| General Fiction posted February 27, 2024 |
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A cost for humility
Trained to Forget
by John Ciarmello
On the second day of September every year since the end of WWII, Sergeant Branson Ballard sat beside his wife on a visitor's bench in Arlington cemetery. They waited silently for the chilly morning air to dissipate as the sun rose above the horizon. Branson saw his wife differently now. Her spontaneous comradery was gone, and she was left with a prideful but pain-stricken sadness in her eyes.
“Is this what I’m supposed to do, Branson? Is sitting on this bench what you meant in a letter when you wrote we need to remember them all? While I was certain, as I folded the letter back into its envelope, that all you wanted to do was forget.”
“You know me too well, my sweet Dora.” Branson slid closer, slipped his fingers under hers, and rubbed the top of her hand with his thumb. “A brave man once told me that dead men are soon forgotten. I knew you wouldn’t have believed he was right. I meant to reflect in that letter where we differ. You see, I fought next to this brave man in the trenches at Normandy. His statement to me became his battle cry. He fought his damnest to stay alive because he believed what he said was true. Sadly, I only knew him for a few days, and I’m ashamed to say I would have forgotten him more readily had he lived.”
Branson rested his cheek on Dora’s shoulder. “We haven’t missed one year sitting here together since the war ended in 1945. This will mark our fourth anniversary. I love having you here with me, Dora. Would it sound forced for a soldier to say he’s hesitant now that the war is over? I guess no one wants war, but after all those months of fighting, it seems all I know.”
Dora stood and moved closer to the front row of tombstones. “I’m happy you’re home, Branson.”
“Me too, my love. Me too.”
She knelt with her hand atop a tombstone, pulled up a swatch of grass and soil near her shoe, and returned to the bench, easing herself against the backrest. She let the grass fall between her fingers and closed the loose soil in her palm. “I want you to know how proud I am of you, Branson.”
He laid his hand on her knee. “Then, what’s bringing you pain, my love?”
She opened her hand and gently blew the soil from her palm.“I don’t want you to get me wrong. The sadness I feel comes from the sole fact that you had to fight in this war. Knowing the gentleman you are, I can’t imagine what you must have felt about it all.”
“Dora, my beautiful Dora.” Branson kissed her cheek and touched the corner of her mouth as he watched it fall into a slight frown. “I’m not big on telling you war stories, Dora, as I know how much you hated hearing them in my letters, but I need you to know that each time I pulled that trigger, I had to forget what most civilians struggle every day to remember. I had to forget these men were sons. I had to forget they were husbands and fathers and brothers. I had to forget they were men who loved their families more than they loved themselves and, in return, were loved unconditionally. The problem with forgetting is when you remember in the heat of battle. When you no longer see a target, or you no longer see an enemy. When what you see is a human being. It’s the worst feeling in the world to have an enemy rifle pointed in your direction and to experience hesitation, or worse–humility. The timing of that couldn’t be more imperfect, Dora. In the milliseconds it takes for one's mind to regain the war’s realities–it’s too late for the soldier looking down that barrel.”
Branson made a sweeping motion in the air with his palm.“So, whether these men died in the milliseconds of their benevolence or perhaps their humanness, they all died for their cause. Don’t take that away from them because you feel sad for me.” Branson shifted on the bench and looked at his wife’s vanward gaze. “You said you were proud of me. Well, allow the pride to work its magic, Dora. Allow it to bury the grief and the guilt. Will you do that?”
She peered vacantly into the sky's translucent haze, and Branson saw a small nod of mindedness before she spoke.
“I have to tell you, it was a strange relief when they told me you were on your way home, Branson. I know this will sound selfish, but I realized the painful worrying was over then. It was only in these last few months I was able to smile again without the guilt of not knowing at that moment if you were dead or alive. It’s been four years, Branson and I…”
Branson kissed her shoulder, and she touched it lightly with her fingers. “Branson?” she murmured.
“I wish I could kiss you deeper, my sweet, but I hear your words, and I have to ask, where do we go from here?”
“It’s unfair, Branson. I’m angry. I’m angry that I was forced to stop learning about the man I love, angry that I was forced into memories I can only keep alive with letters from corners of the world I do not know.”
“If I know you the way I think I do, it wouldn’t be as if you didn’t expect things to change for me. It’s time I stop wasting my life on old surroundings and crippling thoughts. He says he loves me. What else is left for me to hope for? I’ll always love you, Branson Ballard; Sergeant Branson Ballard.”
“And I you, my sweet, Dora.”
She turned, looked studiedly at the empty bench, and nodded.
On the second day of September every year since the end of WWII, Sergeant Branson Ballard sat beside his wife on a visitor's bench in Arlington cemetery. They waited silently for the chilly morning air to dissipate as the sun rose above the horizon. Branson saw his wife differently now. Her spontaneous comradery was gone, and she was left with a prideful but pain-stricken sadness in her eyes.
“Is this what I’m supposed to do, Branson? Is sitting on this bench what you meant in a letter when you wrote we need to remember them all? While I was certain, as I folded the letter back into its envelope, that all you wanted to do was forget.”
“You know me too well, my sweet Dora.” Branson slid closer, slipped his fingers under hers, and rubbed the top of her hand with his thumb. “A brave man once told me that dead men are soon forgotten. I knew you wouldn’t have believed he was right. I meant to reflect in that letter where we differ. You see, I fought next to this brave man in the trenches at Normandy. His statement to me became his battle cry. He fought his damnest to stay alive because he believed what he said was true. Sadly, I only knew him for a few days, and I’m ashamed to say I would have forgotten him more readily had he lived.”
Branson rested his cheek on Dora’s shoulder. “We haven’t missed one year sitting here together since the war ended in 1945. This will mark our fourth anniversary. I love having you here with me, Dora. Would it sound forced for a soldier to say he’s hesitant now that the war is over? I guess no one wants war, but after all those months of fighting, it seems all I know.”
Dora stood and moved closer to the front row of tombstones. “I’m happy you’re home, Branson.”
“Me too, my love. Me too.”
She knelt with her hand atop a tombstone, pulled up a swatch of grass and soil near her shoe, and returned to the bench, easing herself against the backrest. She let the grass fall between her fingers and closed the loose soil in her palm. “I want you to know how proud I am of you, Branson.”
He laid his hand on her knee. “Then, what’s bringing you pain, my love?”
She opened her hand and gently blew the soil from her palm.“I don’t want you to get me wrong. The sadness I feel comes from the sole fact that you had to fight in this war. Knowing the gentleman you are, I can’t imagine what you must have felt about it all.”
“Dora, my beautiful Dora.” Branson kissed her cheek and touched the corner of her mouth as he watched it fall into a slight frown. “I’m not big on telling you war stories, Dora, as I know how much you hated hearing them in my letters, but I need you to know that each time I pulled that trigger, I had to forget what most civilians struggle every day to remember. I had to forget these men were sons. I had to forget they were husbands and fathers and brothers. I had to forget they were men who loved their families more than they loved themselves and, in return, were loved unconditionally. The problem with forgetting is when you remember in the heat of battle. When you no longer see a target, or you no longer see an enemy. When what you see is a human being. It’s the worst feeling in the world to have an enemy rifle pointed in your direction and to experience hesitation, or worse–humility. The timing of that couldn’t be more imperfect, Dora. In the milliseconds it takes for one's mind to regain the war’s realities–it’s too late for the soldier looking down that barrel.”
Branson made a sweeping motion in the air with his palm.“So, whether these men died in the milliseconds of their benevolence or perhaps their humanness, they all died for their cause. Don’t take that away from them because you feel sad for me.” Branson shifted on the bench and looked at his wife’s vanward gaze. “You said you were proud of me. Well, allow the pride to work its magic, Dora. Allow it to bury the grief and the guilt. Will you do that?”
She peered vacantly into the sky's translucent haze, and Branson saw a small nod of mindedness before she spoke.
“I have to tell you, it was a strange relief when they told me you were on your way home, Branson. I know this will sound selfish, but I realized the painful worrying was over then. It was only in these last few months I was able to smile again without the guilt of not knowing at that moment if you were dead or alive. It’s been four years, Branson and I…”
Branson kissed her shoulder, and she touched it lightly with her fingers. “Branson?” she murmured.
“I wish I could kiss you deeper, my sweet, but I hear your words, and I have to ask, where do we go from here?”
“It’s unfair, Branson. I’m angry. I’m angry that I was forced to stop learning about the man I love, angry that I was forced into memories I can only keep alive with letters from corners of the world I do not know.”
“If I know you the way I think I do, it wouldn’t be as if you didn’t expect things to change for me. It’s time I stop wasting my life on old surroundings and crippling thoughts. He says he loves me. What else is left for me to hope for? I’ll always love you, Branson Ballard; Sergeant Branson Ballard.”
“And I you, my sweet, Dora.”
She turned, looked studiedly at the empty bench, and nodded.
 Recognized |
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I hope you enjoy this snippet of time in Arlington Cemetery.
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© Copyright 2024. John Ciarmello All rights reserved.
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