The lost generation. Standing up. Chapter five.
The lost generation. Standing up. Chapter five.
(Finally a new chapter.)
Pryde read three more poems. Feeling guilty for reading the jounal.
1- I want to see the sky again,
I want to breathe again,
damn bomb never stop.
I need silence.
I tried to sleep and death whispered to me.
Not your time to die.
2- I was plastered with some kind of gas,
I could not see no-more.
I felt my body burning,
another soldier laid a blanket on me
and poured cold water on my face.
I laid in a puddle of water and dirt for two days and Doc find me.
He cleaned me up, gave me some whiskey and some healing cream.
He told me, laid out of the water till you can walk again.
Eat something Corporal.
Not a good day to die.
3- We came to France, the First Division.
Fearless and brave.
We thought we finish Germany in two weeks.
Now two years later,
I am covered in dirt and shit.
Dead bodies everywhere.
We prayed for death, we were so damn tired.
Pryde had tears in her eyes and she didn’t know what she could do for this soldier on her couch. She worked for the New York post, and she knew John had skills. The poetry and story, dark, ugly, sad and true. She whispered to herself. War is shit. In the morning, he awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs. He went to the kitchen and Pryde told him. Please sit down and eat. She had a sad face and she told him. I found your journal and I read most of it. You are an amazing writer. I am sorry I read your journal without permission. He told her. Nothing personal in the journal. I write the ugly stories of war to remember my friends who are gone. It is okay dear Pryde
She told him. I work for the New York Post. They are always looking for new writers. He told her. In High School, I wrote for the paper and I was the editor. I would love to write for a real newspaper. She told him. I could talk to the senior editor for you, if you want? I would appreciate that. My old dream was to write books. Now all I know is the ugliness of war. I am interested. She told him. Can I take your journal for him to read. He told her, yes.
He asked her. Dear Pryde, do you believe I could write for a newspaper? She told him, yes. You need something to keep you busy and maybe you can heal? Pryde felt okay now for disturbing his privacy now. She told him. I will talk to the editor today. Pryde went direct to the senior editor office. The senior editor was older and his name was Fred. The workers called him the big boss. She knocked on his office door and she asked, could they talk? Fred was surprised. In the three years Pryde worked at the New York Post. She was polite, kind and always gave a smile. Never missed a day of work. He invited her in and he told her sit down. She asked him. I need favor. He told anything you need Pryde. She handed him the journal with a heavy cover. He asked her. Who journal is this? She told him. A new friend. A soldier, who came back from France four days ago. And he can write.
He opened the journal and he read the French Woman. And he read 40 more pages. She saw the sadness in his eyes, and he put the journal down and he asked her. Is he alright? She told him. He is like the 200,000 soldiers who came home messed up. He held the journal tightly and he told her. My brother’s son died in France. Does he have experience with newspapers? She told him. He wrote for his High School paper and he was an editor. He told her. Old Paul is retiring. We need some young blood. I will see him today at 4 pm. She thanks him and she went home for her lunch. She told John. Today at 4 pm. A job interview with the senior editor. He stood up he hugged her. She backed away and she told him. You need a suit. You must look the part. I called Eileen and she will be here in three minutes. She will take you to buy a real suit. Eillen ran in and took his arms. She dragged him to a suit store.
John