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Send to FriendBut I am denied that right. It's flat-out discrimination and it's tearing me apart inside.
But while I was unable to serve in the Gulf War, and now unable to serve in the "War on Terrorism", I can at least be comforted in the knowledge that in another life, I may have been able to serve in World War II.
I don't know where to begin explaining this; I have never told anyone about this, other than Eve, and she's dead. I have no idea what someone else might think of what I am about to reveal or even if they would believe any of it at all. Hell, I'm not even sure I believe it half the time, although I want to. Eve thought it was kind of cool, and of course, so do I, though I can't understand fully just what the hell happened. The memories are fragmented somehow, shattered, like a jigsaw puzzle missing a lot of its pieces. It's always been like that for me, ever since these memories first manifested within me as a child, and it is my fervent hope that in writing this, a much clearer picture will form for me.
I was about eight or nine when the memories started resurfacing. I don't know what brought them about, but they started occurring in dreams. Not every night, no, but enough so it was a big deal, to imprint it upon my subconscious memory. I never thought of them as nightmares, per se, despite their rather unhappy ending (unhappy for me, anyway). But it was otherwise pleasant - had I been fifteen instead of eight or nine, you could even go as far as to say it was a wet dream for me. But no sticky stomach, no ejaculation; that was the only thing missing, and that was only because I was not yet old enough to ejaculate. The dreams stopped coming around six months after they began. Nothing set them off, and nothing stopped them from arriving. They just ceased to come. And I pretty much forgot about them. I didn't think much of them after that at all, until the Gulf War ten years ago. The thoughts came back to me; not the dreams, but the memories. They surfaced again at the beginning of the Gulf War, and then as that blew over, so too did the dreams fade away. And now, with the prospect of this new war against terrorism, the bombings in Afganistan, the memories are surfacing once more, and my mind flashes back to that other time, that other life, back in that great World War II battle in 1942.
I don't know the origin of these memories, or even if they are authentic, though I was never much of an expert in history. They could be completely bogus, a mere delusion to satisfy the bloodlust that only the prospect of war could satiate. Hell, I was never a big advocate of the belief in reincarnation, or an afterlife, or anything that religion might entail; I couldn't care less either way about any of that shit. But still, the memories seem real, authentic memories, and I want nothing more than to believe that they are authentic, that they really did happen, that I really did live that life on the battlefield.
I guess you can say it was an escape for me, a boy growing up in the 1970s, but in his dreams becoming a soldier 30 years earlier. I think it might've been sometime in 1942, but I'm not sure. I guess it doesn't really matter.
In that life, I was known as Henry Pliskon, and working at an ice cream parlor. I was actually normal in that life and I was loved. I had a girlfriend, Judy, whom I loved to death, and who loved me back (she wasn't a Satanist like Eve was, but oh well...I was happy). And believe it or not, I wasn't the cold, hateful, ugly son of a bitch I am now. Apart of me still misses those days, but most of the time I don't even think about it. It was another lifetime ago, and I can't be bothered with that shit now. Anyway, as I said, life was good.
And then I got drafted.
Basic training is a blur to me. Basically a pain in the ass with an asshole drill sargent, that sort of thing. You know the deal; I don't have to get into it. Besides, I don't remember any specific details anyway, so if you don't know the deal, tough shit for you.
Then the training came to an end, and the fighting began.
I'm telling you the God's honest truth when I say that at the time I had found out I'd been drafted, it seemed like the worst thing that could've possibly happened to me. I hated the Japanese and I hated the Nazi bastards, as the rest of America had, along with the rest of the world as well. But I didn't want to fight in that war...not then. They had completely disrupted my life, to put me in a battlefield where I might very well be killed. I was scared to death.
Then the first battle came, and all feelings of fear left, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of awe of the exquisiteness of battle, the bullets flying around all over the place, all the blood splashing about, the blood of my comrades as they cried out in agony as enemy fire tore into them, ripping them apart. Yes, I was scared to death as well, so scared I pissed in my pants, but I was also exhillarated. The battle was a disaster for the Allied nations and we got our asses kicked that day, but I still loved every minute of it, right 'til the very end. "Die motherfuckers!" I shouted as I fired my weapon at them, feeling it sending tremors surging throughout my arm--it was a wonder I could hold the thing steady. My arm ached, but I had hit a few enemy troops and watched them fall dead to the ground, now a mess of blood, gore, and brains. I doubt they could hear me above the constant blare of gunfire, the explosions, and the cries of fear and agony as men lay dying, their brains and innards leaking out and soaking into the soil, some from my side, some from the enemies. I must've been seriously disturbed, a complete psychopath to have loved the horrific scene that enfolded before my eyes, but I enjoyed it all the same, where anyone else would've been horrified by it all. It was definitely a warzone back there, and I loved every minute of it.
And then I was hit myself...
I knew it could come, but I was still shocked when I actually felt it; it had taken me by complete surprise, but I guess that's how it always is when you're about to die. You never see it coming. They say that a gunshot wound to the stomach is the most painful way to go, and they're absolutely right. I know from personal experience. It was a sudden blow, knocking the wind out of me, burrowing deeply, eating away at my instestines. My gun flew out of my hands then, but I barely noticed. Suddenly, all I was aware of was the agony that consumed me. I doubled over, my knees buckling sharply, then fell to the ground, feeling warm blood soaking my chest, feeling the flesh around my wound tear open further, expanding the wound, and cried out painfully. I saw my weapon lying on the ground, reached for it, the fire of pain in my gut intensifying, as though something were stabbing at me internally; the weapon was just out of my reach. As I slowly lifted my hand, trying to muster enough strength to get the gun within my grasp, another swarm of bullets screamed past me, tearing my hand apart, and I saw my own severed fingers leap into the air and then scatter onto the ground. I then looked in horror at what was left of my now mangled hand: only a thumb and a pinky remained. The rest of my fingers were now more than short stubs, spurting blood all the way down my forearms.
Someone screamed: "Pliskon!"
I looked up, and it was Powell, a fellow soldier whom I had befriended during basic training.
The look on his face was raw terror as he ran toward me, continuing to fire away blindly at enemy troops as he rushed to my side. He never made it, though. He was taken out in a hail of bullets that tore him in half. I looked up and watched, weeping, but not for him; not a single tear was shed for him. I felt nothing for his death. I cried only for myself. And I lay there and awaited death, looking up at the dismal sky, the planes zooming by, dropping bombs, both Allied and Axis planes, dropping bombs over the land, annahialating other solders of both sides. I hoped I would be engulfed in an explosion, completely consumed and vaporized, but that moment never came. The pain grew worse as my stomach tore open. I lifted my head briefly, causing my intestines to spill out of the blood-drenched orific that was my stomach, more pain shooting throughout my body, but by that point I was completely unmindful of it, unmindful of the nausea that set in, or the ripping agony caused by my every movement, or the blood climbing my throat and dripping my nose and mouth, and watched for a second or two, with some morbid pleasure as a few Nazis were brutally gunned down.
Then came the killing blow, coming as sudden as the shot to my stomach had that left me open for this position. I felt the round smack me smartly into my forehead, and immediately, I was knocked backward, the world swirling before my eyes as it began to darken. The last thing I saw was the dark scarlet tone of the blood flowing into my eyes, and then there was nothing but darkness. For by then, I was already dead.
October 18, 2001