Full
Full
Madelyn Rathnaw
The air conditioned building was a nice break from the intense New Orleans heat. People are bustling around like ants and snapping photos. I saw the World War 2 museum was a popular place for tourists, with its seasoned veterans that drift in sometimes and the hundreds of photos of soldiers marching on. I desperately wanted to go to it. Standing in the long line to get a ticket, I looked around at dozens of old artifacts.
Overhead, there was the massive TBM Avenger. A fighter pilot plane used to drop off supplies and men through the air. It was olive green with the tint of rust that decorated its sides. The plane wore its dents and scratches like war medals.
The distant humming of a plane engine was coming closer and closer. It was Warsaw, Poland in 1944. Piles of rubble laid in grey heaps, covered in snow from the last bombing. The winter was bitter as the frost nipped at my face. The skin on our hands was blue and flaking and some blood had peeked out of the cracks. All of us were battle worn. A dull ache that would never go away resided deep in the pits of our stomachs. The drone of the planes brought us hope, though. It was like listening to the voices of angels. Our stomachs all growled in unison as we thought about the food that would soon be delivered. Our feet and hands numb while we huddled together like penguins. The roar of the engines was gradually coming closer until it was right over us. Weary smiles decorated the exhausted faces of the men around us. Sunken eyes lit up like a match. The long-awaited wooden crates were thrown out the side hatch as the white parachutes swiftly caught the frigid wind. We all crowded around as little bits of heaven fell from the sky. Our hearts were big because, hopefully, our stomachs would soon be full.