We are gathered here today to celebrate not only veterans of WWII, but veterans of all wars, with the courage to fight and defend their country. I have been given the opportunity to meet with Mr. Roy Fox and learn about the truths and realities of WWII, and in return I have attempted to capture one of his many experiences and translate it into a fictional vignette. The story that follows is based on the actual experiences of Roy Fox, a First Lieutenant and Platoon Commander during WWII. He enlisted into the army in 1939 at the age of twenty and served actively, until 1945, then went on to serve in the reserves from 1946 until 1963. Though, I am sure he completed all types of work throughout the war, one of his main jobs was as First Lieutenant of a platoon of four 40-millimeter guns and four quad-50 machine guns. He earned such honors as the Purple Heart, Battle Stars, and an Arrowhead. One distinctive comment that Mr. Fox conveyed to me still stays in my mind. He told me, “War is a very intimate thing.” Though I will never entirely understand the real truth behind this quote, or the harsh and cruel realities of war, from my interview and entire experience I have gained more respect for every soldier who goes to war for this country; past, present and future. Their courage is awe-inspiring and truly admirable.

Black Out

Mr. Roy Fox could feel the ship rock faintly back and forth. He looked to the cold, uninviting metal floor beneath his laced-up boots; his eyes scanned the black rubber marks made by countless soldiers’ paths to and from their compartment and the ladder. The light bulb that dangled from the ceiling by a spindly metal chain, like the ones back in the basement, swayed sickeningly back and forth, creating a glare as it ricocheted off dents made by dropped artillery packs and weapons. He stepped away from the path of the glare and saw countless bunks of soldiers sleeping soundly, while he stayed awake on compartment duty. Since little fresh air was circulating through the ship, his nose couldn’t escape the scent of sweat and dampness. The quarters were at the very base of the ship in the bulkhead behind the chain-mocker, and Roy Fox stood on compartment duty, alert and yet somewhat preoccupied with lingering thoughts of sleep.

His thoughts were startled by an unexpected voice over the P.A. “We are informing all men on the ship that we have been pulled out of the convoy. Our ship is being followed and tracked by radar. Depth charges are being dropped around us.”

There was very little time to register what had just been said before the boat shook so powerfully that packs fell from bulkheads, lights flickered on and off, dishes fell to the floor sounding like random gunshots in the distance. The floor trembled with such might that Roy Fox’s body bounced up and down, until his eyes could no longer focus and everything became a blur. A chair slid across the floor, screeching like someone dragging his nails down a blackboard. The noise from the depth charges paralyzed Roy’s entire body; his hands clung tightly to the sides of his legs, knuckles white with tension, sweaty from taught nerves. He cringed, trying to block out the piercing explosions, each beginning as a high pitch screeching noise and ending with a massive and powerful detonation.

The men jumped up from their sleep almost simultaneously. Their faces were distraught and confused; their eyes scanned the length and width of the room and jumped from soldier to soldier trying to make sense of what had just happened. It was as if they didn’t know if they were still alive or had died; they gazed questioningly over the palms of their hands and limbs of their arms to see if they were still in one piece. Roy Fox knew he had to speak up, since he was the only one who had heard the announcement and knew the depth charges were impending. If he didn’t, he would have compartment full of confused, defensive, well-trained men jumping out of their bunks preparing for war. Cupping his hands around his mouth, in hopes of having his voice travel longer and louder, he shouted “take it easy”.

The soldiers’ shoulders relaxed, they released deep breaths that had trapped inside. Their hands rubbed their eyelids, trying to ease their nerves and create a medium between their half asleep, half wide-open eyes. A man kissed the picture of his wife that had been tucked beneath his pillow. He touched it ever so gently with the tip of his finger, as if he were attempting to reach out and feel her pale, delicate skin. Heads turned upward towards the heavens and without making a sound, lips parted ever so slightly, giving thankful prayers to God. They ended their prayers, touching their shoulders and foreheads before letting out a last sigh. Relief filled the suffocating air, but the continuing shock waves kept fear lingering like a ghost roaming throughout the compartment.

There were no signs of activity around the ship, and Roy Fox assumed by the ship’s slowing that they were pulling back into the convoy. The ship’s gears screeched to a halt. His eardrums rang at the sound of the water pressure pushing up against the steel body of the boat making persistent and irritable creaking and squealing noises that echoed on the walls. His heart was suddenly thrown into his throat, his bones quivered beneath his skin, his breath caught inside his lungs made him gasp for air as he heard an indescribable crushing noise run throughout the ship. Roy Fox’s body was thrown to the ground for a second time and once again the soldiers were aroused abruptly. This time Roy Fox knew it wasn’t just depth charges.

The lights went out throughout the compartment; it was pitch black and no one moved. You couldn’t see your own hand if you put it right up to your face, but Roy Fox’s mind was so preoccupied with the next task that the darkness was just a mere inconvenience. Were we sinking? Had the ship been hit? If so, where? Along with the lights, the electronics on the ship had been blown out, so there was no word about what had happened. His mind raced with what to do next, but he couldn’t concentrate.

“Get out your flashlights men,” someone yelled from their bunks.

Of course he thought! As Roy Fox made his way with the flashlight the hull seemed to take on the characteristics of a hundred-year-old sunken submarine. His strides were confident and determined; his thoughts, blank. This was war; this was what happens during war and if you hoped to survive, you had to adapt to the circumstances. Confidently he began his way up the ladder only to be stopped by a Navy officer hastily making his way down from the porthole.

“Are we abandoning ship?” Roy Fox inquired.

“Yes,” he replied in a quick and hurried voice.

“Are we sinking?” he asked in a demanding and stern tone.

“Yes!”

Roy Fox stood on the deck of the British boat that had rescued him along with the other soldiers who had been aboard the now sunken ship. He had survived. He had made it off of a drowning ship, but there were men in the engine room who had been killed and didn’t. He had even survived a turbulent, near death experience when a pole had come crashing into the side of the sinking ship as he climbed town the nets to board the British boat. Now, despite everything, his lips curled upward to take on the shape of a smile. He chuckled to himself, amongst the men celebrating and cheering with fine liquor supplied by the British, and thought, “There is no way I won’t make it out of this war alive!”