Not Another War Story

By Lucas Randolph

The youngest
of the grandchildren was the Old Man’s favorite. Each weekend the Boy would visit and each weekend his grandpa would have a new VHS tape for them to watch together, just the two of them. The movie was always an old western. The black and white ones were the Boy’s least favorite, but he always let the Old Man choose.
That’s not right.
What?
When a man dies it doesn’t happen like that. 
The Boy looked to his grandpa and scrunched the space between his eyebrows. He could smell the coffee coming from his wrinkled mouth weighed down by whatever moisture was allowed to escape. The Old Man always had the same antique mug: a hand drawn replica oil painting of an unknown U.S. Army Cavalry officer, blue uniformed, white leather riding gloves, and a whiskey bar mustache—standing shoulder to shoulder with an unknown Lakota Warrior, at least that’s what the Old Man said—a colorful feathered headdress and a beaded sash across his chest; he held a large curved blade in one hand that rested on their shoulder. An idyllic landscape of a river running through a valley behind them surrounded by a forest of trees gave the two men a look of unity. The rim of the cup had stained brown in a wave pattern from years of use. The smell of diesel mixed with dark roast beans would burn the nostrils of whoever got too close.
Look at him, he’s flopping around like some kind of fish—he was shot five God-damned times! And now he's rolling around on the ground—trying to talk to some woman?!
The Boy kept his eyes on the screen while his grandpa spoke, legs crossed on the floor, trying to see what his grandpa saw.
How does a man look when he dies, Grandpa?
The Old Man looked at the television screen hard, his knuckles losing blood as he clenched the arm of his favorite rocking chair. A weathered golden-brown corduroy stretched across the oak base reflecting shades of light and dark depending on the direction the material lay. The color had faded where the Old Man rubbed the grooves of the corduroy nearly through. When he would shift his weight the wood underneath would protest snapping at whoever sat closest. The chair wouldn’t hold the Boy’s Grandpa much longer.
Two microwaveable dinners covered two white ceramic plates with a thin wildflower pattern along the edge. Fresh stovetop beans mixed with the smell of the Boy’s microwaved meatloaf and steamed vegetables. The odor of melted plastic lingered.
The Old Man bit into the meatloaf. It was too hot. The Boy watched as a piece fell down his chest leaving a dotted brown trail on his white under shirt. The piece of meat missed the plate on his lap, landing in his crotch between the folds of his pants. He plucked it up between his index finger and thumb and rolled it back and forth on calloused fingers blowing gently before placing it between his coffee-stained teeth.

Guns don’t work
like that. See how fast he’s shooting?
The Boy nodded his head intently, pretending to understand.
There! See that! His hands aren’t even moving. Where's the God-damned recoil!
The Boy nodded again; his eyes locked on the television screen. He had never heard the word recoil before.
How did you learn so much about movies, Grandpa?
The Old Man smiled before taking another drink. His face flushed red whenever he drank from his favorite mug. 
The Boy knew all of the actors' names by heart. Alan Ladd, Roy Rogers, Charles Bronson, John Ford—all of them. John Wayne was his favorite though. He was his grandpa’s favorite too. The Old Man told the Boy that John Wayne was an honorable man, that he always did the right thing, even when no one was looking or if he had nothing to gain from it. The Old Man didn’t like some of the other actors. The Boy didn’t know why.
The Old Man shot his arms straight out in front, locking both elbows in place, his hands the shape of a pistol. When the Old Man closed his eyes, he would tell you he could still feel the crisscross of the checkered walnut pistol grip imprint itself into his palm. His head wavered as he focused behind his government issued Colt 1911, the weight of it pulling his arms down. He opened his good eye and steadied himself behind his naked hands; they swayed with the breeze of age. 
This is how you shoot. Eye right down the center. See. You make each one count. You don’t know if you’ll get another. None of this shooting from the hip, cowboy horseshit. You make your shots count, like this:
Breath.
Bang!
Breath.
Bang!
The Boy’s chest rose and fell matching his grandpa’s own breathing. 
There! See, he’s doing it right.
On the television screen, a young cowboy took careful aim over a wooden fence. He killed a man looking over a river in the opposite direction. When the Old Man became excited during a movie, it cued the Boy’s excitement. 
Shoot ‘em in the head! 
The Old Man seemed to like that.

Grandpa has been
to War. The cousins talked about it in pitched voices. Their parents wouldn’t let them visit as much as the Boy’s family allowed. They said it was because they lived too far away. But this was a special occasion: Christmas. At seven years old, words from cousins' nearly twice his age were gospel. The older ones always seemed to know everything about everything. 
It’s true. He’s killed people. Lots of people.
Where’s his uniform then?
How should we know. Locked up?
He used to live in a place called Korea. He even took his little brother with him.
Grandpa has a brother?
Had. Our Mom told us so.
Does he still kill people?
I don’t think so, maybe. Probably. It was a long time ago.
Can you y’all keep a secret?
The Boy nodded his head in a trance. He was good at keeping secrets.
After they opened Christmas presents, the adults told the cousins to go upstairs and play with their freshly unwrapped toys. The sound of an old western movie played in the background, as was the tradition. The Boy asked for the 1988 Stan Lee VHS, “How to Draw the Marvel Way.” He dreamed of being a comic book writer. Superheroes exploding the skulls of bad guys with their laser eyes and power fists. Instead, he opened Wild Bill air cavalry scout, part of the eleventh series of the G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero action figures released earlier that year. It came equipped with a detachable navy-blue cavalry hat and clip-on rucksack, but most importantly, the spring-loaded rocket launcher, rockets included. The Boy smiled as the plastic spear soared across the room. He had never owned a toy like this before.
Over here. Shhh. 
He’s gonna rat us out.
You promise right? No telling.
The Boy pleaded with his older cousins.
I won’t tell—promise.
The cousins crowded into the corner of the small walk-in closet. They made room for the youngest, the Boy. A black plastic shoebox size container sat open in the middle of the floor. A small pistol with a wooden grip rested in a case of charcoal foam. The oldest of the cousins, the only one with curly red hair, picked it up and looked down the barrel like he had done it before. He flexed his arms with each imaginary shot. His arms were bigger than the other cousins and the Boy couldn’t help but stare.
Grandpa said he would let me shoot it someday when I was old enough. It’s called a Colt 1911. It’s from the War. Do you want to hold it?
The Boy didn’t answer but held his hands out.
No, you have to hold it like this.
The other cousins watched as the oldest placed it in the Boy’s hands. 
Out in front of you, like this. Lock your elbows.
The Boy imitated his older cousin, aiming with both arms outstretched. The gun felt heavy in his hands. His slender arms wavered with the weight of the cold American steel. He felt his index finger move across the trigger. The Boy took a slow breath, just like his grandpa taught him, letting his chest rise and fall, and he gently pulled the trigger. 
Click.
Bang.
The cousins jumped back.
You stupid shit!
The oldest ripped the pistol from the Boy’s hands. He didn’t understand what he did wrong. Some of the other cousins were laughing.
Everyone went home early that night. The Old Man stayed in his room for dinner. The parents told the children that Grandpa wasn’t feeling well. The Boy’s father gorged himself at the dinner table and the Boy overheard his mother say his father’s heart wouldn’t last much longer. He told her she didn’t have any room to talk. He drifted in and out of sleep as she drove them all home. 
The shadow of a forest stretched out over the car as they neared its edge. The pines and junipers of the Rocky Mountains made room for a narrow trench of asphalt that the family passed through. Light from the moon could barely be seen lighting pathways between the trees. The Boy stared at his own reflection in the car window as they drove. Deep set eyes made shadows where his brow hung over his eyes. Dark colored hair was parted on the side of his head and pasted down with some kind of hair gel that his mom used on him—it made him look older than he actually was. He focused on a national cemetery resting in the distance, partially obscured by the camouflaged forest. Evenly placed bone white head stones created an endless grid growing in size no matter which angle someone looked in from. A few had small American flags planted at the base of them, but most didn’t. When the Boys eyes felt heavy enough, he thought he could see the face of the Old Man in the reflection of the car window.
The Boy’s mind wandered as they passed the cemetery. He fantasized about his grandpa charging up the mountains of Korea, carrying the same Winchester Model 92 Rifle, with the dark wood grain cast against cold hard American steel, like John Wayne did in their favorite movies. The Colt 1911 with the wooden grip hung from his hip in a holster. He wore a navy-blue cavalry hat with a golden tassel wrapped above the brim. He would point his rifle downrange, splattering brain and bone with every pull of the index finger. He was a perfect shot. Bullseye. Splat. Bullseye. Splat. The faceless enemy never got close. Or, sometimes, the Boy imagined his grandpa with an ancient sword and shield, a bronze-colored suit of armor. He glowed like an angel. Both hands would be used to hold an oversized bastard sword. A red jewel on the hilt of the handle would reflect rays of light in every direction as he swung it from side to side. Enemies would fall over dead in a perfectly coordinated circle of death.  An American flag always waved in the background of the Boy’s imagination.
Has Grandpa ever killed anyone?
Who—Where did you hear that?
The Boy sat silently. His father sounded groggy.
No, he's never killed anyone.
But he has been to War? Right?
Silence bounced off the glass windows of the car. The father turned the radio on. The Boy would ask his grandpa if they could watch a movie about War, a black and white one, like Fort Apache, starring John Wayne and Henry Fonda; one of the Old Man's favorites. He knew his grandpa would tell the real truth, just like he did about the westerns they watched together when it was just the two of them. He would ask to see his War medals, did he still have his War uniform, if he could shoot his gun when he was old enough to hold it straight like his cousin with the big muscles and red curly hair. He would ask what War was really like—the killing—the dying—his brother. Not any of the fake stuff that they liked to watch together on the weekends, when it was just the two of them.
As they drove, the Boy tried to count the number of white slabs sticking up from the ground before they disappeared altogether. He wanted to join the Army, like his Grandpa—he wanted to know how a man looks when he dies.

****

Lucas Randolph is a veteran of the U.S. Air Force who served as an avionics technician from 2005-2014. He holds an undergraduate in English & Creative Writing and an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. His literary work has appeared in War, Literature, & the Arts, As You Were: The Military Review, The Wrath-Bearing Tree, and among other publications.