THE LAST WATCHTOWER
Fiction By Thomas Shess
Summary: In this haunting short story, an aging war hero lapses between the present and a half-remembered battlefield in Normandy. Trapped in a fog of dementia, Private Woodrow Polson believes he is once again defending a church tower against advancing German troops. But his war is long over, and his sniper rifle—now a .22—is pointed not at enemies, but at a neighbor’s porch. Blending surreal memory with stark reality, The Last Watchtower is a poignant meditation on trauma, duty, and the quiet tragedy of a soldier’s final misfire.
***
Private Woodrow Wilson Polson felt wetness seep beneath his ammo belt. Blood, he thought—but it was urine. He was weak, cold, and terrified. He didn’t want to die, yet death felt inevitable. Maybe hours away. A day, if luck held.
Earlier, a still-functioning German infantry unit had ambushed the supply convoy he’d been riding toward the front. The enemy had scattered the American paratroopers into yet another nondescript Normandy village.
Woody Polson had been left behind to hold the line—a sniper’s nest in the belfry of a tall stone church. His orders were clear: delay the marauding Germans long enough for reinforcements to arrive. He was the last hinge on a broken door.
From his perch, he commanded a view of the highway linking the village to France, five kilometers south. It was along that road that the U.S. 41st Armored Infantry Regiment had faced blistering fire from the remnants of the Waffen SS Freiwilligen-Panzergrenadier Division. Their name sounded more fearsome than their numbers. But those still alive fought with nothing left to lose. Like Polson, they had been left behind.
Woody squinted down the barrel. Where the hell was his scope? The rifle felt too light—more like a .22 rabbit chaser than the Milburn .30-06 he’d been issued. “Not now,” he muttered. “No time for a snafu.”
His training whispered that officers and radio operators made the best targets. But the sequence was hazy. What did it matter anymore? He might as well be armed with a BB gun. His hands trembled. His eyes blurred. Reality twisted and pulsed like a kaleidoscope. He blinked hard. If he drifted off—even for a second—he knew the Germans would roll into the village. That sound alone would wake him. It had to.
***
Amanda Hoffman laughed at something her five-year-old said from the backseat. His redheaded baby sister in the carrier beside him had made a diaper deposit. “Mommy, is there a drive-through diaper place for Amy?” he asked.
Amanda turned the minivan into their driveway on 28th Street. Behind her, the Balboa Park golf course gleamed, and beyond that, the skyline of downtown San Diego shimmered under a crisp, clear January sun—two days into the new millennium.
The slam of the sliding van door startled the old man next door. He jerked up from the ledge of his upstairs window, urine-stained and wrapped in a damp, loose bathrobe. A small-caliber rifle leaned beside him.
Amanda paused mid-motion, one hand on the baby seat’s buckle. She’d forgotten the dry cleaning. “Mommy’s a ditz,” she whispered with a smile, climbing back into the Dodge and backing out of the drive.
***
Pvt. Polson stirred from the windowsill of the belltower. Drool clung to the back of his hand. Children's voices floated up from the village below.
He dragged himself to the sill, vision swimming.
A German half-track had slipped into the square. “Damn fool,” he hissed. “How’d they roll up right to the church?” But it was at the town’s central fountain, not the church.
He noticed the children’s laughter had stopped.
The vehicle braked. A German officer raised field glasses to his face.
***
Amanda had barely reached the corner when two utility workers in matching uniforms and blue lightning bolt hard hats flagged her down.
“Ma’am, just a heads-up,” one said. “Cabbie hit a pole down on Thorn. Power’s going out on the block for a few minutes while we fix it.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Nah, just the cabbie’s pride. Got himself a fat ticket. Shouldn’t take long.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got errands.”
The other worker added, “Any seniors on the block on oxygen or life support?”
Amanda thought of her elderly neighbor—quiet, a little foggy, but friendly. “He’s in his nineties, but I think he’s okay.”
“Seen him lately?”
“No… not in a few days. He lives next door.”
“Better check on him anyway.”
Amanda’s phone rang. Startled, baby Amy burst into tears.
“Brad?” she answered. “I’m coming home for lunch,” her husband said. “Law West of the Pecos can live without me an hour.”
“I'm heading back out, I forgot to pick up my dress. Should I grab KFC?”
***
The German commander lowered his binoculars.
Pvt. Polson watched in dread as the half-track moved toward the belltower. It rumbled to a stop outside the churchyard fence. Three men dismounted—two riflemen, one officer with gold squares on his shoulder boards. Swastika on one collar tab. SS lightning bolts on the other. Polson aimed at the bridge of the officer’s sunglasses.
***
Amanda stepped out of the cleaners, phone pressed to her ear.
“Amanda, it’s Margaret Peterson,” said the widow across the street. Her voice was shrill.
“Someone’s been shot on your porch!”
“What?”
“There’s blood—everywhere—”
“Margaret! Is it Brad?”
“I can’t tell. The police have Mr. Polson in handcuffs. What is going on?”
Amanda forced herself to breathe. “Margaret—can you see Brad’s car?”
“Cars everywhere. Just come home!”
Amanda didn’t remember tossing the phone in her purse. She didn’t remember the drive. A detective stopped her at the yellow tape. “Ma’am, stay back. Let them work.”
“That’s my husband!” she screamed.
Amanda shoved against him. On the lawn, under the jacaranda tree, an ambulance idled. Officers conferred with the utility workers.
One of the linemen was sobbing.
Amanda crumpled against the detective, and the world blinked out.
***
When she woke, it was to the smell of antiseptic and a familiar voice. “Honey? You okay?”
“Brad?” Her voice broke.
Her husband wrapped his arms around her. "You fainted and hit your head."
Woozy, she exhaled like she’d been underwater. Her throat locked. No words came—only sobs.
She didn’t notice the paramedics wheeling the wounded lineman away.
Didn’t see Margaret ushering the children back inside.
Later, when she could finally breathe: “Who was that man?”
Brad’s voice was low. “They were just knocking on doors. Telling everyone about the power. Old Mr. Polson shot the guy from his upstairs window—must’ve snapped.”
“Is he…?”
“No. Just a .22. Ricocheted off the hard hat. Lodged in the guy’s shoulder. Lots of blood tho'”.
***
Private Polson was once rescued from a Belgian belltower in 1945. Decorated by two nations, he came home to 28th Street a hero. In 2000, he left 28th Street in a squad car, under restraint, headed for the VA hospital.
“I’ve got to get back to the tower,” he mumbled. An ER nurse placed a hand on his chest. “Soldier. Relax. You’re officially relieved.”
Woody stared up from the gurney, confusion clouding his face. Of course, he thought. He had never even been to Belgium.
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This short story has been excerpted from "Certain Realities," a collection of original short stories by Thomas Shess. It will be published by Three Palms Press and released in the Fall, 2025.
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