Old Glory

Old Glory was accepted to Literary Foray 10/8/2010

ASIN: 1617060720	Literary Foray Product Type: Book
	Amazon's Price: $ 16.75 Buy Now!

The trickle of sweat burned into sand-seared skin. Nightfall had done little to ease the oppressive heat. Pale eyes scanned the horizon. Hearing the low murmur of voices, he spared a glance to those spread out around him. Every eye searched the night sky. The air hummed with anticipation. The faint smell of sulfur teased his nostrils. The first few had merely set their range and trajectory. The real deal would hit soon enough.

The muted thud of missiles leaving the firing tubes carried in the silence. Garrett's broad shoulders hunched reflexively and he held his breath. The explosion lit the night sky, falling to Earth in a fiery shower. The blast's percussion rolled ominously, echoing even as the next retorts sounded. Cries of those around him rang in his ears, somehow cutting through the relentless roar. He clamped his eyes closed wishing it as easy to close his heart to the pain. The blinding flashes pierced closed lids blending with the Technicolor horror of memory.

The blast lifted him from his feet, slamming him through the crumbled remains of a wall, driving the breath from his body. Fiery debris, clods of dirt and clay brick rained down on his prone form. His mouth opened and closed in a desperate attempt to draw air into tortured lungs. Choking on the falling rubble, he was seized by a painful coughing fit. Body protesting every movement, he strained to roll to his stomach.

Giving his head a slow shake, he tried to clear the fog. An agonized scream cut through the deafening roar in his ears. Blinking watery eyes against the smoke's burn, he searched the hazy chaos. A sharp whistle heralded another round and all he could do was cover his head and pray. Shrapnel tore into arms and legs as bricks and debris covered him. The tormented wail never wavered in its intensity. Fear churned in his gut. Taking a physical inventory, everything still functioned. With painstaking slowness, he pulled himself from the wreckage of the building in search of his platoon. Ears straining for the tell tale whistle of the incoming missiles, the endless screams sent chills down his spine. 

Using the wall as cover, he moved to a crouch, darting an assessing glance down the street. Movement in an adjacent building caught his eye and he gripped his M-16 tighter. He breathed a sigh of relief when Larson's familiar form crept from the shadows. One by one his brothers emerged, rising from the smoke and rubble. Heads swiveled, haunted eyes searching for their injured buddy, mentally checking off those that their gaze landed on. A horrified shout for a medic spurred them all into action.

Several turned away, unable to look. Impaled by the mangled remains of a fuel pump, Richison writhed as the harsh liquid spilled into his guts. His roar of anguish was plain over the keening wail of the locals. He turned his head, meeting Garrett's eyes, searching his face for confirmation. Cross town rivals since Pop Warner foot-ball, here, they were brothers. Grasping his hand firmly, Garrett shook his head and forced a wry grin.

"You always have to be the center of attention, don't you?"

Richison gasped, a small laugh bubbling at his lips as he twisted in torment. "You're just jealous, Brawer."

"Keep telling yourself that, Goldilocks."

"I'll kick yo..." his panted words were cut off by another bellow of pain and anger as the medic tried to free him. 

"The only way you are kicking my ass is in a beauty pageant there, blondie."

A couple of the guys chuckled at the banter. Richison's grip tightened as his body bowed in pain and they lifted him clear of the twisted metal. Blood covered Garrett's hands as they eased him to the ground. Reading the desperation in the medic's frantic movements, Garrett's heart sunk. His eyes jerked back to Richison in surprise at the tug on his arm. He leaned down at the dying man's weak gesture.

"Prettier...than...yrr," a shuddering gasp interrupted the whispered words and Garrett held his breath. "wiifee." The last word came out in a soft sigh.

Running a hand over Richison's eyes to close them, Garrett sent up a prayer for the fallen warrior before turning back to the rest of his unit with a muttered, "Same ol' Richie...always had to have the last word."


The finale brought the crowd's voice to a crescendo. The screams were now made in glee, the explosions and flaming shower no longer life or death, but rather a colorful show of patriotism. Smoke hovered over the crowd, the acrid taste heavy on Garrett's tongue. The familiar grit of ash and sand clung to his sweat-dampened skin. He fought against bleak memories more like nightmares.

Slender fingers pressed into his palm, giving his hand a squeeze. He glanced up at Marilyn Richison, forcing a smile to his lips. Try as they might, his family couldn't understand his guilt at being home, at being alive. Independence was taken for granted here, the Fourth of July holiday having become no more to many than a weekend of cookouts and drinking. American soldiers, his brothers and sisters, died every day in an effort to give another country freedom and always in the back of their mind, to preserve that same freedom for the United States. Eighteen months away from his wife and family had been hard, but some were still away from their loved ones and some, like Richie, would never come home.   

Her grip tightened and she gave his hand a little shake. "Thank you."

She looked frail ensconced in his Marine insignia sweatshirt, but her eyes shone bright and clear. He had never realized Richie had his mother's eyes. A shudder rippled through his body and he bowed his head. Sulfur burned the back of his throat and he fought to swallow against the lump there. He could have lied to himself, pretended she was thanking him for inviting her to sit with his family, for giving up his chair to cop a squat in the sand or for the loan of his sweatshirt against the cool ocean breeze. Any of those would have been easier than the truth. Something warm and wet splashed against Garrett's cheek. It took a moment to recognize his own tears. He forced a small nod of acknowledgement, wishing for the hundredth time he could have done more.

Tilting his head back, he drew an unsteady breath. The fireworks finale was a kaleidoscope of red, white and blue guaranteed to light a patriotic fire in the coldest of American hearts. Out on the water, just beyond the harbor limits and the bevy of small boats, a US Coast Guard Cutter flew a massive version of Old Glory strung between her masts. It was the perfect backdrop to the fiery display.

The smoke still wafted over the crowd as they stood to gather lawn chairs, coolers and blankets before making a dash for the parking lot. Garrett snagged his nephew and swung the ornery toddler to a secure position on his broad shoulders. His sister-in-law, Eva, flashed him a grateful smile. A thunderous explosion rocked the now serene night air, startling the crowd. Garrett's gaze flew to the Coast Guard Cutter in surprise, only to see her slowly moving aside.

One by one, lights appeared on the dark sea until they illuminated the outline of a Destroyer class ship. Another roar drowned out the murmur of the crowd as her guns sounded. The Cutter leant her assistance again, training spotlights on the larger ship so the crowd could see the sailors lining the deck. A cheer broke from the crowd, drawing those in the parking lot back to witness the moving tribute as it continued. A touch on his arm drew Garrett's attention from the booming salute. His wife nodded silently to an elderly man struggling to stand tall in the shifting sand. Giving her a squeeze, Garrett stepped over to offer his arm to the warrior.

Clutching a battered hat with the eighty-second Airborne insignia to his chest with one hand, the gentleman smiled his thanks. His gnarled hand gripped Garrett's forearm and he turned his watery eyes back to the Destroyer. His cane hung forgotten in his hand and he seemed to straighten in pride with every blast. When the twenty-first shot echoed into the night, Garrett helped his companion to the parking lot's firm, level ground and extended his hand with a heartfelt, "Thank you."

The old paratrooper smiled and reached up to slip his hat on the toddler's head before giving Garrett a wink.

"Keep your head down, Devil Dog."

WC ~ 1445

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