The Search of a Sixth Sense

            My mother comes home from her meeting with the psychic medium.  She looks at me as if she’s about to cry.  She tries to speak but just exhales dramatically.  Should I be worried?
            “A spirit has a message for you.”  She says.

            “Really?”  I respond dully.  I try to hide the fact that I don’t believe in psychic stuff.  I look up as if I’m interested.

            “Your sister came through.”  She says.

            “My sister?”

            “From the miscarriage I had before you were born.”

            “Oh.”

            “Apparently she’s your spiritual guide.”

            “Oh.”

            “She said she’s with you when you perform standup.”

            “What!?”  I holler.  My eyes widen, the hairs on my arms stand up, and my jaw drops slightly.  A lesser version of me would shit my pants.  “What the hell did the lady say?”

            “The lady said, ‘You’re younger son. . .he’s funny. . .he’s really funny. . .is he a standup comic?’  So I told her you were. . .”

            “She just asked you that out of the nowhere!?” 

            “Yes.  And then she said, ‘His older sister wants him to know that she’s always in his corner, cheering him on.’”

            “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”  I reply.

            “Why?  I thought that was really nice.”

            “How the hell did the lady know I was a standup comic!?”

            “Your sister told her.  She’s a psychic medium.”

            “But why would my sister care so much about my standup comedy!?”

            “You’re trying to make it your career, aren’t you?”

Five Months Later

            I get ready to take the stage for my first paid gig.  The club is filled with people.  Everyone is talking loudly.  There are people on dates, groups of friends, and super fans who’ve come alone.  They ooze the need for stimulation.  There are no comedians on stage.  Laughter can be heard, however.  The power of alcohol is champion.

            I take a deep breath.  I step out onto the stage.  Everyone stops laughing.  The power of booze is no more.  Comedy becomes my responsibility.

            I tell jokes.  People laugh.  It is a regular night.  I get applause for some, guffaws for others, giggles for the rest.  I try to stick to rehearsed material.  My confidence is articulate.

            Some audience members yell random crap at me.  I yell random funny shit back at them.  The crowd chuckles at the random crap I say.

            I get back to my rehearsed material.  My jokes get the laughter that they always do.  I drop them into the mic one by one like back-to-back home runs.   Finally, I get to the joke that’s not funny; the one I tell every set.

            The entire audience falls silent.  I pause to listen.  I hear no rouge laughter; no open-aired chuckles from a corner; no freestanding cheers. 

            Perhaps I should try to listen with my heart.

Contemplating Jazz

            A warm breeze off the gulf blew a sullied sprinkle of dust through the air as darkened, sinister rain clouds hovered over New Orleans, forlornly dimming the city.  Raymond Paul walked down St. Claude Ave., taking his usual route to school, kicking and jerking rocks and other pieces of street debris with his torn-up shoes; which his mother had tattered back together the previous night.  A hovercraft flew by him, stirring breezes of dust and grime from the street.  The filth dirtied and muddled him; he’d just taken his weekly shower at the community center two days ago and he was already covered in dry muck.  He looked up at the shadowy clouds and prayed for a rainstorm to come so he could once again feel clean.  Growing up in New Orleans, he knew to never expect any feelings of fresh cleanliness, but still craved for them longingly.  He sat down on a curb outside the home of his friend, Everett Crispin, which had once been a liquor store, and waited for him as he did every morning before heading to school and gazed blank faced down the ravaged street.  He heard a light bustling as Everett finally forced open the door of his shabby home and stepped outside, sauntering aimlessly onto the street. 

            “What’s up?”  Raymond asked as Everett took a seat next to him on the curb.

            “Nothing much,” Everett answered, “What time is it?  Are we late again?”

            “I don’t think so,” said Raymond, “the sun’s not high enough yet.”

            The pair sat silently for several minutes after their brief interchange.  There was nothing much for them to talk about other than the redundancy of enduring an existence in New Orleans or the fear of what another hurricane might do to the city.  A fight broke out several blocks down the street, causing an utter outburst of clamor and commotion, but neither boy so much as turned their heads towards it; such an episode was so typical of the local streets that it raised not an eyebrow nor a bit of interest amongst any onlookers.

            “You want to head out?”  Raymond asked his friend as they sat in murkiness together.

            “Sure,” Everett answered, as he lifted himself up to his feet with low spirits and pessimism.

            The duo walked side-by-side down the their regretful street with no desire to converse with each other, despite the years of their friendship.  Their was no reason too share anything with each other.  They each knew their outlooks, opinions, and beliefs would be entirely the same.  Such was the case for every person in the city of New Orleans; each thought of nothing other than the rotten and excessively dreadful state their lives had been in since Hurricane Clayton.  Each thought of nothing but the outmoded surplus of anguish that twisted amongst the streets.

            “Hey Everett,” said Raymond as the pair walked by the fresh dead body of a homeless man, “do you want to skip school today?”

            “And do what?”  Everett responded dully, “school’s the only way we’ll ever get out of here.”
            “I don’t think there’s any way out of here,” Raymond stated as the twosome walked down the block from the body then stopped to talk.

            “Yeah,” replied Everett, “but everybody says that if you get a scholarship you can. . .”

            “Who cares what anybody says,” Raymond snapped back, “they said they would fix this city, remember?”

            “Yeah,” said Everett stopping his stream of thought.

            “I don’t understand why you’ve missed the bandwagon, Everett,” Raymond went on, “we’re never going to get out of here.”

            Everett looked around for a minute, first at his feet, then across the street, then back at Raymond.  The starred at each other for a minute then Everett looked away again.   He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in a lame attempt to nod off what Raymond had just said.

            “My father made it out of here,” said Everett candidly, turning his head downwards in contemplation.

            “Your father’s probably dead, like mine,” replied Raymond candidly.

            “Yeah I know,” Everett said, “but sometimes I feel like we’re a little too negative about everything.”

            “Nothings negative about the truth,” Raymond stated bluntly, “there’s no point in trying to twist things out of proportion, man.”

            Everett looked around for another few minutes, and contemplated skipping school.  Raymond took as seat on the curb and started twirling his thumbs about as he waited for Everett’s response.  A random man with burn wounds stumbled his way down the street and passed by them, knocking against Raymond’s shoulder slightly as he stumbled by, limping distressingly.

            “I think today’s my birthday,” said Everett as the man passed by.

            “Really?”  Pronounced Raymond as jovially as the city allowed him to be as he jumped to his feet.

            “It might be,” answered Everett expressionlessly, “I was born on April 6.”

            “It’s definitely early April,” Raymond stated, “but I haven’t had a look at a calendar since the last time I was at city hall three weeks ago.”

            “Yeah,” said Everett, “I guess I’m 15 now.”

            “Happy Birthday,” Raymond tried to exclaim.

            The pair stood silently for a few more minutes, looking around the street, each deliberating whether skipping school would be a good or bad idea.  Another hovercraft flew by, this one a military vehicle, and stirred yet another spout of dust and filth across the boys.  Both looked at each other and gazed upon the smut that had been smeared across their faces, at which point, both began to laugh.

            “Let’s do it,” Everett said.

            “Skip school?”  Replied Raymond.

            “Yeah,” Everett confirmed, “let’s do it!”

            “We’ve got to celebrate your birthday somehow, right?”  Said Raymond as he cracked a light smile.

            “Yeah I guess so,” pronounced Everett as he tried to put a pep in his step.

            The duo stepped out of the sidewalk and into the street with a newfound looseness within them.  They walked with a fresh ease and openness, no longer going through the repetitive conformed gesture of walking to school.  They treaded sideways and slantedly through the dusty, broken pavement, past menacing looking man who stood perfectly still, starring at them, and went several paces down the block, at which point they simultaneously realized they were still headed towards school.

            “Where should we go?”  Asked Everett as he pulled to stop.

            “Uh. . .I don’t really know,” answered Raymond.

            “There’s really nothing to do besides go to school,” Everett alleged, “is there?”

            “That’s nonsense,” barked Raymond, “don’t say that.”

            “But it’s true,” Everett uttered with a raised eyebrow.

            “Come on man,” Raymond reasoned, “look around for a minute, there’s got to be something fun to do.  Just stop and think, we’ll figure something out.”

            The two boys did exactly as Raymond suggested, they halted themselves in place and partook in a moment of consideration.  Raymond looked around stirred in fidgety motions as he thought, while Everett stood idle and subdued, utterly lost in the spirals of his inner contemplation.  It were almost as if he were a dummy.

            “There’s nothing to do, we’re just going to end up standing here all day like the creepy old guy over there,” Everett said as he pointed towards the intimidating man who had watched them walk by.

            “There’s got to be something,” Raymond pressed again, “we just have to think harder.”

            “I don’t think that’s going to help,” replied Everett straightforwardly.

            “I think it will,” Raymond argued, slightly ticked off.

            “When’s the last time you had a good idea?”  Everett asked abruptly as he made sudden eye contact with Raymond.

            “This morning,” Raymond answered with no hesitation.

            “What was that?”  Everett inquired briskly.

            “It was my idea to skip school,” Raymond replied promptly.

            “You think skipping school was a good idea?”  queried Everett.

            “Yeah, it was a great idea,” Raymond claimed, “there’s no reason to go there.  We’re never getting out of New Orleans.”

            “But there’s nothing to do besides go to school,” Everett declared frankly, “there’s nothing to do in these streets.”

            “There’s plenty to do,” counter-claimed Raymond.

            “Like what?”  Everett asked, “stare at how the hurricane devastation has become more devastating over the years?”

            “There’s plenty more to do than that,” argued Raymond before Everett cut him off.

            “Really?”  Everett retorted with sarcasm, “You think so?  There is nothing to do in this city besides try not to get murdered or mugged.”

            “Don’t be like that, man, we’ll think of something fun, it’ll just take a little imagination,” Raymond declared out of pure hope.

            “Imagination?” Everett echoed with open scorn, “Since when is it a good idea to walk around New Orleans with an imagination?”

            “Since we decided to skip school this morning,” replied Raymond.

            “That’s just stupid,” said Everett discourteously, “the only thing you need in these streets is the ability to get away from them.”

            “Do you have that?”  Raymond swiftly countered, “Can you get away somehow?”

            Everett stopped to ponder that question before responding.  He’d been plenteous times by his teachers at school that the only way out of New Orleans was through school.  But the problem with New Orleans was that it’s schools were terrible.  Everything was terrible in New Orleans.  The city had no running water, no  electricity, and no official police force.  Was there really a way out?  Everett repeated the question in his head and tried to answer—which was something he found himself doing often.

            “No,” Everett answered as Raymond starred at him harshly, “I don’t think I can.”

            “Welcome to the club bro,” Raymond replied as he extended his hand out to his friend, “you’re definitely not alone.”

            “Sometimes I just feel, like,” said Everett as he took his friend’s hand but then hesitated his speech, “never mind.”

            “Sometimes you feel like what?”  Raymond asked.

            “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Everett insisted.

            “No say it,” Raymond said, “I’m you’re friend, man.”

            “It’s just that sometimes these streets make me feel really worthless,” Everett stated expressively after collecting his thoughts for a moment.

            “Why would you say that?”  Raymond responded immediately.

            “Just look around yourself for a second,” Everett answered fervently, “what do you see besides waste?”

            “Stop being so negative,” Raymond refuted, “let’s figure out something to do.”

            “How?”  Everett argued, “There’s nothing to do in these streets.”

            “We’ll have to imagine something,” Raymond said passionately, “just try it.”

            “What’s with you and this imagination stuff?”  Everett replied with a slim chuckle.

            “I don’t think there’s enough imagination around here,” Raymond stated bluntly, “just look around, do you see anyone imagining anything?”

            “There’s nothing to imagine,” Everett said dully, “we live in a wasteland if you haven’t noticed.”

            “Let me tell you something I believe whole-heartedly, my friend,” Raymond pronounced strong-mindedly, “no matter what life does to your mind’s eye, there’s always something to imagine.”

            “That’s some deep shit,” replied Everett.

            “Damn right it is,” Raymond agreed as the friends shared a laugh, “let’s find something to do.”

            “Let’s imagine it first,” said Everett with a smirk.

            The duo high-fived each other and walked on down the street, in candid search of something entertaining to do with their day.  They walked through the broken streets of the French Quarter, viewing not a single site that did not seem threatening, whether the hostility was manufactured by the shattered looks of the landscape or by the nasty and aggressive air of the people in the streets.  They went on to the fragmented scene of the Central Business District and saw the same aggressive depictions.  They kept walking and moved on to the hurricane-crushed ruins of Uptown, and found nothing more than the monotonous recurrence of devastation.  They found nothing more than waste.  But still they walked with pride, trying tediously hard to imagine what pizzazz and enthusiasm might be somehow made from the depths of their bleak surrounds.  They worked their imaginations with vivacity, trying profusely hard to unlock the oomph, pep, and zing of the city they found themselves trapped in.  But unfortunately, the pair’s venture through their dreaded home of New Orleans yielded no tangible signals of Jazz. 

A Note From Heaven

            “So what the hell do we do?” I asked Bates, who was peering out of a hole in the side of the barn we hid in; it was his turn to keep watch.

            “Shut up a second,” He answered with his usual city-boy snap, “Let me figure out if they’re still coming.”

            “Oh they’re still coming, that’s a given,” I told him, “it’s just a matter of when they find us.”

            “Why are we hiding here if they’re gonna’ find us?!” He shouted at me, turning around with a spin.

            “Cause we would’ve run straight into more if we kept going, didn’t you look at the map!?”  I returned, frustrated with the complexity of our situation.  We’re in a pickle, probably our worst one since being sent overseas.  We’re behind enemy lines because we parachuted out of our plane at the wrong time.  The Germans spotted us immediately and now they’re closing in from all directions.  We’ve been chased by so many of them today that I couldn’t even count them.  We’re pretty screwed.   I feel like this is almost as bad as when we stormed Omaha Beach a couple weeks ago.  The only thing that was worse about that was seeing everybody get blown up around me, that made my stomach hurt.  My stomach’s not hurting now, but honestly, I feel like my life is in just as much danger as it was on the beach.  The Germans are going to find us in this barn; I’ve got no doubt.

            “I think I should go out there for a better look,” Bates suggested, pacing back and forth across the barn, “to see if they’re here yet.”

            “Hell no, you might blow our cover,” I said quickly.

            “What makes you think we have any cover!?  You just said you think they’ll find us!”  He shouted back, stampeding his hands through the air in his usual panic.

            “I don’t know, maybe the fact that we’re in a barn,” I reckoned, getting a little smart with my tone, “Don’t you understand the concept of a hiding place?”

I can’t stand Bates, how could I keep myself from getting smart with him?  Sgt. Nick Bates is an over-the-top version of everything.  He’s a loud, complicated, difficult, labyrinth of a Chicago kid that’s somehow ended up behind enemy lines with me, a calm, collected, hushed, and breezeless kid who was born and raised in Iowa.  I think I hate Bates, and I think he hates me.  Actually, I’m certain of that.  But I’ve got to be his brother, though; he’s my comrade and we’re in this together.  However, I don’t see us getting along anytime soon—he makes it too hard.

            “Why are we hiding in a spot where we’re gonna’ get found, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of hiding!?”  Bates hollered back.  “I don’t know what you’re doing, country boy, but I’m trying to improve our situation.”

            “And you think I’m not tryin’ to do the same thing?”  I reasoned.

            “I don’t know what it is you’re doing, but whatever it is is bothering me!”  He clamored.

            “Well, we don’t have to get along, we just have to survive.” I retorted.  Now is really not the time or place for an argument, but I think arguing is the only type of communication Bates knows how to do.  He must’ve picked it up from his parents.

            “I’m not trying to get along with you, I’m tryin’ to knock some sense into you!” He bellowed again.  “I don’t think ya understand, we’ve got the Germans chasin’ us, and we’re in a fucking barn, a FUCKING BARN!”

            “Yeah, this is a good hiding place.”  I said.

            “We’re in a fucking barn,” he reiterated, staying steadily melodramatic, “They could bomb us out!  We’re sitting ducks!”

            “We’re not sitting ducks, we’ve got guns and grenades.”  I countered.

            “Which is exactly why they’re gonna’ bomb us out! They don’t wanna’ get shot!”

            “Which is why we’ve got to shoot at them,” I explained, “to keep them away.”

            “But then they’re probably just gonna’ bomb us out!”  Bates squawked with his annoying city accent—I don’t think I’ll ever visit Chicago; it’s probably full of people like him.

            “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.  Shooting at them’s our only choice, so I don’t know what you’re arguing about.” I said.

            “What do you mean that’s our only choice!?  We could leave this barn!”  He yelled back.

            “They would shoot at you if you left, and you’d have to shoot back.” I tried to explain.  I’m about to lose my patience, I really am.  The last thing this army needs is a panicking paratrooper.

            “But then they’d bomb me out!”  He went on. 

“I guess that’s a problem, isn’t it!”  I shouted.  At that, I stopped for a moment.  I’m going to try ignoring him, because every time I continue to argue, he blows things out of proportion. 

The two of us sat still and stared at each other for a few good minutes.  Bates seemed to be giving off fumes of anger and I’m sure he felt the same vibe from me.  I am, after all, “a stupid country boy”—as he puts it.  But he is, after all, “a stupid city boy,” as I put it.  He’s the most annoying person I’ve ever met, but I think I’ve learned a lot from him, and not just bad things.  I actually think it’s really great that we can work together without liking each other (despite the fact that it’s a little painful).  I get along well with most of the other paratroopers; so working together seems natural when I’m with them.  But when I have to work with Bates I realize the power behind the army’s ability to make teamwork happen.  No matter how well you get along with the guy you’re working with, you’re his brother.  The more I think about it, it’s kind of incredible that we’re out here squabbling with each other, but still have each other’s backs.  I hope he’s got my back, anyways, I know I’ve got his.

 “Oh shit, what was that!” Bates sporadically yelled, as the two of us jumped in reaction to an explosion that suddenly occurred nearby, breaking our silence.

“I’ll check the east, you check the west,” I immediately called out as we both spurted towards our respective barn windows and looked outside.  So suddenly our bantering dialogue was over and we were back to business.  I was almost glad that something came to distract us from our disagreement.

“You see anything?”  Bates asked from his side of the barn.

“No,” I answered, “You?

“No,” he echoed, “Check the south, I got the north.”

Again we looked out the windows of both sides, scanning the terrain before us with the careful eye we’d been trained with, but neither of us found any sign of an enemy presence.  I turned to Bates, not really sure of what to say, and he turned and looked at me, just as quiet.   Are we being pursued?  Are they closing in on us?  What is going on?  I don’t think either of us is sure.

“What do you wanna’ do?”  Asked Bates, finally.

“I don’t know, we’ve got no chance of getting back to Allied Territory,” I said before Bates cut me off again.

“Well, we don’t have to go back to our territory, but we can’t stay here,” he stated with sincerity, rather than vigor, “They’re gonna’ get us, Miller.”

“Yeah, but,” I started to say, but then stopped to think.  Bates just spoke with more genuineness than I’d ever heard from him; I didn’t even know he could tone himself down like that.  Quite frankly, I think he’s right.  That explosion was too close for comfort; the Germans are almost here.  I was thinking that it would be a good idea to hide out in the barn for a while, hoping that we’d buy ourselves some nice time to work out our predicament.  Now, however, I’m pretty sure that we’re about to get bombed out, like Bates suggested.  I have no idea where we might go, or what we might do if we go on the run again, but it certainly beats sitting here and waiting to get killed.  If they’re going to get us, we might as well make them chase us, right?

“But what?” Pronounced Bates, interrupting my train of thought.

“Nothing, never mind,” I rendered, “you’re right, we’ve got to go.”

“Yeah, alright,” he rendered back, “when?”

“Right now,” I rationalized, “before one of those shells hits us.”

“Alright, what’s the plan?”  He agreed, more stale-faced and focused than I’d ever seen him.  The strength of the explosion we heard had so quickly re-manifested the seriousness of our situation behind enemy lines.  Our stay at the barn had been a breath of fresh air, but it had scarcely changed the fact that we’re fighting for our lives, competing against the deadly pursuit of the Germans and ambiguously canvassing ourselves across their danger-laced territory in search of any and every remedy that could possibly hinder the peril that stands so dangerously close at hand.  We’re being hunted, and I think we’re both feeling it.

“Did you see that cluster of trees three miles back?”  I responded to Bates, thinking on my feet, trying to work out a plan.

“That wasn’t a cluster of trees, that was a wood,” he replied, getting argumentative yet again.

“Right,” I retorted, “Let’s go in there and see if we can somehow get them to lose us again in the woods.  We’ll have to be sneaky, but I think we can slip out and buy more time.  Either way, we’ve got to try.  Their search perimeter’s going to close in on us eventually.”

“Alright, yeah, let’s do it,” said Bates.  The notion of him actually agreeing with me is probably the most relieving thing I’ve ever experienced.

“You ready now?”  I asked.

“Yeah.”  He said.

“Let’s go!” I chiefly verbalized as I lifted my weapon and started towards the door.  Bates came behind me at which point I turned to give him a few more directions.  We’re both the same rank, Sergeant, but I’ve taken it upon myself to step up as a leader in this instance.  A leader is somebody that has to stand up and call the shots, no matter what problems might come of it.  Bates can’t do that, he thinks too much and dwells on problems.  Then he starts arguments to figure those problems out.  I guess it’s my job to step up for the both of us, “Come out directly behind me, then break left, I’ll diverge at first, and then join back up with you if we’re not taking any fire.  If we do take fire, I’ll go my own route to the woods and meet up with you there.”

“Alright,” Bates stated firmly as he nodded his head in utter concentration, “blow your whistle when you get to the woods so I know you’re there.”

“Will do,” I told him, “you do the same.”

He nodded to my comment and armed his rifle as I did the same, lining up, getting ready to burst out of the barn door.  Bates got behind me and I took a deep breath as I prepared to run as hard as I could.  I don’t know where the enemy fire is going to come from, but I can guarantee you they’re going to fire on us.  This might be the last thing we do, but that doesn’t bother me too much, I’m a paratrooper; I have that thought every time I jump out of an aircraft.

“Follow my lead.” I turned and said to Bates, almost issuing him an order.  He nodded and together we bolted out of the barn, tenacious and sharply hard-boiled, determined to make it to our next safe haven.  We knew that the only way we were going to get through this alive would be through perseverance, and we would only persevere if we started out doing so; you’ve always got to start things the way you want them to end.  We stepped out of the barn like dogs, strong-minded and bent on survival, and in that very moment, a sniper shot me in the leg.

I woke up with a tight syringe, presumably fashioned out of torn cloth from Bates’ shirt, tied around my thigh, right above where the bullet had hit me.  I touched my leg where I’d been shot and felt my wet blood drip all over.  Standing over me was Bates.  He stood still and placid, apparently not noticing the fact that I was awake.  He held a piece of cloth in front of him that he carefully tore in half.  I attempted to speak to him, but out came nothing other than a dry squeak—I needed water.  Bates heard my exhausted exhale as I tried speaking and immediately stopped what he was doing to respond.

“Whoa, drink this.”  Bates said as he handed me his canteen.  I started twisting the cap so I could drink from it but it was too strong, I couldn’t bring myself to pull it off.  Bates noticed I was struggling, and took care of it for me, “here,” he said as he handed the water back to me and then went on, “I was able to dig the bullet out of you with that medical kit we had.  Now I’ve just gotta’ get you bandaged up.”

I noticed that it was dark outside; it had been light before I’d been shot.  I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.  It means that we’ve made it to nightfall and they still haven’t bombed us out, so that’s a good thing, but the fact that night is upon us means that our time is winding down.  Perhaps the Germans are waiting for us.  Why else would they shoot me but not come in to finish us off?  They’ve probably got us surrounded.  Finally, after messing with the cloth for a few more moments, Bates leaned down and started bandaging my leg.

“Does it hurt?” He asked as he tied the cloth.  I shook my head “no.”  I still felt I couldn’t talk, and I don’t know if I want to; I feel like I might pass out again at any moment. 

I looked at the pool of blood below my leg, and the vast amount that had been spread on Bates’ clothing and realized that I’d lost quite a bit.  I don’t feel cold, so I suppose I haven’t lost so much that I’m about to die, but I’ve definitely got a problem.  I don’t really know why I’m not feeling any pain.  Maybe I’m in too much shock?  Maybe I’m too wound up? It doesn’t really matter, I guess.  All that matters is getting myself together.

“You think you’ll be able to stand sometime soon?”  Bates asked, radiating an unconfident sense of optimism.  I tried to speak but failed again, and merely shook my head “no,” as Bates kneeled down beside me. 

“Here take another drink,” He said as he handed his canteen to me again, “We’ll talk when you can.”

I took another drink and closed my eyes.  There’s literally nothing I can do at the moment.  I feel as if the simple act of being awake is mustering all of my strength.  Maybe I’ll feel better when I wake up, or maybe I won’t wake up.  I don’t really know why I feel so weak; maybe it’s the blood loss.  Or maybe the shot I took was that traumatizing.  Maybe it’s both.

            I woke up again feeling just as fragile.  It’s still dark outside, so I wasn’t passed out for that long, and Bates is still by my side, resting in a pile of hay.  He’s still wide awake, a smart choice considering our situation, but I don’t think he noticed me wake up.  I still can’t feel any pain from my wound, but I feel just as frail as before.  I haven’t gotten better.  I don’t think I’m going to make it out of here alive.  I can’t move my leg, it literally won’t work, and there’s no way that Bates will be able to carry me out without getting us both shot.  I can’t stay here forever, the Germans will find me.  I think I’m done.

            “Bates.” I weakly pronounced.  Bates jumped as soon as he heard me speak.  My voice was frail and powerless, but he looked as if he’d just heard another explosion.  I feebly told him, “You should go.”

             “Go?”  He said with an expression of staggered inquiry.

            “I’m not going to make it,” I told him bluntly, my voice still airy.

            “Don’t say that,” he replied, “you can’t give up.”

            “I’m not giving up,” I said back, “I’m telling you to save yourself.”
            “How am I supposed to do that?”  He asked.  “I’m not gonna’ make it on my own, I need you.  I might as well give up too.”

            “It’s not time for an argument.” I retorted, attempting to interrupt and talk over him, but failing to raise my voice that loud.

            “What?”  He said.

            “It’s not time for an argument.” I repeated.  “It’s time for you to save yourself.”

            “I’m not arguing, Miller,” Bates claimed sharply, “I’m just trying to remind you that I can’t leave a man behind.”
            “I’m not going to make it, Bates.” I tried to explain. “You’re not leaving anyone behind, you’re accepting the fact that I’m done, and you’re saving yourself.”

            The conversation had me feeling sick.  I can barely get my words out and I’m starting to feel a little cold.  I looked down at my wound and noticed that it was still bleeding.  I’m not going to tell that to Bates, though, he’ll try to save me and will waste his time doing so.

            “I don’t think you understand,” he said, “I can’t go anywhere.  They’ve got us surrounded.  I don’t know how many guys they got, but we’ve been firing on each other all night.  I can hold them for now, but probably not for long.”

            I hadn’t even heard any gunshots.  I thought I’d been sleeping, but I suppose I’ve been unconscious all night.  If what he’s saying is true, he needs to get out of here before more troops close in, they’ll kill him.  It must have been a scouting party that found us and shot me.  They’ve probably been watching us all day.  Bates doesn’t have much time.

            “How much ammo do you have left?” I asked him.

            “I’ve got enough.”  He answered.

            “But how much is that?”  I questioned.

            “Enough.” he said.

            “Bates, you’ve got to get out of here, they’re going to kill you.”  I annunciated with my trembling voice.  “Go find help for me.”

            “Where am I going to find help!?” He shouted as he threw his arms into the air.  “We’re behind enemy lines!”

            Suddenly, Bates was cut off by gunfire; the sounds of two machine guns rained fire on south and east sides of the barn.  Bates grabbed his weapon and sprang into action, crouching next to the southern barn door and returning fire through a hole in the wall.  The shots didn’t scare me too much.  In fact, they didn’t even seem that loud to me.  Hopefully Bates will be able to shoot his way out of this.  My heart really goes out to him; he’s worked hard to keep me alive, he’s a true soldier.  I’d do anything to be able to lift my rifle and fight next to him, but I can’t.  I keep getting colder and I barely have the energy to breathe.  But what kills me more than any bullet ever will is the fact that I can’t stand up for my comrade.

            I died a few minutes after Bates started taking fire again.  I’m writing you this note from heaven because I wanted to let you know that everything’s alright.  I’m fine, and heaven’s pretty great, actually.  Being here is much better than being behind enemy lines.  But, on a more important note, Bates is fine too.  I waited for him up here, waited impatiently, pretty much assuming that the Germans’d kill him right after I passed, but he never showed up.  I got a little scared that he’d been taken as a POW, so I started asking all of the soldiers that came through if they’d seen him.  Finally, after I’d been up here for about two weeks, Major Ronaldson, a paratrooper that commanded Bates and me, showed up here.  He said that Bates was able to shoot his way out of the fight with the Germans, and carried me all the way back to Allied Territory, stealing guns off of dead Germans so he could use them to fight his way through their perimeter.  I died back at the barn, but he didn’t know that, he never checked my pulse or anything, he just grabbed me, put me over his shoulders and ran, trying to get me to safety.  Major Ronaldson said that he might get some kind of award for what he did.  I hope he gets the award, and I hope he makes it through the war okay, he shouldn’t be coming up here anytime soon—heaven’s great but it’s not a place you should go to unless you’ve had a long, enjoyable life.  Take my word for it, I’m telling you first-hand.

Regards,

Sgt. Anthony Miller