The Last I Remember of That Day

For all intents and purposes it shouldn't have come as a shock. When Cpl. Williamsburg gave the order, I was hugging the side of a shiny steel hull, trying to trade places with my reflection as it looked back at me with fearful eyes. Around me the tempestuous ocean was silent, my hearing narrowed and acute as I waited for the screaming whistle of the explosion that would take me away from this unmerciful place. For a moment I left myself, and the hysterical no's that burst from my cracked throat like a gatling gun were meant for those on the island unaware their death was imminent. That was the last I remember of that day.

Like the elusive ahi I was fished from the salty foam and sent to their military hospital, or rather the tent city of refugees surrounding it, where I lay on starched white sheets for a week recovering from hypothermia. The atmosphere was jubilant. The enemy had lost decisively, it was said they were reduced to haggard packs of women, children, and old men. For myself I held onto my feelings. I had lived among them, studied with their boys and been taught by their coaches and their professors.

Last week they were no more. I've learned who gave the order that ended their present, erased their future, and left only their past. His name is Cpl. Williamsburg. The men around me explained what, and where, and why. But they do not say how, for to know how is to know the foundation, what lies at the base of man, what he ignores. This I will not allow myself to understand.