Age:
Post High School
Reading Level: 5.7
Chapter 1
Normandy
Wind rustled the trees at the edge of the thicket where Private Chester Strickland and his colleagues sat. He knew how sweet that breeze would smell back home in Hickory, North Carolina. Summer in the foothills was a lovely time for lush green scenery. He, of course, would only have appreciated the natural splendor in brief intervals. Out in the field, he would take a moment to look around the family’s homestead. His mother would bring him a jug of water and then it was back to work. Chester knew his father would be laboring through yet another season alone and would not spare a moment to admire the foliage.
French trees did not seem as inviting to Chester. The leaves here were darker and less perky than back home. Perhaps they were also feeling the burden of this war.
A soldier’s spoon scraped the inside of a tin can, searching for the last unappetizing bit of meat hash. It had been a fortnight since the 29th Infantry Division had assaulted the beach at Normandy. All of the training at Fort Belvoir, including how to march in step and clean a gun, was inadequate preparation for collecting the dead.
In Chester's eyes, the days following the invasion were worse than the battle. After the Rangers scaled the dunes and pushed the Germans inland, the remaining soldiers cleared the beach. The dead were carried to trucks and wrapped in thick gray blankets as a sign of respect and to cover the smell. The dead American soldiers' belongings were catalogued to ensure that the bodies were identified and so that their loved ones would have tokens of the departed.
Chester observed his comrades rifling through the garments of fallen Germans. He knew that the penalty for thieving from dead Nazis was usually overlooked by their superiors. To Chester, the stricken, dirty faces of the dead were young men just like himself, regardless of what language they spoke in life.
Once a body was dead, it was the same soulless mass of flesh and bone. Every corpse on the beach was someone's beloved son. As Chester numbly carried bodies off the shore, he thought of his brothers. He prayed that they were safe and that he would be reunited with them in Paris.
“C’mon boys, let’s move out,” Chester’s Corporal announced.
The men took a final heavy drag on their cigarettes before packing up their gear.
Chester spoke over his shoulder to the Corporal. “Permission to piss, sir?”
His superior, Batten, who was no more than six months older than him, replied with a lop-sided grin. “Aye.”
The group was heading to Saint-Lô with orders to prepare for ground assault against the Germans. Chester walked over to an old barn and positioned himself around the far wall. He noticed a weathered sign post at the edge of a clearing pointing towards the dirt road that the troops had been skirting. He made out the words “Isigny-sur-mer” in paint.
Suddenly, there was a loud blast of submachine gun fire. Shouting broke across the silent field. As Chester zipped his trousers, he heard the soft whiz of a flying projectile. A split second later, there was a soft thud and then the barn exploded.
Chapter 2
Maastricht
Pain shot up Chester’s left leg. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced as he readjusted the pillow. He released his breath with an audible sigh. While he was grateful that the medics didn't amputate his leg, he wondered if he would endure this agony every time he shifted in bed. The medic had taken him off morphine days ago in anticipation of his return to America.
Private Strickland was the lone survivor of his company. He was told the men had been ambushed as they prepared to leave Normandy. A stick grenade was thrown into the barn, creating the diversion the Germans needed. The blast propelled Chester thirty yards from the barn, and pieces of explosive were embedded in his legs.
Despite all the death he had witnessed, Chester felt the mark of his deceased comrades more intensely than his injured knee. The physicians were able to remove the debris from his legs except for a large piece that had been lodged beneath his left patella. Chester would now have a permanent limp.
His somber mood matched the grey walls of the 4th Convalescent Hospital. Every day the nice Dutch nurses helped him wash. They served as chaperones as he hobbled up and down the aisle between beds with his cane. Every wince was returned with an encouraging smile. Chester could not smile back. Had he forgotten how?
“This war should be over by Christmas,” the commando declared one day. “Our boys made it into Paris yesterday!” With the Germans running out of steam, it did seem like the European Theater would soon end. Chester was given his honorable discharge papers early since he could not return to active combat with a bum leg.
The afternoon before he was to leave, he sat up in bed with relative discomfort and barely noticed the cold sunshine streaming in.
“Mail call!” an attendant announced.
Chester glanced up. He had written his father weeks ago to tell him about the attack. That was before he had known the extent of the damage that was done to his knee. There was no way he could plow or be of any use around the farm now. He would only be an extra mouth to feed. He did not want to burden his parents as an invalid. The steamer he was to board in the morning was bound for New York City. Perhaps he could find work there or some other excuse to prevent him from going home.
“Private Strickland?”
Chester looked up. “Here, sir,” he replied automatically. A yellowed envelope was tossed into his lap. The return address read Joseph Strickland. Chester unfolded the paper and saw his father’s familiar script.
There was news of his dog having puppies and the calf being sold. A portion of the harvest had been lost as there were not enough hours in the day and his father was only one man. His father could not afford to hire any hands to help, but he assured Chester that next year would be better. He said the president was working to end the war in Europe so he could bring the boys home.
In disbelief, Chester learned that his father received a letter from Hugh, Chester's elder brother. Hugh said he would not be returning to America. He had met a pretty German girl named Karolina, and they were to be married. His father had last heard from Jack, Chester's younger brother, when the lad was anxiously awaiting his orders in England. That was earlier in the year when Jack was gearing up for Operation Overlord. No word from Jack since. Chester's mother prayed every day for the boys’ safe return and was sending all her love.
Chester set the letter down, exhaling. What was he going to do with his life now? Why was he left alive, albeit in pain, but allowed to freely breathe another day? As much as he hated the hospital ward, he was not looking forward to his going home.
Chapter 3
Selma
“Thank you for your service, boy,” an older gentleman said, slapping Chester on the back. The soldier flashed his polite smile, nodded, and returned to his empty coffee cup. The only good thing that could come of Chester returning to the farm would be discarding his uniform and returning to civilian dress and invisibility.
A joyous crowd met the GIs at the New York Port of Embarkation. Chester felt overwhelmed and noticeable with his limp. It was more pronounced since he was unable to use his cane while carrying his gear down the gangplank. He kept his eyes downcast as he shuffled to the train depot. Many of the men were extending their stay in the city on the army’s dollar. Chester, however, was dreading his family reunion and wanted to get it over with.
The city was noisy, crowded, and smelly. Perhaps the war had prepared him for the Big Apple, but he did not wish to linger. He had no desire to explore the East Village or run amok in Brooklyn like the other young men. The men had been standing on deck since the Statue of Liberty rose like a welcome beacon. Chester had to admit the view was spectacular, and the cold wind blasting his face was refreshing compared to his stuffy cabin. However, a wave of relief washed over him when he finally settled into his seat on the train. The windows were smudgy and reflected the dinginess of the city. Chester figured that when the gray blurs rushing past made way to green blurs, he was finally out of the city.
The train stopped in Manassas for water and a crew change. Chester had so much difficulty navigating the three steps down from the train car that he chose to haul himself back onto the train instead of exploring the town. He pocketed a train map from the station on his way back in.
Inside his cabin, Chester contemplated his options. He looked over the train schedule as he ate lunch. His ticket from New York would only take him as far as Selma, North Carolina. From there it was up to him to finalize the remaining leg of his journey. But where was his final destination? His parents did not even know he was back in the country.
Chester crumbled up the wax paper, then hauled his legs up onto to the seat, grunting. As he sat back with his hands folded across his chest, he contemplated his future. Hugh was not coming home. Hopefully Jack would return in one piece. Maybe Jack could continue working the farm. Chester wondered if any day jobs would suit him. He knew he could handle a monotonous desk job, but he wanted to exercise his mind.
Before enlisting, Chester had taken over the handyman jobs around the farm. He was fascinated by the process of dismantling a machine, fixing the problem, and then reassembling it. The look of pride his father gave Chester when he fixed the tractor had been the happiest moment of Chester's life up to this point.
“Son,” Joseph Strickland had said, beaming, “you just saved me $30 to have a man from Statesville come down to tinker with that thing. Not to mention having the tractor out of commission for a week. I’m proud of you, boy.”
Maybe Chester could find work doing repairs. His smile faded when he remembered how he had to crawl under the tractor to get to the gear shaft and rock on his knees to get the rusty bolts to budge. That would not be possible now with his knee in its current condition.
The next morning, the train screeched to a stop in the tiny town of Selma. Chester threw his packs on the platform before slowly exiting. He had too much pride to accept the help of the young lad who offered to lug his things into town. Instead, Chester limped to the local hotel and booked a room. He dropped off his things, took the paper and pen from the desk, and made his way down to the café. Chester ordered a coffee and biscuit before laying the blank page before him. It was the end of the line. What was he going to do?