War Stories

Callum

The young boy looked into the distance where he saw the smooth shoreline of France's northern beaches. He was standing on the bow of the small cruiser, leaning against the gray metal railing that kept clumsy people like himself from falling into the sea, and potentially dying.

The ship was steadily moving from his home of Dorset, England towards his impending fate, that was most likely death, on The Golden Beach, otherwise called Omaha. He imagined the look of horror on his mother's face when the courier came up to that white-framed door, on that red, front porch, and knocked. It would be three simple taps, and then the creak of the door opening, then the low sound of his mother crying, then the sound of his father's hand rubbing her back, comforting her.

He noticed his mouth had a dry, sour taste. Reaching for the canteen strapped to his belt, his hands shook. Not from the brisk air, but from the fear of what he would face on the beach. He remembered the long spiel about what they would hear, see, smell, and touch on that shore. It was difficult to get the cap off his tin bottle. The shaking was unbearable. Finally, the cool flavor of nothingness inundated his mouth. He sighed at the brief relief, thinking of all the things he was going to lose. No, that was selfish. It was the other way around. They were going to lose him.

He glanced at the rifle leaning next to him, noticing every detail. He saw the polished wood of the guard, the shiny iron of the chamber, the small, slanted lettering right above the trigger. SMLE Mk. III. He realized that it was made for a special purpose: To kill. He realized that it was never going to fulfill it's purpose. He couldn't kill someone. The pristinely made rifle was never going to be fired, only dropped in the sand, covered in crimson, then swept away into the sea. He then realized that that is how it will always be, life being so short.

'I guess I get poetic just before death.' He thought, 'good to know.'

They would bring his body home in a silver and black casket, if it wasn't too mangled. The attendance would weep, and pay their respects before they lay him to rest, And he would stay there, happy that he had done his part in saving the country.

"Hey, son"

He heard a low southern-american accent speak, directed towards him. He turned, knowing that he was about to be reprimanded for being above deck, and not below, preparing for the attack.

"Sir," He began, trying to think of an excuse, "I was down, below deck, when I heard a large crash-" His heart pace quickened; he saw that it was the First Class Petty Officer.

"I know why you're here, Callum, and there wasn't no crash." He said, cutting him off, "you're up here 'cause you needed to think straight, and think about life 'n the sorts." The sergeant said, with a sad tone to his voice, as if remembering a time in his past.

Callum could do nothing but stare as the man spoke.

"I remember my first mission." He stated, "Was just as terrified as you are today, in fact maybe more." He had a far off look on his aged face. "I've learned the more you think, the more you upset yourself. You get to thinking about how everything's gonna go down when you're gone, and it's not always like that. You might not even be killed." He said, trying to brighten Callum's mood. It didn't work.

Callum frowned at the clouded sun on the horizon as the officer pulled a cigar out of his front pocket. Lighting it, the smoke blew into Callum's face. The sergeant gestured the cheroot towards him in a giving manner. He shrugged and took it, analyzing the glowing tip, and the smoke coming off it. It had a vanilla scent to it. He trapped the end between his dry lips, and took a long pull from the blunt.

Callum was never good at talking to other people, and could not deal with awkward silences. He shifted his weight onto his left foot, and leaned forward over the edge, resting his forearms on the railing. He took the cigar out of his mouth, and looked down into the water, waiting for the officer to say something. Callum turned his head to the officer. The stitched lettering on his shoulder read Edward Thatch. The badges on his uniform were tightly packed together, the colours mixing with each other in the gloomy light. There was a white one with a red cross on it. It had gold lettering. There was one with an eagle on it, coloured red, white, and blue. There were so many pins and badges that signified what this man had done, but Callum knew he would never be able to have as many as this amazing man. All he had and was ever going to have was one patch, with a singular v-shaped line on it, with tan lettering that read, Private, Third Class. He was never going to save lives, never going to rescue hostages, never going to kill anyone. Only fall, bloodied and bruised, in combat, Bullets whizzing over him to find the next victim.

The sergeant looked at his antique pocket watch he had pulled from a cargo pocket.

"It's almost H-hour, we better get going." He said before briskly returning the clock to his pocket.

Callum exhaled, blowing the smoke away from the cruiser, he turned, grabbed his rifle, handing the cigar back to the officer, and started walking down below deck, closely followed by the sergeant.