I teach fifth grade, nothing complicated: slavery, ratios and proportions, why the good side always prevails in war. Half my students at the Army base are children of Second Cavalry, currently deployed; the other half First Infantry, now stateside, soon enough to ship out again. These kids pull extra duty at home with a soldier parent gone to war; they grow up fast and live with doubt. Mostly, though, they act like fifth graders whose parents love them and have a job. For a few, the sufferers of pre-traumatic stress syndrome, I guess, the nightmares precede the loss. For others, the combat death of a Mom or Dad does just what you’d expect. I have a classroom full of kids who go to war by webcam and, just like soldiers in the field, they react in all the ways a person could to being shot at every day. I often wonder what they hear in the background during those calls to the war zone. When individually they panic, I talk to them of training and preparedness and ask them if their Dad takes living seriously, and show them on the map just how big a territory he has to hide in from the worst of the fighting. If they ask me why my wife didn’t make it back, I say she served four tours before that last one, that long odds caught up with her, that her life was courageous. I don’t know if it convinces them. It’s just that certain afternoons when the room is hot and stagnant, arithmetic will lose its charms and I can tell it’s time to put the books away and try again. We understand that, they tell me every time. But why? We’ve heard those reasons, too, they say. But why? Why, really?
Copyright © March 25, 2007 David Hodges
Very Short Novels 
8 comments
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March 25, 2007 at 4:45 pm
Dorothy W.
Nothing complicated, indeed. This is very moving David.
Oh, Dorothy, you see right through me! Thank you.
–David
March 26, 2007 at 3:33 am
verbivore
I love how the narrator circles outward at first, gathering and examining the horror and pain felt by his students before he dares move inward to touch on his own – and of course that final ‘why?’, completely his and just devastating.
Verbivore, again, you read me so well I can’t thank you enough.
–David
March 26, 2007 at 10:21 pm
Mathi
This is beautifully written and brevity personified. Sometimes unanswered questions have as much angst attached to them as a battlefield.
Thank you, Mathi.
–David
March 27, 2007 at 9:23 am
grasshopper
It’s all there. Everyone’s story, everyone’s every day, and the inevitable end. And, yes, “Why?” echoes throughout.
Thank you, grasshopper. That’s nicely said.
–David
March 27, 2007 at 12:30 pm
bloglily
The narrator’s own past came as a shock — I could feel that room of children, David. The trouble for me, though, is that I want more! I want that piece to go on, and I want to see the base, and where he lives and how and…. Which is not to say that this isn’t just completely powerful as it is. It’s just such terrific window.
Believe me, Bloglily, I understand. If I could do this story justice in more words, I would, but this is my particular skill. I don’t know if I’ve embraced it, or it me. Thank you so much for your comment.
–David
March 27, 2007 at 9:27 pm
archiearchive
I was not expecting the personal insight from the teacher. Such a sting in the tail! Brilliant once again, David – now this is one of the fastest growing blogs in WordPress – congratulations.
Thank you, Archie. Those “growing” numbers can be pretty ephemeral, I’m afraid. But thank you for your kind comment and support.
–David
March 30, 2007 at 2:59 pm
JD
“Why?” is a 400 billion dollar question in today’s world; not only are US children asking, but also Iraq’s young, who must also witness war.
Can’t say it better than that, Jim.
–David
April 1, 2007 at 2:36 pm
mandarine
I never know where to start when I want to comment. This story of war and classrooms aroused an old school memory of mine. It was the second year after high-school graduation. The math teacher was having surgery and a young oriental substitute teacher came. He was in the middle of a long proof on the blackboard, turning his back to us, when one of the classmates sneezed. His was no ordinary sneeze. It sounded like a loud bang, and to the unprepared ear, it was a loud bang. Our teacher jumped and almost ducked for cover. He sat down, sweating, eyes looking in the void. Tried to resume his blackboard proof twice, failed twice, and left the class without any explanation. The next morning, he explained to us he’d had a grenade explode in his classroom when he was studying science in Beirut in the eighties.
It had taken one sneeze to bring the reality of that long-forgotten faraway abstract conflict into our protected cosy French math lesson.
I am probably slightly off-topic, but that’s the best I could come up with.
PS: I am sure you have plenty of ideas, but this could actually make a fine very short novel.
You’re right, mandarine. That’s just the sort of defining moment that makes for a fine very short novel. To me it seems exactly on-topic. Thank you so much for it. Please never assume I have enough ideas!
–David