a_war_story once again He sat by his grandfather’s bed and yawned. He almost wished the old man would die and get it over with. Almost. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t miss the old geezer; in fact, Grandpa Ryan was his favorite family member. He hated the worrying though. His grandfather was the only person in the family he really cared about. As for the rest of the family, Andy wished they would just move to Mars. Unfortunately for Andy they were now scattered throughout the thirty-two room New York estate, drinking coffee and talking politics… Andy wished his grandfather were alive now. He wished the old man could would come and tell him his war stories. He even wished his father, The Senator, was here. Andy felt so alone he wished anyone was here. Had he been thinking rationally, he would have wished to be anywhere but here. Andy, however, had given up thinking rationally six months ago, it only got him in trouble. The Senator had flown up from D.C. to be with the old man in his last days. He hadn’t said a single word to his father and Andy hadn’t even heard him say, “Goodbye,” when he left thirteen days later. The old man was still alive. Andy was sure he had only fought this long to prove The Senator and the doctors wrong. The Senator had said, “I’ll stay until Ryan breathes his last. It won’t be long now,” and the doctors had given him two weeks. That was three months ago… He supposed he was like his grandfather that way. “Always trying to prove people wrong, well look at you now, Rich Boy.” He had taken to talking to him self three months ago when his best friend had died, calling himself Rich Boy, just as the old man used to. He had also started listening to himself, having no one else to listen to. In response to his comments he looked down at his dirty clothes, if they could be called clothes. “Nice clothes, Rich Boy.” He looked up at his grandfather who watched him with tired eyes, his war eyes he called them, then back down at his tan trousers, light blue polo shirt and navy sport coat, before grinning at his grandfather. “You’re just jealous Old Man…” His grandfather would love to see him now. Those tired blue eyes would fill with love, pride and laughter, “Nice clothes, Rich Boy.” The tattered fabric that hung loosely on his bony frame was ripped and torn in a million places. The shreds of fabric were covered with the grime of centuries and the blood of countless wounds. There were other wounds as well. “The day of the funeral The Senator came back. “Of course I would never miss my own father’s funeral,” he told his son. A procession of gray haired, middle-aged men dressed in tailored suits crowed behind a podium to talk about Ryan. At least that’s what they claimed. Andy had never met the man they were talking about. He took a flag from the pack on his back. Unlike himself and his other possessions the flag was clean. It was folded in a triangle and stored in a plastic bag that Andy kept in a metal box. They gave all the soldiers families one. The flag should have gone to his father, as the next living relative, but Andy had kept it and he knew The Senator would never miss it. At the funeral only one man described Ryan as Andy knew him. The tough, loving man that had fought so hard for his country and then came home a grown man with no skills except that of a soldier and made a living. Grandpa Ryan had made a good living. He had a natural skill with money that kept his family fed for years, gave his son the best education money could buy and now his skill left Andy with over a million in inheritance, after taxes. “A million dollars, Rich Boy, and here you lost in the woods wearing rags, while it sits safe in a bank. You always have to be right don’t you?” Money meant nothing when there were no stores to shop at no food to buy and no houses to own. Money meant nothing in the middle of a god-forsaken forest. After the burial he had found the man who knew Ryan so well. Max, as the man’s name turned out to be, had served with his grandfather in the war. Andy began discussing the ins and outs of the army with him and casually mentioned his secret ambition of joining. Max had not laughed; perhaps if he had Andy wouldn’t be here starving in the middle of the woods. He had said “You wouldn’t last two seconds and looked at him with deep gray tired eyes… Andy wondered what his eyes looked like now. They had seen so much. He glanced down at his torn rags, his fingers tracing the bloodstains. They were the only written records of these last six months. The line of red spatters cutting across his stomach to his left shoulder was the epitaph of a determined young woman. She had helped Jack, his best friend, and him escape the village and together the three of them had traveled though the jungle for three days before guerrilla fire had burst across her flawless face, leaving her dark piercing eyes empty and blank. Andrea had begged him not to go, then when he would not be dissuaded she had threatened, “I’ll leave you Andy. I’m not going to waste my life waiting for you.” His father had flat out forbidden it. “No son of mine is going to serve in the army. It’s dangerous and stupid. You CAN’T go.” Only Jack had supported him. Jack had been his best friend since high school. He knew the old man and he understood Andy completely. Jack was his best friend… Now Jack was dead, killed in the same hail of bullets that had taken the girl. The only physical memory was a deep red stain covering his right thigh. A fragmented shard of bullet had buried itself deep in his head. They had barely walked a quarter of a mile when Jack collapsed. Andy knew, without knowing why or how, he knew the way only someone who has learned to accept the horror of war knows, that Jack was dying. Andy rested Jack’s head on his thigh and watched as his best friend’s blood spread over his pants. He didn’t cry. His last and best friend was dying in his lap and his eyes were dry. He hadn’t cried at his grandfather’s funeral either. He had done that in the privacy of his tiny New York City apartment. He had held the flag close to him and pictured his grandfather, the man with a heart of gold and tired eyes, and a will that never gave in… It was that same will, a legacy of his grandfather that kept him heading for the coast. He had been walking for days. His food had run out exactly three days ago, he was very sure about that fact. He’d tried eating leaves and bugs, but his stomach wasn’t suited for it. He could hear shells falling in the distance and was trusting to luck that some of them were American shells using the sound of distant shells to guide him. ''I, Andrew R. McLaren, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God…” And he had… so help him God. He really wished God would help him. He could certainly use it. The coast was in sight and he didn’t think he could make it. It had been eight days since he had last eaten. He knew he was heading toward the sound of bombs, but he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t remember much at the moment. His lean frame felt heavy and rubbery. He watched from outside himself as his legs collapsed. He saw his grandfather’s eyes peering out of his face and knew they were his own. He saw them close. “Training was terrible, Andy. Waking up at sunrise, marching twenty miles a day, eating rations. The master sergeant was an awful man. ‘Fall in Boys! Hup, two, three, four, March! Left, right, left, right! HALT! About face!’ The lines were worse. If you missed a command or didn’t move fast enough you were as good as dead. You had to do what you were told, do it right and do it fast. There were no second chances.” “That sounds stupid. Why would you volunteer for that, Grandpa? I would never do anything like that.” Andy felt something cool and moist over his eyes. His body throbbed with pain everywhere. He wondered where he was. “It’s all right buddy. We found you, you’re safe… “Andrew Ryan McLaren, died July 17, 2020 at the age of 73, at his New York estate. He was the son of U.S. Senator Phillip McLaren, son of World War I hero Ryan Johnathan McLaren, and Beth McLaren-Simpson. He enlisted in the army at the age of twenty-three. He attained the rank of major and earned numerous awards including the National Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross, the Purple Heart, Silver Star and the POW Medal. After being honorably discharged he married Andrea Malloy. He then worked as chairman of the Ryan McLaren Foundation, which he set up in his grandfather’s name to help veterans of wars. He is survived by his wife and a son, Jack Ryan McLaren. Services will be conducted by Rev. Thomas at St. Sebastian’s Cemetery in Alexandria” ”I remember I would always beg dad to hear his war stories. He would look at me and in his eyes there was something, a certain tiredness, that told me more than any story. He called them his war eyes. He would tell me how grandpa called them that too and once when I asked, “Why,” he answered. After he told me why I never asked again. “It was hard. We marched for days. We had lice in our hair, blisters on our feet, mud on our faces, and blood splashed anywhere that might have been clean. It was a horror. Your friends are dying around you and there’s nothing you can do. You go through the motions, but inside you know they’re gone. No one understands what it’s like. They have never killed anyone. Killing, fighting, takes something you can’t get back; it leaves an empty space inside you, a hole that nothing will fill. It’s not a visible wound, except in your eyes. They can see it there… that tiredness is Death. He took my eyes, but he didn’t get me.” 030920 ... nom i read this and really enjoyed it once_again probably shouldn't leave dumb comments 030920 ... once again Thank you. Most people just say it's too confusing. 030920 ... smurfus rex good story. 041109 what's it to you? who go blather from