LASTING SCARS OF WAR

The armload of freshly chopped firewood, the fruits of my labor, filled the rack by the kitchen stove. Mother was carefully arranging pork-chops in her huge frying pan. The carefully arranged supper table was set including a plate of freshly baked and sliced bread. I retreated toward the entry porch to remove my winter coat cap and gloves when she continued the conversation started before I went to chop firewood.  “I do not understand. Why do you want to do this thing? You seem to have some sort of driving force or bestial instinct when there is a full moon”, she asked and answered in the same breath. Again, I carefully explained; “Is not bestial to want to be in the woods when there is a full moon?” I pleaded with her to ease her mind, “It is really a pretty thing to see. It makes me feel good.” As any loving mother would, she retaliated with, “A twelve your old boy is simply not safe in the woods at night. In fact, it is not safe for anyone, and you know it. There are wolves and bears out there and who know what else. What if you get hurt and we don’t know where you are?”

This was not the first time I had wander out, perhaps for the entire night as I had done the year before. Once again, the time seemed opportune because of the full moon and the snowing ended while we were at supper. The woods are a surreal, silent however, haunting world when viewed during a clear cloud-free night with a full moon. That is true; however, there was more to the driving force than the sight and sound, or lack of sound; being alone in the woods at night gave me a deep feeling or sense of freedom and manhood—a sense of being brave. This euphoric sense was very strong and real; however, I was unable to describe it adequately only because I didn’t have command of the words or even know the words. It would be an affirmation of maturity, which I was struggling with but did not comprehend at that age. In retrospect, my father seemed to express his understanding with his gruff, “Do what you want; it’s your backsides.”

There was little danger of being lost. I could wander along any one of several government-dug ditches, which formed straight essentially unobstructed paths of frozen water draining surrounding but isolated patches of farmland in our isolated world. In contrast, during the summer, the pile of dirt alongside the ditch served as a path through the swampy bog; brush and tree growth often impeded free passage. The ditches all had names and formed references for deer hunters or anyone else, such as me, wandering around. Finally at bedtime, I put on my hooded coat, scarves, and gloves. I picked up my rifle from the cold porch, checked to be sure it was loaded, and opened the outside door; Mother was suddenly standing there behind me, “Be careful. Don’t go to far. Be careful. Come back early. You know I worry.”  

The two-mile walk along the highway deserted of man and beast in the off tourist season, which took only a few minutes before turning on to an unused logging road the headed for the ditch line where I decided to head into the never ending woods rather then toward the lake. The bright moon stood almost directly overhead so there were only the shortest of tree shadows. The new snow was deep enough to cover existing tracks but too fresh to be scarred anew by creatures, if there had been creatures wandering about to do that. Fresh human tracks unexpectedly appeared to be coming out of the woods and on to the frozen ditch were evident going in the same direction I was; the track were headed deeper into the woods. I knew there were no farms, roads, or anything else in that direction, nothing but more woods.   

At first, the tracks filled me with wonder; I knew everyone in the area. No one was trapping in this area and to be hunting at night would have been curious. No one followed the hunting or trapping season; everyone went by the need for meat or the conditions of pelts, which was good but the closest beaver pond was miles away. The tracks were of a large size and looked as if made by well-worn boots. Wonder turn to fear, I didn’t understand. What had been a wonder world of beauty moon light forest suddenly turned into a sinister world of fear and apprehensions of finding something out of the distant past; after hesitation, I instinctively gripped my rifle. Motivated by curiosity more then good sense, I easily followed the tracks, which traced a path I had originally intended for my self.

The voice was strong but steady and in the silence seemed loud, “I see you.” There was no fear or threat in the voice; what was said, was said without emotion. A few yards off to one side of the ditch, I could see the black outline of a person setting in a hunched position on a log or something. He hovered over a small can of burning pine resin. He had his back in my direction suggesting he had heard and not seen me. Strange for the middle of the night, he was melting a canteen of snow. To startled, to make my voice sound manly, furious, or unafraid, I innocently asked in a childish voice, “Who are you?” He deflected my question with a question of his own, “Do you have a cup?” Obviously, he was willing to share his hot water but somehow expected I had the same independence he had; why would someone be wandering in the woods at night in winter without a cup. I looked at his blank face and saw nothing above all else, I saw nothing to fear.

His clothing was obviously the ruminants of a kaki uniform mixed with civilian clothing. The military clothing as well as the canteen suggested a military background. Even at my young age, I knew I was looking a man who had left his mind on some horrific battlefield, maybe a serious of difficult battle fields as the media graphically portray daily on the radio for several years; kill or be killed places sometime and somewhere during the recently ended world war. Places far away from our solitary peaceful snow filled forest. Viably relaxed, he slowly and cautiously sipped hot water from his canteen not offering to share again. As I looked on, he silently smothered the fire in his can of resin, and kicked it over in the snow to cool, picked it up and put it his backpack, stood and walked back to the ditch line to continue on this way. He left no evidence of having been there other than marks in the fresh snow—wandering from nowhere to nowhere. Unlike the marks in the snow that will soon disappear, he left marks in my mind that lasted for over seventy years and may never go away. I never told anyone about this strange and in some ways sad encounter; however, if anyone were to ask, have you seen war, I would feel compelled to answer, yes indeed, I had.     

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