~When This Is Over~

By WordWulf, 6th Feb 2011 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/lgoxh-_q/
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Short Stories

~I have to stop writing them. They’re beautiful and, in many ways, the same. How we prize them, our American youth in the baby steps of their adult lives. They fill us with love and hope, these promises kept of generation~

~When This Is Over~

His name was Joshua, born in nineteen-eighty-five, named after his uncle who was killed in Viet Nam. He liked girls but was shy. Her name was Mary, the one he wrote to. She answered faithfully, letters that filled him with hope, made him look forward to the day when this is over.

Jimmy was a cocky boy, ever ready to take a dare, celebrated his twenty-second birthday “over there” last year , dated one of the natives, dared to experiment with her religion, knocked the edge off his cockiness, entertained dreams of taking her home, sent pictures to his mom who couldn’t wait to meet her when this is over.

Thomas was a serious young man. From the time he was twelve no one referred to him as a boy. He had his check sent home to his mother and six siblings. He meant to earn his stripes, single-handedly pull his family out of the slums, buy them a house. Proud of his poor boy career choice, he planned to be a soldier’s soldier, even when this is over.

Edward cried every night, caught a lot of flak at first until he proved himself in combat. His tears, after all, were everyone’s tears. He wasn’t ashamed of them, of missing the family and life he left behind, all he could do is weep. Brave in the face of the enemy, he covered his comrades’ backs, laughed and said I’ll stop crying when this is over.

Jack liked to march. A track star in high school a year, a lifetime ago, he welcomed the stiff sweat on his clothes, salt in his eyes, the runner’s burn, third wind. No one could keep up with him. At nineteen, he was first in his unit to kill face to face, hand to hand. He stopped running after that, said I’ll run when this is over.

George Ann was a tough girl, seven brothers and comfortable holding her own in a man’s world, twenty-two and the brightest eyes. She wrote letters for those who couldn’t, arranged friends for those who didn’t have them that they could receive letters, the occasional package from home. Always doing for others, she had a man of her own, wrote to him, I got something for you when this is over.

At thirty-two, Cliff was the old man. His wife and three children sent him pictures and handmade cards, cookies he shared with the youngsters he marched with and slept next to. A career man, he was proud of the recruits, his fellow soldiers. He cried too but no one knew, wore a double locket with four pictures around his neck, said I’ll take it off when this is over.

William was twenty years old, read everything he could get his hands on. He aspired to be a writer, joined up to further his education, to get some real living under his belt, stuff to put in novels to stop wars. He promised his mother in weekly letters he’d be careful and not to worry. Everything will be okay, I got leave soon, I’ll be coming home when this is over.

Johnny liked to fight. On his eighteenth birthday he joined up to avoid going to jail. He could dismantle and reassemble his weapon with his eyes closed just like in the movies. He liked to smoke cigarettes and walk around with his shirt off. Killing didn’t bother him. Maybe I’ll go home and stop killing, he said, when this is over.

Conrad was his father’s son, proud to follow in his steps as a foot soldier. The men in his family had fought in all the country’s wars, distinguished themselves and survived. His picture was foremost on the mantle, arm around his new bride, her loving eyes full of the soldier. Everyone had seen photographs of the son he’d finally get to see when this is over.

I have to stop writing them. They’re beautiful and, in many ways, the same. How we prize them, our American youth in the baby steps of their adult lives. They fill us with love and hope, these promises kept of generation. What courage they display as they fly away and become soldiers, to people our combat forces, fight for principles conceived centuries before they were born and manipulated in the light of a new day, a storm of oil, violence, and money.

Did I say they were, in many ways, the same? They are, indeed, brothers and sisters in death, voices still and hands at rest, asleep in the dawn of their lives, living letters in the hands of family answered quickly and before they knew the awful thing they’ve come to know. Year after year, thousands slain, tell me of the lovers’ hearts, fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters. Children, they ain’t comin’ home when this is over.

Tom (WordWulf) Sterner

~Those Without Graves~
~Other Places~
~Rebecca's Garden~
~Desired Height~
~Situated Western~
~REM~

Meet the author

WordWulf
Tom Sterner lives in Redding, California and Arvada, Colorado with wife Kathy. He has been published in numerous magazines and on the internet, including Howling Dog Press/Omega, Skyline Literary Review, The Storyteller, and Flashquake. His interne...(more)