asked.
“Yes,” Leen said.
“Was it interesting to watch the master work on that sword?”
The word ‘interesting’ had always been good enough for Leen. He could use it to describe a whole slew of activities from puzzles to puppet shows. But now he realized that it wouldn’t do for how he felt. ‘Interesting’ didn’t explain what he had just experienced. Illeanor watched the struggle on Leen’s face.
“You were standing there for an hour,” she said.
“An hour?” Leen asked. “It didn’t seem that long.”
“You looked really interested, so I left you there and went out to do some shopping,” she smiled holding up a bag, “when I came back, you were still standing in the same spot. Did you even move at all when I was gone?”
“I don’t think so,” Leen said.
Outside some of the workers munched on bread rolls, while others enjoyed a smoke on their pipes. They all quieted down when the two elves came out of the workshop. Leen felt their eyes on him. He put his head down. He felt small and uncomfortable like earlier in the dwarf village. But there was something else, something that put a little bounce in each step he took. He wanted to look back at the dwarves who were watching him. He wanted to tell them something. The he heard one of them say, “that elf boy there has the eyes of the master.”
Leen smiled. He smiled all the way back across the bridge. He smiled all the way back through the dwarf village, where it didn’t seem as many people were staring at them as the first time. He smiled all the way back to the river where the boat was waiting for them. For a moment it felt sad to leave the dwarves behind, but he was happy. He had found his magic, the magic that his aunt, Illeanor, had always told him about, the magic that did not need pixie dust. Now more than anything else he wanted to hear the blade call out to the hammer again. He wanted to feel his heart quicken. He wanted to smell the burning coal and shudder each time steel crashed against steel. Leen wanted to see the sword take shape, but he knew he also wanted to be its master.
“Illeanor?” he asked when they were back on the boat and heading downstream.
“Yes, Leen.”
“Illeanor, can we go back?”
“Yes, anytime you like.”
Leen thought for a moment.
“Olixen Oak has a birthday party on the next moon day,” he said.
Illeanor’s laughter could be heard on both banks of the river.
Like many of the men that fought in World War II, my father did not talk much about it. At times he spoke about the training and some of the funny things that happened. But it wasn’t until several years before he passed away that he actually started to tell me some of the stories about the more serious action he experienced. This short story is based on one story my father told me.
Private First Class Kaza
Copyright 2009 by S. Thomas Kaza
With each step he felt he was getting closer, but closer to what? Private First Class John Kaza of Company A, 9th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division walked lead about fifty yards out in front of the rest of his company. They were somewhere between Belgium and the Rhine River, moving through open countryside under an overcast sky. Until now Company A had not seen any action, but it was only a matter of time. The were out there. The Sergeant told them Company B spotted a German unit pulling back just that morning. They exchanged fire with them.
His finger touched the trigger of his rifle. With a little squeeze he knew his weapon would discharge. He slid his finger up to make sure the safety was off as he scanned the road and countryside ahead. It was late winter. The guys always complained about the cold. It seemed like you could never shake it off. But walking lead he could see now that barren trees and bushes did not provide too many places for an ambush. They did not provide too many places for a sniper to hide either. He was grateful for that.
For a moment his thoughts turned to his home back in the hills of Pennsylvania. Spring would be arriving soon with buds on the trees, robins hunting for worms. It suddenly struck him that the feeling he had of getting closer to something might be the coming of Spring? It would explain a lot. He anxiously considered this idea. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized it couldn’t be. The coming of Spring was a feeling of relief, like singing the last line of the final hymn at Sunday mass. But the feeling bothering him was more like placing the sharp edge of a knife blade against the skin of his arm and pressing down slowly.
He had tried to ignore the feeling, but a couple of hours earlier when they stopped for a rest, he felt compelled to ask someone about it. He found himself having a smoke with his buddy, Walter Novack, and some of the other guys. While the guys argued about how far they were from the Rhine River, he leaned closer to Walter.
“Hey Walter, the last couple of days I got this feeling like I’m getting closer to something. I can’t say what it is, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s giving me hell. You know what I’m talking about?”
Walter took a puff on his cigarette, thinking for a moment before he blew out smoke. “Yeah,” he said, “I think I know what you’re talking about, John. I feel like I’m getting closer to something too.”
“You do?”
“Well, yeah,” he grinned, “If you’re walking, you’re always getting closer to something.” He laughed, his big, silly grin filling out his face.
Mike Claiman, another private in the company overheard them. “Hey John, I’ll tell you what you’re getting closer to,“ he said, “You’re getting closer to putting a bullet in old Adolf’s ass.”
Some of the other guys around them laughed. Private Kaza smiled.
“Nothing like the guys to take the edge off,” he thought after they resumed their march up the road. But before they had gone more than a mile, he felt the blade again pressing down slowly against his skin. Only this time it was not the skin of his arm, but the skin of his throat. It made him feel like throwing down his rifle, and running off across the field next to the road to get away from it. He wouldn’t stop until his legs gave out under him from exhaustion. Then he would just lie there on the ground, his face in the dirt, until the sky cleared and the sun shone down once more.
He thought about it, but Private Kaza knew he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He remembered what the Sergeant told him the day before. He had been looking for the company chaplain, but instead he found the Sergeant sitting at a makeshift desk alongside the road, a plank of wood laid across two chairs. Several papers lay scattered on the desk in front of him. The Sergeant held a pen in his hand, but he wasn’t writing anything.
“What can I do for you, Kaza?” he asked.
“Well, I wanted to ask you something, Sarge.”
“Ask away.”
Private Kaza looked away for a moment. “How do you know, Sarge?” he asked.
“How do you know what?”
“Well, how do you know if….. if you can do it? I mean, I took the training. I shot all the targets. I could shoot this rifle in my sleep, but…..”
The Sergeant looked back at his paperwork. “It’s really easy, Kaza. Just do what you’re told. Do what you’re told, and you’ll be alright.”
“Do what you’re told,” Private Kaza mumbled to himself, “what fine advice.”
He looked down at his dirty boots and remembered how he used to care about their appearance. Now all he could think about was how many miles he walked in them. During the last several weeks his company marched across Belgium and into Germany. He remembered taking his boots off many times, mostly to change his socks twice a day to keep from getting trench foot. But looking at his boots now, they didn’t seem like they belonged to him. They seemed like they were somebody else’s boots on somebody else’s feet marching down a road in somebody else’s war. He shook his head.
“Just too damn tired,” he thought.
He tried to remember the last time he slept well. He couldn’t. Weeks had passed since he arrived in France and was transported up to the front to join
his new unit. He was issued a rifle along with all the other new soldiers. After sighting in their new rifles, they began marching. From that point it seemed like all they did was march. They marched every day, some days starting before sunrise, some days not finishing until after sunset. Some of the men claimed they could sleep while walking. Others found a spot along the road every time the advance was stalled. The Sergeant would have to come by and wake them up before they moved out again.
All day they thought about where they were going to stop for the night. Would it be some place warm? Some place dry? Some nights they slept out in the cold. Other times they would find a barn. But many times they just found a house occupied by a family and kicked the family out. At first he felt sorry for the people they kicked out, especially the kids. It was their home after all. But after awhile he didn’t care. The Germans like to booby-trap abandoned houses. It was always safer to “liberate” an occupied house.
They lived on k-rations. But sometimes in the middle of the night the Sergeant came by and woke them up to tell them the company chow wagon was serving hot meals. To get to the meal, they had to trudge back a half-mile or more in the darkness, a long line of stumbling, cold and hungry soldiers. Most guys chose the hot meals over a little more sleep. Anything was better than another day of k-rations. But whether he ate a hot meal or not, Private Kaza always found it easier to fall back asleep when there