1917

September 26, 1917

  We received the worst news imaginable from the sergeant who visited us in Montgomery, Alabama: Carson had died in a mustard gas attack. The thought of what he must have endured in his final moments was unbearable, and the idea of that kind of suffering was too much for me to even comprehend.

  I didn’t know what to say. Instead, I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. The grief hit me like a relentless wave, stabbing at my heart over and over. It was a pain deeper than anything I had ever known, the kind of sorrow that leaves you feeling hollow.

  When they brought his body back to the state, the reality of it all struck even harder. I saw the burns on his face, disfigured by the poison gas. His once‑handsome features, admired by everyone, were reduced to a grotesque reminder of the war’s cruelty. He had been a true Casanova, and now his face resembled something monstrous. I couldn’t hold back my anger.

“I hate Woodrow Wilson!” I screamed, punching the ground until my fists ached.

“I understand, son, but it’s not his fault,” my father said, his voice trembling, though he wasn’t trying to convince me—or even himself.

“How is it not? Look at him!” I pointed at Carson’s face, now barely recognizable. “He didn’t deserve this!”

“He chose to join the war,” my father said, his voice cracking like broken glass.

“I wish he hadn’t gone!” I roared in frustration.

“Blame that Gavrilo kid, not Wilson,” my father reminded me.

“Gavrilo… as in Gavrilo Princip? The man who killed Franz Ferdinand?” I asked, unsure.

“Yes, that’s the one,” he replied quietly.

“Then I hope he dies too!” I shouted, my voice breaking, full of the helpless fury only a ten‑year‑old could express.

“I’m sure he will, son,” my father said, trying to calm me down.

“When?” I asked, sounding foolish even to myself.

“How the hell should I know?” he snapped, his patience thinning.

“Sorry…” I mumbled, sinking under the weight of it all.

  The sergeant, emotionless as ever, cleared his throat. “His last battle was at Menin Road Ridge,” he informed us as if delivering just another fact.

“Damn,” my mother whispered, her eyes welling with tears she tried to hold back.

“What does that mean?” I asked, fear creeping into my voice.

“A lot of soldiers died there,” my father said, his frustration barely masked. “I read about it in the paper.”

“How many?” I asked, probably too bluntly.

“Around a quarter of a million,” the sergeant replied, grimly.

“That’s insane!” I gasped, unable to grasp the scale of it.

“That’s war, Jeremiah,” my father said softly, sadness weighing down his words.

“War never changes,” I muttered, my voice full of frustration.

“And neither do the people who start them,” my mother added bitterly.

  The sergeant, though, threw in a darker note. “If you ask me, it’s all the Jews’ fault.”

“You don’t know that,” I shot back, irritated by his hatred.

“Oh, but I do,” he said, his tone unapologetic.

  I didn’t argue further. “Okay,” I replied, my annoyance clear.

  After a moment of silence, my mother’s voice broke through the tension, heavy with sorrow. “We need to start planning Carson’s funeral,” she said quietly as if the weight of her words could somehow lessen the grief we all carried.

“We should invite Jeremiah’s grandparents,” my father added with a deep sigh. The reluctance in his voice was unmistakable; he never cared much for them. For me, though, it was the opposite. My grandfather had been a steady presence, taking me fishing whenever he could. I never really cared if we caught anything—it was the time we spent together that mattered. Looking back, I wish I’d appreciated him more when I was younger. But the past is unchangeable, isn’t it?

  Carson was awarded the Purple Heart posthumously, and we gently placed it on his chest, where it rested quietly, almost humbly. There was no question—he had earned that honor, and everyone knew it.

  We bid the sergeant farewell and went inside the house to call my grandparents. I dreaded making that call but knew that it had to be done. I picked up the phone, my hand trembling, and dialed their number.

  There was a ringing sound for about ten seconds before my grandmother picked the telephone up.

“Well, hello, Jeremiah! And to what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked, clearly not aware of Carson’s sudden death.

“Never mind that. Carson is dead!” I shouted into the receiver. My grandmother went silent for about five seconds, no doubt trying to comprehend the loss of his life.

“I know it’s hard, Grandma,” I replied, my voice thick with emotion. “We all need time. I just wanted you to know what happened… that you weren’t left in the dark.”

  She took a shaky breath, her sorrow still palpable but now laced with a hint of gratitude. “You did the right thing, Jeremiah. Carson would have wanted us to be honest about it. He always valued truth, even when it hurt.”

  Her words hung in the air, echoing the lessons Carson had imparted to us throughout his life. He had always been the kind of person who believed in facing challenges head‑on, never shying away from difficult conversations. I felt a pang of loss, realizing how much I would miss hearing his voice, his laughter, and his wisdom.

“Do you remember the time he tried to build that treehouse in the backyard?” I asked, hoping to shift the mood toward a more cherished memory. “He convinced me it would be the best fort ever, and then we both ended up stuck in the tree because we forgot how to get down!”

  My grandmother chuckled softly, a bittersweet sound. “Oh, yes! I can still see him up there, determined and unyielding. It’s those moments that will keep his spirit alive, Jeremiah. We must hold onto them.”

  I nodded, feeling a flicker of warmth amidst the cold weight of our grief. “I’ll make sure to remember all of it—the laughter, the adventures. We can share stories, Grandma. Keep his memory alive in our hearts.”

“Yes, we must,” she agreed, her voice steadier now. “We will remember him fondly, just like he deserves. He brought so much joy into our lives.”

  As we talked, I felt a small glimmer of hope amid the sorrow. Yes, Carson was gone, but the love he shared, the memories we created, and the lessons he taught us would forever linger in our hearts.

“Let’s take it one day at a time, all right?” I said gently.

“Yes, dear,” she replied. “And don’t hesitate to call me whenever you need to talk. We can lean on each other through this.”

“Thank you, Grandma. I appreciate that.” I felt a surge of gratitude for her strength, even in the face of such loss.

  After our conversation, I hung up the phone, a mix of emotions swirling within me. I felt a deeper connection to my family, knowing we would navigate this difficult time together. As I glanced out the window, watching the sunset paint the sky in hues of orange and purple, I resolved to honor Carson’s memory by cherishing each moment and each person I loved.

  As we sat around the dinner table, the atmosphere was heavy with a silence that none of us dared to break. The clink of silverware against plates was the only sound in the room, each bite a reminder of the gaping absence where Carson should have been. His empty chair felt like a black hole, drawing all the joy from the room, leaving only grief in its place.

  I glanced at my parents, their faces drawn and pale. My mother’s eyes were red from crying, though she tried to mask it with a strained smile. My father, ever the stoic one, stared down at his plate, his appetite gone. We were all just going through the motions, trying to pretend that everything was normal when it was anything but.

  Funeral potatoes. The irony wasn’t lost on any of us. It was the kind of meal we’d had a hundred times before, something easy, comforting even, but tonight it felt like a cruel joke. There was no comfort to be found in food tonight. The loss of Carson overshadowed everything. I picked at my plate, unable to focus on the taste, my mind consumed with thoughts of my brother.

  He was only eighteen. Eighteen, with his whole life ahead of him. I had always thought we had time—time for him to grow, to find his place in the world, to laugh with us at family dinners like these. Time to see him marry, maybe have kids. Instead, his life was cut short, wasted in a war that felt so far removed from anything we knew or understood. He died fighting in a place none of us had ever been, for reasons none of us could fully comprehend. And now, all we had left were memories—too few, too fleeting.

  I couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at my insides. I hadn’t valued him enough while he was alive. Sure, I loved him—he was my brother—but I hadn’t told him often enough. I hadn’t spent enough time with him before he left. It was always easy to assume there would be more time, and more opportunities to show how much he mattered to me. Now, all those opportunities were gone, vanished along with his future.

“He was a hero,” my mother whispered as if to reassure herself. “He died for something important.”

  But did he? The thought flashed through my mind before I could stop it. Carson fought bravely, no doubt about that. He was always the strong one, always determined to do what he believed was right. But was this fight worth it? What was the purpose of it all, in the end? He didn’t die protecting his home, his family, or anything tangible. He died because of politics, because of decisions made far above us, by people who would never know him. It felt so pointless.

  I looked at his empty chair again, feeling a lump rise in my throat. I would never get to argue with him over stupid things, never hear him joke or see him roll his eyes at our dad’s bad puns. He would never get to live the life we all envisioned for him—a good one, filled with love, laughter, and adventure. Instead, he was gone, just like that.

“I’ll remember him,” I murmured to myself, though no one else seemed to hear. “I’ll remember him every day.”

  We all would. Carson’s memory would live on with us, though it didn’t ease the pain of losing him. The rest of us would keep going, but there would always be this hole, this emptiness that nothing could fill. He was gone far too soon, and all we could do now was honor his memory in the best way we knew how, even as we questioned why it had to happen at all.

  After dinner, I retreated to my room, eager to escape into the world of one of my favorite genres. I pulled The Time Machine by H. G. Wells from my desk, the pages slightly worn from years of reading. It was assigned for my English class, but unlike many of my classmates who groaned at the thought of mandatory reading, I was genuinely thrilled. Science fiction had always been my genre of choice, offering limitless possibilities and ideas that stretched the imagination.

  As I opened to the first page, I felt a surge of excitement. It was a welcome break from the usual dreary classics that seemed designed to drag me into a literary coma. Books like War and Peace were far too tedious for my liking. Lev Tolstoy, in my opinion, could win an award for writing the most mind‑numbing novel ever. I mean it—every page was a battle to stay awake. If he had wanted to write a cure for insomnia, he certainly succeeded.

“Jeremiah, it’s time for bed!” my father’s voice echoed from the hallway, stern yet familiar.

“Just one more page!” I whined, not ready to surrender to sleep just yet. The words on the page were pulling me in, and I was far too captivated to stop.

  There was a pause, and I could sense his hesitation before he finally gave in. “Well, okay…” he said, his voice softer now, though still reluctant.

  I smiled to myself, feeling victorious. One more page? I knew it would be more like five.

  I read a few more pages before finally shutting the book, my mind lingering on the story. Despite the ache of losing Carson, I found solace in knowing he died a hero, a man who risked everything for his family and his country. Carson was the embodiment of what America seemed to lack—a man who stood firm on his principles, unwavering even in the face of unimaginable danger.

  That’s rare these days. You know that, right?

  With those thoughts swirling, I closed my eyes and surrendered to the embrace of Morpheus, ready to face whatever tomorrow had in store.