Into Each Life
The rain thundered on the tin roof, nearly drowning out all other sounds and even his own thoughts. Not that he minded; his thoughts at the moment were rather grim. A burst of wind changed the melody for a moment and sent a chill up his spine from where it had infiltrated the worn and rough wood at his back.
Newkirk hunched his shoulders and huddled into his coat, seeking a bit of warmth from the bone-chilling weather. His hands ached and he clenched and unclenched them inside his pockets, trying to keep them from stiffening up completely.
How long had they been marching? Or, rather, dragging their feet through the mud as best they could while their captors urged them on with the butts of their rifles? Newkirk shook his head. Not long enough for the terror of being shot down and captured to fade. He snorted. As if it would ever lessen. It hung around his neck like a millstone.
One. He was the one lone survivor of a crew of ten. He, the least deserving of them all- a scallywag and thief who would be mourned by but a few. Thatcher had been a well-loved teacher with a wife and two little boys. McDonnell was a newlywed. Ratcliff had been studying for the church and probably could have been a chaplain, but a sense of duty had moved him into the belly of a Wellington. The others in his crew were no less deserving of life. Each one of them top-notch men who had deemed him fit for friendship. They had trusted him with their lives just as he had trusted them with his. And yet fate had chosen to save him above them all. It wasn't fair- not to them and certainly not to him. How was he supposed to bear the weight of that kind of guilt?
Was it wrong to envy the dead? Well, in a life filled with wrong-doings, what was one more to add to his ledger? Because envy them he did. They were free. Free from the dark clouds of war. Free from wondering if each morning would be their last. They had their answer, while he still had to carry the burden of the unknown. Would today be his last? Tomorrow? Would he have the chance to see the rain lift and feel the sun once more before his captors disregarded the rules of war entirely and just did away with him? Bullets had already released two other prisoners after their wounds caused them to lag behind in the forced march. If he were lucky, the rain would give him a fatal case of pneumonia and he, too, would be free.
The rain altered its tune once more, softening into a gentle lullaby. Beside him, a man coughed and brought his knees to his chest, before sniffling and swiping his arm under his nose- the perfect picture of misery. Newkirk, however, wouldn't give his German captors the satisfaction of knowing they had him beat. Despite his inner turmoil, he tried to maintain the appearance of nonchalance the best he could: leaning against the wall with one knee up and the other stretched out, hands in his pockets and cap pushed as far forward as it would go. All he needed was a lit fag and he could almost imagine himself resting in a London alley after a successful burglary.
It was raining in London now. It had to be. The thought brought an unexpected swell of comfort. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He saw his mum, working hard as always. Perhaps she was washing dishes, the steam rising up from the heat of scalding, soapy water in front of her, while, behind her, the window framed the grey rain pelting down. The same rain that fell outside his shelter now. Perhaps playing the same tune. It connected them, perhaps bringing them closer than they would be for a long time yet.
He wondered if she knew what had happened yet. She must have heard he had been shot down, but did she know he had been captured or did she think him dead? If he focused hard enough, maybe his thoughts would fly up into the clouds, ride the winds across the Channel and rain down on her, letting her know he was still there.
Still there. Still here. Still alive.
That wasn't so bad, was it? It was easy to pity himself, but it didn't do anything. His mother would be ashamed of him. Hadn't she taught him to work hard? Hadn't she proven that life was worth living, despite its hardships? She had worked and clawed her way through the trials of life- trials far heavier than he had ever had to bear, or ever would- and she still kept going with the kind of grace that would be envied in the royal courts.
The rain was pounding again, drumming into his heart a renewed sense of direction. Into each life, some rain had to fall, but he wasn't going to let him drown him. That would only dishonour his mother. Perhaps just as bad, it would dishonour his crew. He might have been a scoundrel, but they were good men and they would be heartbroken by his guilt and self-loathing. They had inspired him to reach new heights and be better than he ever thought he could be. They had even respected him, as astounding as that sounded. He could live a thousand lifetimes without meeting a crew as good and live another thousand lifetimes trying to be worthy of their respect. He would never have enough time, but he was determined to do what he could with what he had.
Their break was over. His captors roused the British airmen and herded them outside. Instead of hiding in his coat, Newkirk instead looked up and let the rain cleanse him. It washed away a small portion of his guilt and nourished the tiny seed of hope in his heart. He'd live, he'd grow, and one day he'd bring forth fruit worthy of all men who had died and all the people still alive who loved him.
End