I never really thought about it until now, but laying down while looking at the pristine crystal ocean is really more beautiful than words could ever express. I'm sure my brothers, who were all facing the other way were really more interested in their own musings than mine, but I'd like to share what I am thinking about to them someday. Someday when they have time, I think we'll all go back to the Hoarse Mistress and down a few beers together. Then as always I'd like to tell them about Sarah, that hopeless romantic I left back home. She is an extremely loveable, supremely beautiful, and generously kind person. She is the one I love.
I remember someone (probably Jimmy) managed to unearth a dirty photo of her. Man, was that hell. Aside from the occasional kind words they shared on Karen's rather generous attributes, the guys loved the stories I would share about her and my time together. Jimmy in particular, would listen to every memory as if he were expecting some Homeric love story. Sarge once pulled me aside and thanked me for keeping the stories coming. Not because he enjoyed it himself, which he said he did, but because it helped everyone get along with their own lives. Those stories I shared were more of an escape from where we were- a way to go back home. I knew it, Sarge knew it, and I'm pretty sure Jimmy knew it. The squad would always come around and ask, “Homer. Tell us another story.” I would rub my nose and gladly share a memory of Sarah. Their eyes would lock onto my lips and the ears would hone in to my voice. I would begin every story the same as the last:
Her eyes were as crystal blue as the ocean.
***
Her eyes were as crystal blue as the ocean. She had a smile that could charm the devil and a voice that would make the angels envious. The first time I laid eyes on her I was but a fledgling and she was nothing short of a goddess. She was skipping on the edges of the beach; throwing sand up into the air and splashing water around. She hummed a certain movie tune that I could no longer remember what it was.
I was sitting beside the shore, attempting to write a poem with nothing more than a mere stick in my hand and a few crude words in my mind. She disappeared for a moment- just for a moment, before I felt a light puff of air blow on my neck. It was cool. Especially so on that hot summer day.
“Are you a poet?” She asked.
I tensed up and my shoulders froze still. I slowly inched my head to look at her, but was blinded by the sun. She was reading the words that I had written on that malleable sand and during that time, I prayed to anyone who cared to please let the water wash away everything.
“Hey, are you a poet?” She asked once more.
I sighed in defeat. The heavens responded to my request with a state record low tide. Enough so that I could see barnacles on rocks in the distance. I cursed myself and took a deep breath.
“I'd like to think myself as one.” I responded.
She hovered around and laid on my back for support as she read the poem in its entirety for more than a few times. I saw her doll-like eyes quickly going left to right, up to down, over and over again. She perked up cheerfully and ran around to see me face-to-face. With eyes more deep than the Marianas Trench, I felt like I was sinking into them without a hope of any escape- not that I wished to. She seemed to analyze me carefully.
She figured something out and asked another question, “Are you a writer?”
She asked me a question that I wish she never did- Although I did write and I did attempt to craft stories in the likes of Homer or F. Scott Fitszgerald, I tended to sound more like a nouveau ecrivain rather than a polished veteran like the ones that I desperately sought acceptance of. Was I at a state that I could actually accept myself as a writer/poet?
Lacking a strong resolve or any for that matter, I merely chuckled and bashfully whimpered, “Kind of.”
Her eyes lit up with such an intense blaze of energy and excitement that I felt that she was overpowering the sun. She looked into my eyes once more with those crystal blue eyes that had already enraptured me completely.
“Tell me a story.” She demanded.
That's how our first meeting started. In my youth and little worldly experience, I would try to concoct a story out of what I heard about our family history or overly exaggerate the first times of anything I have done. I thought that this would bore most people, but for her, she was different. Her eyes would lock onto mine and she would have expressions that seemed to empower me. Her energy would be so boundless that I felt that I could go for hours. I could tell my words somehow changed her.
I left that summer, promising to write whenever I had the chance or could think of a story to share. I'd write to her about what kinds of things there were to do in Burlington like going to the local dime store or people watching. She would enjoy my descriptions of the people here more than anything else. Sometimes, I'd have nothing to say, but she was even fine with nothing at all. We would send letters back and forth about nothing at all, but for some reason, it was the most interesting thing in the world. Every time I received a response, I would feel a little ecstasy and had an almost dependency on the next letter that she would send. For the first time in my entire life, I was in love.
***
Though I am a peace-loving poet at heart, nothing would excite me more than to declare to the world about how honorable it was to serve my unit. Despite this, whenever Karen asked about the battles, I would tell her to read it in the newspapers- at least just the headlines. She would tell me how proud she was to read that the 16th Infantry of the Big Red One were the first to dust our feet off at the shorts of North Africa. She would never ask about what combat was like and I would never try to tell her. I never saw a reason to do so. I would write to her about how heroic my actions were and how my squad alone saved thousands of good American and British boys. I would tell her about how the regal sandy hills that seemed to cascade till eternity would reminded me of home. Rather than writing about the battles I was a part of, I would tell her about how I drank with a man on my way to Tunisia and somehow ended up celebrating his son's coming of age party. About when I congratulated the bride by shaking her hand. Unbeknownst to me, any kind of physical contact with a woman, more so a newlywed, was seen as adultery. I would tell her that if we were to ever go back, the first thing I would have to do is apologize and introduce Karen to him. At least that way he would understand how our customs differed.
These kinds of things would happen on a regular basis and if I were to describe every- incident, then I doubt I could even have enough to time to fight the war. My squad was an odd bunch at best. Sure, we did what we were told to do, but we would also run off at the moment we were relieved to explore wherever the hell we were. Karen throughly enjoyed when I told her about the time my squad decided to go temporarily AWOL right before a blinding sandstorm. For the first time in the entire war, I thought I was going to die. That was until I was kissed awake by the most beautiful girl I had ever met. She put her tongue all around me and her male partner picked me up. She waited outside the man's house until I was awake. The man, Mehdi, told me that she had taken a liking to me and offered me to head into the town with her, but I refused. Mehdi told me that Shirley didn't like just any one and even offered to sell her to me. As I left Tunisia, I told Karen how I dearly regretted not buying Shirley. She would have made the best companion in the world during my trip in Africa, but I heavily doubted that our regiment commander would allow me to drag a camel around everywhere.
The second I told my squad about Karen recent modeling job, it wasn't long before they began scouring every magazine for a picture of her. I'm sure it was all in good fun, but still made me pissed as hell to see another man ogling my wife. Nevertheless, her message gave me a long-needed warming for my heart- after what I've seen. It was during that time I got that dirty picture of her and it was that picture that reminded me a little of home.
***
Her eyes were as crystal blue as the ocean. Her tears trickled down like raindrops on a somber day in April and the droplets stained the sidewalk only to disappear a few seconds later. As I recall, it was a hot day- hotter than any other day. Her sweat made her sun dress stick to her body and as tense as it was between us, I felt oddly lustful for her.
“Don't go.” She asked.
“I have to.” I begrudgingly sighed.
“Things won't be the same without you.”
“I'll come back.”
She closed her eyes. Those were the words she didn't want to hear; those were the words of someone who had a chance of dying; the words of someone willing to die; the words of someone who might not come back. She parted her hair to the side and struggled to smile.
She looked at my newly gained physique from basic training and said, “You look good," with her eyes slowly being enveloped by her hair either accidentally or purposely.
I merely peeped, “You've always looked good.”
“Oh stop it.” She joked as her voice trembled.
She didn't dare give up even a sliver of hope that she could convince me to abandon my grandiose and romanticized views of the army. I've read far too many poems and books about the honor of battle or the joys of exploring new lands to give up this opportunity. She saw the burning passion in my eyes- that gentle bloodthirst that coursed through my veins. Those gentle eyes looked on with concern. Her once explosively enthusiastic body was nothing more than a mere husk of it's previous self. It is at this time that I saw her very petite figure crumple in despair. Her normally rosy red cheeks were pale white and her crystal blue eyes slowly glazed over. Suddenly, her eyes burst into her usual vibrant colors.
She pleaded, “Run away with me.”
I remained silent. I felt cold-hearted and empty next the girl who once emboldened both my heart and my mind. She already knew the response I would give. My uniform was getting wet- the olive drabs turning into a more forest green. The only thing I could hear was the tinkling of rain drops on our kind old neighbor's, Mr. Hersh, oddly xylophone shaped gutters. Normally, I would find this tolerable and barely flirting with the line of disgust. Only this time- I found it strangely soothing. The entire world was more beautiful the second I left it.
We both watched the loading boat, that enormous titanic of a ship, lazily bellow smoke as the engine was preparing to churn on. There was a loud whistle in the air; informing all who cared- and didn't care. I shouldered my knapsack and shuffled towards a trolley filled with boisterous young men who had not a care in the world. It was where I would both feel at home and homesick.
She looked at me with a pair of shimmering crystal eyes, like that of an old doll. She bravely smiled radiantly.
She shouted, “When you come back, tell me a story. The greatest story in the world.”
I nodded and responded, “I'll tell you one even better.”
***
Whenever I told the farewell story to any of the replacements, Jimmy would listen eagerly and always cry at that one. He was a big guy- when I say big, I mean six foot five, star quarterback material. Whenever we'd toss around a pigskin, no one wanted to go against him regardless of whether he was defensive line or quarterback. He could mow a guy down just as easily as tossing a ball clear across the field perfectly. This guy, who looked more badass than Sarge, cried often.
It's was different seeing a grown man cry, but it was even odder to see a guy like Jimmy cry. He reminded me of Karen, how she would always react to all of my stories or freely show emotion without any restraint. He was who reminded me the most of home and I appreciated it. As big as he was, he was like everyone's little brother- albeit the littler brother than could toss the older one clear across the room, he was a good kid at heart.
I'd tell Karen a lot about Jimmy- about the stories he'd tell or about how much I wanted our kid to be like Jimmy in the future. I asked Karen if I could name my future son Jimmy and she scoffed at that. I told Karen about the many times Jimmy saved me. About the time a German caught me for scouting far ahead of our line. After I didn't come back, Jimmy organized a crew to extract me despite threats of court-marshaling from HQ. He gathered what we called the Immortals. I was one of them, but it was me, Jimmy, Sarge, Handy, Karl who was soon to be renamed Bulldog, Tex, Smokes, and Johnny, but Johnny was a dick. None of us ever died while the rest of the squad would come and go like the ocean tides. We were like those sand dunes that went against the tide into eternity.
While I was tied up to this rickety chair, a couple of soldiers tried to beat the information out of me. I didn't say anything and after a few hours, but then this ugly-as-sin German SS officer came strolling along, as if he were in a field of roses. He pointed the pistol at my forehead and said nothing. Sweat poured down- maybe it was fear or maybe it was the Tunisian sun, but I sweat enough to drench my uniform- like the day I left Karen. He thought it was the end, the end of everything, and the end to the promise I made to Karen. He clicked the hammer and my heart stopped. I heard a loud boom. I waited a moment to make sure I wasn't dead. I wasn't. Maybe he missed. I carefully opened one eye to see Jimmy whaling on this SS officer. Apparently, he tackled the officer down like a ragdoll. Boy was he a sight for sore eyes.
Everyone gathered around me, trying to protect me as what seemed the entire German army came out of nowhere. Sarge shouted that they would leave no man behind- that we were a unit.
“Welcome back Homer.” Sarge would say. Homer was the name they gave me in honor of Homer the poet. “Now get in the fight!” Sarge continued.
We stood there, guarding this shanty of a house. We needed a new position or at least an escape route. Johnny the dick noticed a guard tower on the far end with a sniper taking pot shots at us. He asked us to cover him. We tried to, but they had two 42's on our position pinning us down. While all of us were trying to cover Johnny the dick, Karl finally resolved on something. Any man could see that he was ready to die, but more importantly, he wanted to one thing while dying. He decided to cover Johnny. By cover, I mean he stood at the doorway, slinging grenades like pancakes from a knapsack full of them. He had this look, uglier than that ugly-as-sin SS officer, that looked a lot like a mad bulldog. He stood there shooting off everything he had at anything that moved- and didn't. I lost count after ten grenades, but I'm sure he tossed at least two times that. He managed to blow the hell out of a German HQ, a Panzer repair crew, and a cage of chickens- poor chickens. I thought he would have been shot to hell, but somehow- somehow he managed to get away his gun being hit with a few rounds, a shoulder wound, his helmet dinged here and there, and the doorway becoming pretty much nonexistent. After seeing his face, we called him Bulldog. Johnny the dick managed to knock out the sniper and start pinning the Germans. We made it home that day- all of us did.
***
Her eyes were as crystal blue as the ocean. She wore a stunning white sun dress that seemed to glow a thousands times more brilliantly than the sun. It was around when I was sixteen that I asked her to go watch a movie with me and then maybe get Italian, whatever they normally ate on dates. She was the first girl that I had ever gone out with and I couldn't be any happier. She looked completely different this day than most others. She looked mature, but had that face of innocent immaturity that men would launch not just a thousand, but thousands upon thousands of ships. She was my Helen and I was her Paris.
We watch a movie- I can't remember much about it due to the fact that it was a hot summer day and all I was watching was her. I ran scenarios constantly through my head- trying to problem solve the date before there were problems to think of. We spent hours at the local burger shop. The Italian place was closed due to spoiled shrimp. She talked about every part of the movie from characters to makeup to story to how the camera was framed. She told me how she admired the main actress.
“Hey, do you think I can model?” She asked with glittering eyes.
“Of course!” I quickly and eagerly exclaimed.
She smirked, “You're lying.”
“Never. Never ever. You're the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”
She blushed. She seemed at loss for words and no longer looked me straight in the eyes. Her gorgeous eyes would flirt with mine- maintaining contact for no less than two seconds before quickly looking away. She was adorable.
“When did you become such a charmer?” She joked.
Emboldened, I stated, “I'm not. I'm an honest man.”
She blushed again. I could feel a certain heat emanating from her cheeks. The sun was setting over the edge of the beach. Valiant reds, mellow yellows, and warming oranges were cascading down the ocean. She quickly stood up and said, “Let's go to the beach!”
As the sun set over the beach, we stared at the stars that night. The water briefly tickling our exposed feet before retreating back into the ocean. The sound of loud drinking, cheering, and excitement seemed to go fill the beach, warming the cold sand. I kissed her for the first time that night.
As we parted lips, fireworks shot up from far across a park. We watched the bursts of light on that fourth of July. She looked at me with her crystal blue eyes dancing with streaks of purple, red, yellow, and every color imaginable. She kissed me once more with those lips as soft as cotton, a little moist, but just dry enough.
***
Jimmy told me about how he spent the fourth of July with this girl that he met at his school. She wasn't the prettiest girl, nor was she the most feminine, but she was a good girl. As popular as Jimmy was, he was far too tall for most girls, except for this one. He would tell about his experiences with girls half his height or when he nearly pulled his back trying to kiss one. We all had a roaring laugh. The alcohol helped- with more things than one.
It was July 4th that we all met together in a pub in London. Good old Eisenhower thought of an armchair crackpot plan to finally break fortress Europe and we were going to be the spearhead. Smokes gave up smoking, but he kept the same name since we forgot his actual one by this point. Tex was discharged home for doing some heroics against Rommel. It wasn't that heroic. All he did was jump on a moving panzer, boot the crew out, and proceed to single-handedly destroy Rommel's pride and joy. I would never have the balls to do something as crazy as that. I saw his face on a war bond that Karen sent me. Damn I was jealous. Last time I heard from him, Tex was literally fighting his way back to us, but was stopped my MP. Punched out three of them attempting to jump onto a shipping boat.
Handy gave Jimmy a birthday present that he somehow made. While we all celebrated with drinks, Handy shoved a hell of a lot of explosives into a football with a grenade pin. Best gift to give to our star quarterback. Handy was like that. There was never a problem that he couldn't solve with a little elbow grease and some all-important explosives. Last time we were low on rations, he would toss a few grenades into the river and run like hell away. Sarge laughed a hell of a lot, we all did those days. I felt like they were all my brothers. Despite the immense burden of murder that we all were forced carry, we carried it together and somehow- that made things better. We were those impenetrable dunes on the beach that held up to countless waves and blinding storms. We stood together to never fall.
Johnny the dick, well he was still a dick as usual. He would be the one to get the girls, to get the good luck in poker, and unfortunately for him, the one to get gonorrhea. We didn't ask questions on how he got it since- well, he'd have to go into the dark side for that, but he just called it a war wound and continued to do what he did best. He turned out to be a grade A marksmen. We all ended up with our positions by the end of our time in Africa.
We all stood on the shore, looking at the English Channel. Smokes asked if they were going to make it home and Sarge smiled for the first time.
He announced, “We are the Immortals, death fears us for we do not fear it.”
The men smiled and cheered. We happily drank away whatever issues we had. We stood on the shore, the very same crystal blue as the one at home, the very same glorious white as the one at home, and even the same smell of red roses growing in nearby fields. This and my brothers reminded me of home.
***
Her eyes were as crystal blue as the ocean. We both sat on the edge during our honeymoon. Despite being the one time in our lives we could go crazy with each other, we both decided that it would be best if we spent it on the beach- where we first met. I didn't know how I could explain how I felt during that time. We were married and I was never more happier than that. As simple as it sounds, the girl of my dreams was married to me and we were on the journey of life together. We were both pretty drunk seeing as we came stumbling from one of the local bars I remembered from the past. The ocean was just as beautiful as it originally was.
Karen sighed a heavy sigh as she wondered about the looming threat of war hanging over our heads. Europe was ablaze with conflict and in my back pocket was my army volunteer paper. I figured it was more honorable to join the army than be forced into it. Karen's tiny frame shook with every sigh and heave. She wrapped her tiny arms around her legs and curled up into a ball. I remembered the sand on the beach- how it fell slowly through my feet. The wind being blocked by the large sand dunes with the little tuffs of grass on top.
“You know what's amazing?” She childishly asked.
“What?” I responded.
She quickly stood up, brushed the sand from her legs, and skipped off to a sand dune. Those impenetrable sand dunes.
“These are really weak.” She stated.
I was rather amused to see how she would justify those majestic sand dunes being weak objects compared to her tiny frame. She smirked. She could tell that I was half mocking her. She climbed up the largest sand dune- more like a large hill than anything else. It took for what seemed like half of eternity to do it. She finally stood at the top of it triumphantly.
“Catch me.” She ordered as she devilishly smiled.
I stood up wondering what on earth she was about to do. Nevertheless, I came close; getting ready to catch her at a moment's notice. She wrapped her soft hands around the tuff of grass at the top of the sand dune and pulled as hard as she could. She ripped it off. The sand dune began collapsing all around as if it were no different than the sand on the beach. She jumped off- her dress dancing in the wind and her eyes glowing in the glint of the sun. I caught and embraced her tightly. She gave me a kiss- a reward.
The second I let her go, she planted herself onto the pristine white beach once more. She looked into my eyes and asked, “What's on the other side of the ocean?”
I thought for a second. “Metaphorically or literally?” I inquired.
“Good response Mr. Poet!” She joked. She continued, “Both.”
I pondered for a second to where we were in comparison to the rest of the world, but seeing as I never really was the wunderkind at Geography, I wasn't too sure. I estimated and responded, “Literally I'd say it's Europe somewhere, probably France.”
“I'd like to go there someday.” She sighed. For a moment I thought that maybe I read her wrong- that I didn't actually choose the right place to go for a honeymoon. Thought I was worried, she relieved me of my fears by simply resting her head on my shoulder. She think she sensed my worry and murmured, “Thanks for this,” into my ear. Her soft whisper calmed me almost immediately.
I told her, “I'd like to go there someday too.”
“Do you think that the beaches on France are as nice as this one?” She asked.
I assured her, “Probably just as nice.”
She continued, “How about metaphorically?”
I wondered again. There are thousands upon thousands of books, poems, songs, and tales about the ocean, but I tried to surmise what the ocean could actually represent. I struggled with this issue- me, a poet, unable to define something as simple and vast as the ocean represented failure. Perhaps it wasn't failure, but my lack of confidence in creating my own definition.
“I'll tell you when I find out.” I sheepishly responded. Her eyes locked onto mine as her golden hair slowly swallowed up my shoulder like vines in a manor. “I'll be waiting until then.” She responded.
***
As I look onto the shore, I really think that the beaches on France are just at nice as the beaches that I sat on with Karen. The beach is filled with the same alabaster white sand and the ocean is just as pristine and crystal blue. If I could, I would like to send her a letter with a package filled with this sand. I would imagine she would be extremely jealous of the views that I saw daily. The time under the North African sun as I watched those majestic sandy hills or the city life of London or even those days I may spend in the streets of Paris. If only I could tell her about the bravado that me and my fellow self-proclaimed Immortals exhibited or the heroic acts that we regularly performed. I would tell her about the boisterous crashes from the shore that come and go with the waves. About how even the rocks here teemed with life that would make one truly appreciate nature. It is at this point that if anyone asked if I was a poet, I would gladly say yes for I have seen the beauty and horros of life- more so than I could ever explain.
I looked at Jimmy, Sarge, Handy, Bulldog, Smokes, and Johnny the dick, but they were too focused on what was happening ahead of them than to have time to look at me. They looked so focused on what was in front of them than to be able to see the beauty of nature that I almost pitied them. Jimmy laid there, hands tightly gripped on his weapon, and a look of concern permanently painted on his face like an priceless mural.
I wanted to tell Karen about the truth- about how I hated every living day out in a world where I cared little about. About how war was completely opposite to the heroic tales that were recorded in the great novels. About how I no longer could write with the same flair or exuberance that I once did because of the pressures of war- or because of what I've seen. About how I have killed far greater men than I would have ever saved- how I wished that I could go back into her arms and give her a kiss; a kiss on those sweet lips. I was greedy. I wished this and far more. I wished that I could tell her the greatest story in the world- the story of us, the one of Karen and I- but I, I could not. I could barely manage to pull out a sheet of paper that wasn't drenched in sea water. Barely the size of the dirty photo Karen had sent, there was little that was available for space. I carefully extracted a pen from my breast pocket. Making certain that none of the precious ink was lost along the moist parts of my uniform. I know Jimmy, Sarge, Handy, Bulldog, Smokes, and Johnny the dick would all come around me someday- waiting for a new story, but I feel that they have begun making adventures of their own.
As we stormed the beaches of Normandy, I saw tuffs of grass being pulled from the large sand dunes. One by one until all that remained was the empty husks of what they once were. I carefully moved my body to see the sea where thousands upon thousands will tread. I could barely raise my hand and write on the paper- hoping that Karen would find it. I wrote:
I'll be on the other side of the ocean.
