Over There [short-short story]
The good soldier stood against the rail, transfixed by the ship’s splaying wake, disintegrating into the evening’s nothingness — AND he allowed himself to envision, if just for a moment: ′an imperceptible splash ... then back from whence I came.′
Turning, he cupped his pipe, lit it, and moved away forward — a stiff wind at his back.
Some of the boys portside were straining over the side, peering ahead; and passing them by, he, too, could then see the distant, faint thin coast of Ireland.
As the good soldier moved onward, the boys behind broke into song: “That the yanks are coming, the yanks are coming … And it won’t be over till it’s over, over there!”
Near the ship’s bow, he found a seat on a painted metal container, attached to the deck. After a time, he drew from an inside jacket pocket, a smooth, flat river stone, the size of a young girl’s palm — upon which was written, in bright red barn paint: ‘KATH.’
Bert — a limey crewman with whom he had wiled some afternoons’ hours away in conversation — appeared and took a seat by him. “Evening, Alvin. Land ho and out of harm’s way, eh?”
“Or, ‘out of the frying pan, and into the fire,’” countered the good soldier, philosophically, with just a hint of a smile.
“What you got there, then?”
“It’s my little sister’s. Her instructions were for me to, ’drop it somewhere real deep in the ocean … over there.’”
“It’s from Kentucky, then?”
“Yes.”
Bert rose. “Well, duty calls, William. It’s Portsmouth, goodbye, and good luck, tomorrow, I reckon.” And then he was gone.
The good soldier moved to the rail.
On shore, a light flickered on, and he imagined a table set with a supper of corned beef and cabbage and potatoes.
After a time, he pressed the stone to his cheek and then let it fall into the deep — just as — suddenly — from behind — up on the bridge, maybe — someone shouted: “Torpedo!” — which was immediately followed by someone nearby laughingly declaring: “Did you hear that, boys?” — which, in turn, was followed by another exclaiming: “Sweet Jesus!,” before taking off in a run.
Horns blaring now, the good soldier wondered what he should do.
The ship heaved, and a sailor yelled: “Bloody hell, he’s turning the ship, tryin’ t’get ’er away from the danger!”
Now the good soldier saw it! A straight, white-ish line in the sea — headed straight for the ship’s bow — straight for him!
Behind him, a crew member opened the metal container and, after grabbing a life vest for himself, tossed one at the soldier’s feet, crying out, “You need to get away, Lad!” before disappearing.
But the missile seemed determined — and so the good soldier stayed put — determined to see that it did not strike the ship.
Which it did not, sickeningly passing just six feet ahead of its target.
Taking a seat again on the metal container, the good soldier slumped — gazing at his hands — gripping his knees.
Then came a sound he could never have imagined — and he turned — and he saw — in the path of the torpedo he had just willed away from his ship — the fiery destruction of another troopship in the convoy.
