The Picture

The page has yellowed with age, and the edges show the wear and tear of the countless fingers that have lifted and held them. The book itself is starting to fall apart, its binding creaks and complains with every movement. Printed on the page of the open book is a simple, black and white photograph.

The photograph is easily identifiable as being much older than 30 years. The almost surreal quality of being completely two-dimensional is all-pervading to the senses. The very scene that it attempts to record seems unreal and lifeless.

Yet the photograph displayed is indeed effective, beyond the ability of the simple Brownie camera used to form its existence. One could look into the photograph and see a story of horrific atrocities, sudden terror, and of vast sorrow. The very qualities that belie its age also assist in verifying the integrity of the story shown within.

A large field, lined with trees, was the stage set for the scene. A few blurry, man-like shapes can be seen in the background, their apparent activity now frozen in time. The subtle shades of gray fail to lend to the clarity of the view, but where the image's aesthetic continuity is lost; the imagination can take over and easily identify the marks and craters of explosions.

The main figure of the scene kneels huddled; hands clasped in front. The hues of her dress and jacket have been lost --melted into the black and gray of the lifeless reproduction. Her hair was most likely a lovely yellow in life, but is drab and unimpressive as it floats from her head on an invisible and timeless breeze.

The young girl appears no older than twenty or twenty-two; but her face shows the sorrow of an aged saint or martyr. Her eyes are half-closed, and expressionless, while her mouth is open and motionless, caught in a mournful wail by the camera's shutter. With a little imagination, it can be imagined that at the time she was rocking back and forth in sorrow.

Her entire face shows the horror of a war she didn't choose to be involved in. Hidden within the lines of mourning can be seen the history of a madman determined to conquer the world, as his troops advance across Europe and East Asia. In the numbing shock showing in her eyes appears the vision of millions of people, used and cast aside like garbage, only to fuel the fervor of carelessness, hatred, and cruelty.

Directly before the woman, in the foreground of the photograph, lies the body of another young girl. Her face is still and almost peaceful amid a confused scene of panic. The features and hair, although stained with dark smears of blood, hold a familial semblance to the mourner. The only compelling thought that germinates from the mourner's appearance is: "She should not have died!"

The entire picture and the story behind it --the living and the dead-- are all disgraced by only a brief and uninformative paragraph of explanation. A Historian's haste has lost an entire story from the past: "A Polish peasant girl mourns over her sister who was killed in a Nazi strafing and bombing run. The nearby immigrant train was mistaken to be carrying supplies to the Allied front."

Overlooked and passed off as unimportant by historians, the picture holds an insightful look into the sins of war, and more specifically, those who cause war. Whether a madman in Germany with a hatred for other races, a tyrannical king forcing his taxation, or crooked politicians unwilling to admit ignorance in tactics: War will happen. And war will bring the death of the innocent along with the guilty.

Some view war as a thing to avoid and shrink from. Others glorify it in toys and films. But war will come, and with it will come countless horrors and death. To fight can be wrong, but to not fight for what is right is worse. Those who avoid all war should read the thirteenth chapter of Job; those who search for war should read the twelfth chapter of Paul's letter to the Romans.

We must defend the cause of right and truth, but with every war will come death: that of the innocent Polish peasant girl; the rich and the poor; and our sons and our daughters. There is much we could learn from the records of history that we all too often fail to see.

Omaha

The mounted Maschinengewehr 42 machine gun continued its methodic staccato, although the rate of fire was such that the human ear could not distinguish between separate shots, the sound of ripping cloth earning it the nickname of “Hitler’s Buzzsaw”.

The five 7.92x57mm bullets ripped through his flesh and muscle with the same level of care and sensitivity as a chainsaw through an unwanted sapling; and with much the same amount of destruction.

The bullet that struck lowest literally grabbed his right kidney and exploded with it out his back. Simultaneously, the highest bullet was bursting from his left shoulder amid a profusion of blood, flecks of muscle, and bits of bone. The three other bullets had continued much the same fashion, leaving large, bloody holes strewn carelessly across his torso. All five bullets, now much slowed, smacked ‘harmlessly’ in the sand some distance behind him.

He wasn’t surprised. He had expected to die, expected to be shot or blown up. You can’t be the first man off the first Higgins LCM and expect to see the end of the war. He didn’t even expect to see a German. The solid “WHUMP” of the 300mm “Nebelwerfer” was enough to convince anyone of the reality of death, even someone who already had five gaping holes in their body.

He wasn’t surprised to find himself lying on his back. The shock acquainted with one’s insides being forcibly rearranged was enough to make anyone want to lie down; but the force of five bullets hitting home almost simultaneously would have been enough to put even Hercules over.

What did surprise him was that there was no pain. It wasn’t that he couldn’t feel anything at all – the very real feeling of sand and pebbles in his clawing fingers was as real as the feel of Lynn’s golden hair against his palms. He could very realistically feel his own blood forming a small pool behind his head as he stared at the overcast sky. The clouds were almost the same color of grey as Lynn’s eyes. He could almost see and feel her beckoning, calling him home to her. Yes, he could feel alright. There just was no pain.

He was also somewhat surprised that the battle continued around him. Men were screaming, crying out in horrible and guttural sounds, occasionally mixed with the solid thud of bullets hitting mankind. Mortars exploded everywhere, one even showering him with sand and bits of hot metal. The sound of gunfire was a living thing, floating up and down, far and near as the battle thickened and thinned with the deaths of thousands. He hadn’t expected this, but it did seem logical, now that he had time to think about it. Before, he didn’t think about it, he just did what Lieutenant Johnson said. Now, since he was wounded but not in pain, he could simply think and think and think.

He thought he heard someone yell “Corpsman!” nearby, but the sounds of the 88mm Anti-air guns were deafening, as once again the British (God love the British!) tried to hammer the coastal defenses into submission. As the Aero planes disappeared, the sounds subsided back into the previous wafting of the M1 Garands’ and the Browning Automatic Rifles’ unsteady cacophony. Only now, over the sounds of fighting and dying, he could hear an awful, bloodcurdling scream. It continued and continued, pausing only occasionally, apparently for a breath, before starting up again.

The scream was horrifying, gurgling, and completely unreal. He thanked God in Heaven he was not in the kind of pain that scream must be in. Poor devil! Someone should either shoot him up on morphine, or shoot him once and for all. It really was terrifying, laying there hearing that scream. It wouldn’t stop, and it wouldn’t let this war be unimportant. He tried plugging his ears against the sound, but the blood covering his hands made it impossible to do so. He wished something would happen. The ocean waves lapped at his legs like a sad child trying desperately to comfort an adult they don’t know why is upset. He had to think, but he couldn’t think with that poor man screaming!

Suddenly, he saw and felt Lynn. He didn’t know how she had come to be here, but she was a very welcome sight. The blood and guts didn’t seem to bother her, his or anyone else’s, and the sights and sounds of bitter fighting were as unseen to her as sadness is to angels. She was smiling at him, softly petting his arms and face, crooning like she had a few months before when he couldn’t quite say goodbye.

She was talking to him, comforting him, telling him he could stop screaming now, that he was dead.

He was, and the screaming had stopped.

Bloody Sunday

There aren’t any bagpipes a’ skirlin’ to lift my feet higher, and I’m not wearin’ a kilt – but I hold my head higher to think of them.

There’s no deep thrumming of the drums to steady my heart, and no rat-a-tat-tat to heighten my senses, but I hold my head higher to think of them.

I think of my mother, and hope she is safe and warm on this chilly night. I like to think that I do this for her, but I’m unsure. Yet, I do think of her and hold my head higher.

I remember my sisters, and their long hair. That of it self mists my eyes, and makes me hold my head higher.

I remember the tales my old Grand-dad used to tell me of some great ancestor or the other (I surely can’t remember their names) and the deeds they’d done, or battles they’d won. Yes, I hold my head up higher.

I think of the story of Bloody Sunday, and the deaths of fourteen of our brave countrymen. What went through their minds in their final second of life? Odd that this is a sunday as well. Perhaps, as they died, they held their heads higher.

I make myself ready, clearing up my sleeping area, along with my mind. Dawn isn’t far off, and with its early light I know men will die. Men will bleed and die. Blood as red and rich as mine will no doubt flow, maybe even mingled with mine. No matter, I’ll hold my head higher.

The Captain came by a short while ago, noticing, he said, how calm I seemed. He almost seemed sad, although I don’t know why. Perhaps he has a touch of the gift, and knows what I do not. Never-the-less, I held my head higher.

If John were here, we’d stand together, side by side, brothers. But, that cannot be. He was a man, that John. I never thanked him for the jacket he gave to me. I wear it now, and hold my head higher.

I’m suited and ready as the sky begins to grow lighter, and my weapon feels good in my hands. I hope it well sees its use today. I sight the hill before me, choosing the place where I’ll go over it. We’ll be charging soon and I hold my head up higher.

The Lieutenant is giving the signal, and the men slowly rise, moving forward with determined looks, their eyes steady and somber in the faint light of early dawn. To see them, you’d think we had a fair chance in this. Yet, to see them, I hold my head higher. These are men.

Devil take the odds. I top the hill with the ancient battle cry, the sun at my back, my eyes seeing the enemy spread before us, and I shout the louder.

The sounds of warfare everywhere, outnumbered seven to one, we charge on. They’re a brave lot to face us, numbers not counting. We’re not green troops.

Give ‘em what-for, boys. They’d better run. An Irishman’s going to war.

Abeo Hades Abscido Compleo Ab Deus

The green plasma-like blobs faded as soon as they appeared...

Colin, still depressed, sat staring at a scene as bleak and dreary as his thoughts. Only a few minutes before, he had been comfortably melancholic in a small-but-warm shack, listening to Aerosmith and eating chocolate brownies. The scene now before him kind of made the whole manic-depressive side of him shudder in self-realization. The brownie slipped from his fingers, silently falling away, much like the shack had.

He slowly turned, looking in all directions, oblivious of the crumbs on his chin and clothes. The view was the same everywhere he looked: Grey, featureless, boring, and sadistic. He couldn't think of enough descriptive ways of saying he hated it.

As he sat, he became aware of what he was hearing, or more specifically, of what he was NOT hearing. He did not hear himself breathing. He could not hear his clothes brushing against his chair, which oddly had not disappeared with the shack. He couldn't hear air moving past his large, often-mocked ears. Everywhere there was a silence, as deep and complete as he had ever wished for. It produced an atmosphere of a library about to play host to a massive nuclear war. The silence was hatred, and so he hated it.

On a whim, he stood up and starting sing "The Star-Spangled Banner". The words formed in his mouth and promptly fell flat in front of his face, producing little more than imagined sounds in the back of his mind. He panicked a little, clearing his throat desperately. He risked a yell. It seemed little more than a child sobbing into a pillow.

He suddenly felt the urge to jump, but ignored it, focusing instead on trying to clap loudly. It sounded like a one-legged fly trying to tiptoe. The urge to jump became a foolish desire to jump away from this place, and then became a hungry, clawing terror of the ground he stood on. All the while the silence lurked around him, on him, in him; taunting and mocking until he felt he couldn't stand it anymore.

With a sudden, garish movement, he started to run, first just clumsily, then wildly, then it was a painful, desperate attempt to hear or feel something. He ran, and ran, and ran. The pounding of his feet against something solid was unmistakably absent, as was the rush of the wind on his face; yet, still, he ran. He ran for what must have been miles, the minutes unnoticed as they flew by. He ran until he could feel each pustule bursting in his lungs; until he could taste his own iron-rich blood in his mouth and throat. He ran until his muscles began to spasm and jerk from the acids building in them. He fell once, and then, stumbling, began to run again. He began to see black and white spots, and he could feel his vision fading into a tunnel. He was passing out.

Dropping to his knees, he sobbed un-checked, as he stared down onto an unchanging grey surface. A little spittle, mixed with more than a little blood, dropped from his chin and landed in front of him. In the very instant it made contact with the ground, just when it should splatter and spread, it simply disappeared. It was more than he could bear.

Falling forward on his face, Colin wailed like child, screaming and blustering. His very body was crying out in pain, but it was all he could feel. The ground, featureless, didn't even seem to be there. The sounds of his anguish barely seemed to go beyond his own mouth. He longed for his chair, mourning that he had ran so far from it.

Shortly, he rose from his prostrate position and turned -intent on returning to his now cherished seat. With sudden, startling clarity, he saw it. It was directly behind him, as though he had never moved from it. Bewildered, he forgot his pain, anguish, and crying. Curiosity took control of his mind. He stepped backward, but he didn't. Either he didn't move, or the chair, impossible to gauge against the nothing of the gray backdrop, followed. He couldn't tell. It was all too surreal for his feable senses.

Looking around, he couldn’t find his brownie. Searching his clothes, he found that the crumbs had all disappeared, and in fact, the color of his clothes had faded considerably.

Suddenly, a thought struck him. Turning quickly around, he could just make out his chair, now nearly as gray and featureless as everything else he surveyed. He reached out and touched it, then sat on it in an attempt to keep it with him; but he was sitting on nothing - the nothing of the drab ground he hated. Glancing in surprise at his lap, he realized his pants had disappeared. Or was it his legs? A quick examination showed that his entire body (what he could see of it within the limits of physics) had faded and begun to blend with the nothing that surrounded him, now a threatening thing, alive yet full of death.

For a long time Colin was conscious, first remembering and questioning what was happening; then struggling to remember anything at all. He could feel his consciousness fading, just as his body had, into the grey nothingness that he was still vaguely aware of.

His last conscious thought was in the form of a question. He had long pondered his situation, but he wondered, just briefly, if anyone else had, was, or would experience anything similar to what he had.

But then, just as quickly as he had arrived, he was no longer there. Colin was gone as though he had never existed.

The Tears of a Hero

The dark, black box trimmed with gold lay silent, pointing an invisible, accusing finger at the faithless enemies of freedom; those who mock the efforts of the brave, the silent, the dead in glory. To fall in battle has ever been praise-worthy, and the soldier in the box was no different.

The dark, blue triangle, flecked as it was with white, made an impressive view as it silently presented its proclaimation for Justice and Liberty for all. Men will scarcely die for only a few truthful ideals presented in flags, but this was one of the few.

The soldier went to his honored rest as the black box was lowered into the lap of the Earth.

Then as the triangle was lowered onto the her lap, it humbly received The Hero's single, painful tear.

Today, the Fourth day of May, in 1971, anti-war protesters began four days of demonstrations in Washington, D.C. aimed at shutting down the nation's capital.

Learn from our history, friends. Support our troops or leave our Country. And vote for someone who isn't a disgrace to our veterans and troops; not someone who throws away his pride and his medals for political gain, then lies about it for political gain.

Vote for someone who supports the heroic sons and daughters of our nation's true Heros.