Every moment here was a final moment, a last breath followed by a silent release. One less soul, one more body, already lying in a shallow grave of blood and dirt. The forest they had made war in was mutilated. Splintered stumps stood like tombstones, framing the craters that pockmarked the land. The trees that had not yet been burned or uprooted from the dry, cracked earth, wilted beneath the caustic sun. If there had ever been the green of grass or the wild colour of flowers here it lay buried now, beneath blackened earth and bloodied bodies.
The caw of crows drowned out the sounds of the barren landscape, and there were many sounds to be heard. The wails of the dying, the rare yip of foxes, the howl of wolves and that most silent terror, the scurrying of tiny feet and excited squeak of rats. Dead or dying, it made no difference to the scavengers, the last moments of the unfortunate living would not be peaceful. The foxes and wolves, starved by the devastation, now rushed to feed upon its bounty. Crows swooped and rats scampered, too excited to wait for their feast to go silently.
Pinned among the dead a body twitched as the crows began their feast. Startled, the crows leaped back in a furore of soot tinged feathers and piercing kraas. Mocking each other with their grating bird song. Then, cautiously, they returned to their meal. It twitched again, emboldened the crows ignored it. Some pulled and twisted at the bloody hole where its ear should be while others pecked at its burnt black cheeks with their frayed, crimson grey beaks. Each hoping to be the first to reach the coveted eyes that lay covered in the dirt.
Imperceptible to the crows, thoughts soared through the mind of their feast. A whispering choir building up to an impossible torrent of screams flooded its skull. Uncountable interlacing voices and evanescent images, indistinguishable at first became dreams, nightmares and memories. The moment the shell hit, the man ahead of him falling apart before the fire and smoke, screams, then darkness. What is that stabbing pain? Where am I? Lying in my own grave? The soldier’s thoughts drifted to his family, would they come here to mourn him? Would they too add their screams of pain to the field when they found where he lay dying? This desolate field could be a garden when our loved ones have all left flowers for us… though more likely the fallen would be forgotten. More likely my name will be carved into a stone somewhere far from here, and even that will fade away some day. What is that throbbing pain? Why can’t I feel my legs? If I’m dead should I feel anything at all?
A thought more terrifying than death invaded his mind, pushing out all others. I’m still alive. I’m still alive and I’m hurt, bad. Wake up! You need to wake up! Shock overtook his body, every synapse ignited in a cerebral fireworks display. Through his panic he began to feel his heart beat painfully against his chest, then his laboured breathing. Every inhale was a burning, choking gasp, but he was breathing. The soft brush of oily feathers and the stinging stab of beaks against his face welcomed him as he regain consciousness. He made to fend them off, only managing to toss his head back suddenly. This was enough to startle the crows, who shot once more into the air, protesting with vicious screeches as they soared overhead in search of more compliant prey.
His head dropped back in to the dirt. Sleep had been a blessing he had unwittingly discarded as every nerve ending became an inferno of sensation. The blistered skin that wrapped his withered form burned while the muscles beneath ached as though they were trying to rip their way free of him. The sounds of death, feasting and his own desperate breath echoed in his eardrum. Their vibrations, an overwhelming procession of shocks splitting his fragile mind. Phlegm carrying the metallic and acrid tastes of dirt, smoke and blood coated his mouth as wheezing coughs spit out the recently inhaled arid dirt. Slowly he turned his head and attempted to open his eyes, finding only one would comply. The iris expanded, letting in the overwhelming light of the sun before quickly contracting, leaving a black dot lost in a grey ocean. An ocean surrounded by tarnished, bloodshot sclera. He beheld a field of death. It was so much yet nothing at all, each body was a story half told, never to be finished.
He winched and contorted, as agony of all kinds wreaked havoc on his being, overwhelming every sense. Conditions not suited for the formation of coherent thought, but as he lay alone in his agony eventually he could not help but think as he tried to fight through his pain to take stock of himself. He noticed he couldn’t hear through his left ear, that was fine, he lied. I can still hear through my right ear and who knows, maybe it will come back. He tried to open his left eye but there was nothing to open, he made to move his right hand to his face to confirm his fears but it was pinned by his side beneath something, a body most likely but he could not manage to turn his head to see. Attempting to pull his arm free he found that he had less strength than a child, he was a hapless babe beneath the body that was splayed across him. Trembling he moved his left hand across his face. My ear… my eye. They’re gone. He paused a moment. No, I’m numb, that’s what it is. That must be it. Another lie, that brought him no comfort.
Crying out only made a pathetic spluttering, unable to call for help he withdrew into silence. He didn’t want to try again, not wanting to think of what it could mean. Do I still have my lips? My teeth? He stopped himself from moving his tongue around his mouth, or what was left of it, to spare himself the knowledge. Reaching out with his free hand he attempted to pull himself forward, but managed little more than to form shallow scratches in the dirt with his nails. Push! He commanded his legs to push him forward but they wouldn’t respond, nor could they be felt. I still have legs, I know I do, I would be dead by now if they were gone. Not my legs, not my legs, he attempted to mutter to himself only managing a groaning mumble followed by drool. Tears rolled free of his one good eye as he tossed pathetically on the ground to get free. Eventually his anguish won out against his fear and he lay his head back in the dirt, defeated.
The sun remained, unmoving above him, time was moving of its own accord and had decided that this moment should last eternity it seemed. I’m still alive he thought to himself, he had heard of men lost amongst the dead, left dying for days before death finally took pity on them. Days, he thought, no I can’t, I can’t stay like this. Why did I have to wake up? Maybe the crows were showing me mercy. No, this won’t do. I’m awake, I’m alive, I can think of something. I’m not going to die, not like this. I’m going home, my family is waiting for me, I can’t leave them… but my god, what a state I must be, I can’t let them see me like this. No reflection was needed, he could not see his face but he knew Anna could never look upon it like she once had, and the children, they would cry at the sight of him. What good am I now anyway? What’s left of me that could make ends meet? I can’t make my own way or pull my own weight. What can I do without my legs? They would all be better off if he just let go. Let the men in charge send a piece of metal back to them and say, ma’am your husband was a hero, kids, your father was a hero, at least they could be proud of that. If I come home I’d be a leech, a twisted wretch for them to care for, praying for the day I die. But if I die here they’ll think I’m a hero… my children would think I was a hero… and then when the next war comes they’ll say, sign me up, I want to be a hero like my father. Then they will walk into the meat grinder just like me. No! No, that can’t happen. I don’t want to be a hero. I want to live, I want to protect my children from the men in suits who tell us it’s an honour to serve. Who tell us it’s our duty to serve. Who make heroes of the dead, that our mutilated bodies, not fit for an open casket, is something to aspire to. Who call those who would rather live in peace with their loved ones cowards. Then I’m a coward but worse, I’m a fool for not knowing I was a coward sooner.
Time resumed its normal course, the sun began to move overhead and fewer and fewer sounds of death could be heard. The soldier did not feel the passage of time, he had retreated into his mind. Thinking of Anna and his kids, dreaming of all he would do when he returned. When the call came again for heroes to fight in the next war he imagined himself sitting outside the enlistment office, sign in hand. This is what a hero looks like. On Sundays Anna would bring him to church, where he would have another sign. This is what they want to do to our children. He would teach the boys what to say when the draft comes. When the men come to force them from their homes, rip them from their families and say you don’t get a choice but to fight for your country. They’ll say, Sir, I’ll take your gun but I’ll make no promise to which way I’ll point it. What a ruckus that would cause he thought with mirth. Lost in his fantasies the soldier didn’t notice the black tunnel as everything beneath the sun began to darken. He could no longer recall the promises or the lies he had been told to take him so far away from home but he knew in his heart that they were the same promises and lies every soldier was told. As the tunnel closed and all was lost his last thoughts were the same as every soldier, of home, holding his family. A last breath and a silent release.