I say non-chemical because depression is about so much more than genes and neurotransmitters. Those are the root causes of depression but I feel we're so much more than the chemical discharges in our brains. Depression is a physical brain illness. That's true to anyone that knows anything about it but it also affects us so much more intimately and pervasively as human beings.
Warning- Some of my comments are pretty intense and I don't want anyone with depression feeling triggered by them.
Depression is a place in the mind like a secret compartment. It's a real, solid, physical place in the brain that becomes a physical place in reality when we are affected by it. It becomes a place of sullenness and isolation, an alternate reality, a dystopian world of nightmares, dark streets and corners and horrible, life upsetting disruptions. It is a life, itself, and it becomes our life when we are experiencing it. We live it, not as a "brain disease," but as a living horror movie. To the brain, it's science. To us, it's abstract, palpable and often fully manifested. It's being trapped in a slasher film with the killer never truly defeated, only dormant for a time before returning to destroy our happiness and contentment with another round of murderous assaults.
Depression is the brain committing suicide. It's the brain dying. It's like a moment in Aliens when it's surrounded by evil monsters and breaks down choosing to die rather than be tormented and attacked. Such a brain in our heads makes it seems sensible, perhaps even logical, to end the suffering by ending ourselves rather than be consumed. Death isn't just seen as a release. It's seen as being smart. It can seem the "right thing" to do for ourselves and to not be a burden on those we love.
Depression is a bad time. It's not fun. It's going out with friends and being miserable, of having a crush of the opposite sex choose anyone besides you and laughing at you at the same time. It's being bullied in school while others are smiling, happy, fulfilled and contented. It's trying to be cool and falling on your face in front of everyone. It's being hurt and never seeming to get better. It's failure to the achiever, rejection for the lover, defeat for the athlete, a broken voice for the singer, cut off hands for the painter, separation for those that thrive on being involved.
Depression is winter in the summertime. It's dark clouds and freezing cold while others are wearing bathing suits basking in the hot sun. It's gray and dark clouds full of acid rain, terrifying us with their presence before scalding us with their contents. It's being snowed in while life is taking place outside. It's being buried in a blizzard while others around you move freely.
Depression is hell because it's living while dead. It's not over like death because it's still physical, still there, still real, and still suffered by us. It's a violent abuser, a brutal parent that we never completely escape. It's a cancer we never completely carve out. It's a demon we never completely exorcise. It's not freedom. It's being forced to live with a monster for the rest of our lives.
I'll end on a positive note (because I have to.) We won't always feel depressed. There is hope because there are times when we will feel hope. The rays of the sun will shine through the clouds because they will. It's poetic but it's also true. Personally, for me, seeing that a sun is still there is sometimes enough. I may not be seeing it now but I know I'll see it again.
Monday, February 27, 2017
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Short story - "Friends to the End: A War Story."
Here's a short story I wrote a few months ago. As my book is about psychological fiction, I wanted to write a story that's simpler and a change of pace. This story is short even for a short story, only 2942 words. It's about two soldiers on a reconnaissance mission in World War II.
Friends to the End: A War Story
“Friends to the end!” the two soldiers sang less than melodically, briefly clasping sweaty hands as ridiculously as possible as they trudged wearingly through humid jungle that weighed on the heavily uniformed men like they were wrapped in tortillas and thrown in a steamer. It was the middle of World War II, January 1943, at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, summertime in the Southern Hemisphere, the jungle laden island scorched with boiling temperatures and sopped with withering humidity that seemed too strong for any man to withstand, much less men in full fatigues. They were on a reconnaissance mission, both members of the American Army’s XIV Corp’s Reconnaissance Platoon, there largely for mop up duty after the Marines had retaken the island from the Japanese by vicious and bitter fighting in the previous six months. Accompanied by three assault vehicles, their party of ten had started in late afternoon when the sun would be slightly less oppressive yet with enough daylight to finish their mission, which was collecting data from the last small pocket of territory on the island, an area considered either free or virtually free of the enemy but too heavily canopied by the thick jungle foliage for aerial reconnaissance to be sure. The assault vehicles had run out of dirt road and the ten men platoon had moved on without them, only intending to move forward about a quarter mile in case they came under fire, though this was not expected.
Our two soldiers, Bob Smith and Dave Jones, as generically and ordinarily named as could be, had been fast friends since joining the Reconnaissance Platoon in early 1942, shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. They clicked instantly, somewhat resembling two of their favorite stars, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. They had been on several missions, a few involving heavy fire, in the South Pacific up until that point, always performing admirably and without a scratch. They had been so fortunate in avoiding ordinance that they regarded themselves with tongue in cheek invincibility, the kind where you know a truck will easily kill you yet you’re able to walk in the middle of the road without incident anyway. They weren’t godlike by any stretch. They had just been so fortunate, like dashing Hollywood leading men in movies doing their dangerous jobs and always making it through the picture unharmed. In between assignments, they were near constant attendees of whatever USO camp was in their area. They never missed a Hope and Crosby Road movie or an Abbott and Costello GI picture and, though they loved Bud and Lou, they preferred to be the GI version of Hope and Crosby, Bob Smith as, interestingly, not Hope but Crosby and Dave Jones as Hope. Bob, the slightly better looking one, was the kind in the movie that got the girl while Dave, as Hope, looked on understandably, always there with a zinger to lighten the mood. They both treasured each other’s company in this cluttered yet lonely war where family and sweethearts remained behind at home, all GIs hoping to avoid a dreaded “Dear John” letter from their perceived one and only while being ensnared in the surreal world of war, forced to kill or be killed. On this latest mission, they were particularly talkative on the way to their destination, not expecting action of any consequence.
“I’ve got a hang nail,” Bob said, biting it irritatingly.
“Well, stop having a hang nail!” Dave replied. “We have to keep our perfect record alive!”
“I’ll do the best I can for your majesty,” Bob smiled with mild sarcasm. “You do realize there is a war going on, don’t you? Besides, what does a hangnail have to do with our record?”
“If we’re going to blow our record, let’s at least have a finger or toe blown off, something particularly gruesome,” Dave said.
“Okay,” Bob replied. “It doesn’t count unless one of us is maimed. Deal?”
“Deal. Although for your own good, having your nose blown off your face may improve your looks.” Aware of his friend’s good looks, he was always making cracks like that.
“How about you get your nose shot off and I’ll have my eyes gouged out so I won’t have to look at your skeleton head,” Bob said with a chuckle.
“We’ll make a deal,” Dave said. “You get your nose shot off and your eyes gouged out and I’ll get my very own hangnail just for you, okay?”
Bob laughed loudly. “Deal.” His friend cracked him up so much. It was the only thing that made him laugh in the whole war.
The safety of their assault vehicle escort left behind, the ten men platoon began to spread moderate distances apart as they creeped into the unknown territory of that small pocket on the island, the jungle getting thicker and thicker as they progressed. Bob and Dave were the last two to separate. With their “Friends to the end” send off, Bob moved slowly to his left and Dave moved slowly to his right. The sun’s greatly respected presence had moved from a moderately high, almost violent yellow to a much lower, slightly more benign yet almost frighteningly ominous blood red. They thanked the Lord it hadn’t rained for the last three days, possibly a record for the Solomon Islands that time of year, because it would have made their activities nearly impossible to endure. It was oppressive yet tolerably so, the humorous equivalent of playing a baseball game in 97 as opposed to 105 degree heat. Their mission now required intense focus and sensitive ears ready to trigger rapid, lethal action if necessary. Bob and Dave, despite their clowning, were all business when it was called for.
Moving through the jungle was a wondrous experience, like exploring a foreign planet in an HG Wells novel. Enormous emergent evergreens towered over the vast, smaller evergreens of the jungle canopy, so packed with foliage they cut off nearly all sunlight and acted like a roof over an understory level and, just below it, the nearly barren forest floor. The platoon was moving through an area so thick and dark that only shafts of sunlight broke through making nearly all plant life on the forest floor non-existent, which made the landscape seem even more alien and imaginary, like the forest equivalent of the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. The sparse terrain denied them cover but also allowed them to see greater distances and no enemy or enemy activity had been visible to that point.
After a few hundred feet, the canopy opened and they were in a large clearing laden with evergreens barnacled with strangler figs juxtaposed by dozens of King Ferns and flowering plants of all colors filling in the spaces between the trees. As cluttered as the last was barren, the area marked a perfect place for an ambush. All ten men in the platoon were instantly aware of it. Though not expecting a firefight, the set up made all ten men so nervous ten rifles were instantly up and ready.
Suddenly, gunfire exploded from multiple directions. Two men from the platoon were hit immediately. Dick Reynolds, a nice guy that Dave knew better than Bob, took a bullet in the head and died instantly. James Patrick Henry, a passionate, hot headed soldier who was a fiercely proud direct descendent of the firebrand legend of the American Revolution, was hit in the left arm, left leg and upper right chest. He slammed violently into a mix of leaves and dirt and succumbed one agonizing minute after being hit.
“Get back! Get back!” the platoon leader roared, trying to make himself heard over the shattering noise that had been added to by the return fire of the eight remaining soldiers. Though as coldly efficient as it gets, the platoon leader was a good guy that cared strongly for the safety of his men.
Bob felt two bullets whiz by on the initial volley and had hit the ground moments later. He rolled for cover behind a nearby bush that wasn’t much protection but was all he had. Clearly, they had stumbled upon a larger than expected Japanese unit that not only existed but was ready for action. Bullets flew by the bush, one even glancing off the top of Bob’s helmet jarringly before bouncing away. He waited for several minutes until the shooting seemed to shift to his right a little. Sensing an opportunity, he crawled backwards with alacrity, got to his knees then his feet bent over in a crouch and stumbled as quickly as he could away from the enemy fire before diving behind a thicker bush laden with blue and yellow flowers, one of which was blasted off a split second after he took cover. He saw three members of the platoon likewise retreating while three others laid down cover fire, including the platoon leader.
“Everybody out! Everybody out!” the platoon leader shouted. The orders were unnecessary but had to be made anyway in that situation. The three providing random cover fire joined their brothers in retreat with the unstated goal of reaching the safety of the assault vehicle escort. Bob, bringing up the rear of the fleeing troops, looked around, his eyes darting to get the logistics of the situation and, specifically, the presence of his friend, the only platoon member besides the dead he hadn’t accounted for. Like a mother looking for a lost child, he anxiously slowed his retreat when he couldn’t find Dave, bullets roaring and clipping the jungle trees intermittently around him like kids throwing pebbles his way. He crouched and scanned the area where he had last seen his friend. The sun was low but there was still enough light to see a moderate distance. He made out the prone body of Dick Reynolds with a bullet squarely in his forehead on a small rise a hundred feet away. His next sight was of a leg and boot jutting from behind a thick King Fern near a large Tualang tree with enormous buttress roots protruding above ground like the tentacles of a giant octopus.
“Dave!” he shouted. “Dave!” Upon the leg not moving, Bob moved hurriedly in the same crouched position towards it. Moments before, the gunfire had lessened a bit but, seeing a US soldier coming back into the fray, picked up again. Bob reached the leg of what turned out to be his good friend, not moving, body sprawled face down on the jungle floor. In one motion, Bob grabbed the back of Dave’s uniform at the neck and hauled him behind the Tualang tree’s massive roots, the biological wonder providing amble protection. Dave began to move as Bob turned him over, his body bucking in pain from what Bob saw was a gruesome gut shot, blood spewing forth mixed with dirt from where Dave had been lying face down. Frantically, Bob instinctively put his hand over his friend’s wound, eliciting a loud cry from the injured man. Whipping his head around, more to get his brain working than to see anything, Bob, remembering the towel he had stuffed in his belt, ripped it out and put it over the wound, blood filling it up almost immediately as if it had been placed under a steady flowing faucet. Dave cried out loudly again, then seemed to melt as his cry ebbed and ended.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bob lied. “We’re going to be okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Dave coughed uncontrollably, his body seeming to shrivel with each passing second. His eyes shot open and he stared into his friend’s face. Laboring to speak, he forced words out through gritted teeth.
“You…have to go,” he said. “I can’t make it out.”
The words grabbed hold of Bob’s emotions and squeezed, nearly sending tears exploding from his face. No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was never supposed to happen like this but he knew it was true. Hemmed in by enemy fire with a wound that was all but fatal even with immediate medical care, it was clear Dave Jones would never make it out of that jungle alive. Dave slumped his head on the ground and forced a smile.
“It’s my fault,” he said, his body seizing up. “I guess my luck just…I blew it. Sorry. That’s one on me. Looks like I let you down.” His eyes opened and he looked directly into Bob’s face without comprehension.
“I…can’t see,” he gasped. His smile slowly faded into a neutral calm and he was still. Tears in his eyes, Bob nudged his friend gently but there was no sign. His friend was gone.
“Smith!” the platoon leader, continuing to fire blindly in the direction of the Japanese, roared in Bob’s direction. The rest of the platoon had evacuated and, other than Bob and Dave, the platoon leader was the only one left at the scene. “Get out now! Now!”
For Bob, it was now or never. He snapped to his feet with explosive energy then froze. No. No. He wasn’t going to leave. He couldn’t leave. He wasn’t going to allow his friend’s body to be hauled out by the Japanese like a dead rat and dumped in some burial pit. Didn’t Bob owe him that? Unquestionably. They were friends to the end. Bob realized that meant his end, too.
“Go! Go! Go!” Bob shouted at his superior, gesturing wildly for the man to leave. The platoon leader, stuck between moving forwards and backwards for a few seconds was also stuck between yelling at Bob Smith and staying silent. Heavier fire came like a rain shower becoming a deluge as the Japanese, aware of their advantage, began to press forward. The platoon leader took a few steps back then angrily turned and ran for safety, secure that he had done all he could and not happy about the results one bit. Upon seeing him flee, believing the area secure, the Japanese gunfire stopped. Readying his rifle, Bob took a deep breath and came out from behind the buttress roots firing at will. The first two bullets missed, the next two bullets struck one Japanese soldier in the leg and another in the chest, killing the man instantly. Aware of the presence of another American, they opened fire in a murderous volley. A bullet whizzed past Bob’s nose as he dove behind the roots once more.
“Hey, Dave,” he laughed. “I almost got my nose shot off! My luck is still holding up!”
He patted his friend’s dead body on the leg. Lost in the moment, he wasn’t concerned for his own safety. He was only concerned with protecting his friend, even if it was only his friend’s body. He couldn’t let it fall into the hands of the enemy without a fight. Dave was still Dave and he deserved all Bob had. Bullets ripped and tore at the buttress roots as Bob bit his hangnail.
“It doesn’t count unless one of us gets maimed. Those were the rules, right?” Bob laughed, peering at the serene calm of Dave’s inanimate face. “Well, you took a shot. It’s the least I can do to make us equal, buddy.”
Bob came out from behind the Tualang tree again and got off one errant shot before taking bullets in the left leg and left cheek. His leg collapsed under the first bullet an instant before the second one knocked him flat on his back. Blood flooded his mouth; he spat it out reflexively. His immediate senses became intoxicated, not with pain, but with the sweet honeysuckle smell of dozens of flowers from a nearby plant as he rolled over onto his knees and slowly crept behind the buttress roots. Assessing his injuries, he nodded in his mind at the realization that the second one would cost him his life. He leaned up against the roots, blood pouring from both wounds. He took his final view of the sun which happened, fittingly, to be at sunset. He looked at his friend.
“We’re even, pal,” Bob gasped, determined to speak even if only in a garble. “I couldn’t let you…have all the fun. After all, we’re friends to the end and…” he gasped shallowly several times and closed his eyes. “…this is the end. It’s okay, though. It will be okay.”
A minute later, two Japanese soldiers, guns raised, cautiously came from around the buttress roots. Seeing the dead and mortally wounded men, they looked down with a sense of satisfaction but also pity. Dead men were still soldiers like them and they were more than aware that the roles could be reversed with American GIs staring down at them dead or mortally wounded. With the American occupation in full swing, the Japanese, almost fanatic in fighting to the end, knew it was probable they would go the same way, possibly in the next few days. In the end, perhaps the only real honor was not in fighting for country but for each other. Hearing the shuffling of feet, Bob opened his eyes and stared in the direction of the two soldiers.
“Hey, Dave,” he said with a smile. “Guess what? I can’t see anything, either.” Moments later, he was dead. The two Japanese soldiers scanned the area as the sun disappeared. Two more dead men, two more stories whose finales would never be known to their family and friends, a sad ending for them but not for the two men for, in death as well as in life, there will always be glory in friends true to each other. Friends to the end.
Friends to the End: A War Story
“Friends to the end!” the two soldiers sang less than melodically, briefly clasping sweaty hands as ridiculously as possible as they trudged wearingly through humid jungle that weighed on the heavily uniformed men like they were wrapped in tortillas and thrown in a steamer. It was the middle of World War II, January 1943, at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, summertime in the Southern Hemisphere, the jungle laden island scorched with boiling temperatures and sopped with withering humidity that seemed too strong for any man to withstand, much less men in full fatigues. They were on a reconnaissance mission, both members of the American Army’s XIV Corp’s Reconnaissance Platoon, there largely for mop up duty after the Marines had retaken the island from the Japanese by vicious and bitter fighting in the previous six months. Accompanied by three assault vehicles, their party of ten had started in late afternoon when the sun would be slightly less oppressive yet with enough daylight to finish their mission, which was collecting data from the last small pocket of territory on the island, an area considered either free or virtually free of the enemy but too heavily canopied by the thick jungle foliage for aerial reconnaissance to be sure. The assault vehicles had run out of dirt road and the ten men platoon had moved on without them, only intending to move forward about a quarter mile in case they came under fire, though this was not expected.
Our two soldiers, Bob Smith and Dave Jones, as generically and ordinarily named as could be, had been fast friends since joining the Reconnaissance Platoon in early 1942, shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. They clicked instantly, somewhat resembling two of their favorite stars, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. They had been on several missions, a few involving heavy fire, in the South Pacific up until that point, always performing admirably and without a scratch. They had been so fortunate in avoiding ordinance that they regarded themselves with tongue in cheek invincibility, the kind where you know a truck will easily kill you yet you’re able to walk in the middle of the road without incident anyway. They weren’t godlike by any stretch. They had just been so fortunate, like dashing Hollywood leading men in movies doing their dangerous jobs and always making it through the picture unharmed. In between assignments, they were near constant attendees of whatever USO camp was in their area. They never missed a Hope and Crosby Road movie or an Abbott and Costello GI picture and, though they loved Bud and Lou, they preferred to be the GI version of Hope and Crosby, Bob Smith as, interestingly, not Hope but Crosby and Dave Jones as Hope. Bob, the slightly better looking one, was the kind in the movie that got the girl while Dave, as Hope, looked on understandably, always there with a zinger to lighten the mood. They both treasured each other’s company in this cluttered yet lonely war where family and sweethearts remained behind at home, all GIs hoping to avoid a dreaded “Dear John” letter from their perceived one and only while being ensnared in the surreal world of war, forced to kill or be killed. On this latest mission, they were particularly talkative on the way to their destination, not expecting action of any consequence.
“I’ve got a hang nail,” Bob said, biting it irritatingly.
“Well, stop having a hang nail!” Dave replied. “We have to keep our perfect record alive!”
“I’ll do the best I can for your majesty,” Bob smiled with mild sarcasm. “You do realize there is a war going on, don’t you? Besides, what does a hangnail have to do with our record?”
“If we’re going to blow our record, let’s at least have a finger or toe blown off, something particularly gruesome,” Dave said.
“Okay,” Bob replied. “It doesn’t count unless one of us is maimed. Deal?”
“Deal. Although for your own good, having your nose blown off your face may improve your looks.” Aware of his friend’s good looks, he was always making cracks like that.
“How about you get your nose shot off and I’ll have my eyes gouged out so I won’t have to look at your skeleton head,” Bob said with a chuckle.
“We’ll make a deal,” Dave said. “You get your nose shot off and your eyes gouged out and I’ll get my very own hangnail just for you, okay?”
Bob laughed loudly. “Deal.” His friend cracked him up so much. It was the only thing that made him laugh in the whole war.
The safety of their assault vehicle escort left behind, the ten men platoon began to spread moderate distances apart as they creeped into the unknown territory of that small pocket on the island, the jungle getting thicker and thicker as they progressed. Bob and Dave were the last two to separate. With their “Friends to the end” send off, Bob moved slowly to his left and Dave moved slowly to his right. The sun’s greatly respected presence had moved from a moderately high, almost violent yellow to a much lower, slightly more benign yet almost frighteningly ominous blood red. They thanked the Lord it hadn’t rained for the last three days, possibly a record for the Solomon Islands that time of year, because it would have made their activities nearly impossible to endure. It was oppressive yet tolerably so, the humorous equivalent of playing a baseball game in 97 as opposed to 105 degree heat. Their mission now required intense focus and sensitive ears ready to trigger rapid, lethal action if necessary. Bob and Dave, despite their clowning, were all business when it was called for.
Moving through the jungle was a wondrous experience, like exploring a foreign planet in an HG Wells novel. Enormous emergent evergreens towered over the vast, smaller evergreens of the jungle canopy, so packed with foliage they cut off nearly all sunlight and acted like a roof over an understory level and, just below it, the nearly barren forest floor. The platoon was moving through an area so thick and dark that only shafts of sunlight broke through making nearly all plant life on the forest floor non-existent, which made the landscape seem even more alien and imaginary, like the forest equivalent of the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. The sparse terrain denied them cover but also allowed them to see greater distances and no enemy or enemy activity had been visible to that point.
After a few hundred feet, the canopy opened and they were in a large clearing laden with evergreens barnacled with strangler figs juxtaposed by dozens of King Ferns and flowering plants of all colors filling in the spaces between the trees. As cluttered as the last was barren, the area marked a perfect place for an ambush. All ten men in the platoon were instantly aware of it. Though not expecting a firefight, the set up made all ten men so nervous ten rifles were instantly up and ready.
Suddenly, gunfire exploded from multiple directions. Two men from the platoon were hit immediately. Dick Reynolds, a nice guy that Dave knew better than Bob, took a bullet in the head and died instantly. James Patrick Henry, a passionate, hot headed soldier who was a fiercely proud direct descendent of the firebrand legend of the American Revolution, was hit in the left arm, left leg and upper right chest. He slammed violently into a mix of leaves and dirt and succumbed one agonizing minute after being hit.
“Get back! Get back!” the platoon leader roared, trying to make himself heard over the shattering noise that had been added to by the return fire of the eight remaining soldiers. Though as coldly efficient as it gets, the platoon leader was a good guy that cared strongly for the safety of his men.
Bob felt two bullets whiz by on the initial volley and had hit the ground moments later. He rolled for cover behind a nearby bush that wasn’t much protection but was all he had. Clearly, they had stumbled upon a larger than expected Japanese unit that not only existed but was ready for action. Bullets flew by the bush, one even glancing off the top of Bob’s helmet jarringly before bouncing away. He waited for several minutes until the shooting seemed to shift to his right a little. Sensing an opportunity, he crawled backwards with alacrity, got to his knees then his feet bent over in a crouch and stumbled as quickly as he could away from the enemy fire before diving behind a thicker bush laden with blue and yellow flowers, one of which was blasted off a split second after he took cover. He saw three members of the platoon likewise retreating while three others laid down cover fire, including the platoon leader.
“Everybody out! Everybody out!” the platoon leader shouted. The orders were unnecessary but had to be made anyway in that situation. The three providing random cover fire joined their brothers in retreat with the unstated goal of reaching the safety of the assault vehicle escort. Bob, bringing up the rear of the fleeing troops, looked around, his eyes darting to get the logistics of the situation and, specifically, the presence of his friend, the only platoon member besides the dead he hadn’t accounted for. Like a mother looking for a lost child, he anxiously slowed his retreat when he couldn’t find Dave, bullets roaring and clipping the jungle trees intermittently around him like kids throwing pebbles his way. He crouched and scanned the area where he had last seen his friend. The sun was low but there was still enough light to see a moderate distance. He made out the prone body of Dick Reynolds with a bullet squarely in his forehead on a small rise a hundred feet away. His next sight was of a leg and boot jutting from behind a thick King Fern near a large Tualang tree with enormous buttress roots protruding above ground like the tentacles of a giant octopus.
“Dave!” he shouted. “Dave!” Upon the leg not moving, Bob moved hurriedly in the same crouched position towards it. Moments before, the gunfire had lessened a bit but, seeing a US soldier coming back into the fray, picked up again. Bob reached the leg of what turned out to be his good friend, not moving, body sprawled face down on the jungle floor. In one motion, Bob grabbed the back of Dave’s uniform at the neck and hauled him behind the Tualang tree’s massive roots, the biological wonder providing amble protection. Dave began to move as Bob turned him over, his body bucking in pain from what Bob saw was a gruesome gut shot, blood spewing forth mixed with dirt from where Dave had been lying face down. Frantically, Bob instinctively put his hand over his friend’s wound, eliciting a loud cry from the injured man. Whipping his head around, more to get his brain working than to see anything, Bob, remembering the towel he had stuffed in his belt, ripped it out and put it over the wound, blood filling it up almost immediately as if it had been placed under a steady flowing faucet. Dave cried out loudly again, then seemed to melt as his cry ebbed and ended.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bob lied. “We’re going to be okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Dave coughed uncontrollably, his body seeming to shrivel with each passing second. His eyes shot open and he stared into his friend’s face. Laboring to speak, he forced words out through gritted teeth.
“You…have to go,” he said. “I can’t make it out.”
The words grabbed hold of Bob’s emotions and squeezed, nearly sending tears exploding from his face. No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was never supposed to happen like this but he knew it was true. Hemmed in by enemy fire with a wound that was all but fatal even with immediate medical care, it was clear Dave Jones would never make it out of that jungle alive. Dave slumped his head on the ground and forced a smile.
“It’s my fault,” he said, his body seizing up. “I guess my luck just…I blew it. Sorry. That’s one on me. Looks like I let you down.” His eyes opened and he looked directly into Bob’s face without comprehension.
“I…can’t see,” he gasped. His smile slowly faded into a neutral calm and he was still. Tears in his eyes, Bob nudged his friend gently but there was no sign. His friend was gone.
“Smith!” the platoon leader, continuing to fire blindly in the direction of the Japanese, roared in Bob’s direction. The rest of the platoon had evacuated and, other than Bob and Dave, the platoon leader was the only one left at the scene. “Get out now! Now!”
For Bob, it was now or never. He snapped to his feet with explosive energy then froze. No. No. He wasn’t going to leave. He couldn’t leave. He wasn’t going to allow his friend’s body to be hauled out by the Japanese like a dead rat and dumped in some burial pit. Didn’t Bob owe him that? Unquestionably. They were friends to the end. Bob realized that meant his end, too.
“Go! Go! Go!” Bob shouted at his superior, gesturing wildly for the man to leave. The platoon leader, stuck between moving forwards and backwards for a few seconds was also stuck between yelling at Bob Smith and staying silent. Heavier fire came like a rain shower becoming a deluge as the Japanese, aware of their advantage, began to press forward. The platoon leader took a few steps back then angrily turned and ran for safety, secure that he had done all he could and not happy about the results one bit. Upon seeing him flee, believing the area secure, the Japanese gunfire stopped. Readying his rifle, Bob took a deep breath and came out from behind the buttress roots firing at will. The first two bullets missed, the next two bullets struck one Japanese soldier in the leg and another in the chest, killing the man instantly. Aware of the presence of another American, they opened fire in a murderous volley. A bullet whizzed past Bob’s nose as he dove behind the roots once more.
“Hey, Dave,” he laughed. “I almost got my nose shot off! My luck is still holding up!”
He patted his friend’s dead body on the leg. Lost in the moment, he wasn’t concerned for his own safety. He was only concerned with protecting his friend, even if it was only his friend’s body. He couldn’t let it fall into the hands of the enemy without a fight. Dave was still Dave and he deserved all Bob had. Bullets ripped and tore at the buttress roots as Bob bit his hangnail.
“It doesn’t count unless one of us gets maimed. Those were the rules, right?” Bob laughed, peering at the serene calm of Dave’s inanimate face. “Well, you took a shot. It’s the least I can do to make us equal, buddy.”
Bob came out from behind the Tualang tree again and got off one errant shot before taking bullets in the left leg and left cheek. His leg collapsed under the first bullet an instant before the second one knocked him flat on his back. Blood flooded his mouth; he spat it out reflexively. His immediate senses became intoxicated, not with pain, but with the sweet honeysuckle smell of dozens of flowers from a nearby plant as he rolled over onto his knees and slowly crept behind the buttress roots. Assessing his injuries, he nodded in his mind at the realization that the second one would cost him his life. He leaned up against the roots, blood pouring from both wounds. He took his final view of the sun which happened, fittingly, to be at sunset. He looked at his friend.
“We’re even, pal,” Bob gasped, determined to speak even if only in a garble. “I couldn’t let you…have all the fun. After all, we’re friends to the end and…” he gasped shallowly several times and closed his eyes. “…this is the end. It’s okay, though. It will be okay.”
A minute later, two Japanese soldiers, guns raised, cautiously came from around the buttress roots. Seeing the dead and mortally wounded men, they looked down with a sense of satisfaction but also pity. Dead men were still soldiers like them and they were more than aware that the roles could be reversed with American GIs staring down at them dead or mortally wounded. With the American occupation in full swing, the Japanese, almost fanatic in fighting to the end, knew it was probable they would go the same way, possibly in the next few days. In the end, perhaps the only real honor was not in fighting for country but for each other. Hearing the shuffling of feet, Bob opened his eyes and stared in the direction of the two soldiers.
“Hey, Dave,” he said with a smile. “Guess what? I can’t see anything, either.” Moments later, he was dead. The two Japanese soldiers scanned the area as the sun disappeared. Two more dead men, two more stories whose finales would never be known to their family and friends, a sad ending for them but not for the two men for, in death as well as in life, there will always be glory in friends true to each other. Friends to the end.
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