World War One: A True Story

                                    By: Amir, 5^th grade

The flyer that Wilson clutched in his hand read:

I Want You for the U.S. Army

Sign up at your post office

Wilson let the flyer fluttered the grimy ground of the alley he was in. Then, with his back to the wooden wall of the hardware store that James Coaxer owned, Wilson stepped on the paper with his mud-caked tennis shoes. Why had his dad gone to fight in the French Army? Had Turkish soldiers shot him with a machine gun to his death? ‘That ought to teach him a lesson’ Wilson thought. 

            He followed the alley to a clearing filled with dogwood trees. A crisp autumn breeze ruffled the dying blossoms of the dogwood tree. Wilson veered to the left, and the breeze followed him all the way to Safe Haven. Safe Haven was in Roquefort, France and served as the town’s only beach. It gave a beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea. Safe Haven was packed with tourists in the summer, but when the temperature dropped, the beach was suddenly deserted.

            That was when Safe Haven became Wilson’s place. As he emerged from the forest, the ocean ruffled up and down like a giant woman’s dress and the sand acted like the woman’s feet, touch her high heels every now and then. The seagulls seemed like the bows on the ocean’s dress. In this metaphor, Wilson was not completely sure which role he played, but he supposed he was the shoemaker as he hastily built an asymmetrical sandcastle. Frolicking in the ocean made him forget his worries about his dad who, at this point, might be fighting Turkish armies.

            “Wilson! Wilson!” called his mother as she appeared from the underbrush. Her sudden appearance made Wilson resume the weight of his troubles. Silently, he walked up to the rocks on the north side of the beach to meet her. The moon and the first shooting star of the night was about to appear.

            “What are you doing out here, in the cold?” his mother questioned, wrapping her jacket around him. “Someone could have kidnapped you! And haven’t you realized that the sun is leaving the horizon?”

                        After answering the constant flow of questions they enter the eight floor apartment building where they lived. The elevator was held open, waiting for them.

            The elevator operator inquired, “What floor?”

            “Four, please.” answered Wilson’s mother.

            The elevator slowly made its way up to the fourth floor. Once it had reached its final destination, Wilson’s mother bid goodnight to the elevator operator. Their [Wilson and his mother’s] apartment was number 434, the second closest one to the elevator. Taking the key out of her pocket to open the door, Wilson’s mother demanded that he go straight upstairs and get his night clothes on. Directly after he had dressed, Wilson’s mother kissed him on the forehead. Pulling the covers over his body, she turned out the light and went to sleep herself. Wilson lay in bed for a long time. Just as his eyelids could get no heavier, he fell into a deep sleep.

            Turkish soldiers marched down the endless battlefield. From the other side a French regiment was rather jogging down the other side of yellow grass field. Included in the regiment was Wilson’s father. The men on both sides loaded their weapons. A heavy cloud of Turkish planes covered the sky like a monsoon. The bombs they dropped were like lightning; their motors thunder. After a machine gun had been fired, Wilson saw his father suffering and moaning in pain like a horse without its mother from a heavy wound on his chest…

            Wilson blinked. Daylight filtered through the window. He was in his room, his walls glistening by the shrouds of light that came through the window.  Quickly, peering at his grandfather clock that set in the northeastern corner of his room, he realized that he had overslept. While dressing, Wilson had one errand that stuck in his mind, go to James Coaxers store and buy a typewriter with the little money he had been saving to adopt a dog.

Once his chestnut hat was placed on his slick ebony hair he started meandering from the apartment building, through the dogwood trees and to James Coaxer’s tiny shop on the road to Safe Haven. As Wilson trotted to James Coaxer’s shop, he thought about his dream. Was it a warning that his father was in danger. That was usually the case in books. Or was it just a mere picture of the terrors of war? Before Wilson could ponder this any longer, James Coaxer’s shop came into view.

            The small shop was made of the flimsy wood of a dogwood tree. It had a rickety front porch with a soda fountain sitting in the lone chair. From the two columns on the porch there hung a banner that read YARD SALE and Wilson could see many objects out in the grass. After he had walked a quarter of the grass around the shop, he saw the 1885 brass typewriter. He immediately picked it up and peered at it from every angle possible.

            No scratches or dents had harmed the typewriter since 1885, when it was on display in the shop. Wilson checked the ribbon, the ink, and he even typed a few nonsense words on the yellowing paper that sat matter-of-factly in the typewriter. Once all these procedures had been done, Wilson nearly hopped up the stairs of James Coaxer’s shop to pay for the typewriter.

            James Coaxer was a man with white hair and a pallid face. His emerald eyes s he sparkled in the light and his wart like nose hung just above his mouth, which contained no teeth. Being a tiny man, he could barely put his hands on the register. After James Coaxer had rung up the total on the electric blue cash register, Wilson gave him the money. In the time that followed, James Coaxer counted up the money six times with his chubby fingers. Finally, Wilson got to carry his brass typewriter home.

            Later that evening, Wilson found it hard to begin writing a letter to his father. Sitting in his rocking chair next to the long-standing grandfather clock, he had a pencil and paper in his hands. The language arts instructors at school advised to draft a document before you type it and make it official. After half an hour of sitting and thinking wisely, Wilson decided to start by telling his father about his dream. One idea connected to another and as the second half of the hour ended, Wilson had a five paragraph letter. It read:

            Dear Father,

I had a dream last night about the terrors of war. You were wounded severely and I want to make sure you’re fine. War is a horrible thing but yet you are serving France. Do you have these dreams often?

            Mother and I are trying to adjust to your absence. It is difficult for Mother to be Mother and Father at the same time. All the children at school tease me because my Father is in the army. But when you come home with a gold medal around your neck, they will be jealous.

            No event is going on in Roquefort that you need to know about. My mornings are spent at school, my afternoons spent at home (doing chores,) and my evenings are spent at Safe Haven Beach Resort. The weather has been overcast here, so sometimes I do not go to Safe Haven.  I am sure, though; it will be bright and sunny when you return. Once I earn more money, (I have spent all my euros on this typewriter) I will purchase some French flags we can wave when you come back to Roquefort.

            As you can see, Mother and I have been working hard to fill your absence. Even though boys tease me at school, that is about the only difference to my daily schedule unless it is raining and I cannot go to Safe Haven. You have not been missing anything in Roquefort, because everything seems to stay the same. Could you give me advice on the dream? Maybe your advice will stop me having pictures in the night of you dying. Until then, I will buy French flags to celebrate your return.

            Until next time,

            Wilson Von Trap

            Wilson looked at a shooting star. As he crawled into his bed he wished his father, battling Turkish soldiers on an island somewhere near Turkey.