Unwelcome Season

The cemetery is most beautiful in the Fall, Cal Bennet thought to himself as the crisp Fall breeze caressed his face. Perhaps that’s because it’s the only season he had ever seen it in, as he only comes to it once a year and at this time. There was a small hint of the recent Summer heat left on the heels of the wind, almost cruel in its taunt that Cal’s favorite season had come to an end. A smile tea

sed the corners of his tight knitted lips as he gazed down upon the pitiful, dilapidated headstone. You look better than I do at least. On the same day, at the same time, every single year, Cal stood in this cemetery, looking down at the same headstone, until the Sun began to set low in the sky, casting unsettling shadows amidst the stones of the dead. Cal hated cemeteries. He hated the idea of standing over stranger’s loved ones, buried deep within the earth; some at rest, some who may be walking among the living still, troubled, unable to find their way to eternity. Cal shuddered at the thought but kept his eyes locked on the headstone, now broken into pieces, with clumps of grass growing between the cracks. The only letters still legible was M and C. You deserved better than this. I’m sorry. Cal thought to himself.

February 21, 1914

My dearest sister,

It’s freezing here in France now. I can’t tell you my specific location.The people here are kind, and treat us like kings, for their own “king” is believed to be Satan himself. We aren’t equipped for this kind of weather, but the townspeople give us what they can in way of firewood, blankets, and food. We melt snow for our water. A lot of the men are sick, or growing sick from lack of care from their injuries they received when they landed. Parachuting into a forest is a game of risk. You take your chances and hope for the best. I was one of the lucky ones. If anyone around here had even half the medical knowledge you do, these men might stand a chance. Most of them will be dead by nightfall. I hope you are enjoying your holiday with cousin Margaret. Please take care my dear sister. The world is a dangerous place, and I fear for your safety and happiness every second I spend away. I’ve seen terrible things and I’ve done even worse. I have betrayed our morals as human beings, the man I once was, and our God. I have grown very tired and weary. War will destroy a person. May God have mercy on my soul, and forgive me my many sins, and I ask of you the same. I will close this letter the same I do all my letters. If this is the last letter you ever receive from me, do not burden yourself with my passing. Rather let it be a relief to you, as I am far better off under the ground than I would be above it. I am with you always just as you are always with me. 

All my love,

Cal Bennet. 

The sun was still high in the sky, the back drop a brilliant blue against the few white clouds. Cal shut his eyes, inhaled deeply, and relished the steady, peaceful, yet heavy silence. Even after all this time he could smell the putrid odor of sulfur and gunpowder deep in his nostrils. His body began to sway and Cal quickly opened his eyes. He could never keep them closed standing up for more than a few seconds before his ears took over, and the ringing intensified to the point where he would become unbalanced. He steadied himself on his cane, cursing himself for not knowing better. Not knowing better that he could no longer enjoy the simplest things in life, like enjoying the pure serenity of Autumn in silent, closed serenity. Cal was jolted back into reality by the sound of a large, approaching truck, and he loosened his furious grip on the handle of his cane, now worn to the original, unvarnished wood, from years of heavy use. 

The truck passed behind Cal on the old, gravel road, and backfired; producing a sound like that of a small explosion. Cal’s body jolted and then froze up. His heart stopped for a moment, and his hearing completely dissipated, his heart pounded against his eardrums sending tidal waves of pressure throughout his skull. 

Cal folded the letter and slid it into his right breast pocket, and buttoned down the flap. He scoffed at himself and shook his head, the air he puffed out his nose turning to white smoke amidst the frigid cold. As if that will keep it safe, he thought to himself. He laid back against the fence and let out a deep sigh. In front of him there was nothing but a space of about a 100 yards of pure snow before it hit the tree line of a dense forest, where they had landed. After dragging two other men who gashed their legs open on the tree limbs upon impact, he had to trudge back through the knee high snow to erase the footprints and trails of blood, should any enemies fall across them and trace them to this village. In back of him was a small, German village, home to no more than 200 people. It was all farms and frozen over gardens and orchards, and one of the few small villages remaining in the wake of German destruction. Cal’s heart jumped into his throat as explosions began riddling through the town, shrapnel peppering him in every area. Screams and cries of the townspeople ripped through Cal like a lion digging into its prey, as he scrambled for his weapon and charged into the chaos. It was mostly men in the village; men who sent their women and children away to safer locations, but who stayed behind to look after their livestock and to protect their homes. Now, men lay scattered in the streets like cigarette butts on a busy city road, dead or dying in agony, unable to defend their homes or even themselves. Cal tore through the heart of the village, firing at the approaching enemy. He dove behind the remnants of a fallen church to reload his weapon and pull the pin on a grenade. Suddenly, a force like that of God threw him to the ground. His eyesight was dulled to nothing more than colors of fire and blurs, all moving in slow, distorted motion. No sound rang through his ears other than a high pitched, steady ringing that made his head feel like it was in a vice. He clenched his eyes, and his fists, and let out a scream, but could hear or feel nothing. Nothing at all. 

Cal breathed deeply and quickly reached into his right breast pocket. He clumsily pulled out the small, shining vessel, his life line, and took a hefty swig of copper liquid while still unscrewing the top. He threw his head back in relief as he tucked his old friend away back into its safe place. He looked down at the lapel of his jacket and with a shaking hand readjusted the stunning red poppy. His eyes focused deep into the red petals of the flower, and he watched in horror as they began to slowly transform into thick drippings of blood.

Red was all Cal saw as he tried to open up the bricks that lay on top of his eyeballs. Blood had dried to his eyelashes, and as he tried to move his hands to clear his vision a terrible pain overtook him, paralyzing his entire body. His screaming ceased when he felt a hand touch his chest and another his sweat dotted forehead, and his senses came to a stand still as he heard her voice. They were whispers, very dim and far off sighs, that slowly began to grow louder as his consciousness returned to him. He felt the cool compress dabbing at his face and at his eyes, and her face became visible as his vision settled. 

The tears began to flow as they did every year. He didn’t know why he still came, after learning what it does to him every time he does. Perhaps it was the persistent hope that every visit took a piece of his soul away, and that someday it would finally run out and put him to rest. Maybe not at peace. But at least to rest. He had grown so weary and tired over the years. He longed for any kind of rest. Rest for his body, his mind, for his heart. Although he had made peace many years before that the luxury of a rested soul was not written in his book of life. The tears formed warming trails down his chilled face, and saw the shadows of the surrounding headstones beginning to form. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the letter; yellow and weathered with time, the blood stains now pink with age. His heart began to beat quickly and sweat began to form as an airplane passed over his head. 

Mandy….Cal sighed as he looked up into the angelic face of his twin sister. He was certain he was dying or hallucinating. But as he felt her soft, gentle touch and heard her distinct voice, thick with a southern drawl and pique with an ever present trace of laughter and a smile, he knew. “My God, I can’t believe it’s you, I just can’t believe it, Cal. You’re alright, you’re going to be just fine, I promise.” Cal fought through the paralyzing pain enough to grasp his sister’s hands and hold them close to his face. The tears flowed endlessly as he embraced his sister, her nurse’s gown filthy with dirt and blood. She pulled back and smiled, gazing at her beloved brother, her teeth white against her dirt and sweat covered face, the wisps of dark hair escaping from beneath her cap, sticking to her forehead. She cradled his head in her lap as he drank the cold water she held to his lips. “What are you doing here Mandy? You shouldn’t be here, you need to go home,” his words came in slurs, his consciousness still in tact only by sheer will and determination of his own. “I had to do my part too, Cal. This is where I’m needed. One must go where one is needed.” … “Go home, Mandy. You need to go home.” She smiled down at him and smoothed his hair, offering him more water. She stood up carefully and began tending to his many wounds. He had burns all over his body from lying unconscious among the fires of the burning village, open wounds with flesh pouring out like an animal being gutted for cooking, and hundreds of pieces of shrapnel scattered about his face and hands. It was two hours before the medical truck saw the smoke through the trees and came to investigate, and brought the survivors back to the field hospital 30 miles North of the village, in what seemed like no man’s land. The openness and isolation of their location made Cal uneasy and caused unrelenting anxiety. Cal was quickly recovering and after a month was ready to be transported to the nearest Allie camp. It was the impact of Mandy’s body on top of Cal’s chest that brought him out of his sleep. He looked around wildly as the smoke strangled his lungs, and he strained against the stinging of his eyes to make sense of what was happening. As the screaming ceased and the smoke cleared, he saw Mandy sprawled on the floor beside him, blood pouring from her head, her eyes gray and lifeless. The only noise left was that of the enemy planes passing overhead. 

Cal unfolded the paper carefully, and re read the letter he had written on that awful day almost seventy years ago. He read it through once, just like he did every year when he came to visit his sister’s grave. He knelt down, his old and frail body shaking rapidly as he did so, and rubbed his hand over the top of the faded and paled lettering, Mandy Alice Bennet. And then, like every year past, he slowly trodded his way back home, hoping he didn’t make it to the next Fall.