The Ghost of You

You didn’t want to go. You had no choice. Fresh out of college, you were going to be a doctor. You had a great fiancé and a good family who loved you. You had your whole life ahead of you. You had everything you’d ever wanted. You had it all.

Then our letters came. We were wanted in the war. It was our civic duty to go. We were scared, especially you, my shy little brother who found it hard to squash even the tiniest bug. However, they wanted us to go. So we went.

Do you remember the day we left? I do. It was storming. Mom, Dad, your fiancé, and other friends and family were all there to say good-bye. As we boarded the boat to leave, there were tears in their eyes and our own. No one would let them fall. We had to be brave for ourselves and for each other. With forced smiles, we waved good-bye from the ship. We didn’t know when we’d be back or if we’d ever be back at all.

It was a horrible time. Then again, I guess all wartimes are bad times, especially if you’re directly involved. The letters from our families back home didn’t make it any better. Letters made it harder at best, because we know that we’re not with them and we might never see them again. That thought alone can kill your soul.

The days were hard. Gunshots rang in our ears as we watched enemies and friends alike fall to the ground, bleeding and crying for their mothers. I will never forget their terrified faces, their shuddering last breaths, before they left us forever.

Nights were just as difficult. The fear of not knowing what was lurking in the shadows drove some to insanity and suicide. Dreams were haunted by the memories of battles and fallen soldiers. We would have given anything to be able to go back home, to sleep in our own beds, safe and warm.

With the passing of each day, things got worse, and there was no sign of improvement. Behind enemy lines, we were vulnerable. They started picking us off one by one. Every day more people died. As we listened to the radio, we prayed over and over to hear the three simple words ‘war is over.’ They didn’t come soon enough.

I remember what I would say was the worst day of them all, just like it happened yesterday. In actuality, it was June 6, 1944. I’m sure you won’t ever be able to forget it.

The night before, some of the soldiers had a small party in our tent. There was a lot of music and plenty of drinking. What surprised me most was the laughing, a sound that had become foreign to my ears since I had received that letter. “Gentlemen,” one of the soldiers said, holding up his beer bottle, “raise your glass high, for tomorrow we die!” His voice was cheery and I don’t think he knew what he was saying. Despite the depressing thoughts his sentence conjured, we all raised our glasses in a drunken happiness. You didn’t look as happy. I asked you what was wrong, but you shrugged it off and said it was nothing. I knew you were lying.

A storm raged above us and rain soaked us to the bone. Water splashed against the sides of the boats, tossing them around in the rough current of the channel. Our stomachs churned as the shores of Omaha Beach came into sight. The man in front of us vomited, which cause a chain reaction like dominoes. I kissed the cross on my necklace before tucking it safely under my shirt, praying that we would make it out alive. As you played with your engagement ring, you stared out at the raging water with death in your green eyes.

Then you turned to me. “Please say we’ll be okay,” you said in a pleading, shaky voice. Of all the times we had gone into battle, you had never asked that of me before. It startled me. I guess you knew something bad was going to happen.

“You know I can’t promise you a thing, Johnny,” I replied. I wanted to tell you everything would be fine, I truly did, but what would I say if things went wrong?

“Promise me that if I fall, you’ll remember me,” you said. You were starting to scare me, talking like that. It was like you knew something was going to happen to you.

“I could never forget you, little brother.”

“I love you, Matthew,” you whispered. “You’re a good brother.”

“I love you too.” I couldn’t say any more. I readied my gun. We were getting closer to the shore.

The gates crashed open and immediately we were being shot at. Some of us had to climb over the dead bodies of soldiers to get off the boat. We splashed through the water, dyed crimson with blood, and onto the beach. Men fell all around us, they were either shot or blown up by land mines, staining the sand red as well.

You were a few yards behind me. You stopped behind one of the giant metal x’s that lined the beach to catch your breath. Breathing heavily, you reloaded your gun. You pushed your glasses farther up your nose and straightened your helmet. Holding your breath, you began to run again.

You broke cover at the wrong time. I screamed your name, yelling for you to go back, but you didn’t hear me. I tried to run to you, but two of our soldiers held me back. One soldier in danger is better than two, or so they say.

Bullets from the German gunners whizzed around you, barely missing your body. You kept running, firing at the opposition, like any brave soldier would.

The whole world seemed to slow down. A bullet hit your stomach and blood spurted out. Dropping your gun, your hands went to the bleeding wound as shock flooded your face. I screamed for you still, but the soldiers refused to release me. You dropped to your knees and fell onto your back. You looked up at me and mouthed “I’m sorry, Matthew.”

The medic did his best, but there was no saving you. You were doomed from the moment you opened your letter.

Your body went limp, the light faded from your eyes, and you were gone.

Now I sit in front of your grave, looking up at the clouds and saying all of this, hoping you can hear me in Heaven.

I have to face the fact that you’re never coming home. It’s hard, and I don’t know if I can do it. I try to tell myself that I am not afraid to keep on living and I am not afraid to walk this world alone. At least I know that the ghost of you will walk with me wherever I go.

I sit up and face your grave. On your grave is my necklace with the cross on it. In a salute to you, I raise my hand to my forehead and pull it away. I pick up my cane and slowly walk away. I can almost feel you beside me. I will never forget you.