Mind Sweeper

By D. B. Moon

As Will Ramseys mother hugs her son as if it were for the last time, her thin bony arms feel like angels wings. Will, a farm boy from Minnesota, loads his bag into the trunk of a 1942 Buick and waves to his mother. With his best friend at the wheel and another good friend in the passenger seat, Will leaves to join the army during World War II.

As the three men enter basic training, they endure emotional torture instigated by Drill Sergeant Griggs, notorious for being tough on new soldiers. But when Will is selected for special assignment, he leaves his friends and only remaining ties to home behind. He then falls under the command of Captain Stapey, and along with his new squad soon learns to respect the man in charge of keeping all of them alive. The squad travels to Germany to join the fight. Early in their first mission, however, Will is captured by the Nazis, and he realizes the ramifications of his decision to leave home. He and his squad are in a fight for survival; and, as he emerges from the Nazi torture with newfound powers, his fate is sealed in ways he never imagined.

As Will becomes entangled in a twisted adventure filled with fear, deceit, and murder, he must rely on his inner strength in order to end one mans reign of terror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450241007

D. B. Moon

D. B. Moon was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, and graduated from the University of Minnesota. An avid Minnesota Twins and Wild fan, he currently lives on a lake near Forest Lake, Minnesota, where he enjoys spending time with friends and family. This is his first book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Saying Good-bye

He awoke.

Eyes closed.

Head down.

Chin resting on his chest.

Sitting.

Cold and wet.

Confused.

Scared.

Tried to open his eyes but couldn’t.

Trapped in darkness.

Closing in.

Blood filled his mouth.

He lifted his head slowly.

Then back down—too weak.

Blood dripped methodically down his chin.

Blood dripped methodically onto his lap.

Tried to open his eyes again but couldn’t.

Confused.

Scared.

Noises came from out of the blackness. Voices. The only thing worse than being alone in the dark is not being alone in the dark. Footsteps creaked towards him. His eyes desperately tried to open. Finally, a light punctured the darkness. Light shone from a single bulb hanging from a wire suspended near his head. The piercing light blinded him. The thick soup of blackness filled the area outside the bulb’s circle of light.

He was slumped over, sitting down in a hard, cold, steel chair. All he could taste was the blood that filled his mouth. Then, a slimy combination of saliva and blood dripped down into his lap in a steady, methodical drip. His neck was stiff. It felt as though he’d been out for quite a while. He needed some idea of his surroundings. He languidly lifted his head toward the single source of light.

He wanted to block the light from his eyes. He tried to lift his right hand. He then realized his right hand was clamped to the chair. He tried his left hand. It was clamped down as well. He looked down in a haze. His wrists were bound to the chair with large iron clamps. Out of instinct, he tried to move his feet, but both were also clamped down tightly.

A shadow stepped between his eyes and the bulb so that the light showed from behind the blurry black silhouette. The stranger’s torso and face were in total shadow. Out of the darkness and the confusion he tried to piece together the puzzle of his surroundings. He had no idea how many pieces there even were. He had no idea what pieces were hiding in the dark just beyond his faculties.

Where—am—I? he gurgled in an inaudible whisper of desperation.

Who’s—there? he tried to murmur.

He pleaded with the darkness for answers.

All he could muster were blood bubbles. The bubbles popped as he tried to speak. The blood gurgled out of his mouth and poured down his chin. The gurgling sounds caused whomever the darkness was harboring to laugh sadistically. There were at least three distinct laughs coming at him through the blackness. He wanted to know where he was. He wanted to know who they were. He wanted to know what was next.

Out of the darkness shot a voice, high-pitched and gravelly, Who sent you, young American?

The unwelcome voice caused him to recoil. The back of his head pressed against the back of the chair. The voice spoke calmly and slowly as if it took pleasure in his fear. He wondered how he had gotten so far from home. In only a few short months, he had gone from a warm, safe home straight to hell. How far from home he felt there, in the dark. The thought of his family back on the farm in Pleasant Grove flashed in his head. Now, he felt like he was in a different world. God, he wished he was alone in the dark, but he wasn’t. The shadows closed in on him. A hand came out of the darkness toward his face. Everything faded to black once again.

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He ran to the kitchen window and looked out toward the mailbox at the end of the farm’s long, winding driveway.

They’re here! He hesitantly shouted back toward the rest of the house. Though no one else was in the kitchen, he knew everyone had heard him. They were listening.

The shiny, 1942-model, bright-red Buick convertible turned off the main gravel road and onto their winding dirt driveway. It announced its arrival by kicking up gravel that clanked off the inside of its wheel wells like a harbinger of adventures yet to be lived. It left a cloud of dust in its wake as it barreled toward the house like a half-ton mother-in-law with an open invitation.

He turned and began to walk out of the kitchen in a very slow and deliberate fashion. His soft-soled shoes squeaked across the worn, wooden floor. A flood of memories hindered his progress as he slowly ambled through the kitchen. It was his way of saying Thanks for the memories while leaving the kitchen.

He had spent so much of his childhood in that kitchen and at that table—the old table his grandfather made from a fallen cherry tree many decades earlier. The pot marks and scratches on its surface were a diary of events that helped shape his life. It told the story of his life better than any written journal ever could have. It was a timeline of character forged from imperfections and accidents through the years, and when he looked at it, a dike holding back his memories burst open, flooding his mind—latent memories that before then had never seemed nostalgic. At that moment they were. They were like long forgotten friends reunited. They made him smile.

He saw the mark from where his mom had dropped an entire pot of boiling water on top of the table. It happened when he had accidentally left the kitchen screen door open, and a raccoon, smelling a free meal, had wondered into the kitchen. It jumped out from underneath the table with a loud, angry hiss. His mom screamed bloody murder and dropped a large, cast-iron kettle of boiling water on the table. There was the scratch from when he and his dad were building a model plane, and his dad glued one of the wings to his hand. He couldn’t get it off, so he began flailing his hand up and down trying to shake it loose, only to have the wing slam into the table top and shatter into a dozen pieces. It left behind the scar in the tabletop that he now looked at longingly. He remembered his dad looking like he was being attacked by a swarm of bees. For a second, he chuckled at the memory. He lightly brushed his fingertips across the surface of the table as he slowly passed by. He relived every scar as his fingers read the memories like a record needle in the groove of his favorite album. The memories played in his head like familiar songs he knew by heart. Many of his family’s memories—both celebratory and tragic—had been formed in that kitchen and at that table.

He felt that, once he left this kitchen, he would never recapture this feeling. He felt an overwhelming sense of warmth and safety. Even though he felt it at that very moment, he already missed it. He was leaving the most comfortable spot he had ever known to go out into the unknown. He was leaving Pleasant Grove, Minnesota, for what could very well prove to be hell itself. He also knew that the longing of lost innocence he felt while he walked out of the kitchen was nothing in comparison to what lay ahead in the next few minutes.

The morning sun filtered into the kitchen through the soft, white, cotton curtains. They spread the morning light evenly throughout the kitchen and bathed everything in soft amber. It seemed like he was walking through the gates of heaven as he passed into the living room. His mother had just finished cooking them all breakfast, so the smell of fresh-cooked bacon filled the kitchen. He knew saying good-bye to his family would be the toughest thing he would ever have to do, which only reinforced his feelings of wanting to stay in the heavenly light of the kitchen.

Emotionally, it was like trying to run up a steep hillside that was covered in hot tar. Each step got harder and harder. Each step drained him. But he knew, eventually, he had to get up that hill. He would have rather been covered in scalding tar than face his family at that moment. His heart pounded as he entered the living room. His mother Jane’s blue eyes locked on him first. His heart sunk as he tried like hell to keep his tenuous smile from withering. He looked down at the dark-red, worn, area rug that took up most of the living room. He kept up appearances and hoped his mother wouldn’t see the cracks in the rice-paper façade.

Jane’s eyes were aged, wise, and the color of turquoise—eyes so soft they were like looking at the sky on a warm summer day through a soft layer of cotton. They were a paradox of softness and strength. Her eyes glimmered in the morning amber as they welled up with tears. Subdued strength seemed to hold back her tears from flowing freely. She stood defiant against the onslaught of time, and he saw the lines time’s knife had etched in her face. However, she humbly wore her forming wrinkles like badges of honor. She had earned them by surviving the brutal Minnesota winters as well as working on their farm throughout the sweltering summers.

Jane tilted her head to the side. She pulled her square chin in towards her neck and pursed her lips into a pseudo-smile, still trying not to break down. She held him at arm’s length. She looked him up and down all the while grasping his forearms.

Your father would have been so proud, she sighed.

That comment sent a shiver up his spine. It also spurred an uncomfortable stare from his sister Alice.

His mother hugged her son as if it were for the last time. Jane’s thin bony arms felt like Angel’s wings. Even though he knew he was far too old for such nonsense, her arms felt safe and he wanted to stay there.

He looked longingly up the wood staircase as they stood next to it. He remembered running down that staircase on Christmas mornings and almost falling every time. The memory made him smile.

I’ll be back home before you know it, he said, hoping no one would call him on his lie.

No one did. He was glad he was hugging his mom when he said that. He couldn’t bear to see the doubt in her eyes or the chance she’d see the doubt in his. He held her back at arms length, squeezing her long thin forearms. He then slid his hands down into hers. Her sandpaper hands were callused and rough from endless chores and yard work. Pleasant Grove, Minnesota, was beautiful, but that came at a price. Hard work took its toll on everyone in that proud town, but you’d never hear a single soul complain. They just grew old gracefully and passed the torch of a hard-work ethic on to the younger generation. So, since his father’s passing, all of the workload had shifted to Jane and her family. Now they’d be one more worker short.

He looked down and to the right of his mother toward his five-year-old sister, Loraine. Loraine was leaning against the large glass-front cupboard but then quickly moved to her mother’s side. As she left the cupboard, her nervous movements rattled the teacups and china inside. Loraine’s eyes were huge, gray pools of wonder, set just above a button nose. Her right hand clasped her mom’s apron. Her left hand clutched a raggedy doll to her chest as if it were some life preserver thrown to a drowning man in shark-infested waters. Her long, sandy-blonde hair cascaded upon her shoulders and down the front of her faded, blue-plaid dress.

She had her church shoes on because she had been told to wear them only during special occasions. She considered this a very special occasion. Her mother would reprimand her every time she wore her shoes other than to church. She liked to wear them while she played dress up, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She once even attempted to do her chores while wearing them, which drew a swift scolding from her mother. This time, however, her mother didn’t cite her for it. In fact, her mother was pleased she wore the shoes in honor of her brother. Loraine didn’t know why she didn’t want to smile. She simply felt that now wasn’t a smiling occasion. Saying good-bye was never easy, and even at her young age she felt this. For a moment, Loraine almost looked down at the floor but couldn’t avert her eyes from his.

Loraine was only five years old but worked harder than some of her older siblings. She would be the first one up and out the door to feed the animals and collect the morning eggs from the hen house—even during the bitter cold of winter. She was a little egg-collecting machine. She’d have them nestled in a small wicker basket sitting on the kitchen counter every morning before Jane even came downstairs. Loraine had grabbed the work-ethic torch and had run like hell with it.

There were always chores to be done on the farm. Even at five years old, Loraine was well aware of that fact and took her chores very seriously. She felt she needed to carry her share of the workload because it was the right thing to do, and she loved her mother. After her dad’s passing, Loraine and her mother became inseparable. Instead of becoming a baby, Loraine was growing wise beyond her years, especially in the last few weeks, ever since the news of her older brother’s vacation came to her attention. That’s what they told her, that her oldest brother was going away on vacation. They thought that would be something she could understand. They also thought by telling her that it wouldn’t cause her to worry or to ask too many questions. But her young heart knew better. She still held the kind of childhood honestly not tarnished or diluted by doubt and resentment that pile up as people get older. She knew something bad was happening, even if she didn’t understand the details.

His younger brother Ed was seventeen and not old enough to go with him—yet. Ed was an ambitious young man and ruggedly handsome like his older brother. They definitely looked a lot alike. Both had dark-brown eyes and pronounced eye lashes. Dark eyebrows and solid shoulders were a brotherly trait. Their chiseled physiques came from countless days of farm work. Ed’s physique was a bit more wiry than his solid older brother, although Ed’s older brother also played football and had gotten more weight training than he did. Ed chose to hang out with his friends instead of participating in sports at school.

Ed was very jealous of the adventure his older brother was about to go on. Ed felt he could easily take on whatever the world threw at him. He was cocky but didn’t have the intelligence to back it up. He wasn’t book dumb, just life-experience dumb. His entire world consisted of the farm, its seemingly endless corn fields, and the town of Pleasant Grove just down the road. He feared nothing, only because he didn’t have the good sense to yet. He’d never known anywhere else except for what he heard on late-night radio adventures or what he saw at the picture shows he went to with his friends. The nearest movie theatre was in Rochester, two towns over and over forty miles away. It was the nearest town big enough to have a movie theater. It was a popular hangout for Ed and his friends despite the drive.

Ed was taller than average and lanky. Almost as tall as his older brother, he stood six foot and was rail thin with a sharp jaw line and defined cheekbones. His head was almost V shaped and came to a point at his pronounced chin. He always looked like he needed a meal, but he ate like a horse. He may have been wiry but was strong for his size. He liked to wear a gray visor hat like old Irishmen wore. His dark hair curled out from underneath it as if trying to escape. He disliked wearing his faded, oversized, denim overalls, which hung off of his shoulders like they were hanging on a coat hanger. He looked like he was drowning in them, and he knew they looked ridiculous.

Ed, just like his older brother, had worked the farm’s fields with their father since they were children. After their dad passed away, the two of them alone took over the planting, cultivating, and harvesting duties. Now it would be up to Ed and some hired hands to do it. Ed wasn’t too happy about having strangers on the farm. He knew he’d have to train them, or as he called it, baby sitting. The workforce would most likely consist of any drifter they could find in town at the time who was looking for three squares and a roof. It was now Ed’s job to make sure the greenhorns worked fast and hard in the family’s fields, but this was nowhere near the time to discuss his selfish frustrations.

Loraine seemed to have more of a clue of what was going on than Ed did—and Ed knew the truth.

Ed just smiled wide, shook his older brother’s hand firmly, and said Good luck.

Ed acted like they had just met for the first time and were heading into some informal business meeting.

He looked at Ed and pulled his hand back quickly.

Thanks, the older brother replied.

He hesitated to see if there would be more of a reaction from Ed. There wasn’t. He turned his gaze toward Alice, his middle sister.

Alice was fourteen years old and becoming quite the striking young woman. She had piercing, blue-silver eyes and long, shimmering, black-velvet hair that reflected the morning’s amber sunlight as it poured in from the kitchen. The beaming light gave her a halo as it shone off of her angelic hair. He smiled and took a mental picture of the angel. Her porcelain skin made her face look like it had been polished smooth and fire kilned to perfection. He was afraid to even hug her in fear she might break.

At that moment, he knew he had done the right thing six years ago. He and Alice had a special bond since he had saved her six years earlier. Alice wanted the opportunity to repay the debt, but knew she might very well never get the chance after today. Her hug for him was much more than a good-bye gesture. Alice needed him to know it also encompassed all he had done for her. She tried but couldn’t make it last long enough or squeeze tight enough. She also knew she would be left alone in the house with the secret they currently shared. At least when he was there, they shared the weight. Now, she was left alone to carry it. Maybe her hug had a third intention: just maybe he would change his mind and stay altogether. That was a fleeting thought. She was both old enough and strong enough to know better. She looked a lot like their mother. Alice was a lot like their mother, both inside and out.

The smell of bacon still lingered in the living room air as he made his way toward the front door. Goodbyes being done, he slowly and clumsily backed out the rusty front screen door and out onto the front porch. He almost tripped over backwards on the weathered, wooden doorframe as he passed through. The green, canvas duffle bag he was carrying got hung up on the door frame momentarily and threw him off balance. As he stumbled back, he hit the rusty screen door, which slammed against the outside of the house. That drew a chuckle from Ed as he waved.

A constant and confusing chorus of goodbyes resonated from both the porch and inside the house. He continued to wave as he walked down the front steps and onto the front dirt sidewalk. Mom, Loraine, Alice, and finally Ed, all piled through the front door and out onto the worn wooden porch, yelling Goodbye over and over and throwing in the occasional Don’t forget to write and Make sure you have plenty of clean underwear!

Mom continued waving well after her arm went numb. Alice started to tear up, and Ed was still laughing from his older brother’s clumsiness. Loraine stood entranced with no motion or expression. She didn’t even blink. She squeezed her doll even tighter and stared blankly.

He loaded his heavy bag into the trunk of the 1942 Buick convertible and slammed it shut. After one last wave for good measure, he went around to the back passenger side and got in fire-engine-red beauty. With his best friend Dean at the wheel and his other closest friend Roy in the front passenger seat, they started off. The top was down, and the morning sun sung a warm farewell song to them. His two fellow travelers mocked the sugary display as they tore down the driveway toward the road and the unknown. His family was gone, and he was on his own.

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Dearest Sally,

I’m writing this letter with no idea where to send it. I’m not even sure why I’m writing it. I guess I’m just looking for some closure about how things ended between us. I just don’t understand why you left. You left without saying good-bye and without any explanation whatsoever. You left a note for your mom saying not to try to find you or contact you and that you’d be fine and not to worry.

I know you and your mom never really got along after your dad died. I know things were rough, and you know you were always welcome at my house whenever you needed a place to stay. My family really loved when you stayed at our house, and Loraine and Alice still ask when you’re coming back. My family misses you, and so do I.

I guess I just wanted you to know I’m leaving Pleasant Grove to go off and fight in the war. Roy, Dean, and I all joined up together. I don’t know what is ahead for all of us, but it will be one crazy adventure, I’m sure!

I realize you’re gone and never coming back. Now that you’re gone, I have no excuse not to go out and explore the world like we always talked about doing together. This isn’t the way I planned it, but it may be my only chance to see the world. My family doesn’t want me to go, but I have to. Your memory still lingers around here, and it hurts every time I think of you. A change of scenery will do me good. I hope it serves as some distraction from your memory.

I just wanted you to know I still love you. I’m not mad that you left. I’m not mad that you ran away just when we were going to plan the rest of our lives together. I know you must have had a reason. I just want to know why. If things were bad at home, you could have come and lived with us on the farm like I said. You would have been welcome with open arms, and I would have always kept you safe.

I hope wherever you are, you are safe and happy. If this letter should ever find its way to you, I just want you to know that I miss you and I love you. I always will.

Good-bye Sally

Truly Yours,

XXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 2

Into the Unknown

"Oh, does mommy miss you? Does she love you?"

He smiled at Roy’s teasing tone. They roared out of the driveway and onto the gravel road, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel everywhere. They had to make the train station by the following evening. However it wasn’t that far away, so the plan was to spend their last night as three free men whooping it up somewhere swank. He assumed the three of them would be heading to Long Prairie to catch the train that would take them to basic training. Dean and Roy had other plans.

The car sped through the Minnesota countryside. The midmorning sun shined bright in the eastern sky like an old friend showing them the way. It was warm summer morning, and the sun would heat things up quickly. Gentle hills rolled by, and lush, green, corn crops followed the contour of the land. They blended and blurred as the passing landscape marked the distance from home. Pleasant Grove, Minnesota, was quickly becoming a memory.

The three of them were lifelong friends. Through their friendship, they shared joy and pain, triumph and heartache, and even mischief and forgiveness. Their friendship was rich with collected escapades and memories. They had been through a lot together. Countless trials and tribulations only served to strengthen the resolve of their friendship. Each of them had unique characteristics that made them stronger as a whole.

Roy was a mechanic in town. He always wore faded, oil-stained, denim overalls, which made him look like a living Norman Rockwell painting. Roy relished the fact he wore faded denim overalls. He always said they made him look like a working man. His friends always replied that they made him look like a grease monkey. Roy had a faded, blue-and-white plaid, flannel shirt under his grease-stained overalls today.

Roy was thin and the tallest of the group at about six foot three inches when he wore his work boots, which he had on today. He had shiny, jet-black hair. Roy’s hair was possibly permanently stained from all the oil and grease he’d had poured over his head while working on countless cars and farm tractors throughout the years. He had a flat face with a boxer’s nose that reminded people of a gangster right out of the Dick Tracy comics. He had thin lips perched atop his pronounced chin. Subtle cheekbones supported his sunken, sleepy, greenish-brown eyes. He had very long eyelashes for a man, as well as jet-black eyebrows that matched his hair. His eyes always seemed to be half open, so they nicknamed Roy Sleepy, a name he, and everyone else, outgrew in eighth grade. That’s when he became taller than the rest of his classmates. No one called him anything but Roy from then on out.

Rocks were pinging off the wheel wells of the car, which continued to kick up a tumbling cloud of dust behind. Sturdy, ageless oaks and ash trees now lined the road. Farm houses and silos were replaced by statuesque pines. As the