Dearest ones,
I'm not who you think I am.
It's my birthday today and every passing one gets lonelier and lonelier. When will I speak? When will I tell them? In my heart, I know I'm a fraud for their accolades, and oftentimes I try tell myself it's OK if I just never say anything. But it's not. Not in the middle of the night when you're screaming out like a drowning man.
They say war time reveals a man's true character, that ordinary souls can emerge as great heroes having been given the chance to prove their merit. I can tell you this is very true. I witnessed these men, so sure of themselves and free in their bravery. The part about a coward dies a thousand times is true as well. I'm living proof of that.
But now I'm dying like never before. Night and day have become one as I perpetually seek solace and rest. Why couldn't have I just died on that scorching day of the burning sun of eternity? Why did the good Lord save a coward like me? My continuing life must be a punishment, a penance for allowing myself to be included with the truly brave. No one understands why I don't want to go to the veterans' reunions. They actually think I'm being modest! But the pain of pretense stabs my heart in the presence of those men who recall the war without shame.
Some guys still won't speak about it, what the Japanese did, tearing off body parts, attacking in the night, fanatics who'd lost all reason. Those who weren't there don't understand: seeing those men ordered on death rushes with their bayonets into our machine guns shook our very souls. Sure they were easy to kill but the sight of it left you wounded. What if I had been born over there? Does human life mean nothing in this world? Where's the hope?
I have a thing about keeping my hair washed. I know that sounds like a small thing in the human scale of life but in my mind on that hellish Pacific island wrought from God's angry wrath it became my holy grail of salvation. But we couldn't wash anything in that fucking mud pit. I was one big grime ball and I felt entombed in a suffocating skin from which I could not escape. Secretly I'd clean my hair best I could out of my helmet even if the rest of me was filthy. That was my only connection to sanity. I never told this to anyone before, it sounds so absurd to the unititiated.
The rest of the time I was lost. All I could think about was my trapped skin and I never knew what the right decision was. I just looked to the guy next to me and did what he did - and prayed he was right. People talk of the fog of war but for me it was pitch black. I wanted out of there. That's not a world where I can survive. Them other guys knew what to do, not me. They all believed a man has to kill to be a man. I could never fully reason that.
Finally, I saw my opportunity to die. It was a beautiful lie! Two pill boxes on a mountainside were arranged to give covering fire to the other. We were getting ripped to shreds trying to approach them. This was before we had the flamethrower tanks to clear them out. Since we were pinned down, this allowed the Japs to know just exactly where we were for artillery strikes. That was my breaking point.
I couldn't take anymore but I didn't have the courage to run away. I know those other guys were scared too but something inside allowed them to hold on. I couldn't let them know that wasn't inside of me so I decided to make a fatal charge to the left side pill box with a grenade in my hand. Everyone would see it as a brave, heroic act and I'd be revered and honored and spoken well of in death, my true cowardice hidden forever. The perfect plan!
But whatever bastard God of cruelty exists in this world wasn't going to let me off that easy. I miraculously made it through unscathed, perhaps because the Japanese couldn't believe their own eyes - I'll never know (you've all heard my theories on this). I dropped in the grenade to disable the pill box which allowed the rest to surround the remaining pill box and break through out of the artillery fire. The zero was now a hero. For trying to commit suicide I got the Medal of Honor. It's hung around my neck like a cursed bowling ball ever since.
The real irony was in the mop up operations of the island I got shot in the leg by a sniper, taking me out of combat duty for the rest of the war. That allowed my reputation to be sealed as a "genuine hero" and with every pat on the back it beat the life out my soul. At first I tried to tentatively explain to people I hoped might have an understanding ear. But people want war heroes to be true too much to listen, it's like a shortcut to sainthood: one brave act and you're set. All the time I was on the front lines I dreamed how great it would be to be a war hero, the ultimate person. If only I had died...
"He's not scared of anything, are ya Grandpa?" I hear the grandkids bragging about me to their friends. I just let the whole thing go on until it took over my life. I married a woman I didn't like as retribution for dishonoring the true heroes who deserved good wives. I like it that she hates and loathes me. No one suspects how a great war hero can ever despise himself. You see, I'm surrounded and yet so utterly, utterly alone.
But I am scared, sentenced to a prison of fear. What storms of protest would occur if they saw my true face? I'd be forever ostracized, politely tolerated, a living death. Some have tried to seduce me into thinking my act was brave and at times I can almost buy it - until I start to breathe again. My living shame knows the truth of me and will not let me forget. The Fates suckered me again with that cute nurse at the hospital, talking me out of my decision to decline the medal. I'd have been a free man if I'd done that! But I wanted to impress her and for what? I was never going to mean anything to her. Idiot!
I've never been able to face who I am. Even before the war I drifted through odd jobs avoiding real relationships, making no commitment to my life. I guess that's what's done me in, that lack of commitment. Funny how decades can pass and seem like no time at all. I watched movies on con men looking to pick up tips, making the lie my life's work. Now I see like a furry rodent I've been swallowed whole by a snake as I slowly got sucked in over the years.
I clench my fists all the time now, waiting for another trick from my old enemy God to out me and bring my final ruin. The wife chides my clenched fists and worrying ways. She's terrified her image of me might be a false one, that I purchased her love with counterfeit currency. That I did, lady. But who's going to love me if I don't lie? But I can't imagine feeling more lonely than if I were at the bottom of a lost well, all connections severed forever.
Time has come once again to seek freedom through death. I'm so sorry. All those lies. Hands offered in warm friendship I ran away from in guilty terror. Those hands don't come anymore, it's over now. My true love, whoever she was, is lost to me. The sheer insanity of it all, where does it end? I can't go on living in these dark corners. Both truth and lies condemn me. I leave you this note as an explanation and that by my death you will see the truth of it. Sometimes that's the only way anyone will hear you.
The coward Casey Jones
CODA: God struck again. The pills failed to kill me. I woke to the sight of my daughter holding this note and staring directly into my eyes. I started screaming uncontrollably, "death screams" as someone called it later. It was as if I'd released the entire ghostly terror of the war. But my daughter had not come to kill me. She had tears in her eyes. You know what she said to me? That I was "very brave" to have written this note. Very brave. The tears of a lifetime came streaming out of me as uncontrollable as the screams had before. I never knew such love was possible. Thank the Lord God is smarter than I am.
---------------------------------------
No comments:
Post a Comment