A quick author's note - Thanks to everybody who took the time to read the first chapter! Though there are few of you, your reviews and follows motivate me to produce more on Mr. Kennedy's story. Expect to see some more historical and interesting characters in future chapters. Chapter 3 should be a nice and long, but for now I present to you Episode Two of What You Can Do For Your Country. Enjoy!

II

My head erupts through the surface accompanied by deep heaves. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and look about my surroundings. Am I the only one left?

In the distance I hear the destroyers. The gunfire , though from so far away, still hammers in my ears, and the hammering soon fades to white noise. Ringing is all I hear. It's only interrupted when I hear commotion a couple yards to the left of me. I turn to face it.

"Lieutenant? That you?" A crewmate calls.

"Yeah! Barney?"

"Yeah."

Then I hear more commotion. This time a few yards behind me.

"Who is it!?" I call.

The crewmate releases a series of air-deprived heaves and I hesitate to re ask until they finish.

"It's Albert! Lieutenant!?"

"Aye!"

The process repeats till four names are uncalled. I kept track of the names Barney, Albert, Maguire, Zinser, Mauer, Starkey, Johnston, and Thom, and Bucky.

"Anybody seen Marney, Peterson, or McMahon?" I question.

A collective no passes around my crewmates.

"What about Kirkskey? He here?" Starkey asks.

I look back up at the moon and stars. The autumnal breeze blows across my face, drying beads of saltwater but at the cost of a chill trickling down my spine.

"No," I eventually say. "He ain't here."

As I say it, I look passed Barney's silhouette and at the wreckage of PT 109. Two dark figures bobbed in a repeating pattern. I shove my right arm in front of me and perform a series of butterfly strokes in their direction. I feel a burning sensation on my arms as I reach Peterson and McMahon. Plausibly the leaking fuel.

"Oh God Lieutenant, it's good to see you." Peterson says, reaching out for me.

I shove his arm away and go to McMahon who suffered burns all over his body. A life vest kept him afloat.

"We gotta get him away from here," I state, pulling a strap of the life vest. "You alright son?"

"Me?" Peterson asks, eyes wide.

"Yes you. You got burns?"

"Oh yes sir. They really hurt if I'm going to be honest. Oh God."

"Keep it together, sonny," I put the strap between my teeth. It tastes of boat oil. "Let's move."

Together we rendezvous back to the rest of the crew, Peterson releasing exclamations of pain through gritted teeth.

"What's the plan, boss?" Maguire questions.

I spit out the strap and check McMahon's pulse. He's still here, though unconscious. I look about the crew. All brave faces in the late summer Pacific, despite knowingly being in the throat of danger. They're looking to me for an answer. They expect me to know the path, to show the path, and to take the path.

"I want you all to take a vote."

The crew looks about each other, confusion marking their expressions.

"There's nothing in the book about a situation like this. A lot of you men have families and some have children. What do you want to do? I have nothing to lose."

The crew look about each other again, the same look of confusion. Pain creeps its way up my back. The collision fucked me up good.

"Boss," a voice says. "We ain't surrendering if that's what you're getting at."

Voices all around me agree.

"There's a small island three miles from here." I offer.

The voices agree again and I smile.

"So let's go."

Bullets plant themselves into the brick alley walls around me.

Sirens blare.

I run towards the light.

Left here, right there, left, right, right, left. The alleys is a maze; a labyrinth. Up here I'll make another left. I misjudge the distance and have to turn so hard I lose my balance and tumble into some metal garbage cans. I curse myself and my back problems.

Up ahead though, I see light. An opening. A streetlight? I cling to the wall to bring myself up, a thousand mallets performing a song on my lower back. I try to run again but the song gets louder. I'm forced to stumble towards the light like an Old Folks' Home resident on spaghetti Tuesday. Motherfucker.

I'm almost there. At a distance, running feet. Ah hell. Come on, you've gotta go. You've gotta. Feet run in the far end of the alley. Dammit dammit dammit.

I'm there.

I was right, a streetlight. Quickly I strafe to the right in hopes that the feet don't see me. I scoot my way under the awning of a store. It's a little flower shop, closed this time of night. A sign on the door reads, 'Daisy's Flower Shop'. Hah. Guess some people are put onto this Earth with a predetermined fate.

I roll my dice and jiggle to door handle. Locked. Dammit.

From far down the street I hear a scraping noise. Metal on asphalt, like driving a car with no tires. I turn to face it. Three stores down, a great Metallic Hound stares me down. A huge grin adorns its manufactured face. What in the hell.

I was discharged back in '45, I never saw anything like this. Back in April though, I heard rumors of a great metallic scourge tearing through the remnants of the Red Army. Panzerhund was the name.

It releases a growl reminiscent of both a steaming factory pipe and the grinding of metal on gravel. The beast charges towards me. I draw my pistol and switch the safety off. My eyelids force themselves shut.

Joseph? Big brother? Can you hear me? I wonder what heaven is like. Will you help me find my way?

Kirkskey? Marney? Friends. Crew mates. Do you copy? Sorry I could not save you. Sorry I was not strong enough. I'll see you soon.

Mother, Father. My brothers and sisters, friends and family on this Earth. It's my time to go. I love you. I'll watch over you.

The scraping of metal on asphalt is so close. My pointer finger is fixed to the trigger.

A voice pierces the air.

"Sofia! Halt!"

The beast grinds to a stop and miniscule pieces of asphalt scrape my bare legs. I look to my savior. A Nazi in an officer's uniform, armed with a flashlight and a pistol. He shines the light in my face. Squinting, I struggle to see who else is there, but I spot two armored scum at his sides, carrying rifle models I've never seen. At his far right, passed the right side armored Nazi, stands a police officer, arms behind his back.

Something about the policeman seems familiar. Do I know this man?

Flashlight Nazi approaches me. "John Fitzgerald Kennedy. You have definitely got as much fire as they say you have. And might I compliment your boxers? My wife back in Berlin got me a German pair for my birthday. Now according to the records, you have a disorder in your lower back which gives you chronic pain. Is that true? Is it also true that you have not been to the doctor since your discharge?"

I'm not focused on his words. I'm focused on the policeman who's face I struggle to make out. I swear I've seen him before.

"Mind you, I do not speak to offend. You have a gun in your hand though, so I must be cautious. How about you hand that piece over and we can sit down and talk this out. You a beer man, Kennedy? Come on, hand it over. It is not your service pistol is it? Browning M1911, .45 caliber, eight rounds."

I swear I can make out little blonde stubble at his chin. He's skinny, his bones jut out and give his face a pale, hollow look.

Wait. No. It can't be.

"Peterson!?" I exclaim.

Flashlight looks at the policeman, then to me, then back at the policeman. "Peterson, do you know this man?"