting the heavens in what seemed like a fireworks display. Frankie’s heart raced as he wondered when his number would come up. He walked, then began running. The men regrouped from time to time, those who were still standing.
When they finally arrived at the front line, Frankie thought he had seen it all, but none of his training had prepared him for this. There were American soldiers dying all around him, artillery shells exploding everywhere, the screams, the smells, the ear-piercing noise…nothing but confusion and chaos. Some men ducked for cover, while other brave souls charged ahead firing their weapons. It was as if he wasn’t even there—just watching it all happen from a distance. It all seemed like a dream…a bloodcurdling nightmare, in fact. Terribly frightened, Frankie did his best to fight through it.
A sergeant yelled, “Soldiers! You, you, and you…take this machine gun up that hill where you’ll have a vantage point and take out some of these Krauts. They’re killing us here!”
Frankie obeyed the order, following two men he didn’t even know to a place he never wanted to go. Once at the top of the hill, they set up the gun. By the flickering lights in the sky, one soldier pointed out the Germans, the other manned the ammo, and Frankie took out as many “Krauts” as he could…just like he was ordered. The enemy dropped by the dozens, but they kept coming.
He mowed down another group. One man got through and started charging toward them. Frankie took aim, but hesitated for a second while the thought flashed through his head that this was another human being. What am I doing?
“Shoot him!” a soldier shouted.
Frankie pulled the trigger again as a shower of bullets sprayed from the gun’s barrel, hitting the rogue German soldier, knocking him to the ground.
“He’s not dead. Shoot him again!”
The German struggled to his feet and pulled a grenade from his belt. Wounded, he staggered toward them. Frankie could see his face, which reflected the same fear as his own. Confronted with no other alternative, he fired again. The bullets exploded against the young man’s chest and he fell—dead.
Suddenly, the gun jammed. Frankie tried to dislodge the shell casing that was wedged in the magazine. They were pinned down and ta
king a constant barrage of bullets. The Germans advanced and were overrunning them. Retreat being their only chance for survival, Frankie picked up the machine gun and they all ran just as fast as they could. The weight of the gun became a hindrance, so they made the impulsive decision to drop it to hasten their flight, while bullets whizzed by their heads and into the bushes around them. Frankie ran for about a mile until he caught up to some of the division. When he turned around, he discovered that he was alone. The other two men were taken by enemy fire, all before Frankie was even able to introduce himself.
The refuge Frankie sought was short lived. A soldier handed him another rifle and told him to fall in line. It would be a long night, but he successfully survived another scrape with death.
Early the next morning, Frankie began writing Emma a letter. He couldn’t stop thinking about the German soldier he’d killed…the look in his eyes. All of a sudden he felt sick to his stomach. He climbed out of the foxhole on his hands and knees, succumbing to a case of the dry heaves.
“God, forgive me. Please, forgive me.”
He knelt there shaking for almost five minutes before he could regain his composure. A sergeant, who saw the whole thing, yelled over to him, “Buck up, soldier!” Frankie wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket before returning to his foxhole and resuming his letter to Emma.
* * *
Dear Sis,
I thought I’d write you a brief note while I had the chance. We were in a horrible battle last night. I wish I could say it was exciting, but it wasn’t. It was downright scary and I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I had several friends die and many that I fought next to that I never got to know. I did a terrible thing last night. I killed many men. One, in particular, still haunts me. I can still see his face as I shot him over and over again. I hate this. I’m just not cut out for killing. We’re waiting for our orders. Who knows where they’ll send us next. I just wanted to let you know I was safe—relatively speaking. I will write again when I get the chance. If you talk to Tom, tell him I’m waiting for a letter from him. Take good care of yourself.
