War Stories

Spared by a Nazi

"This story is from the memory of an old veteran, the sole survivor from a miraculous battle in World War Two. The Nazis used a military static that only this man, Henry Davison, has witnessed. Our veteran partook in a battle with which he cannot remember the name, or even the location of the battle."

I have been reading the same paragraph for what seems like hours. Finally, a nurse approached me, her heels clicked against the hard tiles as I closed my notebook.

"Are you the reporter here to take Henry's war story?"

I stood up from my seat, "yes, that's me."

"Right this way," she replied, walking away and signaling for me to follow.

When we arrived at a door that is just as special as every other door in this place that is over run with old people. The nurse stopped and gestured toward the door, "he's in there."

As she walked away, I replied, "I'm going to need some help getting out of here when I'm done. This place is like a hospital, but worse for the directionally challenged like myself." She waved me off as she continued to walk away.

I turned my attention to the door that I am supposed to enter. I know next to nothing about the man behind it. The only knowledge that I possess is what little I have scribbled in my notebook and that he has no family to care for him, hints why he lives in a nursing home.

Knocking my closed fist on the door, I heard a muffled, "come in."

Opening the door and stepping into the small room, opposite to the door I saw a small bed against the wall. An old colorful rug laid on the ground, and a TV sat on the other side of the room. What little is in the room, looked like things that the nurses have given him to make the room as comfortable as possible. The old man that I came to visit, sat alone in between the TV and the bed.

He looked at me and smiled, "are you here to interview me?"

Shaking his hand, I replied, "Yes, my name is Thomas. It's nice to meet you Mr. Davison."

"Call me Henry," he said with a warm smile.

I nodded my head and grabbed a chair from the hallway. Taking a seat across from him, I sat my notebook on my lap and prepared to take notes.

"Ok, tell me your story Henry. And I'll write it down, so that more people can hear of it."

He leaned back in his rocking chair, raking a shaky hand through his hair that is as white as snow. The large window behind him casts a ghostly light on his back as he recalls those dreadful days.

"I remember it like it was yesterday," he said, as the sound of the rain hitting the thin glass of the window and the distant rumble of thunder could be heard. His dull aging eyes stared ahead, he opened his mouth to speak but he struggled to find the right words.

"Just tell me what you remember, any information is better than none," I encouraged.

Time seemed to backtrack as memories glowed behind the old man's glassy eyes like Technicolor behind the glass dome of a retro television. He brought a wrinkled and veiny fist to his mouth as he coughed, the sound could remind anyone of pneumonia. He opened his denture equipped mouth and started, "it was on a day like today, rainy and dark.......there was fog to. And the mud was so terrible....."

"I could feel rain smacking my helmet, causing small vibrations for my head to feel. The mud was a thick watery mess. Jeeps would get stuck and my boots would get stuck. Water soaked my socks, which caused my feet to prune. My arches hurt with a dull ache, it felt like I step on a knife every time my feet touch the ground. And my heel is bleeding from walking so much, the water stings my wounds. Is this how it felt for our guys in the trench wars? Is this what they call trench foot? Or have my feet not reached that critical point yet? Will I be pulled out for something as small as feet problems? I just have to muscle through this, because I'm not going home until I get shot.