On War and Waves (my novel in the works

On War and Waves
By: Justo Yanez

I

I don’t know whether to believe it was the war that changed my perspective of life. Yes, I do believe any war has the ability to change a man.
Death. Blood. Mud. Sweat.
I have seen a golden bullet pass through a woman’s head because she looked and talked like the enemy. The baby was ripped from her bosom, only to be stomped to death by my comrade’s boot. Yes! War can change a man; and, although I have smelled the decays of burnt bodies, seen my hands painted with the color of rust, the devil in uniforms—I believe the war has changed my life—for the better! I think most people would question my irrational decision for joining the war. I had a stable, most fortunate life. I lived the American dream. Margie, myself, and my collie—Pilot. We were mirroring a perfect, happy life; yet, that mirror fell from the wall and exposed that we were broken and scattered. The day I left for the war will remain most memorable for my entire life.
I left silently during the night. No not for Margie, just a kiss for Pilot. I took with me: my social security card, a copy of The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, and the dirty clothes on my back. Taking the train to the city and sleeping on the beach, I found myself the next morning in front of the U.S. Navy’s recruiting office doors.
“Congratulations on becoming a United States Navy sailor, son!”
I was off to sea the next day.
On the ship, I wondered what Margie would think when waking up to an empty bed. She most likely would think I went on lake with the boat or that I was reading under my favorite tree with Pilot. But, Pilot was still asleep on the hardwood floors and my tobacco pipe, I never left without, was still on the oak dresser. She probably thought nothing of it and started to make breakfast: Runny eggs with wheat toast, light butter, and a glass of hot coffee imported from South America. However, I wouldn’t make it to breakfast that morning or any other morning for the rest of her life.
I can’t recall when I decided to leave my perfect secure life. Did I make the decision when I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror? Was it after my affair with Catherine?
I can’t really say.
I do know, however, I was sick of my stagnate life. My most perfect American dream.

II.

I met Margie in my college years, in a golden afternoon. Don’t misunderstand my passions for my wife. Although, I did abandon her without the decency of a letter, we brought the worst in each other. It was for the sake of our being, I decided to run. Run far away from her. To run from my depression. To run from the course of my life. To run to the war.
Nevertheless, I will never forget the day to which her beauty and soul grabbed the muscular walls of my heart and pumped blood throughout my body. I closed my eyes and listened to the beats of my heart.
She is. She is. She is.
I decided to partake in a discussion about existentialism with some ol’ chaps in the college’s courtyard.
“But, William, Men were made by God’s own hands!” declared Ernesto while lighting his tobacco pipe.
“Yes, Ernesto, if you believe that theory,” the fellow to my left said sarcastically. “Yet are you not the one who is lighting your pipe? You chose to attend this university, to attend class this morning, major in theology, brush your crooked teeth, and spend nights with that whore of a woman, Nora!”
The man to my left was clearly overtaken with emotions and a clear pompous, idiotic, misogynist. I despise men who are arrogant, and filled with vanity.
“No, the grace of God did,” replied Ernesto with a smile.
After ten minutes of rebuttals and retaliations, I politely excused myself and decided to walk to the lake behind the Social Science Building. The black mud from the bank the lake, plastered my shoes and black slacks; yet, It did not bother me because I was overtook by the beauty of the landscape. How beautiful and captivating nature can be. I’ve spent mornings on the beach watching the rolling waves pound the shore rocks, which always made me sit in silence and appreciate the power within them. By the lake, the contrast of colors: green and brown, blue and white, intoxicate my mind.
You cannot deny the beauty of Earth.

III

An orchestra was playing the sound of Margie’s voice in my head. The conductor violently waved his arms, making the trumpets carry out Margie’s anger. Her voice gradually crescendos louder and louder, the music was suspended and the clarinet trio softly played her tears. The trio was supported with a tempo of eighth notes. The drummer pounds on his snare:
I love you; forever and today.
—Her signature phrase. I witnessed that phrase spoken to me in Spanish, French, English, German, and Chinese. I have seen this sentence written in red ink, pencil, in shells. And now I see it in midair.
I sat crouched, behind a half singed tree. My back felt the warmness and the smell of burning wood drowned my senses. I looked down at my uniform, what disgust! The camo was buried underneath blood and mud. These two solids seemed to accompany my life quite often. All around me, I heard the ringing of screams, bodies crying out for God, Jesus, anyone. I heard the sounds of shells falling to the ground, and the land crying from devastation.
In the midst of unimaginable chaos and in the middle of Hell, here I was thinking of Margie’s high pitched, signature phrase. I could see her cherry lips part and her cream colored teeth. Her soft brown eyes mirrored my image.
The percussion section interrupts the trombones solo, beating Margie’s voice:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
My daydream was interrupted with the sound of a Kar98k bullet nearly taking my ear off. I looked to my left and made out Lieutenant Commander Johnson. His facial expression and the rapid movement of his lips, made me aware he was barking orders but his voice was drowned by the chaos. He flailed his arms to the left, signaling me there was a member of our battalion wounded. I saw the bead of his sweat flow down his face. His face was painted with anger, sorrow, and confusion.
“A—, move your fucking ass and save that private!” he yelled with spit flying in every direction.
I did nothing; I was paralyzed with fear and the nostalgic feelings of my old life. I felt nothing, but the warmth of my hands around my M1918 Browning automatic rifle. I heard nothing but the sounds of the American orchestra playing Symphony No. Margie. I couldn’t see the ruined waste land around me or the private pouring out gallons of red blood. I only saw Margie dancing gracefully in the horizon. She circled effortlessly around the floor of golden shells and dismembered bodies. Members of my troops were waltzing behind her.
It was unthinkable to imagine, I left her. I left Pilot, and the white picket fence. I abandoned my identity and played the role of a U.S. Navy Medic. I was in the middle of Nazi Germany, with bombs laminating the sky like the 4th of July. I saw the devil carry out his actions in the form of men. I see how cruel humanity can be. The ground around me threw up mud with black smoke.
We were all boys’ playing men. That’s what we really are: boys playing the role of men.
In a matter of seconds, unconsciously, my hands pushed off the bumpy wet soil and my legs tried to carry me as far away as possible. I ran. I ran away from Hell.
Lieutenant Commander Johnson’s angry insults were slowly echoing away. Leaves and branches tried to get a grip but they took nothing but pieces of my dirty skin.
I ran with all my might.
I could hear my breath violently escape my mouth, I inhaled with the might of a tornado. Bullets passed every angle of my direction, scrapped a piece of my left leg but I continued to run.
I ran and ran and ran.
—And then I came to an immediate halt. I was staring into the end of a German rifle.
“Halt! Du dreckige American!” the shadow with the rifle yelled.
Immediately, I fell to my knees and looked to the ground. I felt the sweat roll from my pasted hair down and gathered to my chin. The sweat started to drip: and I heard a familiar phrase as the sweat began to hit the ground.
I love you. I love you. I love you.