Short Stories and Novels

Robert Jones

Words: 

       RANDOM DIARY PAGES, VERDUN 1917 

31st day: 

    Putting one’s head above ground level to spy off into the distant horizon to see a spectacular display of destructive force is foolish and feebleminded.  We do it anyway to see, know and understand what is going on with hope the war will soon end.  When artillery shells begin closing in on our position, we duck below ground level keeping our heads down until bursting shells stop.  We pay the price of our own demise if we do not, knowing the war is still with us.  

     Still living on the safe side of a newly constructed pine, burial box in wartime is the life of Dead Men Standing.  A term for men at war with little to no choice but to fight with little chance of returning home to loved ones anytime soon, if ever.

     Six-foot deep trenches wind for miles in different directions except to the Kingdom of God, heaven or the Realm of Pluto, hell.  War is the in-between, a purgatory of suffering and fighting on.  One does not need to travel far in this maze of subterranean pathways to find a companion half-alive, screaming in pain, covered in blood, wanting relief or death after an artillery barrage or a frontal attack by German soldiers on our trenches.  Many of those who do not survive such attacks are often face down at the bottom of a trench used as walkway planks to keep from wading through a foot of muck on rainy days.  

     All those still able to fight, ally or axis, want and pray for the war to end and return to mother country, home to the arms of loved ones and live what is left of their lives in peace and tranquility.  It will not happen anytime soon unless shipped home on a hospital ship missing one, maybe two, limbs, others with abdomen wounds or a traumatic head injury.  If killed in action burial will be in a foreign country, France or Germany, not home near family in England, Scotland for myself.

34th day: 

     There is no one to celebrate my coming nineteenth birthday in a crumbling trench as I stand lookout on an empty ammunition crate.  Rifle ready, chamber loaded, itchy trigger finger prepped to pull if seeing one of the enemy’s frontline scouts mistakenly putting their head above ground when scanning the horizon of war. 

     The Captain, readying to attack German lines, mumbles, "Always wet... never dry... never calm… water everywhere… wanna go home… must forget home... no peace today, no tomorrows… blood everywhere… death, every day the same… cannot remember her, only faces of dead boys never to become men.” 

     Is the Captain losing his mind? 

     With orders to attack the Germans, the Captain and all under his command, including myself, surge forth in mass over the trench rim to open ground with rifle in hand, bayonet fixed.  Leading the charge though no man’s land, an empty place where only pitted soil and rocks, a dead tree, deep bomb craters and unexploded munitions exist, he takes several hits to the torso and head.  Never making it to German trenches with heavy losses, we retreat to our own battle lines and trenches leaving the Captain’s body and many others where they fell. 

     Wounded cry out for help as Krauts patiently wait for our medical staff of medics, nurses and volunteers to come out of our trenches with litters to retrieve the wounded and recover the dead for burial.  German machine guns stationed on a long curve from left to right are ready to sweep the field with rapid crossfire if any dare try to save the wounded.  Maybe tomorrow both sides will have a ceasefire for a few hours so we can collect the wounded and dead from no-man’s land.

     Scents of cordite, mustard gas and raw sewage drift over miles of trenches and a lifeless land once covered in forest, a meadow of wildflowers, fields of different grains and orchards bearing varieties of fruit.  A place where homes and barns once stood and children played. 

     Decomposition of human flesh is the worst, a pungent perfume we live with twenty-four hours a day

     We constantly scratch at lice or comb their ready-to-hatch eggs from body hair, our bodies ripe and fragrant for infestation. 

     A spit-bath, if lucky to have a few chards of soap, is from a rain barrel with murky, looking water and a filthy rag hanging over the edge of the barrel no one wishes to use.  We use our callused hands and fingernails to briskly rub, scrub and scratch without a bar of soap, never removing one’s filthy and infested uniform completely.  In a foggy state of mind, one might use the barrel for a much-needed drink of water.    

36th day:

     There is one tree not far from our assigned battle post, its branches and stems void of life.  It is an area the Krauts once controlled but now considered a no-man’s land by both sides.  A rope still attached from one of the higher, thicker limbs is where a German deserter once hung until dead, no one remembering the exact date when the poor soul died.  Maybe 1915, others think ’16.  Frayed ends of the rope where the hangmen’s knot was once located still sway and twist in a breeze.  Many of my trench mates figured those that witnessed the hanging so long ago are long dead and buried or wounded before sent to a field hospital then shipped home.  Rare, but fair to say, “There might be one or two still fighting in the trenches who recall the horrific scene that certain day.” 

     Searching bare branches from root to tip-top of the heavily, scarred skeleton of war from bullets and bomb shrapnel, I consider what it may have looked like in early spring of ’13, a year before the war started.  Tall with a crown of green on stem and branch, blossoms if Spring; lovers’ initials carved inside a heart on bark; adolescence boys climbing from branch to a higher branch in daredevil fashion and laughter; in higher branches newly hatched birds noisily chirping to be fed. 

     At one time, it may have resembled a tree similar to the one where I last saw Mom before leaving home, Thurso.  It had a crown of white, sweet scented cherry blossoms and buds of emerald green beginning to emerge.  It is where she gave me that last mother and son embrace, tears running down her weathered face.

     “Stay safe! Come home soon,” she had whispered. 

     I still remember Mom’s warm tears on my cheeks on that last embrace as I do the morning baking aromas of bread about her.  I remember her wisdom, knowing more about life than I ever will if I survive this war and live to a ripe old age.  She grew up losing a brother, a number of cousins and uncles to England’s many foreign wars in her early childhood to adulthood working rocky, sterile land.  She married a veteran of the Anglo-Zulu war, both creating life when a young woman bringing nine babies into this world; raised and nurtured her children, all surviving to adulthood.  As well, she nursed older ones, parents, old-maid aunts and one sister, until they passed.  Now she waits for her own demise never thinking she would outlive four of her five sons, but did.  After a long embrace of love and tears, she handed me an oversized lunch made and packed that last evening before I left for the long, slow, bumpy train ride south to London before shipping to the war front in France.   

     "Share what food you have with another if they are in need on that long ride.  I love you son," she said as I boarded the train. She continued waving with tears in her eyes as the train pulled away from the station 

38th day

     It's quiet along the warfront, no artillery shells exploding or gunfire in the near to far distance.  Exhausted soldiers’ slump against trench walls, rifles loaded and locked, catching shuteye while they can, if they can.  Charles, a recent arrival to the war and new trench mate sitting just outside the trench enjoying the chilly, early morning sunshine and blue sky bundled in a trench coat and makeshift hat, struggles to write a letter to a girl he met in London. 

     “A sweet lovely from Liverpool,” he had said before crawling out of the trench to write the letter, having shared his last few days and nights with her in her London Apartment before shipping out too war. 

     Stillness ceased as artillery explosions broke the quiet of morning.  Within minutes shells begin falling like a line of dominoes, each getting a bit closer to our position as Charles continued to struggle to write the letter.  Was he trying to think of the best way to explain love, marriage, children and the want of a small farm to her? 

     I looked up hearing a high-pitched whistle above our heads.  I dropped to the bottom of the trench, curled in a fetal position, putting my head between my legs trying to kiss my ass in prayer the artillery shell would not hit near or in our trench. 

     Contact, a thundering burst just outside our trench shook trench walls, dirt and small stones crumbling downward on our shoulders and backs.  Charles did not jump to safety soon enough, bomb blast knocking him into the trench as shell shrapnel shredded his body.  Seconds, maybe minutes, passed before I recovered enough to see Charles only a few feet away covered in dirt and blood.  Shaking debris off, I moved toward him to help, only to realize he was bleeding-out from multiple body and head wounds with little survival time left.  Lifting him into my lap, I cradled him close as I have others in their last moments of life.  I wanted him to hear the voice of another who cared, not wishing him to die alone as so many have before him.  He knew, as I, he would not make it to a field hospital for attention to his wounds, pleading with me, "Promise me you will finish my letter and post it to my girl.  Tell my Mom and Dad, I...” 

     Never finishing his last words, Charlie died in my arms, drowning and choking on his own fluids while leaving much of his liquid essence of life on my uniform, my hands, my face and emotional stains on my soul wishing I could have done more for him.  His scarlet colored blood seeps into the soil, mixing with that of the many before him, turning it a deep brown.  He, as have other trench mates, will forever live embedded in memory as a newfound friend and brother of battle long after this war is over and for what remains of my life if I make it home.   

     Charles’ tattered letter remains unfinished with no address still in his hand.  I carefully remove it, putting it in my pocket.  I will rewrite it later telling her how he talked of her constantly.  Of wanting to marry, have children and raise animals on a small farm with her.  What I will not do is send the letter, as is, with blackened blood spatter on it with an unfinished sentence reading, “Maria, my sweet love, I miss…”  Nor will I tell her how he died. 

     With no address to send it to, I will ask our new commanding officer for it and one for his parents, hoping he finds the needed addresses when cleaning out Charles personal belongings or in his personnel file to give me copies.  I promised Charles what I may not be able to do if what happened to him happens to me. I hope my death will be quicker, not a lingering one as his. 

     An odd thought about that letter to Charles’ girl, “Maybe she will answer back becoming my  pen pal if I add my name and address where to reach me.”

     Our Sergeant looks down at Charles’ body lying on a heavily stained stretcher before bowing his head.  Closing his eyes with hands clasped at his waist, as a few others and I do, to give his own version of a prayer rather than the biblical Twenty-third Psalm.

     "This field is our cemetery. The trench our grave, not our home or country of birth.  Mud is our coffin, no burial box of pine or dressed in a new uniform with medals earned for the return home to family.  Darkness by the light of day, our souls blackened by war, our spirit of feeling and mind blacker fighting another man’s war.  God's tears will fall on Charlie this day.  His time is now.  Ours tonight, maybe tomorrow.  God bless Charles for the good fight.”

40th day:

     Artillery shells continue raining down on us. When one lands, it makes a larger crater from an older, smaller one.  Soil telescopes dirt, stone and fragments of previous shells upward before cascading down.  It will shake the ground violently, collapsing trench walls, reminding us where we are, wish not to be.  It reminds us whom we are at war with and that our days of demise are near, be it today, tomorrow or the next.  It tells us we may never be able to return home.  Unexploded artillery shells and bombs bury deep in the constantly churned soil to explode a day, week or months later.  Some say years, maybe decades.

     German soldiers dig long, narrow tunnels under our trenches to where they think we might be located before planting explosives.  Explosives stacked, primed and lit, they scurry on all fours like a line of rats to safety through a maze of tunnels hoping the fuse in not too short.  They hope to get to safety before the munitions detonate collapsing tunnels, permanently burying them.  We get no warning of a detonation under our trenches, followed with a sudden upward explosion then a downward collapse, burying many standing over it at the time.  What they do this day, we will do tomorrow or the next to them.  

42rd day:

     Sitting at the bottom of the trench, back against the side of its dirt wall, rifle resting against my shoulder, I pull out dad’s silver, pocket watch checking the time.  By the flash of the nearest explosion it reads11:43 PM.  Turning it over then opening the back lid of the watch, multiple explosions lighting the night, I see granddad’s last name engraved.  Upon granddad’s death grandma passed it down to his first son, my dad.  Dad had it cleaned, oiled and balanced intending to pass it to his firstborn son, my oldest brother, Arnold, upon his own deathbed.  Hope and prayer are fine but dad knew four of his five sons weren't coming home from a series of foreign wars.  All listed as battle fatalities.  

     Father gave his father’s watch to his last son, myself, before I left for war.  Will I be the fifth and last son not to return home having died for King and Queen and British Empire?  If so, there will be no pocket watch to pass on knowing dad would not want it back if I do not return from the war.  If I am a causality of war, someone, enemy or not, will claim the watch from the field of battle as their own to pass on to their son if they make it home.  That is okay, giving the watch life once again.     

     Before I left for war, I remember mother had different thoughts when praying and weeping to her savior for her four boys to return home to the farm, marry and give her many grandchildren.  Other times, fraught with grief, she prayed she would soon join them in paradise. 

     By the grace of God, I will return home and furnish mom and dad with a gaggle of grandchildren and nephews and nieces for my sisters.  It will be a time when I can give my first son my father’s Christian name and the watch I carried in battle.  My first daughter will get my mother’s name, Margaret.  Other children named after now deceased brothers and living sisters. 

45th day:

     Pulling dad’s tarnished, pocket watch from my coat pocket to wind and check the time. It reads 6:12 AM.  

     Enemy shelling begins exploding in front, within and behind our trenches.  Aim is indiscriminate.  Explosion after explosion fills the air with shrapnel, dirt, stone, shards of bone, droplets of blood and viscera.  Screams for help come from every direction as wounded cry out for help and the dead next to them forever silent.

     Our artillery chatters back in response, no doubt the enemy feeling the same emotions and loss of life we felt after they laid down that last pattern of artillery on us.  If hit with shrapnel, death can be slow and lingering without family and loved ones.  It is when last words to a mom or wife go unheard.  It can be an unanswered prayer to a God who does not seem to care. 

     Sudden death is preferred because it leaves no pain, lingering thoughts or last words. 

     Artillery barrages stop on both sides.  Minutes pass as the air clears of explosive residuals and fine particulates of dirt and cordite.  Bugles blow and drums roll to instill fear in the enemy, us, giving courage to their own to attack.  Howling, shrieking, screaming chants of victory as large numbers of Kraut soldiers scramble over the crest of their trenches with loaded rifle, bayonets fixed, firing at our lines of defense with no pacific targets. 

     Our officers scream, “Stop their charge!” 

     “Lay down a line of fire!” voices echo along the trench. 

     We fire back at their charging torsos, holding our line of defense best we can, while we can, wounding and killing many of theirs.  They breach our lines of defense, flowing like water into our trenches for close quarter fighting with bullet, bayonet, knife and fist.  Words of anger, hate, fear, courage and revenge fly in close quarter fighting, killing the objective from the invader or defender.  Each sees brothers of war take a bullet or bayonet blade from an enemy combatant.  We bleed.  They bleed.  They cry out from wounds as we do.  They scream victory, we yell in anger trying to drive them from our trenches.  Dead, theirs and ours, fall to bottom of the trench.  Do we retreat?  No.  We hold our line of defense because we must with no place to retreat.  The fight lasts for the longest time -- in reality only a short period -- before we drive them from our trenches, both sides suffering heavy losses. 

     Orders go down our trench lines, “Prepare for the next attack.”

     German commanders again order artillery shelling of our trenches to soften our will to fight and resist their next attack as their soldiers regroup for the next charge across open ground with what reserves they can muster.  We ready our defense lines without reserves.  As soon as shelling stops their charge begins with bugling and drums rolls mixed with screams of victory as soldiers scramble over the tops of their trenches, running across open ground firing their rifles indiscriminately.  We are ready with the able bodied and wounded firing at the charging lines of Germans.  Loses are heavy for the Germans with the second charge, never breaching our lines and trenches, retreating to their own. 

     Last words of dying men, enemy or ours, lying out in no-man’s land or at the bottom of the trench know they are going to die alone, begin calling out one common phrase in two and more languages, “I love you Mom.”  

     Others, “I don’t want to die.”

     “I can’t breathe,” yet others.   

     Yet another, no doubt thankful to be alive and a short distance from where I stand with a New Testament bible in hand muttering words to Amazing Grace, “Amazing grace! How sweet the sound…”

     The Krauts do as we do in combat, deliberately kill one of our own, a hated coward or a gung-ho, senior officer.  Death will be a bullet in the back when charging to our certain deaths from an incompetent order to attack over open ground; in the trench on a dark night, the killing instrument will be a knife between the ribs or across the throat.  It is becoming an increasing event the longer a war lasts. 

     Worse is when an officer will do most anything to win a skirmish or battle for recognition and glory, an upgrade in rank and a metal for courage and leadership they do not deserve. 

46th day:

     Under that blossoming cherry tree back home, mom gave me that last hug and oversized lunch bag to share with others on the train ride to London.  My father gave me, his grandfather’s pocket watch.  My sisters and two brothers’ wives hugged and cried for me to return home.  They knew, as I, I might not return from this war.  Each sister gave me something personal to remember her by, reminding me what an inquisitive pest and spoiled brat I had been being the lastborn. Sisters: Mary cried; Ruth said, "I love you, write every week until you come home”; Verna hugged me close, saying, "I going to miss that devilish, wonderful way about you”; Anna a long hug, her tears wetting my cheek. There are no brothers – Arnold, Woodrow, Michael nor Miles -- to wish me luck or say, “Return home safe.”

     Christina, my girl, having come all the way from Lyness by ferry, embraced me close, letting me feel her passion, her love, curves of her body, saying, "Return my love. I’ll write you often." 

     I love them.  I miss them.  I think of them often. 

     What each Kraut goes through so do Scottish and English brothers of war: last goodbyes, hugs from family, constant thoughts of home, hope the war will soon end, prayers for life and to return home safe without injury, hope of not dying alone and reminders of brothers and cousins lost to earlier years of the war.

47th day:

     A number of early morning stars and planets still twinkle at first light, Jupiter, Mars sometimes Venus and Saturn.  

     I turned nineteen this morning with no parents, sibling sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins or girlfriend to share a chocolate cake and pint of ale with under that certain garden tree back home.  There will be no singing or hearing the words “Happy Birthday.”  Or brothers to give me sarcasm for being the runt of the family with a brisk knuckle, scalp rub for good luck. 

     Two older brothers are buried near Cape Town (Anglo-Boer War); another Calcutta, India; a forth, two years older and closest to my age was fighting the same war I fight.  He is presumed dead. 

     Village mates, basic training mates, shipmates and trench mates I started this war with are no longer here to wish me a happy birthday. 

     Those to my right or left that survive this day are brothers of spirit, battle and country.  They may not survive tomorrow or the next day.  Each knows they will be buried in a common grave in France if becoming one of those lifeless bodies strewn across a battlefield, uniform the only distinguishing factor whether British, French or German.  Mass graves for those killed on the battlefield will be location noted by our Graves Section for individual burial after the war.  Majority of those left at the bottom of a trench collapse or a bomb crater may never be located. For a number of bodies left on the battle field it might be years, possibly decades before a farmer unearths a set of bones with identity tags still attached or laying nearby.   

     Death, so near, a moment, an hour, a day or a week away, I see it, hear it and feel it coming my way when someone next to me takes a hit.  He falls to the ground, never to rise.  I am still standing, making me A DEAD MAN WALKING.  My day of revelation will reveal itself soon or not at all.  If not, I will be able to return home without injury with memories from battle, names and faces of brothers and friends to live with the rest of my life.  

48th day:

     Artillery fire and troop charges on both sides have ceased for the moment.

     I cannot see the time on my dad's watch with no white flashes of light against blackness of night, cloud cover hiding the moon and starlight.  I dare not light a match to read the dial knowing an enemy sniper might locate me from higher ground and put me to rest sooner than I wish. 

     Our trenches, as are German trenches, are crowded with the bleeding, the screamers, the shell-shocked and dead from the last charge.   Enemy wounded left behind from a failed attack are often shot or bayoneted on the spot in anger and revenge.  A few make it to an aid station for medical attention because of a compassionate medic or an unknown soldier. 

     Wetness of another’s essence, theirs or ours, is everywhere. It is in the soil, on our weapons, uniforms, hands, face and forever our conscious souls and memories.  Long after the war is over, soil I touch, walk on and in, fight over and rest on when weary and exhausted will bloom once again in a variety of grains, vegetables, colorful flowers, green grass while supporting animals, birds and insects long after the war is over.   What it will not do is bring back the life and short-term friendships lost.  

     There is no safe place on this battlefront of bomb craters and trenches.  I have no one left to trust. Are family, a love, children and flower blossoms real anymore?

50th day:

     I am the only one left alive in my original company shipped from England to the warfront in ’17. 

     Wave after wave of Krauts and men like myself, come out of their trenches, through bombed-out craters and open fields strung with barbed wire -- a place our sergeant calls “A barren wasteland” -- into our trenches.  We will go into their trenches a day later to see their tired faces, bloodshot eyes, bloodied faces, undernourished bodies as they see ours while trying to kill, often succeeding, one another.  One factor remains, they will kill me as I would them if given the chance.  

     A day of heavy rain softens trench walls before sliding to the bottom of the trench, walkway corpses disappearing in knee-deep muck at the bottom of the trench. 

52nd day:

     Taking dad’s watch out with flashes of white against black skies followed with explosive thunder throughout the night reads 7: 16 AM. 

     Will I make it through this day? 

Robert Jones

Words: 2600

            Dickens’s London, Chimney Sweeps 1851

     Buttoned from waist to neck, my ill-fitting coat has a length of ash-darkened cloth encircling my neck with a single knot in place to keep out the chill of this night.  End lengths of rope and rag knotted together hold my breeches up; small tears need sewing; knee patches replaced; fraying leg bottoms trimmed.  I recently took without payment a new pair of lace up shoes from behind a cobblers shop with no one in sight.  Sizes too large, rags for socks, I cinch tight to fit. 

     Shivering of winter in my bones, I begin making my way to where I will be dry and warm this night.  Clouds cast over the moon, a long line of street lamps of gas in need of repair offer no light, nor does candle or oil lamp from home or business to guide my way this late at night.  Pitch-black night, vision not so great, I reach out to find a wall of brick and indent lines of hardened grout.  Forefinger on indent of grout covered in layers of soot and grit becomes my guide until two corners meet.  Left turn on the same trail of grout, I continue until finding where I turn once again.  Finding gas lamps alight, I no longer need a fingertip to guide my way this night.  

     Rivulets of water continue to flow between roadway cobblestones long after drizzling rain has stopped.  Pooling where many stones have gone missing over time, I bend scarred and painful knees and ankles to rest on stone.  Cupping palms, scooping up water, wringing hands of grit and grime then rinse residuals away, I gather water again.  Briskly rubbing over my face and swollen eyes for a cooling effect, I repeat several more times.  Rising to stand on aching knees and ankles, I begin my journey once again to where I will sleep this night. 

     Food this night, found in marketplace trash, is a handful of small, scabby apples, half a turnip, peeled potato skins and an onion with soft brown spots needing trimmed-out.  There will be no pot of water or greased skillet sitting over a hot bed of pulsing embers to boil or fry tender what I found at market place site.  A cup of hot, watery tea will have to wait.  Rainwater barrel of oak where I rest this night will do for washing down what I eat raw this night. 

     I eat better now free of master and wife, having grown too tall, wide and old by age nine.  Even though all is raw and hard to chew than when sweeping chimneys for master and wife after purchase at age four.  Working for master and wife as brothers of tar, soot and ash still do, we shared a pot of brown, foul smelling gruel with few vegetables and no meat, served with chunks of bread with spots of green.  Drinking water, murky and bitter to taste was from rain barrels next to Master and wife’s dwelling where I once lived. 

     Clothes chimney sweep brothers and I wore for weeks at a time were hand-me-downs master’s wife collected from local Church Parishes.  Before giving to us, she sold the best to marketplace hawkers and traveling peddlers on the road.  What she could not sell at marketplace or to peddlers, she offered to workshops for rags at a lower price.  What marketplace buyers, peddlers and workshops refused to buy, thread thin in need of repair, master’s wife gave us to wear until foul with soot, ash and lice. 

     Clothing needing no repair that once belonged to children of the houses we chimney scraped and swept, we never saw.  What was meant for us to wear, Master’s wife accepted at the backdoor from the Charwoman of the house.  She decided what to charge for each before taking all to marketplace to sell.  What marketplace buyers, traveling peddlers and workshops would not buy, she gave to relatives without charge.  All profits from sales were hers to keep, not a halfpenny or farthing for us to share for what have should have been ours to wear. 

     Thrashing of a child from master after spending what we earned, from chimneys swept, on too many glasses of ale can be brutal and severe.  Something master’s wife is capable of in the same state of mind.  Rare that it is, a child may not survive the night, body dumped in Regents Canal before dawn.

     A bath for sweepers of soot and ash when owned by master and wife, never given soap, bristle brush or a rag to wash, we used palm, fingers and finger nails to scrub and scratch at black soot, ash and lice.  Water to wash and rinse was icy and cloudy in an old copper bowl on an open air, backdoor porch, given only rags to dry.  Cold wintery days of fog, rain and wind, we shivered from start to finish.  Now free from master and wife, I use shards of soap, a bristle brush of stubble and rags found in marketplace trash to wash with rain barrel water behind marketplace site, then dry. 

     Thoughts are never far away in mind and soul of purchase at age four by master and wife, living and working with brothers of tar, soot and ash until age nine.  Food we ate.  Clothes we wore.  Beatings we got. 

     I walk the short distance alone down an alley to an abandoned shack without door or window of glass to spend the night.   Roof intact, ground dusty but dry where I sleep alone this night is better than master and wife’s windowless basement of darkness, damp walls, dirt and stone with a short candle never lasting the night.  Basement floor where brothers of soot and ash and I slept on long, cold wintery nights, we huddled dressed in thread bare clothes of filth using empty soot sacks for warmth.

     Soot sacks for warmth at night, we filled by day with what we chipped, scrapped and swept, master and wife sold to farmers for a fee.  Sacks of soot and ash emptied on fields of crops then returned to be filled time and again.  Master and wife keeping fees for what we chipped, scraped and swept.  

     Before rest this night, I will eat raw what I found in marketplace trash.  A scabby crabapple, skins of potatoes and an onion, rotting brown spots carved out.  Chewed raw, all will be washed down with rain barrel water next to the shack where I sleep this night.  Leftovers wrapped in a rag until morning light.  Other times, hunger still in my belly there is nothing to cook, finish or wrap. 

     Stepping up on a wooden box, removing stolen bedding of two quilts master’s wife placed on an outdoor line for beating with wooden cane, ridding of dust and grit will do just fine.  Shaking each of spiders, beetles, droppings of rats and mice, includes rafter grime.  One quilt spread over fresh hay taken without consent from a nearby Carriage House; second, too cover a prince of the streets for warmth.  It is better than master and wife’s cold basement of darkness, damp walls, dirt and stone floor, and soot sacks for warmth. 

     Remnants of candle found on an open windowsill behind a merchant’s store I took with no one in sight.  Placing candle on a thin sheet of hammered copper ready to light.  Striking flint on iron under a scrap of paper from market trash gives spark to flame.  Flame on paper to candle wick will flare to light.  Candle flame burns bright with a touch of warmth.  Shadows of flame flicker dance on red brick walls gives a hint that tomorrow will be better than yesterday and days before that. 

     At rest with candle for light, I will not waste what candle is left.  Snuffing flame with a bit of spit between forefinger and thumb.  Hearing a hiss to flame, what remains of candle is for another night.  Not every night will there be candle light.  I must find another candle to take with no one in sight.  

     Nor will there always be a flame where I rest, boil water or heat a skillet of grease to fry every night.  When there is, I will light where I rest and cook what I find until tender, flavored with a nip of salt and pepper found in marketplace trash.  If fortunate with a plea to marketplace customers, a coin dropped in hand, I will purchase a pouch of hot tea on a very cold night.  

     Body at rest on a layer of dry straw covered with quilt, second for warmth, I look with limited vision through a windowless opening on a wall of red brick.  Clouds dispersed give way to blurs of glimmering stars.  Waking thoughts come and go of days past when in pain from first light to setting sun, climbing bottom to top of chimney flues to chip, scrap and sweep soot and ash to fill another soot sack.  If a sweeper resists an order to climb, master or wife will hold a flame to the soles of their bare feet.  Same flame can set chimney tar simmering.  Tar simmering hot, breathing black soot and ash, chimney to narrow to wiggle and squeeze through twisting turns with jagged corners that scrape, cut and cripple leaves a child in pain.

     Screams and pleas for life soon follow if not rescued from chimney flue when deposits of tar flare to flame.  Trapped child struggling, clawing at brick, gasping for air, screaming to be set free will blister, burn and suffocate on soot and ash alight in flame.  A grave in a potter’s field for a child of char and ash, age four to nine, will go without a wooden cross marking their name, year of birth and  death.  Nor will there be an eulogy or prayer read for the death of the child by clergy or master and wife.  If not an unmarked grave in a potter’s field of dirt and stone near the River Thames, there will be a splash, swift river currents carrying forgotten child far out to sea. 

     I must remember when master or wife held flame to soles of our feet to climb, chip, scrap and sweep to fill a soot sack.  I must remember brother sweeps stuck in chimney aflame screaming in pain to be set free.  I must remember those who breathed fine ash from chimney flue, child coughing up sputum of blackened ash colored blood until death.  I must remember those by name and age who died in chimney flues of flame. 

     Those fortunate few freed from the chimney alive are covered head to toe in burns, soot and ash.  Blind, scarred and lame for life, not able to sweep or earn a quid a day, master and wife will turnout child to the streets before age nine.  Fine ash from chimney flue leaves child coughing up sputum of blackened ash colored blood until death. 

     Common sight at marketplace sites from first light to setting sun are chimney sweeps leaning on homemade crutches of wooden branch.  Each crippled for life with a deformed ankle, a shattered knee, a twisted spine, missing hand to elbow or toes to knee.  Vision blurred or completely blind and covered in burn scars before age nine will be begging for alms to survive each day complete.  Nights spent wrapped in rags sleeping in recessed doorways, abandoned buildings, horse stalls, under bridges and coal bins.  Warm summer nights are in an open air square on dirt and cobblestones. 

     Years of working for master and wife, age four to nine, has left me with burn scars from my ankles to knees, breathing difficult and partially blind.  Without a doctor’s care, nourishment of food or coin in hand, not able to work another day,  I must search market trash or beg for coin and food at marketplace site to survive one more day. 

     If not able to plead for coin or bite of food, no one to take us in, we must steal to survive.  If caught stealing a slice of bread, apple or carrot to ease hunger, beatings and broken bones from patrolling Bobbies’ happen.  Placed in a cell with thieves, murders and prostitutes, Lord Justice of the court will issue sentences seven to fifteen years on a prison ship anchored on River Thames.  Infestations of rats, roaches and lice soon follow.  Hunger, beatings, disease and sexual abuse, life is short.  If not surviving prison term complete, burial is on Dead Man’s Island in Kent.    

     I stole master and wife’s tool sacks for chimney sweeping shortly after set free.  Tools of a chimney sweeps’ trade are metal scrapes, spiral screws and steel rods to chip and scrape at hardened tar.  Boar bristle brush to loosen clumps of soot and ash.  Brooms of field straw, horse or badger hair for sweeping up leavings of soot and ash to place in soot sacks.  Rags for cleaning soot blackened tools.  I will rise before dawn, walk to the river thick in human waste, horse manure and hay.  Stolen sacks of tools and rags will drop to the river off a dock near Putney Bridge. 

     Putney Bridge hours away, I undo the knot of soot and ash-blackened cloth rag holding coat collar closed.  Setting it aside, taking a deep breath of London’s noxious night air, I wrap myself in the second quilt from toe to nose for warmth on cushioned quilt and straw.  Pulling chimney cap over swollen eyes before resting head on rags.  Eyes closed, nightmares visions begin.  Stuck in a narrow bend of a chimney gasping for a breath of air, clawing at stone, struggling to shimmy down or climb up.  Not able to find freedom in searing flame, I panic with a gasp, short of breath.  Knowing death is near from fire and flame, I scream to waken myself struggling for air.

Working two short rhythmic (hopefully) stories of children in the 1800s and early 1900s working coalmines and textile mills.

Robert Jones

Words: 5100

                  Last Emotions, 1941-43

     Gusts of ocean air burst across rusting ship decks, scaling corroded steel walls and staircases.   Hinges creak and groan on steel doors slightly ajar as wind whistles through narrow passageways. 

     Swirling eddies of heavy salt air twist upward encircling the smokestack, mixing with hot particles of burnt bunker oil before trailing behind the ship. 

     “Will we make this ocean crossing without incident?”  Sergeant Webb silently asked himself, keeping his balance with one hand on deck railing while taking short steps forward then back to keep from falling overboard as the ship continued rising and falling with each rolling ocean swell. 

     Closing his eyes letting cold, salt air stream across his face, he mumbled, “Late at night, if I jump to the Ocean deep, my soul is the Lord’s to keep.”

     “Sarge, got a smoke?” Webb heard behind him, recognizing Private Emerson’s raspy voice.

     Reaching in his shirt pocket, pulling out an open pack of Pall Malls, handing it to Emerson, he said, “Keep the pack,” letting further words to his poetic, suicidal thoughts escape his mind. 

     "Got a match?" Emerson asked, thinking how lucky he was to have such a fair and honest, no nonsense leader.  He trusted the Sergeant with his life. 

     "Inside the pack," Webb answered, wishing he had purchased a couple more cartons of cigarettes from a small delicatessen next door to the Port of New York. 

     Lighting the cigarette, Webb taking a deep draw, holding it in his lungs before exhaling, helped frayed nerves before exhaling.  As well, he wished he had gotten another two bottles of illegal whisky at the same time before shipping out to England days earlier, in ’43.  Strong drink helped him sleep a few hours when below deck.  

     “Breeze feels good,” Emerson said.  

     “It’s why I come up here when I can.” 

      “Know the feeling,” Emersion agreed. 

      When below deck, three-tier bunks attached to cold, steel walls with little space between each canvas hammock makes it hard to sleep more than a few hours with a constant variety of interruptions.  With six to eight men sleeping, smoking, playing cards, drinking or reading in close, overly warm quarters the rancid stink of humans intensifies when at sea for more than a week.  Other irritants are heavy breathers and snorers and constant twisting and turning from uncomfortable sleeping positions.  Smokers, underarm odors, stink from crotch and feet or cutting gas from lousy ship food, too.  Worse is the stench of urine coming from the latrine next door or the putrid smell of vomit from seasickness.  

     Unnerving is when waking to a rat traipsing lightly across a bare chest looking for a morsel of food or one of the black devils licking your sweaty skin for the salt.   

     Mess hall cooking and eating the foul slop aboard ship only makes matters worse when finding a roach belly-up on one’s meal serving, swimming in your coffee or skittering across a dining surface when readying to sit down to eat.  Disturbing and creepy is when a roach drops an egg sack holding 30 to 40 of its kind behind a grouping of condiment containers holding salt, pepper, tomato catch-up and mustard. On rare occasions, one might see tiny newborn dots from the egg sack begin spreading out in different directions.  A slap of a hand, newspaper or book usually takes care of the problem.    

     "I prefer fresh air,” Webb added.

     “How many ships in the convoy?” Emerson asked, seeing ships on the horizon in all directions under a full moon. 

     “Forty, fifty, maybe more,” Webb guessed, seeing a large number of ribbons of black smoke trailing behind each ship for as far as the eye could see in any direction. 

     Sight of the so many ships let Webb mumble a few lines of a longer poem he had begun manipulating in his mind to escape long hours of boredom and monotony that comes with long-term, shipboard confinement.

     A battle-line of ships 

     Under a midnight moon

     Each trails a line of ribbon black 

     In a soon to be blacker night 

     Once our only light of night sets”

     “Our unit headed ta England?” Emerson asked, ignoring what he did not understand of the Sergeant’s quirky verse on darkness and ships in the night under a full moon.  Thinking the Sarge’s poetry a bit bizarre and weird, he slipped a cigarette between his lips. 

     “We’ll be there at the end of the week,” Webb added. 

      “Can’t wait ta fight the Germans,” Emerson said as he widened his feet for stability after turning his back to the wind, cupping both hands as a windbreak to strike a match. Cocksure of himself, he felt the war would be a short and glorious victory for America and he would get a hero’s welcome parade upon returning home.  If lucky, he might get a kiss and hug, perhaps more, from his high school sweetheart. 

     Webb watched the naïve young man’s match flame out trying several more cupped, hand strikes before tobacco flared.  Inhaling, filling his lungs, Emerson enjoyed the nicotine sensation it gave before exhaling.  Webb figured Emerson being only nineteen years old and fresh off the family farm had an attitude of daredevil immortality as many young men often do.  Just as he did shortly after graduation from high school and boot camp in late 1940.

     “Don’t get too anxious or we’ll bury you sooner than later,” Webb said, looking seaward. 

      There was a sudden flash of white followed by thundering explosions.  Fire lit the night a short distance from their ship as Webb tightened his grip on deck railing to steady himself from the sudden, violent blast.  

     Emerson took several quick balancing steps forward then back as his cigarette slipped from between his lips, falling to the deck with a slight bounce.  Simmering embers of red scattered from the partially smoked cigarette before rolling over the edge of the ship to the sea below.  One internal explosion after another from the torpedoed vessel continued pulsing at the air around them, flame-reaching high into the night.  

     The torpedoed ship, rising and plunging with rolling seas, simultaneous explosions going off, Emerson stumbled backwards.  Letting go of the railing as their ship swayed from the close explosion, he fought for balance by reaching out for Webb’s shoulder.  Finding it.  Gripping it. Webb wrapped his arm around Emerson’s back as his other hand tightened on the handrail, giving the extra support and balance that he and Emerson needed to keep from falling overboard.  The open pack of Pall Malls fell from his hand. 

     Emerson, after regaining his grip on the railing and steadying his balance, Webb released his arm from Emerson’s back then looked seaward as their ship passed the burning transport when a second torpedo hit it.  Detonating, the ship rose slightly off the ocean surface for split seconds, metal flying in every direction.  Flame erupted upward as the ship settled back into the sea, its backbone structure bent at an odd angle leaving the ship with a visible twist to it.  Seawater begin rushing over its broken decks as warning systems – “ahooga, ahooga” – begin sounding off with background clangs of ship’s bells ringing and echoing across an endless horizon of water for all ships to hear.  Warning crewmembers and soldiers of the many ships to beware of what lurked under surface waters. Men topside of the burning ship leaped for their lives, their bodies covered head to toe in bunker oil and flame.  Each torso illuminated the night as a torch might when falling to a watery surface, extinguishing flames as icy seawater cooled their hot charred bodies. 

     Webb and Emerson could only watch, listen and do nothing.  The heavily damaged vessel hissed, popped and steamed from cold ocean water rushing in, splashing, over hot boilers and engines. 

     Stomach tight, heart beating fast, Webb’s lean body trembled, knowing what could and probably would happen to a number of the ships in the convey if the torpedoes kept coming through the night under a full moon. 

     "Goddamn’em!  Again, the night is theirs," Webb whispered of German submarine crews.  He knew the outcome for young men like Emerson under his command if a torpedo slammed into the hull of their ship. 

     “What?” Emerson asked. 

     “Expect more of the same before the night’s over.  There’s an unknown number of submarines waiting to extract a heavy toll on our convey before dawn,” Webb said, remembering what happened to previous North Atlantic convoys of ships sailing to England or Scotland from the United States.  

     Emerson searched black waters under a full moon for survivors, hearing painful pleas fading to whispers.  Then silence as distance grew between their ship and floating survivors.

     Internal detonations splintered what remained of the stern of the torpedoed ship’s hull as it begin taking on water.  What few lights remained on the heavily damaged ship began flickering before dimming to faint sparkles of luminance the deeper it sank.  Charges flashed and thumped, boiling upward before bursting on surface waters as the ship rapidly begin sinking.    Darkness of the ocean’s depth swallowed the ship complete.  One heavily damaged lifeboat floated upright as a small number of survivors swam for it through burning oil slicks.  A second ship assigned to their section of the convoy exploded, losing part of its stern, going up in a flash of white thunder and flame.     

     Webb knew from experience the words a number of surviving crew and young soldiers would soon be crying out, knowing they were on the doorstep of death with little or no chance of rescue from frigid waters. 

     "They're last words from young men I don’t want to hear.  Lord, please… please don’t let this happen to my men this night,” Webb whispered to himself not wishing to hear last words of dying men. 

     Master Mike, ship’s mascot and Captain’s constant companion, scampered aboard a secured lifeboat not far from where Emerson and Sergeant Webb stood.  The scrawny, scraggly haired terrier commenced yapping, giving German U-boat commanders a piece of its mind for so much noise and putting his master’s life in danger on its watch. 

     “Don’t you hear’em calling out!” Emerson said of the voices pleading to be saved in the dark waters.  

     "There’s nothing we can do,” Webb answered back. 

     “We’re leaving’em behind!  They’re pleading for us to come back and save’em!” Emerson raised his voice as their ship distanced itself from those needing rescued from freezing North Atlantic Ocean waters. 

     “We can’t!  It’s what the Krauts want,” Webb said, knowing they dare not slowdown, turnaround or stop for survivors.  “Captain needs to begin defensive maneuvers to save lives.”

     “They’re pleading to be saved! We have… ”

     “Goddammit!  Shut up and pray if that’s what you do!” Webb barked, having little patience with Emerson’s whiny ways recalling last words of drowning buddies off North Africa a year earlier, in ‘42.  The same last words being spoken at that moment from survivors floating in cold, dark waters not far from their ship.  Words Emerson and a number of those under his command might be crying out before this night became day if their ship was torpedoed. 

     "But Sarge, I…"

     “Have a smoke,” Webb said, handing Emerson the slightly wet pack of cigarettes after retrieving it from the ship’s deck.  “Sorry for yelling at you.”

     “I don’t understand!” 

     “Cry for’em. Pray for’em.  Don’t die with’em. Listen and learn from the mistakes of old men who have seen battle,” Webb said.  

     “But...”

     “A few ships will return shortly to pickup survivors when it’s not so dangerous,” Webb lied to ease Emerson’s mind, knowing circumstances often dictated otherwise. 

     Webb knew survival would be slim to none through the night for survivors in icy North Atlantic waters from scalding burns, bleeding out and drowning if any more convey ships were targeted.  From his own experience off North Africa, Webb understood the thinking of German Submarine Captains and exactly why they sank as many transports as possible.  First, it destroyed needed supplies for the war; second, it eliminated manpower to fight the war; third, it increased those needing rescued.  Rescue could mean a loaded transport might return to save crew and soldiers of a torpedoed ship, giving a submarine captain and crew the chance to rid of another ship carrying yet more needed supplies and troops for the war. 

     Emerson begin discarding wet cigarettes overboard one at a time, looking for a dry one to smoke and calm anxieties of seeing ships near and far being torpedoed and sinking, leaving struggling survivors behind.  He feared the same could happen to the vary ship he sailed on this night. Finding a dry cigarette, lighting it, he heard destroyer sirens screech and bleep warnings along the horizon of what silently lurked and prowled beneath the convoy of ships. 

     Standing next to Emerson, Webb recalled those faint cry-outs for help from young men who died close to a year earlier, in ’42, when left behind after their troopship had sunk off North Africa from a German Wolf pack of submarines.  Their pleas for rescue, for life, would be similar to those under his command and care this night if they took a torpedo hit before first light.  The young men then and those he sailed with this night were both fresh from a mom’s nurturing apron strings

     The words his men might be whispering or screaming this night after taking a hit with a torpedo would be the same heart wrenching words his father had heard on World War I battlefields in France from young soldiers. 

     Webb whispered to himself what his dad had told him of his own battlefield experiences in World War I.  “It's a death-song sung to moms for as long as man has gone to war and wasted the talents of youth.  Those few words will ring forever in your mind when you first hear a man-child's last dying words.  On your last breath of life, you’ll cry'em too.  I did more than once myself at Somme in ‘17.  If you hear those same words from comrades in arms and they die in your arms, so does apart of you.”

     A year earlier, in '42, on a convoy of supply ships and troop transports heading for French Morocco, North Africa, to fight Vichy French, the troopship Webb (then a Corporal) had shipped out on had taken a torpedo hit mid-ship. Sinking in minutes it had left those few alive floating in mid-Atlantic Ocean waters crying out their last emotions; heart rendering words each mom feels in heart, soul and mind thousands of miles away as her man-child takes his last breath of life.  Webb had called out those very same words as his dad had in Battle of the Somme when there seemed no hope or ships in sight floating in frigid waters off North Africa.  By dawn, Webb floated on a consortium of wood crudely lashed together using bits of rope, wire and clothing. 

     Rescued two days later by a British destroyer off North Africa, the US Army had shipped Corporal Webb, including a small number of other ship survivors, back to America for medical care in ‘42.  Only upon arrival back in the States did Webb receive notice of his mom’s death. After weeks of recovery and rehabilitation on base, constantly thinking of his mothers passing with tears and a broken heart, Webb received a promotion to Sergeant from Corporal.  Shortly after the promotion, he submitted a request to return to combat duty.  Within a month of release from a doctor’s care, he received orders to ship out on the next convoy to England.  The very ship he sailed on this night in '43  

     “Last words spoken by so many young men should have been a lesson to the world long ago.  Mothers cry and plead with politicians and wealthy entrepreneurs for wars to cease and treaties signed," Sergeant Webb said, seeing Emerson give him that peculiar look. 

     A destroyer passing off their starboard, rising and plunging in rhythm with each ocean swell breaking over the destroyer’s bow, washing over decks, sirens blaring, its crew began blasting depth-charge drums off its starboard and stern.  Each charge soared high before arching and falling back to the ocean surface, sinking to a predestined depth before exploding in a loud thump.  A rising plume of ocean water climbed skyward, pausing before returning from whence it came, leaving behind a thread thin line bending slightly for a moment under a full moon. Drizzling droplets of mist shimmered reflections of moonlight falling back to the sea.

     Depth charges thumping one after the other, mayhem everywhere, impossible to ignore the night’s action, Webb closed his eyes to reflect back to better times.  A favorite memory of a short distance outside Whitefish (Montana) came to mind.  At seven years old, he and his mom had hiked a short distance on a warm mid-June night under moonlight to a secluded waterfall near their mountain home.  Sitting on a blanket next to the waterfall both watched and listened to late spring snowmelt tumble and roar over a steep cliff as she pointed to the moon high above the crest of the waterfall.  

     "Look at the misting vapor rise.  See how it swirls and rolls, tumbles, rising again against a chalky white moon as a line appears.  See how it bends, arching over the waterfall under a full moon,” she had whispered in his ear, tickling it as she held him close on her lap in that moment of magic as only a mother can do.  

     “It’s a midnight rainbow under a full moon.  The roar of falling water is musical thunder to the excitement of a moon-bow bending as it readies to send its invisible arrow to where we cannot go.  To what we cannot see or touch but will fulfill your dream.  Make a wish before it disappears.”  

     On those long ago, warm Saturday nights sitting along the Flathead River after roasting wieners and homemade hotdog buns, his mom would read old Arabian fables from a book her mother had given her.  Lying on his back listening to her read tales of old, he would look for shooting stars with a background of many stars winking back.  Other times she would quote one of Rumi’s many poems, her favorite, “Saladin’s Begging Bowl.” 

     “Mom, what I wouldn't do for one of those tales of old and special hugs," Webb whispered, then smiled remembering how her eyes twinkled, crow’s feet wrinkles deepened and bridge of her nose crinkled when telling tales of millennia past.  When finished she would give him one of her addictive smiles followed with a hug and a kiss on his forehead.  

     “I miss your sweet smile and infectious laughter Mom.  Hope you are in a better place than where my men and I are going.” 

     Another ship erupted from a direct hit, second torpedo close behind, night sky ablaze exposing a convoy of nearby ships and profiles of others on the far horizon.  Newly fueled explosions quickly followed, flames reaching skyward once again to the heavens as if to touch the bottom of the moon, setting it afire.  The ship folding in on its self as a closing jackknife might, breaking in half.  Both ship halves sinking instantly.  There would be no survivors of such a violent explosion, torpedo possibly hitting the munitions magazine compartment dead center. 

     Young soldiers begin coming on deck crowding around Webb and Emerson, staring in awe and silence at what they had never experienced before.  Ships were going up in thunder and flame one after the other. Ships packed with friends they had trained with in basic training.  Friends they had shared three-day leaves with, going to town to hustle young women, drink, shout, laugh and dance the night away weeks earlier.  Friends they had introduced their younger sister to for a date to a town dance or movie.  Friends they had taken home during basic training for a weekend for one of their mom’s great meals.  Friends they would never fight battles with or see again.

     “Damn!” Webb said aloud, letting memories of a seven-year-old boy, a special memory of his mom, a wish on a midnight moon-bow and a partial poem evaporate with a violent explosion off their portside. 

     “Please Lord… please don’t let those last few words be spoken tonight.  My men deserve more than to be accidental heroes,” he murmured, not wanting to hear last words of dying men again, as in ‘42   

     “What words!” Emerson asked, searching the Sergeant’s face for an answer to his odd behavior.

     Caught off guard Webb turned, saying, “Just mumbling old memories. I do that a lot.  You will too before this war's over,” Webb said. “Finish that letter you started?”

     “Yah,” Emerson said, surprised when the Sergeant suddenly changed subjects.  “My parents and sisters, my fiancé is next. Plan to mail’em when we reach England.”

     The Sarge wanted to hit something. Anything! Instead he stiffened his arm at his side in tremors, fisting knuckles white thinking of the potential fate of men under his command, whispering, “Shadows on hills.  No daffodils.  Sun rising over barren…” 

     Letting remaining words of the verse slip away, he whispered, “If they survive this night and many more at sea, they won’t on battlefields in France or Germany. Maybe England if invaded.  Either way, many a family will mourn the loss of a beloved son before the war ends.  Long after war is over, the dead buried and forgotten, all that is left behind of a son’s death for a parent, siblings or wife and children are physical objects of wood, stone, metal or glass to visit, hold or view.  Crosses of wood to repaint a fading name; graves stones to touch and cry, place  a flower and say a prayer; photo frames to hold and recall of what was and will never be again.” 

     Destroyer sirens bleeped and shrieked taking a zigzagging course, releasing depth charges at phantom submarines, its watery shadow tagging behind.  Process repeating itself on a return trip, releasing more charges, destroyer chasing its own ghostly shadow.

     “Mom, you are still the most important person in my life as these young boys are to their moms,” Webb thought, his fingers stroking thick scars on his neck and right shoulder from splashes of burning bunker oil and icy seas off North Africa in ’42. 

     Fourth and fifth ships in front and to their right kept night skies alight in an inferno of flame and thunder.  Fourth ship breaking up before sinking.  Fifth dead in the water and heavily damaged waited its final fate as crew began offloading lifeboats. 

      More of Webb’s men began coming on deck from below deck.  Mesmerized, they watched the convoy destroyed ship by ship, human by human, under a moonlit night turned momentary day from repeated explosions.  Many swore, shaking a fist of vengeance at German submarine captains they could not see.  Others spewed threats of hate and death upon seeing so many boot-camp brothers going down with their ship.  Another yelled at a convey ship steaming away, leaving behind those needing rescued behind, its captain and crew ordered not to become another causality of war.  Several men bowed their heads, a few on their knees, hands clasped at chest level praying for a rescue ship to arrive to take those still treading water aboard ship.  Some trembled in fear, disappearing below deck for prayer and a miracle to what they were witnessing wouldn’t happen to them.  One young man behind Webb began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.  Another, “Lord, you are my shepherd this night.  Lead those in your flock at sea to safety this night.” 

     Fifth ship took a second torpedo.  Survivors began jumping overboard as a few lifeboats launched with a small number of survivors, filling beyond capacity once at sea.  Others swam towards already full lifeboats to grasp side railings to stay afloat.  A few begin swimming towards a ship steaming away from them as they pleaded for rescue.  Voices became no more that a whisper, then silence.  Under a full moon heads bobbed on a surface of liquid blackness to stay afloat before slowly tiring, voices going silent and sinking below the surface. 

     Five ships sunk.  A sixth took a hit, slowing its headway as fires blazed and hoses put out fires.  Bilge pumps worked furiously pumping out flooded compartments. 

     Remaining convey silhouettes continued running evasive patterns past an unknown number of unseen U-boats.  How many more submarines lay in wait?  Ten?  Maybe twenty?  No one knew or dared guess the number of wolf pack submarines waiting for the convoy to pass, torpedo tubes prepped to fire.

     Master Mike howled and yipped at each explosion.

     “Over there!” Private Dickinson shouted. 

     “Where!” a person standing next to Dickerson cried out. 

     “There!” 

     Crew and soldiers stared in disbelief to where he pointed.  A torpedo was coming their way, a second close behind.  They had no place to hide, no enemy to shoot at or fight in hand-to-hand combat. There would be no air support so far from land and many days at sea.  They could not use deck-guns, submarines submerged below surface of the ocean.  Destroyers to few and overworked at chasing submarines.  There was no one to rescue them from what spun and splashed their way.  Death became the event horizon no one could flee or fortify from. 

     “What do we do?” Dickinson screamed.

     “Find a life vest!” Webb screamed over pleas for life, prayers for help, and those in panic, not sure what to do.  

     At less than seventy yards, crew and young soldiers fearing for their lives begin jumping overboard.  Others dashed for a secured lifeboat.  Yet others froze in place mesmerized by the silvery moon reflecting points of light a hundredfold in churning, whitecap waters of fast moving torpedoes at less than fifty yards.  With no place to escape fate, death closed its distance for young men who bought packaged Bazooka Bubble Gum with two or more baseball player cards (Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio) inside each for their younger brothers; they gave younger sisters dolls and Nancy Drew mystery books; their moms hugs and kisses and dads handshakes and  hugs before boarding a bus or train for basic training. 

     “Everyone overboard,” Emerson screamed before jumping into the sea without a life vest.

     Devil’s one-two punch loomed large as Webb and Dickinson followed Emerson into icy waters with no time to secure life preservers or search for a nearby lifeboat.  First torpedo slammed near the bow, breaching the hull, lifting decks upward in a sudden flash of whiteness followed with thunder and flame, trapping crew and soldiers below deck.  Deck explosions followed splintering lifeboats as more detonations followed below decks.  Ship still moving forward without power took the second hit mid-ship.  Exploding, ship engorged in blazing fires, smokestack dangling by metal threads, the bent ship continued shuddering from stem to stern. Internal detonations breached the hull letting icy, saltwater flood the engine room.  Boilers burst, splashing, soaking and scalding those in its path.  Burning bunker oil spilled and plumed, spreading outward from the ship in all directions, trapping those treading water and others swimming away from the explosions and fires.  

     Rats streamed from the innards of the breached hull into the ocean.

     Bow submerging, sucking loose wreckage and floating debris back into the vacuum of the sinking ship, releasing it the deeper the ship sank.  Stern last to disappear into the dark depths of the ocean repeated the process.  

     Struggling, finding safety on floating wreckage, Webb searched waters around him seeing dozens of bobbing heads and ship clutter rolling on the crest of ocean swells under a setting moon.  Screams for help from crew and troops with open, raw skin burns and bleeding wounds filled the night.  A number of stronger crew and soldiers helped a shipmate stay afloat, often to their own demise.  Weakened soldiers and crew wearing heavy, cold weather fabrics of wool and cotton struggled to stay afloat as clothing soaked up freezing seawater, dragging each below the surface of the sea when their desperate fight for life ceased.  Others treading water watched the nearest supply and troop ships swing away seeking safety from what skulked and roamed beneath ocean waters pursuing new targets.  Quiet ones floated arms out, face underwater, legs dangling deep, vital fluids seeping from open wounds. 

     “My wish will be denied this night,” Webb whispered, after pulling himself further onto a wooden hatch-cover.  

     Off in the darkened distance another ship took a torpedo.  

     “Ma, I love you,” Webb heard a young soldier’s last words.

     “Mom... help me!” another cried out. “I don’t want to die!”

     “Oh mom, dad!” 

     Another called out. “I love you mom!”

     “Pop!” an unseen voice said.  "See you and mom in heaven.”

     “Mom, it hurts so…”

     "Why me!"

     “I don’t want to die!”

     “Anna!” a voice called.  “I love you. Tell our baby I love her.”

     Master Mike whimpered in the distance.

     "Sons and moms share the same blood,” Webb whispered, feeling what each soldier felt when saying their last emotions.  

     “Mom… it’s so cold,” Webb heard in the distance.

     Horizon of here and there puffs of thin white translucent clouds passed under a setting full moon before blending into the night’s darkness.  Black skies, leaning away from morning horizon as stars blinked an unintelligent code.  Another ship in the far distance lit the night taking a torpedo hit.  

     Dawn.  Hearing no one calling out, no ships in sight, Webb pulled himself further toward the center of the oversized, wooden hatch-cover.                Wherever he looked, ship debris and lifeless, floating torsos rose and fell with ocean swells.  A wooden raft floated in the distance with an unidentifiable, shirtless person aboard.  If alive, he would be too weak to wave, call out for help or swim to join a fellow shipmate.  

     Feeling something watching his every movement, Webb looked at the opposite end of the hatch-cover seeing a set of black, beady eyes watching his every move. 

     Numb and shivering, scar tissue tightening from freezing seas, Webb murmured:

     Don’t go to sleep

     I must stay awake

     Don’t go to sleep

     I must stay awake 

     Don’t go to sleep 

     Must ask the lord” 

     “Mom, I love you.” Webb screamed out, tears in his eyes, putting his head down on the water soaked wood knowing he would soon see his mom, hear her sweet voice. 

     “I can’t go to sleep. Lord, I can’t give you my soul to keep. I can’t!  My men need me,” he whispered.

     Looking up he saw the rat had left, possibly gone to other floating debris for its own safety.

      Having said his last emotions a second time in less than a year, he began accepting his fate. Yet he knew he must not ask for what he might not want, finality. Three, maybe four days passed, seawater lapping at wood, Webb’s emotions climbing and crashing back and forth across the threshold where life and death meet.  In and out of consciousness, death on the horizon, he closed his eyes, seeing his mom’s smiling face, her beautiful brown eyes. 

     “Mom!”  

Robert Jones 

Short Story

               ONCE A THIEF, AWAYS A THIEF 

My first theft at age 8, 1949.

     I headed for the 'Five and Dime’ store three blocks from my house with one desire in mind, a Hersey Chocolate Bar.  This time was different from previous trips for a chocolate bar having already spent my allowance for the week with no hope of borrowing money from my stingy, younger sister or older, secretive brother.  I owed both money and promised to pay back in the past, never having it when they asked for it.  Not able to borrow 5-cents from either sibling, I had checked mom’s coat pockets in the closet knowing she always had small change in one of two pockets after paying bus fare to and from work.  

     One coat pocket held a wrinkled hankie and wadded tissues she used for a runny nose.  The other, nothing but tiny balls of lint and a wrapper from a York Mint, her favorite candy she bought for the bus ride home.  With no chance of borrowing from my siblings or finding what I needed in Mom’s coat pockets for the chocolate bar that's when I considered what Mike had said more than once, “It’s easy to steal from the Dime store.”  

     Entering the Five-and-Dime store, I searched the different aisleways for Irene, owner of the store, remembering another of Mike’s wisdoms, “Just because you don’t see her doesn’t mean she isn’t in the store. She’s sneaky and might be on lurking duty behind some counter or fixture.” 

     No Irene in sight, I made a beeline for my favorite counter having been there many times before with the taste of chocolate on my mind with one difference.  On this particular occasion with no coins jingling at the bottom of my pants pocket having already collected and spending my twenty-five cent allowance, I felt I could not do without the chocolate bar.   Allowance spent, siblings refusing to loan me pennies and mom’s coat pockets empty of change, Icould ask dad?  If I did, he would lecture me on spending, saving and accountability of my allowance.  I was left looking at what I wanted, could not have and unable to pay for. 

     Chocolate bars staring back with no way to pay, mouth watering for a taste of bittersweet chocolate, why couldn’t I take just one without paying?

     Mike, seventeen years old and hoodlum and thief of our neighborhood, had warned me about the storeowner when shooting baskets at the Salvation Army gym.  “If Irene is at the cash register or restocking shelves and counters in the store, its best to leave and come back another time.  She has mirrors located in key viewing spots along the walls and ceiling in the store to watch customers she doesn't trust.” 

     “If she catches you stealing, she’ll call your parents to come get you, then ban you from the store for six months.  Do it again, she’ll file charges,” Mike had added.    

     Standing next to the candy counter, anxious, a bit jittery remembering Mike’s wisdom on theft, I readied for my first attempt of taking and not paying.  I wanted to feast upon a Hershey Chocolate bar then, not when I had five cents.  Chocolate bar wrapped in a dark brown wrapper, inner foil showing at the ends waited for me to take it from the display counter.  My fingers touched the wrapped chocolate bars as saliva glands begin that silent urge of, “You need it now.  You want it now.  Take it now.” 

     “What if I’m caught?” I asked myself, pulling my hand back thinking what mom might say and do after receiving a call from Irene to come and get me from the store after stealing a chocolate bar without paying.  I demanded courage of myself to take, not retreat, of what I wanted.  It is what Mike would do.  Nervously scanning the store left to right then behind me for Irene’s probing eyes, a second search of the store followed.  No Irene in sight and the storefront clerk ringing up purchased goods for another customer with her back to me, my hand itched to touch and take the chocolate bar. 

     Fingering one chocolate bar, then another. “Why not two?”  

     I quickly moved both chocolate bars into my coat pocket, remembering Mike saying, “Make sure the clerk is busy with a customer before walking out the store.  Never be in a hurry and buy a couple penny candies for distraction if you want to keep what you stole.  When leaving the store keep your hands in sight, not in your pocket, whether you purchase something or not.  If she looks your way, smile and say something nice on your way out the door so she doesn’t expect a thing.” 

     Still not seeing Irene and the clerk busy giving the customer change, receipt and bagging the merchandize, I walked out the front door a bit nervous, hands at my side, not in my pocket to draw suspicion.  Once outside, I congratulated myself on my first-ever theft of taking not one but two Hershey bars.  I quickly followed yet another of Mike’s suggestions, walking not running past other storefronts.  Turning the corner, taking one of two Hershey Bars from my coat pocket, I slowly removed the brown paper  cover reading “Hershey’s” in large letters.  Below that “Milk Chocolate.  Peeling the foil back, savoring a deep chocolate aroma – “Ambrosia,” mom would say – my mouth watered, taste yet to come.  

     With the first square of chocolate bar broken off, its Hershey logo stamped on it, I begin anticipating its taste for that first delicious, bittersweet flavor of milk chocolate.  Placing it on my tongue, warm digestive juices softening it, taste buds dancing in delight, I pushed it against the roof of my mouth to squish and spread mushy chocolate residuals over my tongue and palate for a second pleasurable joy of chocolate.  The chocolate bar slowly disappeared square-by-square duplicating melt, taste and squish for each square until the last square disappeared half a block from home.  Tonguing the upper roof of my mouth for delightful residuals, I wadded the chocolate bar wrappings before putting in a sidewalk trashcan as mom had taught her children to do with waste. 

     I decided to keep the second Hershey bar for the next day.  Maybe give it to Mike to show him how successful I had been.  He might let me hangout with him and his brothers and join his gang for such a daring theft of not one, but two chocolate bars.

     Careful not to let mom see the second Hershey Bar, I pushed it deep into my coat pocket before tonguing my teeth and lips repeatedly to rid of any residual sight of brown chocolate or scent of it.  Pulling up my coat sleeve, I took the cuff of my shirtsleeve and wiped my lips and teeth repeatedly back and forth for the smallest residual left behind knowing mom might notice I had no appetite for dinner. 

     Satisfied with my daring success knowing how easy the theft went, I recalled Mike saying, “Don’t go back too soon to the same store. Use a bigger grocery store… like Safeway, Albertsons or IGA.” 

     Home with a smile of satisfaction, proud of my theft of not one, but two chocolate bars, I closed the front door as mom met me at the door with a loving smile, saying, “Dinner’s ready."  Bending down to give me her usual homecoming hug and kiss on my forehead, she paused.  Sniffing, nostrils flaring, she turned my chin side to side.  "Where did you get the chocolate?  I thought you had spent your allowance and promised me you wouldn’t borrow any more money from your sister or brother until you paid them back."

     How does she know?  I had cleaned my lips and teeth for residuals. 

     Rising to full height, hands on her hips, frowning, sternly asking, "Where did you get the chocolate candy!"

     I shrunk from the truth, taking a step back.

     “Where… where did you get the candy if you already spent your allowance!" she repeated, her steely-eyes burning a hole in my soul. 

     "The woman at the store gave it to me,” I said convincingly, remembering what Mike had said about keeping with one story. 

     "The truth!"

     “Honest mom, the woman gave it to me.  Said I could pay her back next Saturday when I get my allowance.”

     “The truth!”

     Mom knew the truth, just not the details of the theft. 

     “Where did you get it?” she asked, lowering her voice, eyebrows furrowing, crow feet wrinkles deepening, determined to get the truth.  Not my version of what she knew was a lie.  

     “Mike gave it to me,” I said, not being a quick thinker and Mike being the wrong person to use for an excuse. 

     “Two lies!” Mom said.  “Wanna try for a third.” 

     She knew Mike by sight and reputation and that he and his brothers were the neighborhood hoodlums.  As well, the influence Mike and his brothers had on a number of the younger, neighborhood boys wanting to be in his gang. 

     I backed up a bit more, mom closing the distance forward for every step I had taken backward, getting-in-my face while towering over me.  I knew she wouldn’t back down until she got the complete truth.

     “Where!” she repeated. 

     I didn’t know what to say having told my story two different ways. 

     “Did you take it from the Dime Store?”

     My face began heating up, cheeks flushing

     “Empty your pockets on the table,” Mom stated.

     “Mom!” 

     Mom took a few steps back, “Empty your pockets!”

     What could I do? I had to do something.

     “Now!  I’m not in the mood for another lie,” Mom’s voice rose in anger, “

     “Mom!”

     “Now… or you won’t get your allowance to go the afternoon movies with your friends this Saturday or the next.  Start with emptying your coat pockets, then pants pockets,” she said, lowering her voice. 

     I said nothing hoping for a miracle of any kind to change the moment. 

     “Do you want your dad to do it for you?”

     “N…no,” I stammered, unzipping the coat, letting it drop to the floor, chocolate bar sliding partway out of the pocket, my head drooping, shoulders rounding, looking at the floor. 

     “Look at me, not the floor! Did you take it without paying?”

     She knew I had taken it without paying, but wanted me to admit I was a thief without hearing a third excuse, another lie. 

     I looked up not wanting to admit to what I had done when seeing my sister out of the corner of my eye standing at the doorway with the grin of a Cheesy Cat having heard the commotion, knowing I was in trouble. 

     “Did you take it without paying?”

     Again, I said nothing.

     “I want to hear you say what you did! It’ll remind you not to do it again.”

     “Ye… yes.”

     “I want you to repeat it, adding where you took it from,” Mom repeated.

     “Mom!”

     Mom said nothing, not moving from her stance in front of me, taking a quick glance at the candy bar sticking partway out of my coat pocket.

     “I… I took it from the Dime store. I promise I won’t do it again.”

     “How many!” she demanded.

     She wasn’t about to fall for the quick apology having been raised with five brothers in the  Kellogg, Wallace and Mullan area of hard rock mining towns in Idaho during the depression.  Her younger brother was serving a second stent in Walla Walla State Prison for writing bad checks.  She knew it had to be more than one chocolate bar, knowing I had eaten one, the other slightly spilling from my coat pocket.

     “Two,” I admitted.

     “Only two!”

     I motioned yes with my head.

     “You need to say how many you took,” she emphasized.

     “Two,” I mumbled.”

     “How many!”

     “Two,” I said a bit louder.

     “What do you think your punishment should be?”

     “Take it back?” I barely uttered, hoping for the end of the confrontation with no further punishment for admitting my crime and the number I took. 

     “That and say you’re sorry, then pay for both.”

     I could return the uneaten chocolate bar but I did not have the ten cents to pay for two Hersey bars with allowance spent and siblings not willing to loan me any more money.   

     “I will give you the ten cents for both candy bars. You return the remaining candy bar back with the dime to Irene.  I will deduct ten cents from your allowance to pay your sister and brother back, then me when you get your allowance.”

     “Mom…I.”

     “I’m not done! Not only will you pay everything back with your allowance, you will wash and dry dishes after dinner for two weeks without complaint.  You will not go to any movies for two Saturdays and will help your dad in the yard and mow and trim Mr. Fleming's lawn while he’s on vacation for no pay.”

     “But…”

     “No buts, the dime store is open until eight.  I will drive you down there and wait in the car while you tell Irene what you did.  Return the uneaten candy bar, pay her for what you took then apologize.  Pick up your coat and go to the car.”

     I did not want to get in the car, go back to the store, admit my theft or pay for the one chocolate bar I ate.  The second still in its wrapper.  Yet, I knew better than to challenge mom when this mad and frustrated with me, let alone what she had in mind for further punishment if I defied her.  

     I picked up my coat holding the candy bar. Mom called Irene and explained the theft and that we were on our way there to return and pay for what I stole.  She then got her coat, car keys and purse before taking a dime from her coin purse.  I got the silent treatment on the drive down to the dime store, not a lecture on thieving and lying, mom knowing I had already been shamed in front of siblings and dad.  Once there, saying, “Irene is waiting at the front entrance.”  

     Getting out of the car, chocolate bar in hand, dime in the other, seeing Irene waiting at the entrance of the store with the clerk, I paused.  Turning to mom for courage seeing Irene had folded her arms across her chest.  Saying nothing, mom turned away looking out the windshield.  I slowly walked toward the dime store seeing Irene glowering at me.  She opened the screen door as I handed her the Hershey bar and dime. 

     “I took two Hersey Bars without paying. I’m sorry. Promise I won’t do it again,” I apologized. 

     Irene took the dime and Hersey chocolate bar, tossing the unwrapped chocolate bar in the trashcan next to the door.  Putting the dime in her apron pocket, she stated, “Why would I want something back stolen from me.”

     I looked for sympathy for doing the right thing, getting none.

     “I don’t want to see you in the store for six months,” she stated before turning around and going back into the store, then pausing, turning and saying, “Your mother is a wonderful woman and you do this to her.” 

     I returned to the car, mom saying, “Don’t you feel better now that you did something honest.”

     Shaking my head in a yes manner to please mom as she drove home, making me go to bed without dinner or listen to my favorite radio programs. 

     Both siblings got their loans paid back in full from my allowance followed with an apology.  I paid mom the following week after she gave me my weekly allowance with one hitch, I had to pay her back on the spot.  I did the dishes for two weeks without complaint and helped dad with yard work – dad never once humiliated me over the theft, but said, “Moms have intuition.”  I did the neighbor’s lawn free after helping dad with the garden.  Mom eventually let me go to the Saturday movie matinee at Coy’s theater without knowing I sat next to Mike during intermission bragging of stealing two Hersey Bars. 

     “Maybe three next time?” Mike hinted with a smile. 

Part II:

     Months passed without incident after punishment and I begin going to the Salvation Army again to play basketball, make things for my parents and brother, never my whiny, snoopy, tattle-tailing sister except on her birthday and Christmas.  It’s where I heard about Mike’s new adventures into the realm of thieving and profit making.  I wanted to be in his gang for the money in my pocket to buy what I wanted, when I wanted, but couldn’t afford on a weekly allowance.  Mom soon figured what I was thinking then threatening me with Green Hill School, a medium/maximum security for juveniles if caught stealing again. 

     Mom knew better than to trust what I promised, no doubt remembering what her brothers had done when growing up during the depression.  She checked on where I was going, whom I would be with, what time I would be home and a phone number where to reach me.  If I wasn’t home at a certain time or called telling her when I would be home, she or my older brother, a chore he found unpleasant, would come looking for me.  One time Mom called the police to pick me up as a reminder of what she was capable of doing.  She drove me nuts keeping me away from the likes of Mike, or any of his brothers, never giving me a chance to join his gang.

     Because of mom’s intrusive ways, I was careful to stay away from Mike and his gang.  If I stole, I did it with reasoning, planning and alone.  I never bragged to neighborhood friends, not even my brother of what I stole.  Boasting is an indication of thievery and eventually drawing the attention of authorities.  If I went to the store for mom, I would always take a different route to the store and another home keeping thefts small and for my own personal use.  Most important, I never returned home with a cocky-attitude or merchandize such as food, clothing, electronics or tools without a receipt she might want to see. 

     When making a trip to the store, out of allowance and in the need of money, knowing better than to borrow from my stingy sister, secretive brother or search mom’s coat pocket for change, I would go down the alley to the Feed Store on Delridge Way, half-block from St. James Lutheran Church.  Getting on the side of the Feed Store where the owner couldn’t see me, I’d search for a stack of empty gunnysacks on the other side of the six-foot chain link fence.  Finding the stack of sacks, I would pull three, sometimes four, of the better gunnysacks through the fence before taking them down the street to the hardware store and getting a few pennies for each.  If not stealing from the Feed Store, I would go down a neighboring alley and take already returned pop bottles for deposit.  An easy theft when returned bottles were stored in the back of the store for later pickup.  I would fill an empty sack, making it look like I was bringing the bottles from home before taking them to a different store down the block for recycle refunds.  Any extra money above allowance, presents and job earnings I hid in a coffee can in a hole under the garage. 

     Keeping my thieving minor, I got through grade school and junior high because mom kept me away from the likes of Mike as best she could.  She was my mom, my keeper, my truant officer, tutor for school subjects, arranged part-time jobs when in high school and hugged me when I got my high school diploma.  I finished college with her keeping track of me when possible and her and dad helping with college costs.  Uncle Sam drafted me into the US Army within months after graduating from college as a Second Lieutenant.  

     Did I stop thieving?  Hell no!  Eventually becoming a Second Lieutenant had its advantages as a good source of extra money, selling whatever I could get from the supply depot and on-base dispensaries with small bribes of cash or favors of long weekend passes.  On rare occasions, I would tell a soldier where one of the better houses of ill repute was in town stationed for small favors. 

     Within months of mustering out of the Army with an Honorable Discharge, I applied for Law School.  Accepted, I used the GI Bill, scholarships and grants and worked two nights a week for the local grocery store, eventually passing the State Bar Exam on the second try.

     Did I change my ways?  Yes, for a short while.  Once I begin practicing law that changed when I begin listening to a few other lawyers brag on the different ways, legal or not, to charge clueless clients for extras.  I did as they did, then begin finding new ways to overcharge clients in little ways, remembering from childhood to tell no one, especially other lawyers or friends about what I did.  Every few months, I would do a Pro Bono legal case that didn’t require much work for suck-up points with clients then mention it to who would ever listen to get new clients. 

     Did I finally become the honest citizen my mother tried and hoped for?  No.  Public office is where the money and power are.  I wanted my share!  Paying my fee to enter the race for a seat on the City Council, I won by making promises I knew I wouldn’t keep while taking legal contributions for my campaign fund. 

     Majority of money contributed came from a variety of business people (team owners, contractors, developers) and lobbyists for what I could do for them. Along with legal contributions, there were free dinners, tickets to stadium games or expensive vacations to California, Mexico and the Canadian Rockies (Lake Louise Chateau).  Eventually I begin taking occasional envelopes of cash slid across the table under a drink glass in expensive restaurants and cocktail lounges.  Another easy source of money was using campaign funds in small amounts then padding the account anyway possible with receipts not necessarily mine. 

     I’m not sure when Mom begin thinking I was a good son and was proud I had never served time in juvenile detention, city jail or prison, became a college graduate, served in the military and pasted the bar exam.  She got shorter and thinner over the years but her determination was still strong in making me a better human being thinking she won the battle to save me from jail.  Never knowing she lost the war of small thefts when younger, thieving ways in the Army and as a lawyer before passing away within months of my becoming a politician. 

        My time in the Army, college and those early years as a lawyer before she passed, Mom, as a reminder, sent me newspapers articles on Mike and his brothers.  Mike’s oldest brother, Tommy was serving life in Walla Walla State Prison for robbery and murder.  Youngest brother, Pat, got out of prison and moved to New Orleans; neighborhood rumors had him working as a musician and a pimp.  Mike died in a cheap hotel on Market Street in San Francisco from cirrhosis of the liver.  She noted the fact that each of their thefts became more brazen and violent as were the weapons – fist, baseball bat, knife, eventually guns. 

     As for my sister, she’s still a pain in the ass and whiny as hell and on her fourth marriage with one grown child and brags about her stepchildren by the last two husbands when not borrowing money from me, my older brother or an ex-husband.  My brother and I often kid one another of those times growing up in White Center when he reminds me that he never got caught for what he stole and how he did a better job of staying out of mom’s radar intuition.  With a chuckle, he tells me I should run for mayor or governor then become a  lobbyist for developers, contractors, lawyers and doctors, saying, “Lobbying for the big boys is where the easy money is.” 

          I admit, “Once a thief, always a thief.”  To be a good thief, one must be a liar, cheat, sneak and thief.  At that, I must admit to. 

Part III:

     I’ll let you know if I win the Senate race.  Washington DC is where the real money is. 

Robert Jones

Words 2800 

                 My Clothes Are Not Her Clothes

     My wife is the love of my life. She is sweet, works fulltime, is a damn good cook and keeps the house clean and the garden blooming.  She understands my needs and those of others.  She knows what foods I like, sports I prefer and style of cloth es I wear.  She helps me shop for what she thinks I need.  Best about her, she treats my two teenage daughters, who live with their mom, as her own.  Who could ask for more? 

     However… there are certain situations where she drives me nuts.  She has a bit of pit-bull in her as well a smidgen of thief making her the predator.  My closet and clothes her victims.  Take the time she decided to wear one of my long sleeve dress shirts for house chores.  

     “Why?” I had asked her.  

     “Why not, I wash and iron them don’t I?” 

     What could I have said other than repeat, “Why!”

     She came back with, “Why not?  They’re too big for me, more comfortable to wear and easy to clean the house in.”  She paused, smiled then gave me that mischievous look, adding, “Easier to clean the toilet with.  Besides, why would I get my clothes dirty and smelly when it’s you I’m cleaning up after?”

     What could I have said back?  By the time I had thought of a good comeback, she was gone, tails of my shirt waving bye-bye as she left the room.

     I had had it!  Feeling abused by her attitude of what is yours is mine, I told myself, “Get even!  Wear one of her blouses!  Do unto her what she does unto you!” 

     Entering her closet, separate of mine, I had chosen her favorite pink blouse.  Next, I removed my shirt, then as careful as possible put the blouse on.  Not able to button it with a wide gapping spread between buttons and buttons holes without splitting its shoulder seams, I was ready to teach her a lesson of respect of what is mine, is mine, not hers.  

     “Honey!” I had said after walking into the kitchen where she had been cleaning.

     She turned, took a moment to look at the gross spectacle in front of her.  “Look at you!” she had said, smiling before returning to cleaning the stove, seemingly ignoring the fact it was her favorite blouse.

     “Damn!” I had muttered to myself, having forgotten she does not fluster that easily and has an iota of smartass in her. 

     Yes, I had gotten her attention but not the reaction I had hoped for of, “Leave my clothes alone!”   

     Time pasted after that incident as my closet remained her closet to use my shirts as her janitor’s clothes whenever she wished.  Enough is enough, I needed to put a stop to her exclusive thinking of what is mine is hers. 

     War! Tit-for-tat, I promised myself back them, knowing there would be battles to lose and ones to win.  I would inflict upon her the insult she had perpetrated on me.  If she wears my clothes, I will wear hers as often as she wears mine.  

     Being a forgiving and forgetful person, and ignorant of women’s ways, I soon forgot about the incident and silent declaration of war with the start of soccer season.  A short time after that there was another rememberable incident when I had walked into the bathroom to do my three morning duties, shave, shower and shine – in the US Army we called it shit, shave, soap and shower and shine -- before going to work.  Razor in hand, looking into the mirror, I saw a reflection of my wife wearing another of my favorite shirts. 

     “What the Hell!” I had thought.  “Mind my tongue. Do not cause a problem. It’s okay.”       

     Returning to shaving, I had taken a second gander in the mirror as she readied to bend over the tub edge.  As the back of her working shirt -- my shirt -- had begun rising, stretched across her wide backside was a pair of my boxer shorts.  

     “How how dare you wear my underwear!” I had wanted to say. 

     “Need the bathroom?” she had kindly asked, not knowing how perturbed I might be with her wearing not only my shirt but also a pair of my boxers.  Making the situation worse, the boxers had been a new pair still in the purchasing wrapper before she took ownership of it.  A pair she had bought for me for a present at Christmas.  

     “I’ll finish my coffee in the living room then clean in here after you take your shower.” 

     I had thanked her for her kind thought.  Yet, it bugged the hell out of me thinking what will she take ownership of next? 

     “That’s it,” I had muttered after she left the bathroom. 

     Not bothering to finish shaving, I felt she needed another lesson on territorial rights of what belongs to me does not necessarily belong to her.  First thought, I would get naked then put on a pair of her cotton panties to model, making a point she not wear my boxers again. 

     Leaving the bathroom, I had gone into her closet.  Opening her underwear drawer, I remembered muttering, “My God!” at the sight.  The drawer was filled to the brim with different styles and colors, many still in brand-name packaging.  Finding the right choice to shame her into staying out of my closet and dresser drawers, I thumbed through her multiple assortment of different styles and colors of panties to find the right choice.  I chose a pair of white cotton briefs first.  They were not embarrassing enough.  Colored cotton ones followed.  A no for the same reason as the white cotton briefs.  Next, I picked up a pair of bikini panties.  Holding them up for affect, I pondered what to do.  Yes, they were sexy and revealing but not enough to humiliate her.  I needed to up the game of what is mine is not necessarily hers to wear.  Reaching in the back of the drawer, I pulled out three pair of G-string thongs, each a different color.  I decided on the red ones, brighter the better, putting the purple and yellow ones back.   

     “Perfect!  This ought to do the trick,” I remember thinking having given myself credit for being a bit more devious in thought and choice than with the blouse. 

     Going into the bathroom, I had shut and secured the door for privacy before stripping of all clothing.  Tile floor cold, I pulled my black, calf-high socks back on.  Then her thong.  It felt weird with support strings of the thong fitting in all the wrong places.  Looking into the full-length mirror, I remember chuckling at the gross site seeing a forest of hair sticking out the sides and top of her red thong.  I felt, at the time, it would be enough to embarrass her thinking she would reflect of if to or not to wear one of my shirts or boxers again.

     My wife calls me her Neanderthal man I have so much body hair.  Other times, usually after a few vodka martinis with friends she grins while referring to me as her favorite Sasquatch (Big Foot) – a large hairy humanoid that some believe lives and roams the mountains and forests in the northwestern United States and western Canada. 

     Ready to go out the bathroom door, I remembered seeing her pink bathrobe hanging on back of the door.  “Why not!” I had told myself.

     Sliding arms through the bathrobe sleeves, sleeve cuffs ending just below the elbows.  Bottom hemline of her bathrobe an inch below my knobby-knees.  With inches to spare between buttonhole edge on one side and buttons the other, the only way to close the robe a fraction was bringing sash ends of the bathrobe together for a single half-knot.  A wide gap between closing edges of the robe still exposed my hairy chest, stomach and front of the undersized thong.  I was ready to take her on, hoping it would anger her enough to yell at me using every swear word and foul-mouth clique she could think of.  Better yet, refuse to let me near her for a week before ordering me to sleep on the old couch in the basement that is shorter than my height.  If so, I would win and she would stay out of my closet and dresser drawers.  It is punishment I could accept, the basement having a television, a bathroom and a small kitchen if needed. 

     I headed for the living room where she was having a coffee break from cleaning.  Seeing her sipping at coffee, reading a design magazine, I had begun a slow, sauntering walk toward her.  She looked up from the couch as I slowly moved my hips a bit left, paused a moment, then right, repeating it with one hand on my right hip as an underwear model might. 

     “Taa da!” I remember introducing myself.  

     She smiled.

     “No you don’t!” I remember thinking, knowing how quick she was with a grin, chuckle, sarcasm and one-line comebacks.

     I pulled the sash on the robe letting it open all the way. “Taa da,” I had repeated, letting the bathrobe slowly slip off one shoulder then the other while lingering a moment every few steps as I slowly turned left then right modeling her thong.  

     She chuckled, putting her coffee and magazine on the coffee table as if ready to howl in laughter at what she was seeing.  An overweight, middle age man with too much body hair wearing calf-high, black socks and her red thong. 

     “Love it with your family jewels hanging out the side.  Give me another twirl, showing a little more of your Oscar Myer,” she had said.

     What else could I have done?  I put my index finger on my head and slowly turned a circle.  Facing her again, she had been filming video with her phone. 

     “Good action!  I might use a frame on our next Christmas Cards and send one to our neighbors.  Maybe a few frames to your sisters and brother.  Your ex-wife might appreciate your love handles, big belly and all the body hair you have,” she had said with a smirk. 

     Tongue tied, what could I say. 

     “I think you’d look good in a matching red brassiere with toilet tissue stuffed in each cup.  Then again, with your size and so much hair on your backside it doesn’t look so good with the thong string disappearing between your hairy, chunky, butt cheeks.”

     Weeks had pasted as she continued wearing my shirts and boxers around the house when I noticed a new addition to her housecleaning attire.  She had begun wearing my eighty percent Merino wool hiking socks as her slippers around the house.  I considered confronting her at the time to end her pit-bull attitude of what is mine is hers, but let it pass.  Shortly after that I saw her cleaning the house again in one of my shirts, boxer shorts and a different pair of my wool hiking socks. 

     You would think, I would have remembered she is brighter than I am, quicker with her brain first and mouth second, where as my mouth gets ahead of my brain.  Have I learned a lesson of thinking before opening my mouth?  Maybe I should have had a t-shirt printed for myself sometime back reading,  “Save Me from My Self!”

     She continued wearing what she felt was hers to wear of mine.  It drove me nuts when she added a sweater, scarf or hat of mine when the weather turned cold.  Making it worse is leaving a scent of her favorite soap on whatever she wears of mine.  A scent I love about her, yet reminding me she has the smarts and power in the house.  She wears the marriage pants of authority.    

     Is my manhood in question?  Definitely.  Was I becoming her toady?  Probably. 

     My wife is calm.  I am not.  She thinks things out.  I do not.  Therefore, I had to keep whatever I did simple and humorous before giving up the quest to keep her out of my closet and dresser drawers.  Day before her birthday, I got into the car driving to the shopping mall to look for two presents.  First gift would be a sweetheart present for her birthday. Second present would make my point of leaving my clothes alone unless asking first.  First store visited, I bought her three flower charms done in enamel and sterling silver – Dahlia, Lily and Peony -- for her charm bracelet.  A bracelet I had specially made for her birthday the first year of our marriage. 

     I looked around the store for the second present I had in mind for a lighthearted reminder for my wife to ask me first before wearing a shirt, boxer shorts, socks or any other clothing of mine.  The store had not had the item in stock for several years the sales clerk said when asked.  Second store was not much better than the first, having only one package in stock, an xx-large.  Visiting a third store the manager directed me to a small shelf in the back of the store, style and sizes limited to one package for each size.  Finding a package of medium and large, three pairs in each, I purchased both items not sure what size would fit her.  Paid for, I took both packages to the customer desk to wrap each in a decorative box with a red ribbon and big bow the same color.  All items wrapped, I headed home with an attitude that I would finally win the battle of who wears whose clothes.  

     I placed the gifts on the dining room table the morning of her birthday with a special card reading,  “From: Your loving husband.”  That evening I invited her to open the presents after serving cake, ice cream, cookies and vodka martinis, coffee for later.  I told her how much I loved her and appreciated everything she did for me.  I thanked her for treating my two daughters fairly, how understanding she was of my ex-wife and putting up with my obnoxious men friends when they came over to drink beer, snack and shout while watching a soccer game on television. 

     Smiling, thinking revenge is sweet yet kind, I took a chair at the table across from her in anticipation of what she might say after opening the second present.  Putting her martini down she begin unwrapping the first present while thanking me for remembering her birthday.  Ribbon first, then paper wrappings before folding and putting both aside for a future present.   Taking the three individual items from the box then unwrapping each, she mentioned taking the charm bracelet to the jeweler within the next few days to have the flower charms added to her bracelet.

     The second present followed with items rarely found in stores was at one time a number one seller across America in the men's clothing department.  Opening the box, seeing its contents she smirked.  “Thank you for being so considerate on letting me pick from two different sizes.  Think I’ll try them on so you can appreciate the present and know which size fits and you can take the other back for a refund.”

     She disappeared into the bedroom, coming out minutes later having changed from a dress and blouse to one of my dress shirts and merino wool socks.  With a grin from ear to ear, she pulled up the bottom of the shirt, my shirt, turning halfway around showing me her backside, then slapping it. “I love’em.” 

     Not sure what to do, I knew she had won again showing off her new tighty whitey, men’s briefs.  To add misery to my misjudgment, she took a second pair from the package, putting her hand inside the briefs, poking her thumb through the pee hole.  “Don’t need this.”

     Picking up her coffee, she walked into the kitchen but not before telling me how much she loved the presents, puckering her lips and blowing me a kiss.  Before turning left at the corner of the doorway, she flipped up the back of the shirt showing me her backside once again.  Disappearing around the corner she then leaned her head around the corner edge of the kitchen entrance, saying, “I love’em! Haven’t had a pair of these on since wearing my old boyfriend’s briefs when cleaning the apartment where we lived.” 

     No, she did not change her ways.  My shirts remained hers to wear; my boxers became her underwear, including the tightey whitey briefs around the house doing chores; my wool socks her slippers.  She gets to wear what is mine and I will not wear what is hers.  She understands well, as I do, the old, lumpy couch is still in the basement.  As well, I know sleeping in our bedroom is better than sleeping on the couch in the basement, outside in a tent in the backyard stuffed in an old, smelly sleeping bag, recreational vehicle or sofa surfing at different relative or friends houses. 

Robert Jones

Short Story

                      Thumbing West, Despair 

     December 23,1965! Drafted! 

    Thumbing West, Despair  -- Needs a serious editing.   Pages for 6. are being entered as I feel better.