Franklin’s Hudson’s Memorial Day

As the small ship cut through the light surf, Franklin Hudson scanned the horizon for Hell. His ancient eyes were as blue as the surrounding sea. He stood on the bow, watching the tropical island loom on the horizon. Salt spray lashed his leathery skin. A handful Cumulonimbus clouds exploded into the sky, looking like volcanic sentinels guarding the little spit of coral.

The old man was thankful that it was only the clouds guarding it.

“You ever been here before?” The tanned German tourist standing next to him asked in passable English.

“Once. A long time ago.”

“Did you come to dive? The diving is world class here. That’s why I’m here.”

The old man grinned at the young man’s innocence. He had been born during a time of peace. Peace earned by the old man’s generation.

“Not exactly. I did spend a short time in the water. But I was on land most of the time.”

“When were you here last?”

The old man was going to answer, “Every night in my nightmares,” but gave a simpler, more direct answer.

“September 15, 1944.”

The German tourist’s eyes opened.  “Oh. You were in the war?”

“Yes. I am a Marine. I was in the war. And the war is still in me.”

The old man rubbed his leg, where shrapnel still resided and continued, “I’ve heard the diving is spectacular here.  I hope you have a good trip.”

The young man smiled and said, “Thank you.  My great grandfather was in the war, too.  I’m glad you two never met.”

The old man smiled again.  He liked the kid’s sense of humor.  “Me, too. Is he still alive?”

“Nein. He died in the war.  Was killed when his Messerschmitt 109 was shot down over France. My great grandmother was never the same after that. She hates you Yanks.”

“I understand completely,” he said as he patted the kid on the back. “I understand completely.”

The old man thought of the conversation he had had last week.

“YOU CAN’T GO! YOU ARE 88-years-old.  There is no way I will allow you to make a trip like that alone.”  The dark-haired middle-aged woman stood with her hands on her hips.

“If the Imperial Japanese Army can’t stop me, you can’t either. I changed your diaper. You and your mother and even your grandmother couldn’t keep me from going.  I have something important to do. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do it.”  He picked up a small container, gathered tickets and looked at the destination on the paper.

He was headed back to Peleliu Islands.

Franklin Hudson had never mentioned his part in World War 2 to his family. But on the day he turned 85, he began to open up about it. The family had known not to wake him from a deep sleep and knew he would have terrifying nightmares, but they were horrified to hear what hell he had seen in his life.  The retired elementary school principal had seen and done things in the name of his country that no man should ever have to do. But he did them. He did it out of loyalty to his country, Corps and companions.  Franklin Hudson, a meek man by nature, was a trained killer who had won World War 2.  And after the war, he suppressed it deep inside his torn soul.

Now, on the sunset of his life, he was going to let it all go in the only place he could.

“Welcome to Peleliu!” the young, tanned lady greeted him at the dock. “Are you Mr. Franklin Hudson?”

The old man nodded.  He could smell familiar smells.

“Very good. If you will sit here, and I will call your tour guide. Welcome back Mr. Hudson. And on behalf of the residents of Peleliu, thank you.”

“I have to admit,” he smiled as he sat,” this is a much warmer greeting than the last time I was here.”

He looked over at the Japanese tourists sitting over in the corner. They probably had lost a loved one here, too. A slight flicker of hatred boiled up in his heart, but was quickly extinguished. Time had healed that wound (Although he still yelled at his granddaughter when she had bought a Mitsubishi TV. “THEY BUILT THE PLANE THAT KILLED MY FELLOW MARINES!” he screamed at the young girl.  There were still some of those planes in the jungle near the airfield he had captured.)  In hindsight, they hadn’t even needed to capture the island.  Nearly 1,800 Americans had paid the ultimate price to help cover General Douglas MacArthur’s effort to retake the Philippines.  He looked over at the Japanese tourists again. 20,000 of their countrymen had died here as well.  Franklin nodded at the tourists.  Their families had suffered, too.

The heat and humidity was like a thick, wet coat smothering his soul and as bad as he remembered it. He had never been that thirsty before or since. In preparation for the invasion, the Japanese had poisoned the watering holes.  The only water he had for the first couple of days tasted like the oil barrels it came ashore in — when he got water at all.  This time he came prepared. He had a bag full of water and a small container. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow.  He hadn’t sweated like this since New Orleans, his childhood home.

He had one friend while growing up in the Crescent City.  His name was Johnny Morton and they lived next door to each other on St. Charles Avenue in the Garden District.  Franklin and Johnny had everything in common. Both were sons of college professors. Both were excellent students and athletes. And both had signed up for the U.S. Marine Corps the day they turned 18. They were going to kill Japs, the very nonpolitically correct word they used back in 1943.

By a twist of fate, they were together than day as the landing craft stormed ashore.  Franklin remembered Johnny throwing up. He remembered how pail his face was. He remembered them scrambling over the side of the boat into the warm, tropical water. He could see the blood flowing in currents around the boat. And he remembered the Japanese bullet tearing into Johnny’s head.  As he ran toward the airfield, he turned one last time to see his friend twitching on the sand.  Franklin Hudson never saw Johnny Morton, his best friend in the  whole world, again.

Fate and two feet had spared his life.

The car stopped near the ocean. The guide said, “The Marines landed at 08:32 on 15 September; the 1st Marines to the north on “White Beach…”  The old man looked at him distantly and said, “I know. I was there.”

The island looked so different now. Vegetation, blasted by Naval gunfire and napalm, had grown back.  Hunks of iron were now rusting into history — much like survivors like himself.  Franklin felt his blue eyes water.  Moisture streamed down his wrinkled face.

There it was. The very place where he had come ashore.

“Excuse me.”

The guide stopped and said, “yes?”

“I’d like to take a moment and walk on the beach. I have a few things I’d like to do.”

The guide, recognizing a moment to smoke a cigarette said, “sure” and helped the old man out of the car.

The path was worn.  The calm water lapped and tickled the land.  Franklin wiped his forehead again and took a long sip of water from a water bottle.  He got his bearings walked down the beach about 25 yards. He sighed and sat down, feeling the warm sand on his bottom.

“I was hoping you’d return.”

A lone figure walked down from the beach from the opposite direction.

“I couldn’t leave you.”

“But you did.”

“You were dead the second the bullet hit you.  My sergeant was screaming for me to move.  I had to keep going.”

Johnny Morton sat next to his old friend and then put his arm around him.

“You’ve really gotten old.”

“And you look the same. I see you every night in my nightmares.”

“I know. I visit you every night. I haven’t found peace.”

Both men sat, watching a storm brew in the distance.

“We won the battle and the war.  I went home and married Juliet Jenkins.  You remember her from high school — the cute blond that sat in Mr. Cummings Math class. We had three kids and they each had two.  I went to Tulane and then worked as an elementary school principal and moved to Marietta, Georgia.  New Orleans flooded a few years ago from a hurricane. You wouldn’t have believed the chaos. Juliet died ten years ago from cancer.”

Johnny Morton sat silently.

“To answer the question you haven’t asked, yes it was worth it. Our country became great because of sacrifices like yours. I miss you, Johnny. We all missed you.  Your girlfriend  Samantha went on to marry another man, but I know she didn’t love him like she loved you.  She named her first son John.”

A tear streamed down the ghost’s face.

“I’ve traveled halfway around the world to be with you today.  I’ll be with you permanently soon. Time is about to do what the Japanese couldn’t. Like you, I’ll be history. But like you, I won’t be forgotten.”

Franklin stood up, pulled a small container out his bag and walked to the water’s edge. There he sprinkled ashes into the sea.

Johnny smiled. “Thank you, friend.”

“Happy Memorial Day, Johnny.”

And at that moment, Hell transformed into Heaven. And Franklin Hudson helped an old friend find peace at last.