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A Soldier’s Duty Ch. 2
By hunter2.0
“Oh, my god,” his mother said at last. “There has to be a mistake. This can’t happen,” she thought to herself. She began to cry, and finally looked at her watch. It had been about thirty minutes, and everyone on the block had been staring-knowing what had happened. They tried not to stare and to continue as if they didn’t notice, but they just couldn’t. “Your father will be home soon,” she finally remarked.
“What will I do? What will I do?” he mumbled to himself over and over again.
“Come on,” she said picking her self up as well as helping him up. “We just have to send a letter of appeal, that’s all,” she said reassuringly, trying to bring color back to his face. It was as pale as if he was already dead from the war, or as if he had not seen the sun for years. He did not speak; he just seemed to be lifeless except for his movements and his breathing. He wearily stood up and walked in with his mother, and she helped him sit down in the kitchen once more.
“I’ll get you something to drink” she said, as she headed towards the sink. She pulled out a cup, and filled it with water, and reaching into the ice box, retrieved some ice to cool off the water. She sat the cup in front of him, wondering what to do. “We just have to send a letter of appeal,” she repeated. “It’s that simple,” she said calmly. Suddenly, she broke down into tears. She had cried before, but not so openly. They sat like this, until it began to grow dark. The sun began to sink behind the horizon, and the crickets began their songs as the birds began to end theirs. Suddenly, a car pulled up to the house. The pitter-patter of footsteps was heard and a figure dressed in black stepped into the house. “Hey!” the figure said. “Sorry I’m so late, but the boss kept me extra late.” Realizing something was wrong, he asked aloud “What’s wrong?” he said in a curious voice.
Silently, Justin’s mother handed the letter to the father with a quivery hand. He curiously opened it and began to read. As if it was predestined for him to be like the others, he dropped the letter on the table, with an open mouth.
“No. It’s a mistake. It has to.”
“It’s addressed to him,” his mother said, choking back tears. She hugs Justin, clinging to him as if she never wanted to let go. “I won’t let ‘em take you.” Following on her words, his father said,
“I’ll wait at the front porch with my 12 gauge, damn it!” He hit the table with his fist. “They ain’t takin’ him. It ain’t happening. I’ll die before they take that boy!” he exasperated with rage. “You’ve got too much goin’ for you, Justin. They can’t take you. I simply won’t let ‘em. I won’t.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it, dad,” Justin said with despair in his voice. There was no fear, not anymore. It was if he began to blankly except it. Almost machine like.
“To hell with me if I can’t do nothin’ about it! I’ll be damned before they step foot in this house! They ain’t takin you. We’ll start up are own World War, right here. I’ll do it!” he yelled once again. The repeating of the words eventually wore him down, and the words fell in volume and in tone, and eventually it wasn’t anything but a whisper to himself. He sat down next to his son, and took a hard look at him. He was no longer the little boy that he always vowed to protect. Not anymore. He was coming of age, and he realizes that he must let go. But he couldn’t. He was ready to let go; to let him go to college and start a life and make a living for himself and provide his own home and food. He was not, however, ready for him to go off and die, uselessly, without purpose, a body forgotten in the blood bath of a long and rigorous battle. ‘What could he do, anyway?’ thought the boy’s father pondered. ‘He can’t change the tide of the war. It won’t make a difference. Not at all.’ He continued to stare at his son, and he suddenly realized all the time he spent with him that was taken for granted.
He never thought that one day that he might not be there. He always assumed that life would continue on, and everyday, every single day, his son would be there for him, for him to comfort, and for Justin to comfort him. He desperately tries to hold back the tears, as he has always been taught that men don’t show their feelings. It took an awful lot for him to cry. He hadn’t even cried at his own grandmother’s funeral. But this-this was different. He was going to have to sacrifice his son- his creation- for the uselessness of the wretched war. He turned away and wiped the trickle of water that ran down his cheek. He did something that night that he hadn’t done in a long, long time. He prayed. And prayed. And prayed.
***
Two weeks later, a truck arrived at the street of the Emerson’s mail box. It was full with the soldiers, all of them enthusiastic and dreaming of their heroism in war. Justin stood, in full uniform, with a satchel swung across his soldier. He carried everything dear to him. Most importantly, a picture tucked away of his family. He took a deep breath. His mother and father stood by him. His mother hugged him as if never to let go, and then kissed him on the cheek. His father began to hug him tightly, as his mother did, but instead decided to leave him with a handshake.
“Go kill those Nazis bastards, you hear? Give ‘em hell! And do one in for me, will ya?”
“Sure, dad,” Justin stood with a small grin on his face. With all of the troubles placed on him now, it was the best he could give.
Justin began walking toward the truck and hoped in the back.
The truck began to pull off the curb, and Justin looked back one more time. His parents were waving at him, and he waved back. Justin’s father just realized his mistake. ‘A handshake? What if that’s the last time…’ he waved the thought out of his mind, knowing that he would be alright. It did not completely disappear, though, and receded into the back of his mind. He went inside the house with his wife, and he helped her hang a blue star with string in the window of the kitchen.
5/17/2004 9:27:00 PM
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