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D.A. Spruzen
Our reviewer for the May-June challenge is Dorothy Hassan, who writes as D. A. Spruzen. She has lived in Northern Virginia since 1971, except for a two-year hiatus in the Middle East. She grew up near London, U.K., where she graduated from the London College of Dance and Drama Education before joining the faculty of London Theater School. Many years later, she earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte, and now teaches writing for the McLean Community Center when she’s not seeking her own muse. She also runs private critique workshops in her home and is a past president of the Northern Virginia Writers Club. In another life she was Manager of Publications for a defense contractor.
Dorothy’s short stories and poems have appeared in many publications, most recently in three anthologies, Joys of the Table (poetry, Richer Resources Publications), the Creatures, Crimes and Creativity conference anthology, and Crossing Lines (Main Street Rag). Her novel The Blitz Business, set in WWII England, was published by Koehler Books in 2016 and a poetry collection, Long in the Tooth, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013. Dorothy self-published the first two novels in her Flower Ladies Trilogy and Crossroads, two novellas. When she’s not writing, Dorothy likes to read, paint, garden, and take care of Sam, her Cavalier King Charles spaniel
The prompts:
– Sandstorm: you are suddenly in the middle of a sandstorm you cannot see where you’re going. write a story about how you’re there and what you do to survive OR describe how it feels to be in the middle of this
– The car door is locked and won’t open write a story about how you came to be there are you inside or outside the car…
– Visual prompt as below:
What are you doing here? How did you get here? Is this a place where you wish to be or do you want to get away from here.
The Entries
Two of the entries will be coming in a little later as the entrants, having taken on board Dorothy’s detailed comments, are in the process of editing their stories. One story has already been edited in accordance to the reviewer’s comments. Thank you Dorothy!
In the middle of a sandstorm
by Melissa Nazareth
A violent sandstorm erupted and I could barely see. A moment ago, all had been clear and I knew my way, but now I was blinded without warning. I tried to find my way to the tent, but I could hardly keep my balance, let alone walk without staggering from side to side. I prayed I would reach my safe haven, wondering if this might be my last day.
I was becoming short of breath. My eyes stung from the dust. I must have been walking for hours before my legs unwillingly surrendered. I fell to my knees and collapsed, engulfed by a sea of sand. My gaze darted from the dunes around me to the blue sky above. The sun, resplendent and merciless mocked my mortality and I instantly turned away. Formless objects in all colours of the rainbow floated past my eyes.
I felt my body tighten, then go slack. My spirit fought on. I tried to call out for help, but the shrieking cries of the desert birds gliding above drowned out my own. Something scaly slithered against my arm. Paralysed by fear, I didn’t look to see what it was, maybe because I didn’t want to know. In the silence of my heart, struck by a tempest of its own, I cried. “God, please rescue me.” I must have passed out.
Was I in heaven? Light streamed in from all sides, warming my skin, though my insides felt icy. I couldn’t move. Frantically searching for a sign, I spotted something familiar— the camel figurine on my study table. This was my room. Why couldn’t I move? I felt my eyes widen in panic before the memories came rushing back. I’d had an accident.
I had just had a heated argument with my mother. It wasn’t always like this between us. We were a happy family. We went out together and ate dinner together. But after my father left us, everything changed. I constantly felt anxious, as if I were stranded in a desert. I battled with my emotions, which would stir up without warning. Where was my life was headed? I couldn’t seem to find my path. My mother, who now worked two shifts, barely had time for me. She would leave early in the morning. When I woke up, the house would be empty. I returned from college every day to an empty house. My only safe haven was drama class. I was an average student but a good actor. Or at least, that’s what Mr. Thomas said. We were going to put on a play over the weekend. My mother had promised to attend but backed out the same day because she had to work overtime. It was the last straw for me and I had been running down the stairs after hanging up on her. That’s when my foot had slipped and I blacked out.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. “May I come in, sweetheart?” It was Mum. She was smiling but her eyes glistened. I looked away, pretending to look out of the window. She sat next to me and held my hand.
“I’m sorry, darling.” she said. “I know how hard this has been for you. I know you loved your father. I loved my husband too.” Her voice cracked.
I looked at her face, now streaming with tears. As angry as I was about everything, I knew my father’s death wasn’t her fault. He had been drinking and driving. My mother had not even had time to mourn her loss. She had taken the reins almost immediately because she had me to take care of.
“It’s been almost a year,” she said. “The memories will never go away, but I think it’s time we try to overcome the pain and resentment.” I nodded and managed a smile. My mother smiled back. That was the first time we had connected for ages. I felt a huge weight being lifted off my chest, as if the storm had passed and I could see things clearly again.
“Mummy.”
“Yes, honey?”
“I had a dream last night…
— End —
Locked Inside
by Renjith Sarada
Bahrain
July 20, 2018
My dear Gopi,
I hope this note finds you in the best of health and happiness. I have been thinking of writing to you for a few days, though there is really nothing new to say since we text every day.
I recall how I used to write long letters in the old days, to my parents, sisters and your mother on postcards and inland letter forms. Since the advent of mobile phones and social media, I seem to have literally forgotten how to write, or rather how to use a pen! I tried writing, but perhaps due to my advancing age, I could not hold my pen properly; thus I am typing it out on my computer, which is an almost obsolete device, just like me!
Well, I didn’t mention something important when we spoke this morning. I did so deliberately, as I wanted to convey more about it than I could by tossing it off in one or two sentences over the phone. Moreover, I anticipated that you would also feel sad if I handled the matter abruptly.
Our favourite car — the Mitsubishi Outlander we bought when you were in school was sold yesterday. I could not control my tears when the new owner drove it past me. So many memories come to mind – the long drives with you and your mother, your friendly squabbles with each other about who would occupy the front seat, you looking at the speedometer when I used to drive fast, your excitement whenever the odometer crossed hundreds and thousands, and so on.
Dearer to me than anything, though, was the dent on the driver’s door, which I could never bear to get repaired. The buyer asked me why that dent was not repaired. As it was so personal to you and me, I did not explain. Taking advantage of that, he insisted on a further discount, to which I had to accede.
I am writing to you about it, so that so that I can revisit those memories and apologise for my mistakes.
I presume that you too remember that evening and the night following the prize distribution ceremony at your school. How excited we were! I was so proud as I clicked pictures of you on stage receiving the prizes from the guest of honour. You were equally thrilled, as it was a culmination of your hard work in the face of heavy competition and related pressures at home. As the function went on till eleven or so, you felt very hungry and wanted me to take you to a restaurant. I remember, I said no, because your mother and infant sister were waiting for us at home. Looking back, I realize I failed to appreciate the little boy who worked hard day and night to secure this coveted prize and make his parents happy and proud. I focused my attention on talking to my friends on the phone about your achievement. Do you also remember, that we stopped at a grocery store midway, past midnight, as I had promised to buy you some snacks to assuage your hunger?
I remember vividly, getting out of the car, specifically asking you to stay inside as the engine was on. The shop was about to close and I had to wait till the shopkeeper reopened the till. By the time I emerged from the shop, I was shocked to see you right in front of me, despite my instructions to stay in the car. When I looked at the car and found that the engine was not running, I smiled at you for being responsible enough to turn off the engine and lock the car.
At first, I did not notice your pale face when I asked you where the key was, three times in a row. I peered though the window of the silent car and saw the key in the ignition slot. We were stranded on the road at midnight, locked out of our car. As I liked the car so much, I did not want to pursue the idea of breaking the window, as suggested by the impatient shopkeeper.
I remember, shouting at a helpless you for not adhering to my instructions to stay in the car. In my anger, I forgot all about the prize and your hard work.
The shopkeeper decided to leave, ditching us in absolute darkness. There was no one available to assist us as it was so late at night. You suddenly started to cry, after realizing the gravity of the situation. I briefly considered going home and bringing the duplicate key – but of course there was no transportation. How relentlessly I yelled at you to vent my frustration! Suddenly, you started to pray, though I am still unsure whether you prayed for help to come, or for me to keep my mouth shut!
God is kind. It was such a relief seeing the flashing headlights of a car approaching. Thankfully, the driver, Viswa, then a total stranger stopped beside us and asked why were we standing on the road so late. When I explained, he was gracious enough to get out of his car and see if he could find of a solution. Before long, he, too, suggested that there are no options other than to either break the window or go home to get the duplicate key. For me, neither was feasible as I did not want to break the window or to ask him to take me home, especially as he had his family with him, who were patiently waiting for him. Family members were also patient enough to wait for us to get out of the ordeal.
Viswa then suggested that the only other option left was to find a wire thin enough slide under the window seal and try to catch the lock lever and pull it up. The idea sounded good, but where would we find such a wire?
Viswa started to rummage around in his toolbox. I could notice through the corner of my eye, that you were so scared as you had anticipated us breaking the glass of our favourite car due to your mistake. Unfortunately, Viswa could not find anything suitable.
Meanwhile, the noise woke up Viswa’s eldest son. He got out of the car and asked his father something in their language, to which Viswa replied, pointing at my car. He immediately retrieved a wire clothes hanger from somewhere in their back seat and got to work. What presence of mind!
Thanks to the boy’s acumen, he managed to reshape the iron clothes hanger and make it resemble a straight shaft with a hooked end. He made many attempts over the next thirty minutes or so to resize the hook so that he was finally able to unlock the car. His heroic efforts resulted in that dent on the left door above the glass frame.
I salute and respect the little boy’s perseverance and good attitude while helping a stranger in distress.
As you are aware since then, that Viswa and I have become close friends. I am glad that you also keep in touch with the then-little-boy who is now pursuing his Masters in Engineering in the U.S.A.
I realize with sadness the pain I caused you by shouting at you on the road and later at home, while telling your mother the story. I, remember how your tears splashed on the trophy held close to your chest. I was cruel to overlook and forget the success brought about by your hard work because of my own frustration.
I love you, my dear son. That same trophy is kept safe here with me. I polish it whenever I miss you, and that is very often.
I hope you have some happy memories of times we shared. As always, I love you and pray for you.
God bless, with love,
Yours Achchan
–End —
What started out as the April challenge, eventually became the May-June challenge. Four very interesting tales were sent in to be reviewed.
Entrants had the following prompts to choose from: A Campfire, The rain wouldn’t stop, and finish this sentence: “I didn’t plan to be a superhero, but all of that changed when I got bitten by a __________. (And then write a story that follows it.)
Martin G. Parker
Our member and writer Martin Parker, very kindly agreed to be the reviewer and sent in his detailed critiques of the pieces entered. Thank you Martin!
Profile: Martin was born in 1956 in Uttoxeter in the English Midlands. He has worked in factories, retail, the funeral business, driven taxis and played trombone in a British Army regimental band, but since 2000 he has worked as an Associate Professor of English Language and Linguistics at the University of Bahrain, specialising in the history of the English language and meaning in English. He has published two novels, They Also Raise Chickens, and The Conscientious Historian, and a collection of writings, Improbable Tales From Unlikely Places, all available in paperback and on Kindle from Amazon. Martin is also a musician; he sings, plays the guitar, mandolin and harmonica with the Bahrain-based Celtic-music band, The O’Dwyers. In addition. Martin runs the monthly meetings of the Bahrain Acoustic Music Group who hold their regular sessions at JJ’s. Martin lives in Bahrain with his wife and 12-year-old son.
And so without further ado… here are our entries
The Rain Wouldn’t Stop
By Preeti Rana
I didn’t plan to be a superhero…
By Rifat Najam
…But all of that changed when I got bitten by a pair of toddlers. My twin toddler nephews are a great booster for me. Whenever I feel dull, I rush to visit them to boost my energy. With them I get to act all insane, thus forgetting all the temporary stresses of the day. When the super aunt and nephews go crazy with their super powers, the mother’s heart starts to beat so fast that it seems it might jump out at any moment, yet she pretends to act all normal as if she is carefree. Kids are a blessing, in their innocence they bring us back on track when our steps wander away.
I recently saw a documentary, Teen Press, by T. C. Johnstone. Although the maker tried to portray his vision of ‘you can be anything you want’, from my perspective it gave out different messages to different minds. “Everyone has a story to tell” and “they are just people”, were comments made by two teenagers that really affected me as these are two of the few things that I had recently been struggling with.
Kids are innocent beings who know no limits to the etiquettes that Life teaches. Their innocent souls value gold and sand as one. Love and laughter are the language they speak and share. Many times they clear our blurred vision when we go astray. I love taking advice from my niece when that blurred vision strikes me. The other day I was irritated for some reason when she made a comment, “happy times, happy memories, when you come then we talk happily”, which completely took my irritation away.
Recently I asked myself a question: why is it rare to see assistance being offered before it is asked for. You don’t have to possess super powers to understand when help is needed. People nowadays seem to have covered their eyes with blinkers in order to run in one particular direction. Our lives are divided into professional and personal halves; professionally, a lot of potential is waiting to be discovered and given assistance before this neglected talent fades away. And personally every being has a responsibility towards its surrounding.
Nature has taught us how we are all interconnected. Rivers flow so life can flourish and if that came to an end life will become extinct. Similarly, if the winds stopped blowing globalization would come to an end. When nature has taught us to share, then why do humans act selfishly and hold back what tomorrow doesn’t promise to be theirs.
In simple words, step up and be the change that explores the one in need and help before it gets too late!
Superhero
By Michael Rollins
I didn’t plan to be a superhero, but all of that changed when I got bitten by a bug called fatherhood: Quite a statement, I know, but I also know that I’m no different than most other fathers out there. The thing is, it’s not about us; it’s about our children: They make us superheroes.
*
My daughter, Maya, was just five when my best friend, Michael, died. She called him Mikey; no-one else did, and he liked that. Michael was her favourite visitor; she attached herself to him from being a few months old and that was that.
Michael was a friend I’d known at school and later, by chance, a work colleague, when the firm I worked for merged with his. We developed a friendship based at first on mutual respect for each other’s work and then because we just…‘clicked’: The same sense of humour and a love of reading fiction being two of the main reasons. I remember the drunken discussions we had over James Ellroy and Cormac McCarthy, which trailed like ribbons unspooling deep into the night. Eventually, Michael became my boss or, as my daughter referred to him, my ‘work teacher’.
And we worked well together. And we had some great times. And Michael knew he was dying long before my little girl was born.
*
Michael never really disclosed anything about his condition; he was not secretive but quite vague, and all anyone really knew was that there would be no recovery. Like many people in this position, he helped his family and friends through it all. For a few years there was little noticeable change in his physical appearance. Yes, he had to rest more frequently and was steadily losing a small amount of weight, but there was no sudden change. Until, in his final year, over a few weeks in the autumn, he melted away like the reds and golds of the October leaves.
*
Explaining to a five year old what death means can be like trying to separate the milk from a cup of coffee. We were prepared to talk about what people think might happen after somebody dies and had tried to ready ourselves for the questions that a five year old would probably ask. When Maya had listened to what we had to say, she looked at us for a full minute, her eyes as sad as those of Christ in a painting of the Sacred Heart.
‘Why wasn’t it me?’
We had no answer that was worthy of the question. My pathetic words ‘It was his time’ folded and crumpled in my mouth, into the dust they deserved to be.
*
In the weeks following the funeral, Maya became another girl. She was uncommunicative and guarded, where she had been confident and friendly; uninterested and a little cold, where she had really loved life and the living of it. Our baby stopped smiling, but she hadn’t cried, and that, more than anything, broke our hearts.
There were a couple of incidents at school. Nothing major, although we were called in one time after she had told two of her friends that they or one of their parents could just
disappear one day without even telling them, and never come back. The girls had both burst into tears at this and the teacher told us that Maya just shook her head at them, walking away like a parent who was out of patience.
We knew after this episode that trying to ignore the profound change in our daughter, hoping this was temporary, was not an option. To get our little girl back we had to encourage her grief.
But how?
My wife and I had always shared the opinion that everyone grieves in their own way; that there are too many judges in this world. We all deal with loss differently, as individuals, and it is fundamentally wrong to expect everybody to behave in the same way. However, we had on our hands a confused, frustrated and unhappy young girl that we loved more than anything in this world. We had to think of a way to help her out of the shadow that had been cast over her since Michael died.
*
In the end, the answer was simple, as these things often are.
Just after Maya turned four, she went through a phase. Every parent knows about ‘phases’; this word covers all those difficult periods in a child’s life that parents go through. Those times when Mum and Dad are pulling out their hair for a solution to a new pattern in their son or daughter’s behaviour that is inconvenient.
For instance, there is ‘Question Time’. For everywhere you go and everything you do, there are is an unlimited, unstoppable flood of questions; unanswerable questions that drown you in a wave of words. ‘Why is he a policeman?’, ‘What is a bird for?’, ‘Who thought of butter?’
Maya’s phase involved getting out of bed within minutes of our leaving the room. There had always been the conversation about her day, the two stories, the ’cuggle’ and the kiss goodnight: a ritual to rival any sacred rite.
I remember the first time she ventured downstairs. She must have followed her Mum out of the door within seconds and walked into the kitchen where I was pouring our ritual glass of wine; a quiet celebration that all was done for the day and that everything in Paradise was just as it should be. Except this evening, it wasn’t.
‘Maya, what are you doing?’ I asked as she opened the fridge door peering inside like she had a particular sandwich in mind.
‘I’m minding my own business.’
It was clear that Paradise had a problem…
*
At last, as we were approaching the outer realms of our sanity, my wife came up with an inspired idea. Music. Maya had always responded well to music, almost all of her favourite children’s programmes were musically based and when she was only a few months old her Mum’s singing would soothe her like nothing else. So we created a file for an i pod and each evening, after the kiss goodnight, Maya would snuggle down and drift off on a cloud of melody. Perfect.
*
Just like everyone I ever knew, Michael had a ‘guilty pleasure’:1980s love songs. He could not get enough of them, he…well, he loved them. And there was one in particular that he seemed to adopt as a kind of theme song; He was always humming or singing the damn thing. Leo Sayer: I Love You More Than I Can Say. I used to call him morbid, because of the line, Why must my life be filled with sorrow, but he would just laugh, said if I listened to it all I’d see it was uplifting. We agreed to disagree.
He sang the song wherever he was, to whoever happened to be listening. To Maya.
And that was it; that was the simple answer.
*
When I entered the half-light of the bedroom, I was sure that she had fallen asleep, but as I moved closer, I could see her blue eyes were open and glistening with tears.
‘That last song made me cry Daddy,’ she whispered, as I sat down next to her. She took my hand and I leaned forward to brush the hair from her forehead, smoothing my palm over her hair until I held her head cupped gently in my palm.
‘Why, Maya?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Will you hold me while I go to sleep?’
I stayed there and held her all night. And I felt like a superhero.
A superhero by a campfire in the rain
by Dr Manish Tayal
(EDITOR’S NOTE: This was sent separately and wasn’t part of the challenge, however, inspired by all the writing prompts, one of our new members, Dr Manish Tayal, decided to write the following story based on all of them)
I didn’t plan to be a superhero, but all of that changed when I got bitten by a familiar, restless yearning.
Growing up on the beaches near Karachi, I’d been raised on warnings of the dangers that lay across the black waters, the kaalaa paani. But I’d always had a rebellious streak, and I’d taken to visiting the old man who lived alone in the woods and listening in awe to his stories. I still remember the day he’d arrived in the village, freshly electrified and inspired from his travels and all he’d seen; and I remember how he’d tried to show and tell us, and how he’d been cut off mid-flow, his excitement turning to confusion, then disappointed understanding, and finally sorrowful acceptance, as my fellow villagers had cast him out. Impure, sullied by crossing those forbidden oceans to the distant, unclean worlds beyond, he could not be allowed into the village, lest his presence pollute innocent minds. Young minds like mine: eager for the promise of excitement, adventure and more.
The old man had long passed away, and the harsh realities of life pushed thoughts of distant, forbidden adventures far from my mind, as I grew and matured into a young farmhand, learning from my father the tools and techniques of our most noble of trades, producing food (and money) from the land of our master, the zamindar. Even though I’d never met him, and he knew nothing of my existence, I was loyal to my master, who provided for me and saw that I was fairly rewarded with my share of the fruits of my labour. And so, when the recruiters came to our village, singing songs of riches, glory and opportunity, I too joined my friends in ridiculing their extravagant promises. In our small world, we knew little of the great war building in faraway lands, but we knew that the tales those crazy fools spun had nothing to do with us.
Four months had passed since we’d lost my father to sickness. My mother wept as the zamindar’s men carried on talking to her, but I’d heard nothing more after their first few words, the rest of the conversation drowned out by the singing in my head, so loud was the memory of the recruiters’ songs, which until then, I hadn’t even realised I’d listened to, let alone remembered.
Bharti ho jaa ve
Baahar khade rangroot!
Aethe khaavein sukki hoyi roti
Othe khaavein fruit!
Aethe paavein phate hoye leere
Othe paavein suit!
Aethe paavein tutti hoyi jhutti
Othe paavein boot!
Join up, join up
The recruiters are outside!
Here you’ll eat dried roti
There you’ll eat fruit!
Here you’ll wear torn tatters
There you’ll wear a suit!
Here you’ll wear broken, worn-out shoes
There you’ll wear boots!
The zamindar had not been so oblivious after all. He knew me to be a loyal, hard-working, strong young man, struggling to provide for a mother, two sisters and a new wife. When the recruiters came to him, requesting ‘volunteers’, he knew he could trade me in return for not giving up his own sons. After the men left, my mother spat curses on the zamindar and his family, swearing that she’d never let me go, but she knew we had no choice – earn the displeasure of our master, or have the family comfortably provided for directly by the King-Emperor himself. Besides, that old yearning had started to return from the depths of my conscious, where it had laid buried for so many years, and I again wanted to cross the kaalaa paani and see for myself the lands the old man had told me about as a child. Within days, I was bidding my wife farewell, the taste of her tears as I kissed her cheek reflecting the cocktail of emotions within me: the bitterness of parting and cold fear of the unknown mixing with a bubbling excitement of adventure and the sweet, intoxicating taste of freedom.
I’d been to sea before of course, going fishing in my friends’ boats. But this was wholly different, an entire floating village housed in steel. So many young men from all over India, all with different stories: the woodcutter Mir Ali, enticed by the money, riches and fame; Gobind Singh, a proud Garhwali, who’d recently joined the Army, just like his father and grandfather, and generations beyond; Kartar Singh, a farmer like me, who at the recruiters’ call, had instantly set off to faithfully serve the King-Emperor. Old hands, like Ram Singh, who’d fought in North-West Frontier, Waziristan and elsewhere, recounted war stories, alternately thrilling us with tales of their adventures and terrifying us with accounts of grave horrors. But the long journey took its toll, and we were all glad to finally reach the shores of Europe. As we arrived in Marseilles, we were shocked at the unexpected heroes’ reception: smart ladies with creamy soft, pale skin and the sweet scent of roses, waved to us as we marched past, one running out to hug me, another pinning a flower to Kartar Singh’s chest; pink, bouncing children marched along with us, towels wrapped around their heads as turbans, babbling away to us in their unfamiliar tongue; and sturdy, bearded, red-faced men shook our hands and patted our backs, tears in their eyes.
Marseilles felt like a whole world away, and home was but a memory. The rain wouldn’t stop, the knee-deep water in the trenches soaking through everything, bringing with it a bitter cold that removed all feeling from my feet and made it difficult to keep a safe grip on my rifle. I held each hand in turn in my armpit, and as I did so, I felt for the reassuring hard metal of my bayonet – already, it had saved my life more than once, just the previous day sinking into a young German soldier, no older than me, who’d tried with his troop to storm our position. As he’d fallen, in horror I’d recognised his face and the memory still made me shudder. Just three weeks earlier, against orders, our troop commander, Captain Matthew sahib had laid down his rifle and walked out into No Man’s Land, to meet with the Germans. After some time, he’d called to us to join him, and in a mix of English, broken Hindi and stuttering German, he’d introduced and brought together those who’d spent months trying to kill each other, and would do so again once the day was out. But for those precious few hours, we all shared and celebrated together, exchanging personal trinkets and cigarettes – sahib tried later to explain to us about his festival of ‘Christmas’, but I only cared that for a few moments, I’d laughed and found warmth in the company of others. A deep, gruff voice cut through my reflections, as another soldier arrived to take my place in the trench. I hadn’t eaten or slept since the previous day’s attack, and suddenly realised how much I needed both.
As I walked back to the lines, I saw some of my friends already there. The langris, the cooks, had found some fresh vegetables in a nearby market that day, and had cooked them up to go with our standard diet of dahl, rice, roti, meat and potato. And so we huddled together to share stories, eat, and enjoy the company of the closest friends we’d ever know, and as we talked and ate, we forgot all about the cutting rain, the falling bombs and the homesickness, and we planned and bragged of the bravery and victories the following day would bring, until we honestly believed that our small troop would bring down the entire German Army, single-handedly winning the war for the King-Emperor.
I didn’t plan to be a superhero, but just in that moment, sat around a campfire, in pouring rain, with a bunch of men just like me yet each so completely different, I truly felt like one.