“Pop!” Racetrack Higgins dropped the brush he’d been using when his sixteen year old son burst into the stable and almost ran over several stable hands in his haste to meet his father.

“Whoa, whoa, Vinnie, slow down dere. Where’s da fira?” Race asked jokingly as Vincenzo Higgins reached out to pet the large mare his father was currently training.

“Didn’t ya head, Pop? We’re at war!” And he brandished the pape, blaring the single word headline, WAR!

Race took the pape, studying it carefully before handing it back to his son who had quickly sold ten papes to the other workers in the barn. He didn’t like this, he thought, remembering another war long ago in his own childhood. He too had been sixteen, but remembered it well. he’d sold lots of papes during that time.

“Ain’t dis excitin?” Vinnie began to say as his father put away his brush and led the horse back to his stall. Then he put his arm around his son and they set off for home.

“We'll win, a course.” Vinnie said, as they walked. “but ain’t it gonna be great, ta see dem off? God, I’d love ta be one a dem.” He said, as they passed several men already suited up for their long trip overseas. Race frowned.

“Don’t even dink bout it. Youse sixteen, too young for anydin’ like dat. Besides, who would help me take cae a yer little sisters and brudda?” he asked, with a smile as they reached their apartment house.

“Aw, Pop?” Vinnie moaned good-naturedly. Race laughed and pushed open the door to their apartment.

“Get ready.” Vinnie braced himself which was lucky as the next moment two girls and a boy launched themselves at their father and brother.

Race laughed and picked up Dino, the youngest boy, about twelve years old and full of energy. He began talking the moment his father walked in the door about his adventure of the day. Jack Kelly, Race’s best friend and idol to the little Dino, had taken the kids to Brooklyn for the day. Jack was a photographer, a good one and spends many days in the slums of New York where he and Race had grown up.

Race laughed to himself as the second eldest, Marina began to tell him about her day. She was the only one still in school, besides little Zaira, and reminded Race so much of his friend, Davy. She had decided a long time ago that the only way out of the slums of New York was an education. She was not happy to remain there, like her father and brothers. She wanted more, so much more than what she had and often scolded her father, telling him he could be so much, what with his talent with horses and than that book, written almost nine years ago, that had sold nation wide, and made him quite famous. But Race always insisted that he was happy where he was. There was no reason to leave. But Marina was destined for greater things. Everyone could see it.

Vinnie was busy with the youngest, Zaira, nine years old and already an actress. She was the melodramatic baby of the family, telling stories and acting them out, playing all the parts. She was loud and determined to be heard.

These five people made up the Higgins family. They seemed happy and together, but every once and a while, someone would glance up to the far wall above the small table and see the picture taken many years ago, by Jack. Framed and fraying with age, it showed two young people, a much younger Race, and a beautiful young woman, with long flowing red hair and a pair for crystal clear blue eyes. They were gazing at each other, with nothing but love shining out of their eyes.

Vinnie often stared at it, wondering how his father could have changed from that happy loud mouthed but fun loving man he was in the picture to the sober, quiet, yet content man he was now. He remembered his mother very little, but he knew she had brought out something in his father, something no one else could. Still, they were happy.

That night, Vinnie found himself on the rooftop, waiting for his best friend. He smoked the cigar nicked from his father’s bedside and waited; patiently shuffling the cards his father had given him for his birthday only a month ago. After long last, he heard footsteps behind him and turned to greet the single son of the Kelly household and his best friend into the whole world, Anthony Kelly, or Snickers,

“Hey Snicks.” He said, holding out his hand. He spit in his hand and they shook. Anthony grinned at him.

“Heyya Cards,” he replied, conjuring his own newsie nick. “So whut yer old man say?” Vinnie smiled.

“Same ding as yers, probably. Too young, he needs me ‘era.” Anthony nodded.

“We are sixteen.” His friend said, “ When dey wus sixteen, dey wus on strike. Dat wus war in a way. Besides, we should be able ta make our own decisions.” Vinnie nodded, well aware of what his father had been doing at sixteen. “It’s our chance. Our chance ta do somedin’ right, ta save da woild from injustice and tyranny.” Vinnie said, meaning every word. “Dey would a’ done it, so why can’t we?” Anthony nodded and soon the talk turned to other things, but the idea still remained fresh in each boys mind.

September 13, 1917

Almost five months had passed, each day dawning with a new headline and a new step of determination. Vinnie watched jealously as Les Jacobs joined up and was shipped out, almost all of New York coming out to see him.

That night he brought up the war again with his father. The younger children were in bed and Race was cleaning up, doing the chores that would have belonged to Mrs. Higgins had there been a woman alive to claim the name. Vinnie sat at the empty table, dealing the cards for their nightly game of poker.

It was their time to talk, to stay in touch, their private time as father and son. It was a time that was special to both of them. It usually took place on the roof, but as it was raining, it would be indoors tonight.

Race sighed as he watched the rain come down. It was right that it would rain tonight. He’d had an awful feeling as he waved to Les, who leaned out of the train window to bid his friends a final goodbye. This war could only bring pain, and he knew the feeling of pain all too well. Hadn’t he lost his parents at nine, his wife only nine short years ago? Hadn’t his whole life been one series of injustices after another? He had claimed his philosophy at the age of sixteen when he told Les, one night as their world seemed to crumble to bits, “ The woild, it ain’t kind ta kids like us. Life ain’t eva easy fer us, no madda whut we do. But ya gotta make da best a it, ya gotta play da hand ya get.”

When he turned and sat down at the table, the last thing he wanted to discuss was the war. But the moment Vinnie cleared his throat, Race knew what was coming.

“Pop?” Vinnie asked as he glanced up from his cards. Race lit his cigar and looked at him. “Ya know, a bunch a guys from da lodgin’ house, dey’s joinin’ up. Dey want me ta too.” Race just shook his head.

“No, we’ve been ova dis, Vinnie. Fer one ding, youse ain’t eighteen. Fer anudda, I ain’t given up me son. I don’t cae whut anyone else is doin’.” He said, waving aside Vinnie’s protests, “ I made a promise ta meself when I wus sixteen. Dat me kids wus gonna be bedda den me. Dat youse weren’t gonna go trough da pain and sufferin’ dat I did. And sendin’ ya off ta war ain’t exactly keepin’ dat promise.”

“Pop, I’d be doing somdin’ great! I’d be protectin’ America gianst’ evil!” Race shook his head.

“I saw men come home afta da Spanish American War and dey looked like dey’d been ta Hell and back. I ain’t lettin’ ya go trough dat. And dat’s final. Now deal.” Vinnie sighed and began to shuffle. Soon the war was all but forgotten as the two smoked their cigars and laughed. Race felt safe, secure, for once, a feeling he’d experienced very little in his short life of thirty-four years. Vinnie laughed in much the same way he did as he displayed a full house, beating his father for the first time in a week.

Race watched him carefully as he redealt, his dark brown eyes focused solely on the task of shuffling. He was so intent, so dedicated. When he got an idea in his mind, you couldn’t shake him off it, making him so much like his father. That worried Race, what with this war and everything, but Vinnie had never deliberately disobeyed his father. He knew that his father loved him and his siblings, and would and had done anything for them.

Vinnie glanced at his father who frowned over his cards, feeling strangely guilty. Part of him wanted nothing more than to reassure his father that he would keep his word that he had no reason to worry. Race had done so much for him and his siblings. He had given up a promising career as a jockey to stay home and take care of them. Oh, they had their troubles, but they were a family and that was important.

But this was something so much bigger, so much bigger than that, than anything. And he wasn’t missing it. After all, he was sixteen, and look what Race had been doing at sixteen. Fighting for something he believed in, fighting to free the oppressed children of New York from the horrible labor conditions. His father was a legend down at the distribution office. and people expected great things from Vinnie. He was, after all, the son of Racetrack Higgins. And Vinnie was determined to live up to their expectations. He was full of idealistic thoughts and just bursting to do something great. This war was his chance. But not tonight. Tonight was about him and his father. He laughed as Race told him a story about one of the newer jockeys down at the stables where he worked. Here he felt so comfortable, so safe. The moon rose over their game, but they played long into the night, laughing about everything. It was the last time the two of them would ever sit at the same table again.

Two nights later, Race was shaken awake by Dino’s frantic voice. He groaned and rolled over, mumbling to himself.

“Pop! Pop, get up!” Dino shook him again. Race opened his eyes to glare at his son.

“Whut?” he moaned.

“It’s Vinnie! He’s gone!” Race was up in an instant, out of bed and rushing into the small children's bedroom beside his own. Sure enough, Marina and Zaria were up and clinging to each other, staring at the empty bed in the corner. Race stumbled to it and ripped the covers aside, finding no Vinnie, but only a note.

Dear pop,

I’m sorry to do this, but you always taught me to do what I think is right. I believe that I belong over there. I can’t just sit here and do nothing while people are dying. You know how I feel, I know it.

I have to do what I feel is right, Pop. I don’t want to hurt you, or Dino, or Marina, or Zaira. But I have to. If you were sixteen, you and Uncle Jack would have been the first in line.

All my life, you’ve told me about how you stood up to the oppression you suffered. Well. I’m going to make sure others are freed too. Please, don’t be mad, Pop.

Love, Vinnie.

Race let out a shuddering breathe. No, no this can’t be happening, he thought. How could Vinnie do this? How could he? In an instant, Race thought of something and grabbed his pants, rushing out of the apartment and down the stairs to his best friend’s apartment.

He pounded on the door, caring little for the hour, but needing to know. It was a good while before a comatose Jack answered the door, glaring at Race through sleep-blurred eyes.

“Race? Wha?” his voice was low and mumbling. Race ignored it.

“Jack, Vinnie’s gone.” he said, making it final by speaking the words. Jack frowned.

“He’s probably on da roof.” Race shook his head.

“ He’s gone. He and Snickers. Dey’re gone.” Jack shook his head.

“Anthony’s safe and sound and asleep. Like you should be.” Race shook his head again.

“Go look. Go and see if yer son is dere.” Jack rolled his eyes, but beckoned his friend inside, before disappearing into his children's room. Race waited what seemed like forever, even when Sarah, Jack’s wife, left the bedroom and inquired about his presence. Race told her what he’d told Jack and she frowned. Jack burst out of the bedroom, a look of horror on his face. In his hand, he held a scrap of paper, much like the one Race still clutched in his own. He slumped at the table, hardly noticing his wife or terrified daughters, who entered the main room. Race shook his head, biting his lip hard and vanishing back upstairs.

Once back in his own apartment, he took his little girl, his little Zaira, and held her close. Marina took her father’s hand, feeling so helpless. Dino watched, wishing he’d done something, wishing he’d made more of an effort when he woke up and saw his brother close the window behind him.

November 4, 1917. Stars lit up the sky as the Higgins family crowded on the roof. Dino held Zaira on the ledge so she wouldn’t fall, as Marina talked with Shannon and Brianna Kelly, Jacks two daughters, ages fourteen and ten respectively. Race was smiling for the first time in a long time as they wandered down afterwards. He and Jack shared glances as the Higgins family went into their apartment.

“Pop, whut is it?” Dino asked, jumping up a and down. Race smiled, reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. It was mud stained, frayed and dirty, but the handwriting sent the Higgins children into fits of joy.

“It’s Vinnie!” Dino hollered.

“Is he coming home?” Zaira begged. Race laughed and ripped open the letter. “I dunno, I ain’t read it yet.”

“Papa, don’t say ain’t. It sounds so common.” Marina said, scolding her father. He laughed.

“I’se been sayin’ ain’t since before youse wus born. I ain’t stoppin’ now.” He said, grinning, “Now who wants to hear whut Vinnie has ta say?” a chorus of cheers erupted as Race unfolded the letter. To his surprise, out fell several scraps of paper.

One was a small postcard of the beach, a French beach, and on the back was written, To Waves, you should see the waves they have here.

Then came a picture of Vinnie and Anthony, dressed in full military dress, and waving merrily at the camera. They seemed perfectly happy. That one was for Zaira.

Lastly there was a picture of a man, with a cowboy hat on, doing a fancy rope trick, for Dino. The children's face’s lit up and Race smiled.

Dear Pop, Marina, Dino and Zaira,

Hello, I hope everyone’s fine. Again, I want to say I’m sorry, Pop, but I was right. This place is amazing. I’m in France, but I can’t say where. Orders in case the mail is intercepted. Sorry.

I’ve met boys from all over, from America, and England, like Ma, France, and even some from Italy! Thanks for insisting that I learn Italian, Pop, it came in handy.

We’ve seen some scattered action so far. We’re in encamped in a long trench and the Gerries are just over the ridge. Every once and a while, someone will throw a shot and there will be some scattered fighting, but mostly, we just sit here.

Give my love to everyone and tell Dino, Marina, and Zaira, that I love them. Please write back, pop. I could use some news from home.

Your loving son. Pvt. Vincenzo Higgins

December 1, 1917.

Vinnie pulled his helmet down over his dark brown eyes, sighing deeply. He wished for home and his own warm bed, to hear his father laugh and to see his father’s face light up when he came home, But still, he was here and it was what he’d wanted. When he’d first arrived, things had been much different. But now they were in their third month encamped in these Goddamned trenches. Anthony was speaking to the Captain at the moment, wanting to know when the mail would arrive. He’d gotten two letters from Jack and his family already. Of course, the first had been furious, how dare they run away, how dare they disobey their parents, but the last had been softer, more heartfelt, and both boys had felt homesick for days. Now Vinnie just felt sick. This was nothing like he had hoped. He’d been looking for the best of humanity and found the worst. Two days ago, he’d seen a new boy, only stationed there three days, be shot down under the fire of those new and deadly repeating rifles as he tried to help a dying comrade. There were no heroes here. Only death. Death in its cruelest and most brutal form.

He’d wanted to save the world, but from what? What was there to save at the end of the day? Nothing. The world was so much harsher, so much crueler than he had ever seen. How could civilized humans do this to other humans? He slumped against the mud wall, forcing him not to think about what was buried only inches from his back, and to pretend that the flash of pale pink in the mud wall was only a trick of the light and not the hand of a once living human. His father had been right, more right than Vinnie could have ever imagined. He should have listened, should never have come. His father had seen so much more of the world than he had, so much more pain and heartache.

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