Caro's Descent

Chapter Twenty-Five - Germany Bound

I peered at the clouds through my window as the plane soared through the sky. Inside, an emptiness filled my soul. Nothing made sense to me anymore. Everyone blamed Dad for killing those priests, but the fire marshal's investigation never determined the cause of the fire. Even the police blamed my father, but they didn't have enough evidence to prove anything. According to the coroner's report, Dad died from heart failure. I knew the truth. I saw her. God's angel killed my father.

Why? I asked myself. Why did she take him from me? Why did she take him from us? Poor Mom—and Paul. They're completely devastated. As if Dad dying isn't bad enough. They're stuck listening to all those accusations. At least I get to leave. They're forced to answer all those questions. Everyone wants to know why he killed those priests. Dad would never kill anyone, especially a priest. Nothing makes sense. Mom knew him better than anyone, and she doesn't believe it for one minute. Then again, who knows what she thinks inside?

Did Flowers kill the priests, too? I asked myself. Surely, Dad must have tried to save them, I reasoned. Then I thought about Flowers. I believed she was good. She protected me from Neville. Flowers is one of God's angels. Why did she kill my father? Maybe I've been worshiping the wrong God all along.

"Would you like something to drink, Sir?" asked the stewardess, her tone polite and professional.

"What?" I asked, my mind still focused on my father. "Oh, yes. I'll take a cola, please."

"Bring him a nip of whiskey to pour in that soda," said the strange old man sitting to my left. "I'll have the same, please."

The stewardess handed us plastic cups filled with ice, a can of soda, and a little plastic bottle of whiskey. As she moved to the next row, I stared at the tiny bottle in my hand, contemplating its contents.

"It's an international flight, son," the gray-haired man said as he twisted the cap from his nip. "Didn't anyone tell you? Drinks are free, and you need only be eighteen."

I glanced down at the shiny gold buttons on my uniform and said, "Yeah, but I'm not sure they allow us to drink in uniform."

"Nonsense!" he said. "Look around."

I surveyed the passengers on the plane as the man suggested. There were a lot of soldiers in uniform, and most of them were drinking, laughing, and having fun. The scene was like the bus ride from Kentucky to Aberdeen, only with alcohol.

"See," said the scrawny old man. "Everyone else is having a good time. Why shouldn't you? Besides, you seem like you could use a drink. What's bothering you, son? Are you nervous about going overseas?"

"Nervous?" I asked, my tone defensive. "I'm not nervous. I was thinking about some problems back home, that's all."

"Ah," he nodded knowingly, envy twinkling in his eyes. "I know what you're going through. I remember leaving my girl back home the first time I traveled abroad. Take my advice and forget her. There will be plenty of girls where you're headed, believe me. Within two weeks, I guarantee you'll have forgotten about her."

I threw the man a confused stare and was about to tell him my problem wasn't a girl. Still, I changed my mind when I realized it would be easier to allow the man to believe he was right than to explain my real problem. I poured my whiskey into the plastic cup and filled it the rest of the way with soda. "You're right, Sir. It'll be two years before I see her again. I should forget about her and focus on what's ahead of me." As I held my cup in the air to cheers the older gentleman, I asked, "Are you in the service too, Sir?"

"Me? No, not anymore." The old man chuckled, his voice filled with a bittersweet nostalgia. "I'm retired for many years now. My days of soldiering are far in the past. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be back in your shoes, young man. You've got your entire life ahead of you. This must be your first assignment. I remember mine like it was yesterday. God, I miss that uneasy feeling. You're filled with fear because you don't know what to expect. At the same time, you have the excitement of a new adventure. You're going to meet new friends and girls. You will travel to places you've never imagined. Cherish it, son! Enjoy every moment of your youth, and don't look back. Live every day to its fullest potential because before you know it, you'll be an old man sitting on a plane reliving your youth through the eyes of a young soldier, such as yourself. That is if you're one of the lucky ones who make it out alive."

The strange old man took a long sip of his drink. His eyes became glassy, and his face blank. His voice softened, and he said, "Sometimes I think they were the lucky ones. I look at my decaying old body in the mirror. My wrinkly old skin flaps around where it used to stick so tightly to my once perfectly toned muscles. I remember when I could stand up and walk across a room without the aches and pains and the crackling joints. Sometimes, I assume this is hell; I'm the one who has to remember. God takes the good ones before they suffer. The rest of us, we have a different fate. Our Lord punishes us for the sins of our youth. Maybe we didn't fulfill our purpose. That's it. The lucky ones fulfill their purpose early and die before they suffer the pains of old age. The rest of us, well, look at me. This is hell, son."

I squirmed uneasily in my seat as his unwelcome hand slithered across my thigh, his eyes glazed with a mix of drunkenness and nostalgia. My vision of hell surfaced in my brain—that three-headed beast sitting on his lion surrounded by fire and feces. I recalled those damned souls screaming in agony while the demon tortured them as he did.

"No, this is not hell," I said in a stern, quiet voice. I turned toward the old man locking eyes, allowing mine to burn fiery red. "I've seen hell." Terror filled his eyes as I reached between my legs and pulled his trembling hand away from my inner thigh. "If you touch me again, I promise you, you'll soon see it, too."

The old man fell silent, his boldness evaporating like the whiskey in his cup. He didn't speak again for the rest of the flight. I finished my drink and a couple more, the alcohol dulling the ache in my chest until I finally drifted into a deep sleep.

When I awoke, the plane had begun its descent. I peered out the window at the sprawling landscape of Germany below—a tapestry of greens and browns stitched together like a patchwork quilt. My heart raced with anticipation and dread until we landed safely at Frankfurt International Airport.

As I stood in line to take my bags through customs, I stared at the exit door, imagining what I'd encounter on the other side. Although I knew it wouldn't happen, I half expected Drill Sergeants to bombard me as soon as I'd step through the doors. That's one thing about basic training that sticks with soldiers for a long time. The influence the Drill Sergeants have on us sticks like glue to our subconscious minds. No matter what we do, there's a slight but constant fear that a Drill Sergeant will pop out of nowhere and scream at us. In a way, it's its own type of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Finally, I got through the line and exited through the door. Many people waited for their family members, but there was no sign of screaming Drill Sergeants. I noticed a Sergeant in uniform through the crowd, holding a sign for all the incoming soldiers to see. I followed some other soldiers. As we gathered around him, the Sergeant checked to ensure he had everyone on his list.

Once he verified we were all there, he bussed us to Ramstein Air Base, traveling through the German landscape that felt both foreign and exhilarating.

At the base, everything moved very slowly. Everyone sat around, and more soldiers poured in from different flights. As we waited, the soldiers working there drew up orders and called our names off accordingly.

The air buzzed with nervous energy, a reminder that we were no longer just boys from home; we were soldiers now, bound for duty. I stared at my watch, feeling the weight of time elongating each passing minute.

After hours of waiting, I finally heard my name. A Sergeant led me to an office where I received my orders. They assigned me to the Seventy-Seventh Maintenance Company in Babenhausen. Before sending me to my unit, they said I'd need to spend three weeks at the in-processing facility on Cambrai Fritsch Kaserne in the city of Darmstadt.

The waiting game didn't end after I received my orders. They sent me to another waiting area. From there, they'd bus me to Darmstadt. As I waited, the thrill of the new adventure mingled with the shadow of the recent tragedy back home. I was pulsing with anticipation, yet the hollow ache in my stomach reminded me of the reality I was trying to escape.

Suddenly, I heard my name called in the distance. A familiar hand waved through the crowd. "Sharp!" I shouted, my heart leaping at the sight of my friend.

"Over here!" he shouted, weaving his way toward me, a grin plastered across his face. He looked just as relieved to see me.

Seeing Sharp through the crowd sparked a floodof memories from A.I.T., but the weight of my father's passing and theuncertainty behind it quickly overshadowed the moment. I forced a smile,knowing that this reunion was only the beginning of facing both my past and thetentative challenges that lay ahead in this new world.