My Father’s Story


“This journal belongs to Lieutenant J.C. Conlin, anyone reading this will know the horrors of war, what I call hell on earth.”


Those first few lines he read made Thomas Conlin shudder as they rattled his few memories left of his father. He held onto those memories, determined never to let them slip off the edge into a part of his mind that will forget them. No. Those memories will always be the future of J.C. Conlin. Thomas read on, indulging himself into his father’s life.


“We just arrived in basic today, the drill sergeant let us off easy to today, but tomorrow, as he put it, “It’ll be hell on earth for you.” Most of the guys, all freshly picked and placed in this new program, began to chat away about what basic is gonna be like, all worried and what not. Not me. “I’m ready...... I hope.”


Thomas looked up, and gazed into the old cardboard box, giving off a dusty aroma. He placed the journal down gently, not wanting to ruin or hurt his father’s life. He stuck his arm, all the way to the elbow inside the box, and yanked out the first thing he felt. Some old war books, pictures of his father dressed in combat gear, a guide, and then something different. Metal. The texture seemed rough and rigid. He dragged his finger along the rest of the metallic object, feeling a smooth, long area then at the end a hole, about as wide as a bullet. He lifted it up. His eyes fell upon a beautiful sight. The pistol was silver and shiny, with a brownish colored grip. It seemed to have been polished quite recently, which Thomas thought was odd, but the sheer beauty knocked that thought off the edge of his mind where it floated away. It sure was a beautiful pistol. He automatically recognized it as an M1911 Colt pistol, the exact same gun issued to officers, like Thomas’s father, in WWII.


As he held onto the pistol, long and tightly, feeling the heavy weight press into him, Thomas seemed to connect with the gun. He began to see flashes of night skies and glowing orange explosions rippling through the darkness. Shouts of unfamiliar languages flowed into Thomas’s ears. Crack, crack, crack. The pistol blew back from recoil, but it stayed in his hands. The recoil and memories seemed so real. It happened again, three more cracks. Then dead bodies, wrapped in gray uniforms, not like the olive drab colored American uniforms. Another crack echoed loud, and suddenly Thomas’s hands trembled terribly, while blood spurted out from his chest and the pistol fell from his hands. His vision seemed dizzy and blurred.
Thomas snapped back. The gun was still in his hands and his chest bore no marks of puncture. He couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. He slid the gun back into place just as he found it before inside the box, then folded up the journal and placed that adjacent to the gun. Leaving the box out on its ledge, Thomas returned downstairs to carry his father’s funeral casket.