Ethan Edwards
Supporter
(More old stuff to establish a background, thanks for your patience 
)
Olivia
Ethan crawled along the bottom of a muddy ditch running down Henderson Field’s north flank. Occasional rounds from Nambu rifles kicked up sand and dirt from the all-too-low-for-our-liking berm, keeping the American heads down. The young marine tossed spare ammo cans to a nearby crew manning an M1919, then rolled onto his back, catching his breath. There was a barking slurry of pops as a second .30 caliber positioned along the airstrip opened up, sending long bursts of tracers screaming into the palms…
The halls were scrubbed clean, the tiles on the floor worn, but polished. Everything about the hospital -- from its whitewashed walls to the disinfectant tickling one’s nose -- was dedicated to preserving life. Nurses moved up and down the hallways quickly and with purpose, their white uniforms starched and clean. An orderly gently guided a gurney away from a bank of elevators, speaking softly to the nervous patient resting on it…
Ethan looked up from where he sat hunched in a chair, his dark suit rumpled and hat discarded on a nearby end table. His fedora rested on a stack of Life magazines; the topmost folded open. The image of an elderly man – bare chested and painfully thin—sitting beside a spinning wheel, was just visible as it edged out from beneath the hat’s short brim.
Two men walked into the waiting room…
Hands shaking, Ethan slipped a tiny photograph from his pocket and stared at it. The young woman who stared back smiled with full lips, a hint of laughter at the corners of her eyes. Her long hair fell to her shoulders -- it was blond and felt like silk in his hands –
Suddenly, there was a series of dull cruumphs , followed by shouting, as Japanese mortar rounds impacted just beyond the ditch, sending black clouds of shrapnel buzzing across the auxiliary runway. Cursing, Ethan hurriedly shoved Olivia’s picture into his pocket and scrambled to the berm, throwing his Garand up to his shoulder and scanning for targets.
One man was older, clad in white scrubs. His delicate hands reached up to pull off the small cap he was wearing, and Ethan could see sweaty tufts of grey-black hair flattened to his skull. His eyes were red around the edges after so many hours of trying… The other was tall and lean, his face composed and solemn as he stood nearby – he wore the white collar of the hospital chaplain.
Japanese soldiers rolled down the slopes from the nearby tree line. Their tan uniforms were tattered and filthy, many of them armed with only the bayonets tipping their rifles. A handful of officers and non-coms raced in front of them, swords held high as their shouts led the charge. Ethan’s eyes narrowed. It was like Pittsburgh Landing all over again, only this time the enemy uniforms weren’t blue… He pressed the trigger and the big rifle bumped hard against his bruised shoulder. A tarnished sword dropped to the grass and a body followed it.
Surrounded by sandbags and tin sheets, American anti-tank guns opened up, the M3’s sending 37mm canisters of shot to burn through the enemy’s front ranks. It mixed their bodies in with the second rank’s… All along the line, US soldiers and marines took up positions, firing as fast as they could. There was little need to aim: simply point into the crowd and press the trigger. Even the devil dogs were going through the motions, exhausted on an early morning in late October.
The doctor stopped in the middle of the smoke-filled room, the look on his face causing several others sitting and waiting with Ethan to hold their breath, the thought of his calling their name filling them with dread – but at the same wanting news about whomever they were at the hospital for. When the doctor spoke, all but one person in the waiting room felt the dread wash away. They looked sadly at --
“Mr. Edwards..?”
Bodies spilled and bloodied the slopes as the ground-up human wave depleted and faltered. A few tried to reverse back to the safety of the trees, but all it earned them were bullets in their backs as the defenders continued to pound into them. Ethan slid down along the side of the ditch, his rifle’s action locked open. The nearby M1919 howled like a buzz saw. He frowned. That damned Yankee – Sherman -- had said “War is Hell”, and Time continually reminded Ethan the bastard was right – but it wouldn’t always be that way.
There was always Hope.
Time passed as it had a habit of doing. The Pacific sun blazed high overhead, just past noon. The fighting had ended – for now. Ethan was still sitting in the ditch. The picture was creased a bit, but the smile remained clear. Ethan’s tears were hot on his face, but none of the nearby soldiers noticed – most were dealing with their own demons. He wiped at his face with a filthy hand. Olivia was a light, at the end of a very long tunnel, and everything he was and wanted to be stood beside her…
The young man’s face shot up, his eyes matching the doctor’s for lack of sleep. Ethan’s dark hair was disheveled, and his tie loose and hanging. The night and early morning hours since the contractions, and the suitcase, and the thundering drive to the hospital had been so…
He stood, and all eyes were on him. “Yes? What is it? How is Olivia? The baby?”
A cap was clenched tight in softly gnarled hands. The doctor’s shoulders sagged. “I’m very sorry Mr. Edwards… but they’re both gone.”
“When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different, someone better. When that person is taken from you, what do you become then?” --- A Wise, Wondering Man, 2012
Images…
http://life.time.com/history/life-behind-the-picture-gandhi-and-his-spinning-wheel-1946/#1
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/dc/GuadMatanikauDeadJapanese.jpg
)Olivia
Ethan crawled along the bottom of a muddy ditch running down Henderson Field’s north flank. Occasional rounds from Nambu rifles kicked up sand and dirt from the all-too-low-for-our-liking berm, keeping the American heads down. The young marine tossed spare ammo cans to a nearby crew manning an M1919, then rolled onto his back, catching his breath. There was a barking slurry of pops as a second .30 caliber positioned along the airstrip opened up, sending long bursts of tracers screaming into the palms…
The halls were scrubbed clean, the tiles on the floor worn, but polished. Everything about the hospital -- from its whitewashed walls to the disinfectant tickling one’s nose -- was dedicated to preserving life. Nurses moved up and down the hallways quickly and with purpose, their white uniforms starched and clean. An orderly gently guided a gurney away from a bank of elevators, speaking softly to the nervous patient resting on it…
Ethan looked up from where he sat hunched in a chair, his dark suit rumpled and hat discarded on a nearby end table. His fedora rested on a stack of Life magazines; the topmost folded open. The image of an elderly man – bare chested and painfully thin—sitting beside a spinning wheel, was just visible as it edged out from beneath the hat’s short brim.
Two men walked into the waiting room…
Hands shaking, Ethan slipped a tiny photograph from his pocket and stared at it. The young woman who stared back smiled with full lips, a hint of laughter at the corners of her eyes. Her long hair fell to her shoulders -- it was blond and felt like silk in his hands –
Suddenly, there was a series of dull cruumphs , followed by shouting, as Japanese mortar rounds impacted just beyond the ditch, sending black clouds of shrapnel buzzing across the auxiliary runway. Cursing, Ethan hurriedly shoved Olivia’s picture into his pocket and scrambled to the berm, throwing his Garand up to his shoulder and scanning for targets.
One man was older, clad in white scrubs. His delicate hands reached up to pull off the small cap he was wearing, and Ethan could see sweaty tufts of grey-black hair flattened to his skull. His eyes were red around the edges after so many hours of trying… The other was tall and lean, his face composed and solemn as he stood nearby – he wore the white collar of the hospital chaplain.
Japanese soldiers rolled down the slopes from the nearby tree line. Their tan uniforms were tattered and filthy, many of them armed with only the bayonets tipping their rifles. A handful of officers and non-coms raced in front of them, swords held high as their shouts led the charge. Ethan’s eyes narrowed. It was like Pittsburgh Landing all over again, only this time the enemy uniforms weren’t blue… He pressed the trigger and the big rifle bumped hard against his bruised shoulder. A tarnished sword dropped to the grass and a body followed it.
Surrounded by sandbags and tin sheets, American anti-tank guns opened up, the M3’s sending 37mm canisters of shot to burn through the enemy’s front ranks. It mixed their bodies in with the second rank’s… All along the line, US soldiers and marines took up positions, firing as fast as they could. There was little need to aim: simply point into the crowd and press the trigger. Even the devil dogs were going through the motions, exhausted on an early morning in late October.
The doctor stopped in the middle of the smoke-filled room, the look on his face causing several others sitting and waiting with Ethan to hold their breath, the thought of his calling their name filling them with dread – but at the same wanting news about whomever they were at the hospital for. When the doctor spoke, all but one person in the waiting room felt the dread wash away. They looked sadly at --
“Mr. Edwards..?”
Bodies spilled and bloodied the slopes as the ground-up human wave depleted and faltered. A few tried to reverse back to the safety of the trees, but all it earned them were bullets in their backs as the defenders continued to pound into them. Ethan slid down along the side of the ditch, his rifle’s action locked open. The nearby M1919 howled like a buzz saw. He frowned. That damned Yankee – Sherman -- had said “War is Hell”, and Time continually reminded Ethan the bastard was right – but it wouldn’t always be that way.
There was always Hope.
Time passed as it had a habit of doing. The Pacific sun blazed high overhead, just past noon. The fighting had ended – for now. Ethan was still sitting in the ditch. The picture was creased a bit, but the smile remained clear. Ethan’s tears were hot on his face, but none of the nearby soldiers noticed – most were dealing with their own demons. He wiped at his face with a filthy hand. Olivia was a light, at the end of a very long tunnel, and everything he was and wanted to be stood beside her…
The young man’s face shot up, his eyes matching the doctor’s for lack of sleep. Ethan’s dark hair was disheveled, and his tie loose and hanging. The night and early morning hours since the contractions, and the suitcase, and the thundering drive to the hospital had been so…
He stood, and all eyes were on him. “Yes? What is it? How is Olivia? The baby?”
A cap was clenched tight in softly gnarled hands. The doctor’s shoulders sagged. “I’m very sorry Mr. Edwards… but they’re both gone.”
“When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different, someone better. When that person is taken from you, what do you become then?” --- A Wise, Wondering Man, 2012
Images…
http://life.time.com/history/life-behind-the-picture-gandhi-and-his-spinning-wheel-1946/#1
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/dc/GuadMatanikauDeadJapanese.jpg