Of Fears and Flowers

This is a short story I wrote over a year ago for one of my classes. I have had a few friends express interest in reading this and one other short story I will be posting. These are by no means exceptional, but are the evidences of both my own "triumph" by writing an actual story, and, I guess you could say, small glimpses of some of the things I value...I'll let you read and figure out what I mean. I hope you find some enjoyment as you read these.

I apologize for the small font- it messed up the formatting to go larger.

Of Fears and Flowers

Cold and afraid, I crouched against the breakwater, with one question that would not

 leave my mind: Why does it have to be this way? I tried to repress the fear that I might never

see my family again; I didn’t even want to consider that possibility.

***

I had arrived in the first wave of the assault, in the third boat that lowered its ramp. I

was lucky, if you could call it that, because the Germans concentrated most of their fire on the

first two boats, giving me a chance to lunge over the side of the boat into the water. The shock

from the icy water took my breath away. I had been drenched by the ocean spray nearly the

instant I had climbed aboard the boat and had been cold the entire way across the Channel, but

not the numbing cold I experienced in that water. Not even the many swims I had taken as a

boy in the mountain streams of Idaho had prepared me for that initial plunge. My sole focus

was to get out of that water, regardless of the almost sure death that awaited me on the beach.

Somehow amid the storm of bullets, I struggled ashore along with the rest of my company.

I was one of the few who made it unharmed to the shelter of the obstacles on the

beach. I never saw many of the men in my company again. I thought of the men in those first

two boats, wondering, Did any of those men have a chance to make it to shore? Could they have

even survived that slaughter?

Because I was an engineer, it was my mission to clear the beach of obstacles for the

thousands of men who would follow me in this, the invasion of Normandy. Just as I began to

think that I had found a sheltered place to begin my work, I realized that the obstacle I was

hiding behind was no shelter at all. The Germans were aiming not at men but at the few places

where those men were taking refuge: the beach obstacles. I quickly made the decision to move,

but became aware that the additional weight of the explosives, fuses, firing pins, and

detonators I was carrying was hindering my movement. I determined to leave it all behind in

favor of self-preservation and immediately loosened the pack and let it fall to the sand. I began

to pick my way forward since there was no option of turning back despite the urge to do so.  I

started toward the cliffs with a number of men, but upon arrival at the breakwater, none of the

men I started with were with me. I don’t know where they went or if they even made it to the

breakwater.

It was there, in the so called safety of that three foot stone wall, that I was able to look

around me and try to absorb what was happening. The ear-splitting noise from the explosions,

the pungent smell of gunpowder, and the smoke that hung thick in the air all seemed to be

striving to overtake my senses. Through the smoke, I could see men, so many men, lying there

in the surf. I knew their war was over. Then, there were wounded still slowly making their way

toward the shelter of the cliffs. A few soldiers were dashing about: medics responding to the

cries of the wounded. I don’t know how they overcame the fear I know must have been present

in their minds, when all I could do was focus on was the nearly immobilizing fear that was

encircling me as I endeavored to make myself smaller behind that wall.

As I watched the seemingly endless stream of soldiers, vehicles, and equipment

disembark from the boats, I saw him. A soldier, who looked no older than seventeen,

apparently unaware of the death that was all around him, stood up, walked toward the wall,

stooped, and gently picked something up. It was small, for I could not see what he held in his

hand until he turned toward me. He smiled as though he and I shared some fond memory and

said, “Isn’t it pretty?” I caught a glimpse of what he held in his hand just before he fell, cut

down by the murderous fire coming from the Germans on the cliff. A flower similar to a daisy,

with white petals surrounding a yellow center, had been the object of his joy. I marveled that

he had been able to find beauty in the midst of so much pain and suffering. In the chaos on that

beach, that flower brought to mind a flood of memories of home and of my daughter, oh how

she loved flowers! At five years old she found much delight in their simple beauty, just like that

young soldier. My mind drifted back home….

***

I love the mountains, both the frosty white peaks that never cease to take my breath

away with their grandeur and the meadows that twist their way back to the steep foothills of

the Rocky Mountains. As a boy, I spent innumerable hours hiking the forests behind my

house, often leaving the trails to climb a cliff or explore a canyon. I loved to follow the Snake

River, which flowed below just below the barn and corrals, back to a tributary, then break off

and follow that to the spring or snow patch where it originated.

When I headed off to the city to college, I vowed to return to the mountains as soon as I

was able. It took me a long time to adjust to city life. I was used to my time being my own, and

it was hard to relinquish that freedom to my professors and employers. After a year, I was

ready to give up and go back to what was familiar to me when I met Rebecca.

We married after a short two-month engagement and immediately moved into a

small third-floor apartment. Becca was everything I had looked for in a wife. She frequently

gave me the encouragement I needed to continue with my classes, reminding me often,

“Sometimes you have to do the difficult things in life first so you can cherish even more the

enjoyable things to come.”

 It took two long years after graduation until we had saved enough money to enable us

to move our few belongings back to Idaho. In my whole life, I have never been as impatient as

I was on that train ride home. I was eager to share my love of the mountains with Becca, who

had spent her entire childhood in the suburbs. The quietness that enveloped us as we stepped

off the train was exhilarating. We were able to find a small cabin not far from town just in time

to welcome Missy into our family.

Missy became our whole world. I could not have been more proud when I arrived home

after work one afternoon to have Becca inform me that Missy’s first word had been “Daddy.” I

invested hours reading to Missy, rocking her, and carrying her until she was old enough to walk

along with Becca and me in our hikes through the woods. Most Sunday afternoons, Becca

would pack a lunch and the three of us would traipse through the meadows to find some new

place to spread a blanket, eat lunch, and nap the afternoon away.

The meadows were where Missy and I spent hours together before I left. We would

wander into the meadow below the house, taking time to look at flowers, or to watch a hawk

as it soared high above us looking for some unsuspecting prey. We had not a care in the world

during those times.

 Missy would often run up to me and ask, “Daddy, do you know which flower is my

favorite?” Without waiting for a response she would continue, “My favorite is the dandelion.”

“Why?” I would ask.

She would then reply, “Because they must like growing here since there are so many of

them!” Why she said that, I never could figure out, but I knew that it made sense to her.

            The day I left for England was the hardest thing I have ever done.  I lingered at the

station with Becca and Missy as long as I could, trying to comfort Becca. “Don’t worry Becca,” I

whispered as I held her in my arms, “I will come home, whatever it takes, I’ll come home. I

promise you that.” As I walked toward the train, I prayed that I would be able to fulfill that

promise.

***

Those memories brought to mind the painful realization that I might not be able to keep

that promise now. I had to ask myself, What is the point of going off to war and fighting men

with whom I have no personal quarrel, all for the sake of another man’s ideals? Why me? Why

does it have to be this way? As I sat there, pondering what I now know to be some of the

questions that have plagued men from the beginning of time, I began to understand why I was

there. As much as I wanted to be home, to be close to the people and things I valued most, I

realized that I was protecting those very things. I wasn’t really fighting men, but ideals, that if

allowed to go unchecked, would wrest those most precious to me from my grasp. As I reflected

on this, the oppression I had felt from those questions and the fear that had gripped me from

the moment I set foot on that beach lifted, and I found the courage to join those around me in

defending my family and my country. I determined that I would do my duty, knowing full well

that even if I didn’t make it home, I would have given my life for those I loved.