The War Within
© D. Musgrave

Excerpt from The War Within:

            Catching sight of the old house, it was as if a vise gripped his chest.  Spanish moss hung from the huge oak trees lining the front yard.  It reminded him of carefree days before the war.  Days he and Sheila would spend under the canopy, lounging on a blanket, making plans for their future.  Gazing past the trees to the two-story brick house, he remembered the first time he laid eyes on it.  It'd been in bad shape and needed lots of work, but even at first sight, he knew it would be his home.  Convincing Sheila to take a chance on the "money-pit" had been easy.  Maybe she saw it's potential as well.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to concentrate on the familiar smells of the moisture-thick bayou air.  Not long ago, he thought he'd never see the house or his wife again.  Suddenly, the throat-tightening scent of war flooded his mind.  The stench of mud, blood, and death overtook the sweet scent of the bayou. 

Shaking his head, he pushed it away, but it persisted, forcing itself on him.  He squeezed his eyes shut and the visions rushed into the darkness.  He heard the wretched screams of dying men over the roar of battle.  The smell of death seemed to be permanently burned into his mind, along with tortured screams.  Many times in the last few days, he'd wondered whether he'd ever be free of those gripping fears.

            The thick rolling accent of the Creole taxi driver wrenched him from his reverie.  “Hey, Mister.  Y’all gonna be paying fer tha ride?”

            “Sorry,” William Beauregard replied.  Dropping his Army-issue duffel bag, he paid the fare.

            The taxi cab rolled away, and William turned back to look at the old house.  It had been a plantation and before that, he’d heard rumors of it being the home of a notorious pirate.  There were also stories of hauntings and ghosts, but he'd never seen anything like that in his time there. 

Bending down, he grabbed the duffle bag and slung the strap over his shoulder.  He began the walk up the long driveway to the front door.  He knew Sheila wasn't expecting him.  He'd managed to talk his way onto a cargo plane from Fiji before a troop transport could be arranged.  His service to the country had been completed and all he owed the Army was to turn in his weapons, which he did in San Diego.

The walk to the house seemed longer than he remembered, but he figured that was because part of him was nervous about seeing Sheila again.  He knew he wasn't the same man who'd left her three years earlier.  It was easy to hide how the war had affected him in letters.  He didn't want her to worry more than she already was, so in his letters he made it seem as if his part in the war was more of a clean up effort instead of the slow, trudging, and bloody job of leading men onto the shores to break through the beachheads of the Japanese. 

Suddenly, he heard a scream behind him.  He turned, but no one was there.  The scream came again, this time to his right and closer.  It was the same heart-stopping war cry he'd heard when Japanese guerillas attacked his platoon.  Their battle cries were a mixture of rage and total abandon, as if they wanted to be spotted and their targets know they were about to die.

He spun on his heels, ready to defend himself, but nothing was there.  A cold chill wrapped him in its clammy embrace.  He'd felt that chill once before—in the back of the cargo plane, alone, trying to sleep on the metal floor behind a stack of ammo crates.

A voice whispered coldly in his ears, "Save me," then all was silent.  His heart hammered in his chest.  He wanted to run for cover, but couldn't make his legs move.  Another scream rang in his ears.  It seemed to come from the house.  This one was different.  It wasn't the blood-chilling yell he'd heard before.  It was a shriek of surprise. 

Spinning, he saw someone running from the house.  He dropped to one knee and reached for his duffle bag.  His service revolver was in there and he prayed it was on top.  Ripping the zipper open, he glanced up and a chill gripped his heart.  The person running toward him wasn't a Japanese soldier; it wasn't even a man, it was his wife, Sheila. 

He pulled his hands out of the duffle bag and stood.  He took a step toward her, then suddenly was running, everything blurring as tears filled his eyes.  Catching her as she launched herself at him, he spun and squeezed her tight to his chest.  He mashed his lips to the side of her face, kissing her.  Her wails rang in his ears, but it was a welcome sound.  It wasn't the screams of war.

She moved her head back and looked at him.  She scanned his face as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.  Her face was wet with tears and her lipstick smeared from kissing him.  She opened her mouth to speak, but she only shuddered and breathed on him.  The scent of her breath, laced with the spicy tang of gumbo was the best odor he'd smelled in months.  It reminded him that he was indeed home.  He kissed her open mouth, his tongue automatically finding hers.  Their first kiss since he'd left for the war those years earlier.

Dropping from his embrace, she took his hand and flashed him a playful grin.  He turned to grab the duffel bag, but she pulled harder.  "That can wait," she said in a husky voice.

To read the remainder of this story, it's for sale at:

413 Remembrance Lane: A Diary of a House

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