Freedom Isn't Free -- Flash Fiction

FREEDOM ISN’T FREE

By: Melinda Reynolds


The Old Soldier brushed invisible lint from his immaculate uniform, and smoothed knife-edged creases in Army khaki trousers. Medals glinted dully in the waning light, the rows of ribbons attesting to numerous campaigns and achievements.

His companion, a corporal ten years his junior, laughed quietly at this self-conscious display of military correctness. “Do ya really think the kid’s gonna care if you’re all spit’n’polish, Sarge? After all,” he winked at his similarly uniformed buddies, “it ain’t like he’s real Army, ya know.”

“National Guard is real Army. He carries a gun; he fights for freedom. That’s all that matters.” He ran long, shaking fingers through pure white hair, replacing the World War II Army issue cap with careful precision.

Another soldier shifted uncomfortably in the hot, heavy air. “How much longer we gotta wait? I thought you said he’d be here by now.”

“The letter said ‘late afternoon,’ after the ceremony. Not even twenty-four yet, and he’s a hero.” The bent frame straightened with pride. “He saved his whole platoon.”

“Any of them with him?” The corporal noted the arrangements made only for one.

“Naw, just him; just my boy.”

“Now, Sarge, he ain’t your ‘boy’, either.” Another wink at the others, and the Corporal added, “He’s your grandson.”

“He’s my boy. His dad – my ‘son’ – was a no good bum. Ran out on the boy and his mother a few years after he was born. Sara wanted to take them in, but didn’t want to make things worse between me and his … father. She asked me about it; talked about it for a long time. Even tho’ he’s a bum, he was still my son and it was hard to say anything agin’ him – but she knew, my Sara. She knew I approved.

“My boy loved to hear about my military career; about the war, and how I won all my decorations. He said he wanted to do that, too; he wanted to be something, to make something of his life. And he did; he made me proud, and served his country. He has his own medals now.

“I was there, and watched with pride when he joined the Guard, and signed on again when his first term was up. He was a good boy then, and he’s a better now. He’s done his part; he’s coming home, and he can rest easy now. He has a whole new life ahead of him.”

Brilliant beams of golden sunlight cut through the darkening sky, dimly illuminating the decorations on the main gate and slanting over the flag-draped archway.

“There he is.” The Old Soldier nodded toward the vehicle and marched forward.

The lead car, a big, black sedan, halted near the festooned archway. Doors opened, and uniformed men, along with a few dark-suited young men, got out. They went to the back, and opened the rear door.

The Old Soldier and his companions waited in respectful silence as the young man wearing an Army uniform walked over to them, hesitant and uncertain.

The Old Soldier stepped forward, and saluted. “Lieutenant Nathan Allen Stuart?” He asked.

The young soldier returned the salute. “Yes, sir.” His smile widened into a grin as tears formed in his eyes.

Behind them, the dark-suited men carried the highly polished casket to the burial site, and the military honors resounded throughout the cemetery.

The images of the soldiers shimmered and began to fade.

The Old Soldier embraced the young soldier, “Welcome Home, my boy, welcome Home.”