The Bitter Cost of War

The Bitter Cost of War

“My father is no coward!” I yell as I continue to pummel Sam.  I am on top of him now.  He grabs my arm to hold me back, but I will not be stopped.  I slap him with the back of my left hand, drawing blood from his lip.  He reels, head bouncing from the ground, as Cynthia screams from where she is watching us. She is transfixed by the horror of the two of us, best friends almost since birth, apparently trying to maim the other.



Sam looks at me dazedly, then gathering the last of his strength, throws me off of his chest.  He lies there for a moment, panting and wiping the blood from his mouth.  I stagger to my feet, still seething from the insult he spat in my face.  He may be like family, but nobody tells me my dad is a yellow coward!  Sam speaks to me, slurring his speech a little, “Chuck, what would you say?  He abandoned his unit, his friends, in Italy!  They all died. If that ain’t yella’ I don’t know what is!” 



Now as we calm down, I know that he may be right, but why would father do that?  Why would he run?  Why would he leave everyone behind?

We got the news just last week.  My father was missing, and his whole unit was wiped out by the Nazis.  My mother has not spoken since that day.  She has just stayed in the sitting room, staring out the windows, waiting.  My twin sister Cynthia and I have had to take care of ourselves.  Fortunately Cynthia is a good cook, and with my father gone anyway, I have taken on most of the other duties around the house. 

The neighbors figured out what had happened pretty quickly, seeing the army car pull up, the officer and chaplain in full dress uniform, pressed to sharp corners and shoes shined so they were like mirrors.  My mother screamed so loud when they gave her the news, I am sure that left little doubt in the neighborhood that there was another war widow on the block.



After the first day, the ladies of the block began doing little things for us, fresh bread on our doorstep, and a basket of vegetables from the community victory garden.  I even found a ration ticket for the bakery in an envelope with a note just saying “We are sorry” with it.

Everything was a haze after that.  But then, somehow, everyone found out he might not actually be dead.  He was just missing, and he had abandoned his unit.  How that really happened, we may never know, but I do know that while nobody was actually mean to us (we had lost my father regardless), we did not get the help we had been getting.  Then I met Sam down by the park.  I’m not sure how we started arguing.  I've been in a daze since the news came, but the next thing I know, we are yelling back and forth.  He screams that I need to get ahold of myself.  That Cynthia and mother are counting on me.  That if my father never comes home I have to be the one to take care of things.  As his shouting continues for a few minutes, I just yell back vague thoughts; I'm just a kid, I need to finish school.  That's when he says the thing I could not take.  He yells at me, “Well if you won’t step up, then you are just as yella’ as your dad, always running away when things are tough.” 



After that I see nothing but red, I give a primal roar and start running towards him. Then my best friend of 14 years, the boy who is like a brother to me, is on the ground.  I am punching him with everything I have, and I even find a little more to give.  By the time we stand, his head is bleeding from above his ear, his mouth is pouring blood, and his blonde hair is brown with dirt. 



He just stands there staring at me, then with a huff, drops his hands and says, “Do you feel better now?”  Strangely enough I do.  Some of the pain of my father’s disappearance is gone.  Now I feel even stronger, ready for anything.



“I am sorry I forced you into that, but it was the only thing I could think of to get you to let everything out.  I believe what I said, though.  You need to be the man of your family.  I will do what I can for you, we are friends, and you know I feel like your family is mine, too.  But you need to clear your head.  Your mother cannot sit in that room forever.  She needs help if she won’t get up.  Call someone, get your family back together.”

I fall to my knees, because I know this is all true, and things need to change.  I cannot keep everything in.  I must deal with things and get mother and Cynthia back to being a family.  I begin to cry, and Sam comes over and hugs me until I finish.  Ten minutes later I feel strong enough to get up.  We begin walking home and I turn to Sam and say, “Are you with me? I can count on your help?”



He stops, looks straight at me, and responds, “Of course I am, what else are friends for?”  Feeling relieved, I begin walking again, knowing that things have changed, whether I want them to or not.