Ray Whipps - Til We Meet Again: A Memoir of Love and War

G ETTING OUT OF BED IS NOT EASY this morning. It hasnt been easy for years. My heart isnt what it used to be, my hands still a little stiff, and my knees seem to ache more and more each time I get up. But today I dont want to stay here a moment longer than I have to. So I push and pull until I manage to break free from the sheets that have curled themselves around me. The nightmare is over, but the raw emotions still linger at the edges of my mind. I look over at the other side of the bed and see that its empty. She must be awake already, I think.

I need to get up.

It was the same dream Ive had countless times in the past seven decades. There are men beside me, and theyre my men. Its my duty to keep them safe, to keep them alive. There are Germans up ahead, a full squad of them maybe two or three of them for every one of us. I know two things in the dream: that we are outnumbered, and that I have to get my men back alive.

Even though in the dream I know I am young and fast and strong, as soon as the first bullet zips past my head, I feel my limbs suddenly turning to stone. It takes everything in me to put one foot in front of the other and to call out to the men as I fire on the enemy.

Im not aware of whats happening to the Germans, and I dont feel particularly scared or troubled. What I mostly feel is the mighty responsibility of these young mens lives. If I dont do my job right, their deaths will be on me.

So I have no choice but to press on and fire my rifle until the Germans turn and run. The harder I fight, the louder it gets. The clamor of rifles, machine guns, and grenades gets so loud that I think its going to deafen me, until finally the Germans retreat. The dream is over.

This is not the only dream I have, and it is not the worst. There have been other dreams over the years dreams where I have watched, frozen, as men died next to me. Those dreams are the worst, and Im thankful they dont come around much anymore.

Even so, this nightmare was bad enough to make my body feel a little hollowed out. I close the bedroom door behind me and walk down to the kitchen. I stand at the sink as I wait for the coffee a morning ritual Ive come to rely upon these past few years.

My eyes move across the room, reading the story it tells. I study the photos that crowd the refrigerator door an endless sea of bright faces belonging to children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I smile at the crayon pictures that are pinned to the wall, a series of princesses and robots and rather abstract animals. Theres also a picture of Betty and me, taken at a wedding one summer not too long ago. This is a good story, I tell myself.

Im careful to pour the coffee over the sink so I wont spill on the counter. I take the half-full cup over to my chair, where I can reach for my Bible. When I close my eyes to pray, I can still feel the dream. I keep my eyes open.

These days this is about the worst of it. It was so much harder when I first came back from the war. All it took was the sound of a revving engine and Id jump for cover. Every year when the Fourth of July approached, I felt a knot of anticipation growing inside me. I thought Id left the war behind, but it followed me all six thousand miles home.

Even so, I never went through this alone. Ive never gone through any of this alone.

I hear a noise outside and turn to watch the door slide open. And there she is my Betty. The only woman Ive ever loved.

Good morning, Ray. Her smile hasnt dimmed one bit in the seventy years since I first saw it. You had a rough night?

A little, I say. But not so bad. Did I kick you?

Yeah. But not so bad.

You know, there cant be too many ninety-four-year-olds who swim every morning and walk a mile each way to get there.

She just shrugs in that way she does, smirking a little at me. I dont want to get fat, she says with a grin.

Oh, Betty. I smile back at her.

Betty settles in to the chair next to mine, and I pull out my Bible. We have so much to be thankful for.