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By Root 2452 0

how all would be healed with the passing of time, the awful memories taken away. The images were more than important to him, they were a part of who he had become. He felt a responsibility to every one of them, to remember, to tell their stories. There hadn’t been time for the men to really know each other, and it gnawed at him now. He had known so little about Ballou, the cowboy who never rode a horse, knew nothing of the man’s parents, of anyone he had left behind. Parker was the same, the soft-spoken giant of a man who had been so changed by the war. Temple could only describe him now as the uneducated backwoodsman with the slow drawl, who had become the most efficient killer in the platoon. Dan should have been a sergeant, he thought. Maybe even a lieutenant. He had the natural instinct for it. Hell, the sergeants followed him. What would have happened to him when he got home? Would he have gone back to the mountains? Who would have been there for him? He thought of Scarabelli now, so different, so much fun. Temple could not help smiling, knew that he could never go to New York without hearing the voice of Scarabelli. Gino would have never left the city, that’s for certain. And he would have loved showing this farm boy around, scaring the hell out of me with tales of, what? Crime and loose women.

He stared out for a moment, a swirl of wind wrapping him in the smoke. He closed his eyes, waited for it to pass, breathed the cold salty air again. What about you, Farm Boy? What will you do? He had asked the question too many times, and every possible answer terrified him. The Corps? What use are Marines now? Will there be another war? Years from now maybe, some jackass in some foreign country does something incredibly stupid, and so, the Marines will go do their job. But I won’t be there. Look at all the men on this ship, so many of them so inexperienced. New wars are for new men. How many of the veterans will stay in the Corps? They won’t need so many of us now.

So, what about you, Farm Boy? How will they treat you now? What kind of hero will you be back home? Or, will they be scared of you? He had put aside the questions for many days, was angry now, angry at his friends as much as the war, angry at being the one to go home.

He turned away from the open water, stared at the flickering lights of the great ocean liner, realized there was a damp mist in the air now. A pair of sailors emerged from a doorway, ignored him, climbed a ladder to some place Temple knew nothing about. He watched them until they disappeared, closed his eyes, asked the silent question again. So, what the hell is waiting for you? He leaned back against the railing, tried to see the farm, the creek, the woods, his grandfather’s old cabin. Home. Where nothing happens. What will they expect you to do there? Tell all the awful stories to people who’ll think you’re lying? And even if they believed you, why would anyone want to hear about a man being blown to dust, about arms ripped away, faces torn from a man’s head? That’s what I’m bringing home. That’s what I’ll be good for, scaring children. How do I plow a field without thinking of turning up bodies? It’s a damned good thing we don’t grow wheat. How the hell could I look at another wheat field and not . . . remember?

He felt his hands shaking, felt the familiar terror. He stared out into the darkness again, thought of Scarabelli. It should have been you. You should be here now. You were the one who knew how to make a place for yourself. You could go back home and tell your stories and no one would be scared of you. You would love the attention. One day you’d be the crazy old man your grandchildren would love to tease behind your back. And tomorrow, your family would be there on that dock waiting for you, proud of their son. The Marine. The hero.

He thought of his mother now. So, what will you think of me? All you know of the world is what you can touch in your hands, soil and feathers and homespun cloth. Will you be proud of the son who learned how to kill a man with his hands? How much have you