Dog-Tags of Freedom

Chapter 1

The solid gold chain hung around his neck. Dangling from it a single silver dog-tag with eighteen letters engraved. I barely noticed the shots whizzing by over head, the Nazi soldiers as I ran my fingers over each letter. The wind carried the lingering smell of rotting flesh and gun powder. I closed my eyes trying to fight back the tears. I laid his tag gently upon his chest, picked up my gun, and began to walk onwards.

Five months after…

I woke up around five to the screaming of children playing in the alley. My apartment seemed gray and boring. Beer bottles and white powder sat on the glass table adjacent to the small bluish-black couch. The aroma of week old pizza and cologne filled the air. Putting on my jeans, then my boots, I stood up and stretched. My dog-tag fell and swayed as it hit against my chest.

I walked to the bathroom and stood in front of the small rusted sink looking into the half broken mirror. My face was covered in stubble, my eyes baggy and swollen, and my nose red as blood. I turned the knobs on the sink and splashed the brown semi-warm water on my face. Throwing on my black t-shirt, I walked out the door.

The streets below the apartment, were filled with people; Loud annoying people. My head began to hurt as they got louder.

“Move out!” yelled the sergeant.

We moved fast, guns in hand. The sound of people yelling and guns going off were all around us. The black rock pavement roads were covered in rubble from the buildings being bombed. All over were bodies and puddles of blood. The sky was dark and smokey and the air seemed without oxygen. I hid behind a plummeting building and rested my head against the last remaining wall. The dog-tag around my neck seemed to tighten as the sweat fell down my face. I took one last breath and headed back out to war.

Chapter 2

Four buildings down from the apartment was a small café, brownish-gray in color with windows all along the front. Cracks seemed to consume each wall. I stepped into the single door and was greeted by Becka.

“Good morning John. The usual?” she said with a smile.

I nodded my head and followed her to a booth. Becka was a petite girl, about five foot six, long, curly, brown hair that she always kept in a bun, and bright red lipstick. She wore a long gray dress with black buttons all the way down the front and a white apron around her waist. She sat me down in a booth in the far back corner of the café. Charlie Barnet’s Peaceful Valley played on the radio. Looking around the café I saw many men reading news papers and gossiping about the war.

“John what you got back home to go to?” asked private Gabe.

Each one of us soldiers huddled around the fire talking about what we had to go home to. I looked at the dark brown soil and shivered. Before I could answer sergeant O’Brian interrupted.

“We move out at sun rise” he said with a look of anger. Sergeant O’Brian was a short fat man, but he had the muscle of a thousand soldiers. He told us about when Pearl Harbor was attacked and his fight with twenty Japanese soldiers. In a state of disbelief we pretended to believe him.

Looking around at my fellow soldiers, my brothers, I felt a strong connection; one that I hadn’t felt with my own family back home. Private Lawson sat down beside me with a cup of water in hand.

“So john looks like another sleepless night” he said smirking.

“Yeah seems like it” I said kicking the dirt.

“Chris?” I said to Private Lawson, “ what do you plan on doin’ after the war?”

“Well” he replied, “I want to open my own restaurant . Maybe a little café back home.”

I smiled at him a nudged his arm. Chris was a good cook. He would talk about all the different foods his mamma taught him to make. You would never have guessed he could cook if you just met him. Chris Lawson was a tall muscular guy who, at first you would think was a mobster. Looks can be deceiving. My mother always told me that.

As the wind blew the dirt around the fire we headed to our tents. Kicking the dirt as I walked I finally got to my tent. A small cot was erected in the center of it. Holes covered every inch of the tent. Laying on the small cot I held myself and stared at the stars through the large hole at the top of my tent. My dog-tag seemed so cold against my chest. Trying to fall asleep I tried not to think of the morning to come.

Chapter 3

After leaving the café I walked four blocks to a slummy neighborhood. The fourth house on the end of the road seemed abandoned. Vines and trees covered every inch, almost as though it was in the middle of a jungle. The windows of this house were boarded up by old pieces of wood and the front door was missing.

As I walked in I saw a small man sitting on an old wooden chair, pipe in hand. His eyes were blood shot and as he sat there he seemed to be drooling on himself. Paying no more attention to him, I walked to the back bed room and sat on the bed. A couple minutes passed…I seemed to get more agitated with every second.

By the time he entered the room with the bag of powder I was ready for a fight. My fists tense and ready to swing, my body began to shake. I handed him the money, grabbed the bag, and walked out the door.

I couldn’t make it home shaking the way I was, so I stopped in the café again and went to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror my nose started to bleed. Wiping away the blood with a white dish rag, I walked out the restroom without shaking. I had a feeling of floating; a feeling of invincibility. Before Becka could stop me I walked out the door.

When I got home I slipped out of my boots and sat on the couch. After pouring the white substance on the table I took off my t-shirt and walked to the bed. Laying there I began to cry. The dog-tags fell beside my head and I felt them laying tight against my neck. The feeling I had after leaving the café was slowly dying. Reality started to sink back in. I got up and went back to the living room… laying back on the couch, I closed my eyes and began to drift away.

Chapter 4

When I woke up I used some more of the fine white powder. I turned on the shower and stared into the mirror. All I noticed were the dog-tags around my neck. Looking into my own eyes I saw emptiness.

After the shower I put on my clothes and went back to the café. Sitting in the same booth in the back, Becka came over and sat down in front of me.

“I saw you run out of here yesterday John” she said looking concerned. I looked to the floor.

“You don’t understand Beck” I replied.

“ Help me to understand John.”

She rested her hand against my arm. I looked at her and began to tell her the story…

Private Lawson and I were separated from the rest of our party. Without a way to find them we ran into an abandoned church. The stained glass windows in the church still shined even though all the walls had given away around them. Walking down the center of the aisle we heard voices from behind the door.

Before we could turn around to leave four Nazi soldiers entered the room.

“Run Chris!” I yelled running before him. As we crossed the graveyard behind the church I heard gun shots go off so I hit the ground After I knew the Nazis had gone I stood up.

“Chris? Where are you?” I yelled trying to find him. The tombstones were tall and hard to see over.

“Private Lawson respond at once!” I ordered. Looking back through the graveyard towards the church I heard coughing. On the ground beside a tombstone laid Private Lawson. I ran to his side. He was bleeding bad. Four bullets had pierced his chest.

“John” whispered Chris.

“Yeah?” I asked trying not to cry in front of him.

“John…Find the regiment and save yourself.”

“Not without you Chris. Ill carry you, it doesn’t look that bad. You’ll make it” I said trying to seem optimistic.

“Find the regem…” Chris started to close his eyes.

“Chris stay with me” I said trying to get him to wake back up, but it was too late. I picked up his dog-tag that still hung around his neck. I barely noticed the shots whizzing by over head by the Nazi soldiers as I ran my fingers over each letter. The wind carried the lingering smell of rotting flesh and gun powder. I closed my eyes trying to fight back the tears. I laid his tag gently upon his chest, picked up my gun, and began to walk onwards…

Becka looked into my eyes. “It wasn’t your fault John. You couldn’t have known it would have happened.” she said as she stared into my eyes.

I got up from the booth and walked out of the café. Walking down the street I only had one thing on my mind.

When I got back to my one room apartment I sat on the couch. I grabbed the bag of white powder and downed the rest. Lying there on the couch I started to think about the day that Private Lawson had died. I replayed it over and over in my head trying to think of a way I could have prevented him from dying. Finally I realized I couldn’t have stopped them from shooting Chris even if I had tried…

Chapter 5

“John Michael Turner was a loving son and a wonderful soldier. He fought to save a country in need of help and he helped to show that America does care about the weak. He is going somewhere where he will have eternal life. Let us bow our heads and pray.”

The white doves began to fly towards the sky. The nice warm breeze seemed to sweep everything away. Daisies and roses began to bloom and everything was peaceful and calm.

Private John Michael Turner over dosed on cocaine on June 25th, 1945. He finally realized that he had nothing to do with the death of Private Christian Allen Lawson.

R.I.P.

John Turner and Chris Lawson

The End