Memories of War

Frank (pt. 3)

I have been asleep for a while. I can see the ray of morning sunshine filtering through the tiny window. I roll over and shock runs through my body. He’s not like I remember him; he’ aged a lot through these years, but I can still recognise his large forehead, his long nose, his broad face.

“Frank?”

He stirs. His eyes open up. Now I’m certain. Those are the same alert bright green eyes from years ago.

“John?” Frank rises. “Is that – is that really you?”

“Yes... Almost really me.” I laugh. “So, what happened?”

He slumps back down a little. “They caught me.”

“When?”

“Just after the explosion. They thought I was one of them, so they rescued me.”

My eyebrows shot up. “But your US uniform! Did they recognize it?”

“’Did they recognize it?!’ John! I was nearly blown to bits by an explosion; even today my body’s acting up! And you think they recognized it?”

“... I’ll take that as a no, then.” There is another knock on the door. Jason steps in the door. “Hello again.”

I gesture to Frank. “This is Frank.” The two of them exchange greetings. “We fought in the war together.”

Jason looks surprised. “And what’s your view of the war?”

Frank hesitates. He looks over at me. I nod to him as if to say ‘go on, tell him what you really think.’ He clears his throat. “I guess I agree with your father. At first, he was the excited one for the war and I was hesitant, but over time he began to see it my way.” Jason is lost in thought, presumably trying to imagine us fighting together and trying to see what we saw. Despite his own experience of war, he is probably still too young and naïve to see it how I see it.

 

August 1943

I was in a hospital, just like this one, faintly aware of bright lights and the movement of people around the ward. I looked up and the general, standing next to my bed, came into focus.

He turned towards me. “You’ve been declared unfit for active service.” I forced myself to look down. He was right; my leg was a bloody mess, and the rest of me wasn’t coping too well, either. Before I lost consciousness again, I remembered. Where is Frank?

It has been three days since Frank has been put in the room. I don’t know his condition, but he is asleep a lot. I look across the room, and there he is, flying through dreams. I can hear sounds of laughter from the park outside the window. They always stress the importance of not moving about, but I slowly ease my legs out from under the blanket. I take one shaky step and my leg holds up, but barely. I wheel the monitor along, and one slow step at a time, advance. I unstably make my way to the window.

I take a long look out. The park down below is an oasis amongst the dirt and grit of the hospital and the surrounding city. There are many children, running about, people walking their dogs, joggers and young couples hand in hand, walking through this little corner of calm amongst the rest of the city. There are green trees thriving in the morning sunlight, and a pond through the middle, reflecting the outlines of light clouds, faint ripples distorting the image. I take a step back, foot hitting the monitor base, and lose my balance, seemingly falling in slow motion, watching my fate right before my very own eyes. I can feel myself losing consciousness, and then there is darkness.

I can smell the earth of the ditch again. I can hear the explosions. I can hear snippets of shouts and orders. I can feel the fear again, the blood swelling throughout my body. I’m faintly aware of an increasing beeping in the background. I hear a landmine explode, the sound tearing through my ear and causing an excruciating ringing, thudding into my skull, not allowing me to think. I feel the flecks of dirt and debris flung up into my face. I’m holding something. Something with the power to kill, the power to end wars. I’m here again, the place that has stayed in my mind for all of these years. My vision blurs up, and I faintly notice the distant beeping stop.

May 7th, 2003

During the week or so since my late father, John Hester’s passing, it has in fact been an inspirational experience for me. I have had the privilege of reading his journal entries that he wrote on his deathbed, recounting and evaluating his experience in World War 2. They have had an effect on me, and as of today, I have made a vow to myself to quit the army and perhaps take up writing, following in my father’s footsteps. In that case, this is my first ever ‘piece’ of writing. While I do hold some regard for fighting for important causes, the underlying fact is that it changes the fighters’ lives forever, as I saw in Frank and my father.

-Jason Hester