This Little Lighter of Mine

She didn't know why she grabbed me or why she found herself clutching me in her hands. I was just one of many trinkets, amongst the shambles of what remained from her uncle's life. It had been a long time since I’d been touched. She found me beneath a pile of newspapers and old uncashed checks. Somewhere along the way I was placed there for the last time.

Despite being crusted in rust and blueish green malachite, she found my shine. I reminded her of an old penny.

Though I was not an old penny.

She held me to the light and pressed the button on my side, and imagine her surprise when I shot out a centimeter long flame from my mouth. Don't burn yourself now gal.

She was taken aback at the absurdity of it all. Here was a house, long in disarray, and there sat a lighter. Worn and damaged and still functioning as intended.

The numerous cigarette butts that filled a nearby ashtray sat in proof. Sure, they were lit and smoked in disregard to doctors orders; what the hell. Lung cancer? That was a tomorrow problem. Ernest and I did what felt good.

Her fingers traced over a dent and a gash in my metal that could not be mended. We all have scars right?

She held me as she inspected the only orderly part of the house. The shelf in the living room.

A silver star and a purple heart sat with a shine similar to mine. There was a framed piece from an article in the LA times titled, “The Cold is Still an Enemy for Frostbitten Korean War Vets.”

Lengthy title sure, but true. He was always an advocate for veterans.

Ah, yes I remember many cigarettes being sucked on anxiously; as Ernest dealt with government representatives, bureaucrats, and reps from the VA.

They would sit across from Ernie, who barely had a full foot or leg anymore, and would say with a straight face the injuries suffered during the -36 degrees during the battle of Chosin Reservoir, weren’t service related. What a crock of shit.

As if the injuries these old dogs were suffering from years later would’ve happened if they hadn't traveled halfway around the world and just worked at the GM plant down the road instead.

Eventually they finally relented and paid the vets their due.. That being after 50,000 of Ernie's own money was invested in the matter.

The girl studied another photo. One with a much younger Ernest and a little girl with a mouth full of steel sitting in his lap.

She touched it for a moment. Ah this must be the niece. I didn't realize it was her, seeing her so much older, and a face well, without braces. Annie, Annie was her name.

The only person he loved more was his wife.

But she wasn't there for him like I was.

Like when Betty died. Long after the initial outpouring of family support, Ernest was by himself. He would go days without talking to anyone. He would just sit in his chair, alone. As if he were waiting for death.

But he wasn't alone, I was there with him, when he struggled to get up and stand on his mangled feet. When they would pop like rice krispies, his words not mine. He had lost me several times. I can't count how many times I was put through the washing machine, only to be re-found with a joyous innocuous reach into a pocket.

I was there with him before.

In that frozen hellscape.

I can still feel the cold of it. I carry it in my metal now along with the scars.

Nearly put an end to me as well as Ernest.

I felt her flinch, she must’ve felt my cold. She had forgotten that I was in her hand. She looked at me again, and the partial sailboat on my front. I could see she had goosebumps, she felt it too.

She thought I was just some discarded lighter. But no, I am much more than that.

I am not just any lighter. I’m a lucky lighter.

However luck I suppose may be relative to this story.

****

In mid October 1950, The People's Republic of China, after many warnings to the US led United Nations expeditionary forces in Korea, sent an intervening force of approximately 260,000 soldiers to stop the Americans from pushing the North Korean forces to the border of China.

Unbeknownst to Ernest and the soldiers of the 1st Marine division amongst others. There was a Chinese force numbering 120,000 surrounding their position at the Changjin reservoir. The battle would be better known as The Battle of Chosin Reservoir, and its survivors called “The Chosin Few.” In the weeks-long battle the Marine and Army units would endure not just the Chinese but one of the most brutal Korean winters on record…

Ernest pulled me out and clicked my ignitor. Once, twice, three times, and finally fire spit out, but not for long enough to light his cigarette.

“Son of a bitch, think my lighter is gettin low on fluid.”

Some soldier with the last name Smith, responded, “Shit Sarge you may wanna’ save whatever you got for a fire in this cold.”

“Yeah and give away our position to the Chinese? No thanks.”

Ernest knew that there likely wouldn't be time for such luxuries anyways, he always got this feeling in his gut before something happened. Call it a sixth sense. Usually it was when he was clutching me.

I may have helped him with that.

He clutched me tight in his chapped, numb hands. My cold metal likely doing more harm than good on his raw skin. He finally resigned with an exalted sigh. He turned his attention to the tingling sensations on his back, which he was sure were the early stages of frostbite.

There were reports of Allied soldiers being bayoneted to death by Chinese raiding parties while in their sleeping bags. You see it was so cold that when they burled up inside, their breaths froze the zippers shut. So the consensus was many would rather deal with possible frostbite than being stabbed to death like a rat in a bag.

Frostbite, that was a tomorrow problem; although, in the meantime it was cold as hell.

Kowalski, a private, hopped in Ernest’s foxhole with a groan. Everyone's joints, and muscles were tight from the ungodly cold. Ernest spent what freetime he had wiggling his toes, trying to keep them working.

The private and Ernest were baffled from the last human wave charge from the Chinese. There were some boys with barely any shoes on. Just shoot me instead, were his thoughts on the matter.

Kowalski, sniffled loudly. “What's the word Ernie?”

Ernie attempted to light his cigarette one more time, with a few frustrated snaps. “Welp, we are surrounded, and not likely to get any aid. Word is the 7th is trying to get to us for an evac. But.. They are moving along with a single Sherman tank.”

Ernie could see his words bite at Kowalski like the cold, his shoulders slumped forward slightly.

Ernest cleared his throat. “But, the only thing we can do is keep fighting, and stay alive. And take as many of those sons a bitches with us if it comes to it. That part should be easy, we are fortunate enough to find ourselves in a target rich environment.”

Ernest’s eyes glimmered with a warm smile, as the little remainder of lighter fluid inside me lit the cigarette that he had been trying to light for the last half hour.

He took a long pull, closing his eyes and letting the hot smoke burn his lungs before exhaling.

Kowalski’s eyes were red, and full of fear. “We may run out of ammo before then Sarge.”

Ernie looked down at the freshly lit cigarette and regrettably gave it to him, “Smoke up Leonard.”

As he let the nicotine fill him, a joy reserved for a kid on Christmas appeared on Leonard's face.

It filled him with a calm, a calm that wouldn't last.

The dreaded bugles began to play from the Chinese lines. They had done this before in their initial assault, and intermittently with or without an attack in the days after. It was a psychological warfare tactic. One that ate at a man.

Ernest clutched me in his hand. It was coming. He could feel it. I could feel it. He stood up and began to piss on his rifle. Leonard at first was surprised but then nodded his head and did the same. Anywhere else on Earth this action might be crazy; but a lot of normalities are lost in war. A lot of things that are defined as human are lost as well. It was be human, or piss on your rifle to unfreeze the firing mechanism.

After roughly two minutes of infernal racket then came the worst part. When it stopped.

The only companion to the uneasy silence was the wailing winds. Leonard let out a sigh, before finishing the rest of the cigarette. “Yeah, stay in your frozen holes ya chinks.”

Ernest called over a forward observer by the name of Arnie Patton, a big Nebraska corn fed boy. He had to be, to lug around that dumpster of radio equipment. Ernest pulled on Patton's shirt and directed him to be on standby to call in artillery. He followed the order immediately. “This is 7th Delta, calling for a fire mission, over.”

There was a garbled response. “Copy Delta, send traffic, over.”

Leonard's uneasiness returned as they talked, he peeked his head over the edge of the foxhole.

Ernest pulled out binoculars and scanned the slopes below. The wind began to pick up, snow swirled around them like a helicopter was flying above. The roar grew in its ferocity. The wind fizzled out yet the roar continued. It was then Ernest realized it wasn't a gale force wind he was hearing now, it was a charging force of Chinese.

With a shaking hand he placed me in the usual spot, his upper chest pocket.

With his binoculars he could see In the horizon numerous vague, tan, shapes moving around like bed bugs. “We got company!” He scanned further and saw more getting closer, he reckoned there were easily thousands moving on them now. He grabbed Patton close. “Make it rain hell on those bastards.”

The observer relayed the order for a Polar mission, or previously established coordinates. Then he would guide the artillery in from there.

“Copy that Delta, fire inbound.”

In the distance Ernest heard the thumping percussions of the artillery emplacement several miles back. Within a moment after, fire and dirt were kicked up in the air. The fire continued. The observer relayed more directions. “Adjust 50 yards inward.”

As the fire got closer that meant one uneasy truth, the enemy was as well. Eventually they wouldn't be able to use it. That was the strategy of the Chinese, get close enough to where artillery couldn't be used.

Machine guns to Ernest’s right began to fire at the human shapes that continued to grow in size and clarity.

Ernest pulled his M1 Garand to his shoulder and fired a few times at a silhouette. Bullets whizzed nearby wildly. Leonard pulled up his Carbine and began firing as well. Ernest shouted over the shooting and explosions. “Make 'em count Leonard!”

A distant shape fell to the ground as his Garand rifle gave its famous ping sound that signified he was empty.

He reloaded, and held his hands over the warm barrel for a moment. He pulled up his binoculars again, and watched as some of the Chinese stripped weapons from the dead and continued their defiant charge. Then in a flash of flying body parts they were gone. As the smoke cleared, he saw yet more to replace them. Ernest felt sick to his stomach as more continued to surge.

Am I going to die here? I heard him think.

A bullet snapped, forcing Ernest to duck. A temporary warmth came to him with the anger he felt. He adjusted his firing position, and poked out from a different spot in his trench and shot at the closing men. The only word he heard from the observer was the words. “Danger close, on position-” Another snap vibrated by Ernest’s ears. The Chinese were within 50 yards now. Firing as they moved. Snow kicked up in the faces of Ernest and Leonard from the raging bullets and artillery.

The fighting continued, the three men were burning through their magazines. Ernest patted his bandelier, he felt at least four more magazines. The words of Leonard echoed in his head, We may run out of ammo before then..

There was a lull in the firing from the Chinese, and the American side shot only occasionally. He pulled his binoculars up to eyes, they shook in his hands until he rested his elbows on the cold ground. “Looks like they are moving to our left.”

Leonard slapped another magazine into his rifle, “Hell yeah! That's what I want to hear.” Ernest continued to watch the scurrying shapes. Leonard must have seen the concern on his face, “That's..That's good news right Ernie?”

Ernest let out a sigh as he put the binoculars down. “They are trying to flank the other line. If they do that, they can fuck us from that position.” Ernest turned and felt a shock, Patton wasn't in the spot next to him. He didn't have to look far. Laying a few feet behind them was Patton. Steam rose from the bloody hole where Patton's face should’ve been. He felt a tinge of sorrow but knew there wasn't time to process emotions, another human trait lost in war.

Ernest called out to the machine gunners, “Patrick, O'Donnell, Luther, grab as much ammo as you can, and any bodies you can. We need to move to prevent a flank the Commies are trying to pull.” Word was relayed, and Ernest grabbed a few magazines from the already frost covered corpse of Patton.

Random shots kicked up around Ernest as he led the machine gunners and others towards the gunfire until the enemy came into view. He then directed the machine gunners to set up a position where their fire would intersect each other.

The machine guns spit rounds down range, tearing into the mass of humans. They kept coming though, and now some were directing their own fire to Ernest’s position.

They traded rounds until Ernest's ears were nothing but a constant ring. He reloaded and realized this was his last magazine. He took note of the other men. They also were down to a couple last mags or out of ammo all together.

The waves of Chinese were still pouring fire towards the other line, and it was in danger of being overrun. Ernest knew if this happened the wave would come their way and they would die.

The machine gunners were also low on ammo, but they would suit much better in their current location, he thought. He pulled a long blade and looped it to the tip of his rifle. “Fix bayonets!” He ordered. An order that he never thought he would have to give.

The fellow soldiers gave solemn looks. They knew in this instant this may very well be their final order.

Ernest felt compelled to touch his lighter one last time as they hopped up from their position and prepared to charge towards certain death. One foot went in front of the other. Each step going in the direction of danger instead of away. An action that defied reason. Another casualty of war.

Ernest felt the percussion of the machine guns as their friendly bullets went towards unfriendly forces. He then felt the passing bullets being fired toward him. A whizz, and then a crack or two. A man went down to his left. Another to his right. For a moment his heart skipped a beat as he slipped in the snow, but he rose to his feet, and fired a few shots at a nearby muzzle flash.

Ernest hopped over a dead body and fired his last rounds into another human. They were no longer human to him. They were just obstacles to get home. To get warm.

The all too familiar ping of his Garand sounded, he was empty now. He locked eyes with a Chinese soldier, whose own bayonet was at the ready. For a moment he felt the fear of death. Though it was only a moment.

He was quicker than the Chinese soldier. Ernest tossed the opposing rifle away, and thrusted his bayonet into his stomach. He fell down, holding his hands over the red spot where Ernest's bayonet just went. Ernest reared back and stabbed him again. Blood came out of the soldier's mouth, and he was dead.

Ernest had no time to reflect on this, he and his men charged forward like a pack of hungry wolves. Cutting through the Chinese like butter. Ernest at one point felt something impact him right below his neck sending him staggering backwards, but he didn't feel pain and he was alive; so he figured he was okay.

Machine gun bullets from behind still raged, as did the bayonet charge.

He stabbed a fleeing Chinese in the back, planting him in the ground as though he were a flag.

They watched the rest of them run away for their lives. They were routed. The Americans cheered loudly, clasped each other in warm embraces, for they were alive.

Leonard came up behind him and patted him on the back. “Sweet Jesus, can't believe that worked.”

“Yeah, let's round up the dead and check out our own wounded,” Ernest croaked, he found it was difficult to speak.

It was then that Ernest felt heavy, he saw it now also in Leonard's face. “Woah golly, holy shit Sarge your hit.”

Ernest patted below his neck and felt a roar of pain as his fingers found a warm hole.

“Sit down Sarge, sit down.” Leonard put pressure on the wound as he shouted for a medic.

“Medics are back at the line,” Ernest murmured. Ernest laid in the snow for some time as a few men attempted to put together a stretcher. He didn't feel much pain. He just felt the cold. Leonard's face tried to hide concern. “Whatever you do don't go to sleep Sarge.”

“Its too fuckin cold to sleep!” Despite saying this Ernest began to feel deadly tired, and even a little warm. A bad sign. To keep himself busy he decided to fiddle with his lighter. See if it worked at all. He pulled it out and couldn't hide his shock.

On the side of the lighter that had the old timey ship, there was a large dent and a scrape downwards.

Ernest flashed back to the first man he cut down. He didn't clear the bayonet as cleanly as he thought.

Adrenaline can give way to tunnel vision. His hand traced to the pocket he kept the lighter in.

Right over his heart.

He chuckled to himself as the lighter lit up instantly for him, warming the tips of his frost nipped fingers.

The rest of Ernest’s life should've been easy compared to those days and nights on the Chosin Reservoir. However while leaving the battle the men carrying his stretcher stumbled on the mountainous terrain and in the tumble Ernest broke his ribs.

He then found himself piled into an evacuation chopper stuffed to the brim with soldiers like bricks. So much so his feet were hanging out the side of the helicopter, further exasperating the frostbite he already had.

He wound up losing all of his toes to frostbite and part of his foot. Like others who survived, he would live a life of cracking joints. Burning sensations when the temperature went below 50 degrees, and a still yearly risk of infections due to the damages done. It was both the cold that saved his life, and likely ended it.

I will say “holy hell that hurt” getting stabbed by that Chinese soldier, but I would take that any day of the week over Ernest taking that blow and dying in the snow.

***

Annie's body was still covered in goosebumps, forcing her to shiver. It was a lot I know, and I was sorry for it; but I felt I had to show her just a glimpse of what kind of man her uncle was. And why he was the way he was.

She put me down next to a portrait of Ernest in his Marine Corp uniform. She hesitated, before picking me back up and placing me next to the picture of her sitting on his lap.

Yes. That's right where he would've wanted me.