Wreckage of War

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

A war widow wrestles with grief, fear, and revenge.


April 5, 1952


Fat raindrops smack against the windshield as Mary Boyd fumbles for the wiper knob. She used to love warm summer rains, but now they just remind her of the day Mr. Boltz came to deliver the telegram. The one that changed her life forever. In the faint yellow glow of the Buick’s instrument panel, her eyes catch the silver glint of her wedding ring. She remembers the day Harry put it on her finger. His own remained in the small box that was returned to her months after his death.


Has it really been eight years since that day? she thinks. It seemed like yesterday when they returned from a brief honeymoon at Niagara Falls and settled into their first apartment together. When Harry’s draft letter finally came—the Government tried to cushion it with the friendly salutation ‘GREETINGS’—she’d wanted to scream, “Don’t go!” Instead, she feigned a smile while friends and family slapped his shoulder and said, “Kill a kraut for me, Harry!” April 5, 1944 was the last time she saw him. The last time she tasted his mouth. Inhaled his aftershave. Wrapped her arms around his strong body.


A loud bang like gunfire erupts from the back of the car. She clutches the big steering wheel with both hands as the Buick begins to pull to one side. For a fleeting moment, her dead husband fresh in her mind, she considers speeding up and letting the wet road and blown tire do the rest. But then Harry Junior’s shrill voice cuts through the moment, “Momma, Momma!” She takes her right foot off the gas pedal and uses both feet to press down on the brake, skidding the heavy sedan to a stop on the wet shoulder.


Taking a deep breath, she watches in dismay as the storm intensifies. The rain sweeps sideways across the white beam of her headlights; the sound of it hitting the metal roof is so loud that she can barely hear Harry Junior crying next to her. Barely.


“Harry, please, Momma needs to think,” she says, rubbing her forehead.


On this long stretch of rural road, there isn’t another car or house in sight. Through the thick rivulets of rain, she can just make out the blackness that swallows up the front edge of the headlights. Her eyes glimpse the nothingness behind them, the wall of darkness surrounding them. Though she can’t see it, she knows the river is to their right, no doubt bursting its banks in this storm.  


She pulls a plastic rain bonnet from her purse, ties it under her chin, then opens the door to take a quick look behind her. A brief flash of lightning provides enough light to confirm her fear.


“Oh darn,” she says and quickly pulls the heavy door closed. “It’s flat all right.”


The uncertainty in her voice sets off Harry Junior again. But she’s too tired to correct him. Instead, she reaches over and pulls his slim trembling body to her own. He calms down and her father-in-law’s booming voice echoes in her mind: “You’re going to turn him into a pansy with all that coddling.” She frowns. It’s easy to criticize when you don’t have to raise a child alone.


Alone. She shouldn’t be doing this alone. She cries silently. Tears of pain. Tears of grief. Tears of self-pity.


…1944 JUL 18 AM 7:30…The Secretary of War desires me to express his deepest regret that your husband has been reported killed in action…


The telegram assured her that Harry had died in defense of freedom. Was that supposed to make her feel better? Sometimes late at night, she imagines that he passed peacefully in the arms of a buddy, like in those bloodless Hollywood war films. But the telegram didn’t mention any details, as if the mere lack would soften the blow.


A loud crack of thunder makes her jump. Harry Junior pushes himself deeper into her side. She bites her lip. A little too hard, but the pain reminds her that she’s alive and responsible for getting them out of this predicament.


“Don’t worry honey,” she soothes, stroking her son’s raven head. “The storm will pass in a few minutes.”


Even if it does, then what? She'll jump out of the car in her skirt and heels and change the tire like some kind of Rosie the Riveter? She hated those wartime propaganda posters. Women in coveralls smiling with smudges of grease on their button noses. If those women existed, she never knew them. But that doesn’t help her now, she thinks watching the rain come down harder. Her father-in-law showed her how to change a tire once after the war. But she’d never had to put that knowledge to use. And now the details are faded. Yellow and brittle like the telegram she keeps in a box on the top shelf of her closet.


“I don’t like thunder,” Harry Junior whimpers.


“I know,” she says, still stroking his hair. She closes her eyes and stifles another sob.


Her father-in-law isn’t wrong. Her son acts too young for his age, cries too easily, and does poorly in school. What he's missing is a man in his life, she knows. Friends help where they can, pitching in by taking Harry Junior under their wings during scouting trips and what not. But it's not the same as having a father.


Dear God, what is she supposed to do? Re-marry? She can't imagine being with another man. Harry Boyd was her high school sweetheart. He was the first boy she had ever kissed, the only one she had ever slept with. She had tried dating a year after the war ended and all of the soldiers had come home. Chip O'Brien had been Army too, had seen his share of combat, and returned home to a successful job in insurance with his father. Chip was certainly a good catch, as her friend, Laura the Librarian, then remarked. But he was all hands—tried to feel her up on their first date. Mary thought that was some nerve, though she secretly missed such physical contact.


But not with Chip. Not with anyone but Harry.


Sitting in the car, insulated by the steady drone of the storm, she stares at the blurry windshield through a hot shimmer of tears. It was raining like this the first night she and Harry made love. The strong, warm hand that used to slide under her nightgown, between her legs, doesn’t exist anymore. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” the priest had intoned at Harry’s funeral. Ironic words as there had been no body. Most soldiers were buried where they fell or in makeshift cemeteries laid out by the Army Corps of Engineers. She’d just stood there at the graveside that day, pregnant and freezing even though it had been a warm August day. What had gotten her through was the thought that maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe the Army had made a mistake. It wouldn’t be the first time. But as the months passed, then years, she had to face the truth. Her beloved man was gone. Forever.


She chokes at the thought and pulls Harry Junior into a fierce hug. He’s all she has left of her husband.


When she hears another rumble above the noise of the rain, she opens her eyes. Headlights ahead of them grow brighter. Another car! 


Thank you, she mouths to her dead husband. She does that a lot, sure that he’s protecting them from wherever he is now. With her left hand, she flashes her lights on and off.


Harry Junior breaks free from her clutch and perches on the edge of the bench seat, trying to peer over the dashboard. “Who is it, Momma?” he asks nervously.


The vehicle slows down and pulls onto the shoulder across the road. She sighs with relief, laying a hand on her heart. Thank God they saw her.


“An angel come to save us, honey,” she says with a new-found euphoria, wiping tears and snot away from her son’s face with a lacy handkerchief. “Why, we'll be home in no time now!”


Removing her rain cap and adjusting her hair, she notices a tall, dark figure dash toward them. She starts to crank down the window, her heart beating excitedly in her chest: She should be more positive, things always have a way of working out. Her mother-in-law’s words. But when the figure reaches the window, she looks up and freezes.


The ice-blue eyes reflect her own shock for a second then scan the inside of her car, like a bird of prey inspecting its quarry. Her gut instinct is to lock the door, but her arms won’t move.


The man zips his jacket to the neck and asks in his thick, ugly accent, “Do you require help?”


Everyone was fascinated with him when he first moved here last summer. Even her friend, Laura, spent too much time talking about him. What was his name? Heinz or Hans or some other horrible German name that she couldn’t remember.


“He comes into the library every Friday, like clockwork,” Laura had proclaimed over lunch one day, wearing a dreamy, schoolgirl expression. “He’s never late with the returns either.” She then leaned into the table, mayonnaise dripping from her sandwich, and added, “I think he’s kind of cute.”


Mary wanted to grab her friend and shake her. Did she forget that the Germans had started the war, dragged everyone into it, and kept it going for over seven years? And for what? Millions of people died because of their arrogance, their belief in their own supremacy. And not just good American boys like her Harry either. Did no one remember the news reports after the U.S. Army liberated the first concentration camps? Thousands of bodies piled high, dead from disease, malnutrition, and medical experimentation. But she wasn’t one for confrontation. Instead, she just quietly changed the subject. Laura was too young to remember the war outside of donating pots and pans and using ration books for some items at the market. And she certainly didn’t know what it was like to crawl into a cold bed at night.


She keeps her right foot on the starter, just in case. Jake, the gas station attendant, once told her she could drive on a flat if she had to. She’ll just calmly explain that she stopped because Harry Junior was sick and that she was just about to continue on home. If he gives her any trouble, she’ll just drive off. The Hudson’s farm isn’t too far up the road.


“Slide over there, honey, while I talk to this man,” she whispers nervously to an equally nervous Harry Junior.


But she can’t find her voice. She's never spoken to him before, has only seen him from a distance. The few times they’ve seen each other, she's avoided him, and even crossed the street to do so. But that was in a crowded, bustling town during the day. Here on this dark, lonely road he could murder them both, dispose of their bodies and the car before anyone knew they were missing. Fear crawls up her spine, her neck, raising the tiny hairs at her temples and making her scalp tingle.


At that moment, those ice-blue eyes slide to the right, toward the blown tire, then shift back to her, blinking against the rain. His normally bright blonde hair looks dark now that it's wet. He pushes it back with one hand, as the rain streams down a face twisted in anger. At least that’s how Mary reads his expression. She shivers; she can’t imagine what Laura finds so attractive.


“Your tire is flat. I will change it for you,” he says brusquely, his w’s sounding like v’s. “Give me your keys.”


She immediately starts chewing at a loose piece of cuticle. It’s a habit she developed after Harry went away to boot camp. After he was shipped to England. Then France. She can hear her mother now: No one wants a girl with ragged nails! In response, she drops her hand to her lap.


She has no choice but to accept his help. Reluctantly, she pulls the keys from the ignition, pauses for a moment, then squeezes them through the crack in the window. She tries not to recoil when their fingers make contact. His are cold and wet—like death. She cranks the window back up, watching him in the round side mirror as he retreats to the back of the car. Reaching over her shoulder she smacks a fist against the door lock for good measure. But then panic sets in again. What good is locking the door when she just gave him her keys? Oh God—what if he rapes her? Right here in front of her son? The thought of those cold hands on her flesh makes her queasy.


Stop it, stop it, she wills herself, squeezing her eyes shut until they hurt. If he was going to do anything, he would have done so already. Please, Harry, protect us, she says repeatedly in her head.


Only when she sees the trunk open and feels the clunk of the jack raising the rear end of the car, does she allow herself to breathe.


A tug on her sleeve.




She wiggles out of her coat and, with trembling hands, drapes it over her son. “Just lie down for a while. We’ll be on our way home soon.” She can’t deal with Harry Junior’s blubbering right now.


She watches the German loosen the lug nuts and yank the tire off the hub. Why is he helping her? He must know how she feels about him. Certainly, her cousin, Chuck, must have told him. Chuck the captain of his football team in college. Chuck the soldier. Chuck the veteran. Why in God’s name would Chuck hire a Nazi when there are plenty of young American men willing to work?


But she’s never dared to ask Chuck that outright; never expressed her feelings to him, to her mother, to Laura. She simply buries her resentment of the German. Quietly, in her own way, like she always has. About everything.


She folds her arms across herself now, shivering. She’s cold and tired and hungry. She hardly touched her dinner this evening, a detail her father-in-law was quick to notice and comment on.?


“You’re getting skinny. Men don’t like skinny,” he grumbled. But she knows the real reason behind his concern. Harry’s death benefit is more than enough to live on, but it won’t last forever. And her father-in-law would rather another man take up some of the slack.


She rummages in her purse searching for a piece of hard candy when her fingers brush over a small paper and foil package. Camels. They were Harry’s favorite. If ever she could use a cigarette, it’s right now. She glances over at Harry Junior. He’s dozed off and she wants him to stay that way until they’re home. But if he sees her smoking, he’ll likely mention it to his grandparents. And then she’ll have to listen to another lecture from her father-in-law about how smoking makes women look cheap and easy. Best to wait until they’re home. After he’s in bed, she can step out onto the porch like she does every night.


She pulls out her wallet and opens the little change purse. She certainly will not owe this German anything, she thinks to herself, counting out two quarters in the palm of her hand. Though, the thought of giving him Harry’s death money makes her sick.


Her heart jumps when she feels the vehicle shift. She glances at the side mirror again. He has the spare in his hands, carefully lifting it onto the lug bolts. The rain is coming down in buckets now, the silvery curtain shimmering in the beam of his headlights. He must be soaked to the bone, she thinks, as he crouches down to tighten the nuts. But then, her husband had been cold and wet too when that German sniper had ended his life.


That's what Harry’s buddy told her anyways, after the war. Jim Duffy was his name. A true American hero. And he'd known Harry for two whole years. They'd trained together, fought side-by-side, through thick and thin, he told her. Jim had been with Harry when he'd passed, which is how he knew to find her after the war. He scared her at first with his vacant stare, smelling of stale cigarettes and whiskey. But after she invited him in, served him coffee and cake, he relaxed and told her things.


She came to hate Germans even more after listening to some of Jim's stories that day, many of which she figured he hadn’t meant to share.


“Germans are all monsters,” he said, his eyes glazing over. "I once plugged one on the side of the road. Bastard was hiding in a ditch, pretending to be wounded. He started begging for his life, yammering in Nazi. But I just set the barrel of my rifle on his forehead—” Jim told her, cigarette bouncing on his bottom lip as he aimed his fork at the dessert plate. “—and pop! Problem solved!” He laughed, as he crushed out a cigarette and lit a new one.


A sudden, loud knock startles her. The wet window distorts the face, but she sees the eyes well enough. Harry’s eyes were blue too, but they were different. Softer, kinder, filled with hope and love. The German’s are cold and detached. What does the Bible say? Your eye is the lamp of your body. When your vision is clear, your whole body also is full of light. But when it is poor, your body is full of darkness. A shudder ripples through her. The rain slapping the metal roof is unbearably loud, drowning out all other sounds. Would it drown out her screams as well?


“You are all set,” he says, rapping on the glass again. He frowns and holds up the key.


Mary swallows past a dry throat and peels her ice-cold hand from the steering wheel. She cranks down the window just a smidge; Jim’s stories and vicious laugh still fresh in her mind.


Oblivious to her thoughts, the German wipes the key dry on his coat and passes it back to her through the one inch slit.


When she holds the quarters up in exchange, he looks offended and shakes his head.


“That is not necessary.”


Her chest tightens and she braces herself for the ultimatum. But it never comes. Instead, he dashes across the road to his vehicle and drives away. She watches the red taillights grow smaller in her rear-view mirror.


Her hand trembles as Mary inserts the key and pushes the starter with her foot. Turning the heavy steering wheel, she wastes no time pulling out onto the dark, wet road. She just wants to go home and have that cigarette.


She switches on the radio to distract herself. And when an old, familiar song begins to play, she is transported back to a dance hall, packed wall-to-wall with hot-blooded soldiers and starry-eyed girls. It was warm and humid, but she didn’t care. She snuggled up against Harry’s chest, the smell of starch and Brylcreem assaulted her senses. It was their last dance together.


“Look here, doll, if you don’t start smiling, people will think I’m not showing you a good time,” he breathed into her ear over the music. The effect of his hot breath and deep voice made her tremble. Even now, driving down this dark road in the rain, she can feel the tingle between her legs.


She shakes the memory away until another one fights its way forward. The knock on the door. The Western Union telegram boy. The look on his face as he dolefully asks for “Mrs. Harry Boyd.”


With misty eyes, she reaches over and presses another button on the radio. A news broadcaster’s flat voice blends with the noise of the rain, the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers, the drone of the tires on the pavement. There, that’s better. Something innocuous. Boring. But when he starts talking about the Korean War, she switches off the radio altogether. War news reminds her of Jim Duffy who immediately re-enlisted in the Army. Why would a man who’s been through so much already do such a thing?


But she knows the answer, doesn’t she? A Good Housekeeping article published right after the war advised women to be patient with the “oppressive remembering” of returning soldiers. That’s what they called shell shock after the war, assuring all the wives, mothers, and girlfriends that it would “go away in about three weeks”. Of course, it didn’t, but no one talked about that. It’s why another pal of Jim and Harry’s shot himself. It’s why Chuck drank and smoked a little too much. It’s why Jim signed up for more. The war damaged them all.


Well, almost all of them. She reaches up and adjusts the rear-view mirror. The German seems well enough. And why shouldn’t he be? Brought to America as a prisoner-of-war because no one else had the room, he and his pals lived and ate like kings. ‘Fritz Ritz’ is what the newspapers called their camps back then. All while the war raged on in Europe and good men like her husband were mowed down in the prime of their youth. She squeezes the steering wheel in anger and swallows past a lump in her throat. It isn’t fair! Why did Harry have to die but he gets to live?


Stop it! You’re just exhausted from driving in the rain. Rattled from the flat tire. Everything is fine now, she tells herself. But it’s not really, is it? Her hands still tremble from the encounter. And Jim’s stories, still fresh in her mind, fuel her own deep-seated hatred of the German. His eyes didn’t look like Jim’s. Didn’t seem to grapple with the same demons. But they’d undoubtedly looked down the barrel of a rifle once. Yes, she was sure those ice-blue eyes had stolen the lives of decent American boys. American boys like Harry, she thinks, hot tears spilling down her cheeks again. He was a killer. On his best behavior now, perhaps, so he could stay in America. But like any killer, it was just a matter of time. The taste for blood would return. It always did.


Unless someone stopped him.


It’s only been a few minutes, she sniffs, glimpsing the clock on the dashboard. If she turns around now, she could easily catch up with him. This road follows the river for miles; the shoulder is narrow with nothing to keep a car from going off the berm. In this storm, his death would be written off as bad luck. Vehicle accidents weren’t an uncommon event here, even by locals familiar with the twisty, bendy roads. And she, innocently driving by, liked and pitied by all in town, would be the only witness, dutifully reporting it to the police.


She feels her mouth lift into a smile. Yes, she’d be doing the world a favor.


“Do we have another flat?” Harry Junior asks sleepily, as she presses on the brake pedal.


“No, Momma just forgot something,” Mary replies distractedly, feeling invigorated for the first time in days.


Stopping at a bend in the road, she makes a U-turn, but the big Buick overshoots and lands crooked in the opposite lane. She shifts the car into reverse and begins to back up. As she hooks her arm over the bench seat, craning her neck over her right shoulder to check the road behind them, her eyes land on Harry Junior. He looks so much like her husband that she nearly chokes on a mouthful of air. Would Harry consent to her plan or oppose it? She tells herself that he would approve. She tells herself that he hated Nazis as much as Jim does. But deep down she doesn’t want to think if he’d lived that he would have returned broken like Jim. No, she’s positive Harry would have returned a hero like Audie Murphy. Lifting Harry Junior on his shoulder and telling stories of how he’d mowed down Nazis by the dozens. Perhaps hundreds.


She takes her eyes off the road for a second to adjust the coat over her son. “Just go back to sleep, honey. We’ll be home before you know it.” When she looks up again, it takes her tired brain a few seconds to register what’s about to happen. And there’s no time to react to the blinding, oncoming lights.


At the moment of impact, Mary is thrown into the driver’s door window as the Buick slides toward an embankment. Glass shatters, metal crumples as they flip over, once, twice. Harry Junior’s screams fill the void. Then silence.


A coppery taste of blood fills her mouth. The edges of her vision turns white and narrow. The rain, still coming down hard, pelts her face, threatening to drown her. She is laying, twisted, on the ground. Where’s Harry? Where’s my baby? she thinks. The world around her eddies as she struggles to move, but her body won’t respond. Searing pain sends signals back to her brain. She ignores them, trying to move her head. WHERE’S MY BABY?


“Har-ry?” she manages to croak out. To her ears, she’s yelling and her son’s name seems to echo in the small gorge the road cuts through.


Through a watery, half-conscious state, she smells damp earth and spilled fuel; hears voices and…music? Is that The Mills Brothers? How is the radio still playing? The sounds are distant though, as if coming from an open window across the street. She is with Harry again, sitting on the front porch after dinner watching the world go by, a cool breeze ruffling their hair. A stolen kiss in the dark.


“Can you hear me?”


A dark form swims in and out of her vision. She sees the outline of a Stetson hat, smells the residue of cigarette smoke on the hand that touches her face.


Forget about me help my son! she wants to yell. In her mind’s eye, she is swatting at him, pointing at the car, but she can’t be sure he understands her.


“…my…son,“ she gurgles through the warm liquid filling her throat.


“Take it easy, lady,” the dark form replies, worry in his voice. Then, “Oh, thank God,” he says to another dark form, but his next words are garbled, indistinct. “…I didn’t see her….stalled….curve...”


The second dark form steps away from them. She follows it with her eyes. She sees now. The Buick is upside down. She doesn’t remember getting out of it. A tire is still spinning on its axle. Round and round like a pinwheel at the county fair. The dark form is down on its knees, pulling a smaller, limp form from the crumpled mass of steel and broken glass.


“Har-ry,” she moans, tears clouding her already blurred vision. What has she done? In all her selfishness and arrogance, she’s killed her only child! Harry’s child!


“There is a boy—” the second dark form says in his thick, ugly accent. “—help me.”


She’s still conscious, aware enough to be dumbstruck. The German? How?


“It’s a good thing you were passing by,” the first man says.


The rest of their conversation is an endless string of words. She’s not even sure who’s talking: “I dropped my wallet…does your radio still work?…then you must call the police…”


The rainstorm begins to subside as the other man hurries off and the German sets a bundle next to her, wrapped in his utility coat. The same one he’d worn while changing their flat tire. Hot tears escape the corner of her eye and spill down her face, the salty liquid coating her lips. She doesn’t feel them - is she paralyzed or just numb?


“Is…he…?” she chokes out at the bundle next to her.


The German shakes his head. “The boy is unconscious but breathing.”




“I was a medic,” he says, his voice gentle this time.


She sees him in a different light now. The ice-blue eyes aren’t cold anymore. They’re sad. Tragic. Full of pain—a lifetime of pain. And for some reason, she knows why. She sees dead bodies on a battlefield. Dead bodies among the rubble of a building. A woman and a child? A tug-of-war between right and wrong. Is it possible that he’s broken too? Like Jim?


“Help is on the way,” he says of the approaching wail of a police siren. “Your son will be fine. Children are resilient.”


She wills her hand to move so that she can touch Harry Junior’s cheek. It’s wet but soft. His eyes are closed. At least he will never know what horrible thing she was going to do.


She watches the German pull something from his neck and press it in her hand. It is a cross. She can’t see it, but she can feel it. He begins to recite something, something faint, hushed. Receive your comfort? Move into the afterlife?


“I’m…not…going…to…make it….am I?” she chokes out.


The German looks down at the ground, unwilling to answer, and she tastes more salt on her lips. But she is strangely at peace.


“I’m…sorry,” she says.


He shakes his head again, then reaches over and folds her hand in his. “Do not waste your breath on me. You must make your amends with God. I will make sure your son is safe.”


As the world around her begins to fade, she squeezes his hand.


“Thank…you…” she says with her final breath, as all her suffering evaporates in a visible white cloud, and she drifts away into complete and utter darkness.


Submitted: January 22, 2021

© Copyright 2021 AM Clyne. All rights reserved.

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Penn Gates

Wreckage of War is set in 1952, 7 years after the end of WWII. In America, no cities were destroyed, no governments toppled. The wreckage of the war is hidden within its victims. One such victim is a war widow, Mary Boyd, still grieving her husband’s death on the battlefield in 1944. She exists in a kind of emotional limbo, idealizing her lost love and holding on to her grief in an endless tribute to him.
But this is only one of her problems. She, like so many others, can’t let go of hatred for the former enemy - and, in Mary’s case, that hatred is fed by the haunted eyes and horror stories of returned GIs.
When Mary finds herself and her child in a dangerous situation, the figure who appears out of the night to help them is one of ‘them’ - a former German POW. Consumed by hatred and a need for revenge, Mary ends by destroying herself, only realizing when it’s too late that behind the face of the ‘enemy’ is another human being.
Not every writer succeeds in the art of writing short stories. In 5,000 words, A.M. Clyne creates a brilliant character study of a woman who cannot let go of the past and so is unable to make rational choices in the present. I was in the grip of Mary’s emotional anguish, hoping she would ultimately find peace. I look forward to reading more of Clyne’s work.

Sun, January 24th, 2021 5:44pm

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Short Story / Mystery and Crime