By Vern Fein
We lived in the back of a tavern when my Dad went off to WW II, leaving my Mother to bartend and manage the place. I was able to listen and understand when my Mom gathered my brother and me around the radio shrine to hear the daily battle reports, every time wishing I could crawl through the radio, dive into the mud beside my Dad and help him wipe out those vermin. How could I destroy those Japs at 5 years old?
My Mom, though, a gentle woman who would not hurt a fly, had the best solution. She got me a gun, not store-bought. We were poor. Made it or someone did. It was an awkward looking
For months I lugged that gun around the bar room, which was fairly empty in the day- time, diving behind tables and chairs as I mowed down the Japs. Some of the afternoon customers patted me on the head as I shouted: “Take that. Take that!,” fantasizing the bulging eyes and fallen bodies I wiped out, never stopping until the bar began to fill up for the night and always sleeping with that gun instead of my teddy bear, always believing I was bringing my Dad home.
Only years later, when I was marching and organizing against the Vietnam War did I flash back on what I did and realize that my barroom heroism was unpatriotic and had nothing to do with the death of my Dad.
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A retired teacher, Vern Fein has published over 80 poems and short pieces, a few sites being: Courtship of Winds, *82 Review, The Literary Nest, Bindweed Magazine, Gyroscope Review, Former People, 500 Miles, and The Write Launch, and has non-fiction pieces on Quail Bell, The Write Place at the Write Time, and Adelaide.
This piece reminded me of playing war, as a kid and everyone wanted to be the American soldier. Don’t think kids play these games anymore. Great capture of the past.
Great sorry, Vern! Thank you
Really enjoyed this story. Last line is stunning.
Wow, such vivid imagery! I liked this story.