Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: HERO (10/01/20)
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TITLE: Tacky Jack | Previous Challenge Entry
By Francie Snell
10/08/20 -
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He wore military fatigues and worn-out army boots and talked about the weather, his thrift shop, and the latest craze in used military memorabilia. A junkyard extraordinaire, he was pathetic, I thought. Is that all he can talk about? But there were a lot of things none of us knew about Uncle Jack like why he limped. And it wasn’t until he showed me the real story about his life, I began to see a different picture of the man who never spoke about his past and why.
One year at Thanksgiving, as we all sat around the dinner table at Mom’s house, he gave me a puzzled look. “You know Lance, you’ve never been to my shop. How ’bout you come and let me show you around. If you see something you like, maybe I’ll give it to you for free.”
The hope in his eyes showed me something I’d never seen in Uncle Jack. Curious, I accepted his invitation.
“Come on in,” he announced as I stepped through the door like he wanted the whole world to hear. ‘Bout time you made it to my shop. Want something to drink? Got some cold ones in the back, he said, as I perused the isles of tattered military garb. Worn leather boots lined the shelves covering the entire wall on one side of the shop. Numerous pictures hung on another.
“Those were my men,” he said, pointing up to a picture of men, standing side by side with each one’s arm on the shoulder of the next, all beaming with youthful optimism.
“Your men?”
He nodded.
I peered through the foggy glass of a display case in the middle of the room.
“Anything you like? “ Jack asked.
I pointed at the two Purple Heart medals lying side-by-side. “Where’d you get these?”
He cleared his throat. “Same place I got my limp,” he said with a gruff voice. “Sorry, but those aren’t for sale. They came at a heavy price. I got ‘em from the battlefield.”
I studied his face; sorrow set deep in his eyes as he stared at the floor. He held his gaze as if he had slipped into another time and place. Then he looked at me and smiled. “Sure you don’t want a coke or something? Got some icy cold ones in the back.”
“So you were in the war … what branch?”
“Army. Shrapnel’s still in my leg. Be there till I die, I suppose. But I was lucky. A lot of the boys I carried out had to leave their arms and legs behind, what was left of ‘em anyway. A few of us ran back and tried to save as many as we could,” he said with a shaky voice,” but most of them were already gone.” He nodded toward the display case. “That’s where those hearts came from.”
My heart ached as we stood gazing at the pictures, the medals and other wartime memorabilia.
“But God was with me through it all, even when the Army elected me to inform the families.” His eyes welled with tears. “God gave me the words to tell those poor families their sons had died a hero’s death. Sometimes I felt guilty I was still alive. But it finally dawned on me God had placed me in those mind fields for a reason; it wasn’t to kill, it was to save. We couldn’t save all the boys, but we tried. A part of me died with every buddy I lost,” he said as he looked off into the distance. “So how ‘bout that Root beer? I also got Pepsi and 7-up.”
As we stood drinking our sodas, I realized Tacky Jack was not the person I had always believed he was. That day he grew in my eyes from being Tacky Jack to the man he truly was, an underappreciated, tried and true, American hero. And he was not just my uncle anymore, he was now my friend.
FICTION
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