Wardens of Warfare

He stayed under the corpses of his fallen friends. Blood was cold now. It still oozed out onto him. It was both nerve racking and chilling. But he kept from shivering, not showing one breath . The enemy was around. They were just off near the fountain. He cracked open his eyes. Through the dangling limbs he could barely make out who it was. Just sets of feet, about four of them, around a kneeling figure just out of sight, he assumed was one of his. He heard them tormenting him. He heard him beg for life. He heard them take turns hitting him. And then he heard them let him go.

From what he could make out, the kneeling figure sprang up and ran.

Feet sprinting as hard as they could.

Unfortunately, it was heading to him.

The sensation of panic shot through his limbs.

As he thought about getting up and joining his fleeing comrade, a shot rang out. He heard the bullet whip overhead, off into the clearing it went. It had missed its target. Or so he thought.

Another body soon joined the pile. Fresh warm blood soaked down into his clothes. He could barely see through the rain of blood. The bullet had severed an artery on his comrade’s neck. He wished he could cover his ears from the panicked screams. He wished they would just put him out of his misery. But they all just stood around him. Laughing. Watching the last remnants of life empty.

His heart was beating hard. Anger, frustration, and fear were tightly bound in his chest. Held down by the logic of the situation. He knew it would be waste of his life to do anything. The whole thing was a trap.

The platoon policed the town, canvassing each building in search of the enemy. Residents were told to stay indoors. Jailed in their own cities. Daily cell checks were routine. Door to door they went. Polite knocking followed with a casual look over. They were always met with hateful gazes. But this was what they were really checking, for any changes. That would signal a more thorough check. And that came a few days ago. Animosity replaced by a simple greeting. Unfinished body language. Escaping eye contact. All of it led to documents in the kitchen. As they arrested the couple, a shot rang out injuring one of his. Gunfire rang out. He sprayed the adjacent room with his automatic. A cry signified a hit. Cautiously entering his beating heart sank. The child was no more than twelve. Shattered knee meant there was not too much time left. The blood was engulfing his boots already. Though withdrawn from the child, that blood was much warmer compared to what flowed through his. An empty shell casing hit the ground as his only merciful act of the day was done. The deafening screams from the parents will haunt him forever as they left with no prisoners. Just a cryptic meeting point and an example to the rest of the prisoners.

He imagined the enemy should be just as direct. They were all stuck in this war. Everyone should be allowed a quick death. But this enemy was different. They disobey the rules. They were vile. They used their unexperienced soldiers as bait. All to lure him into a chase dividing the platoon, sending them into disarray as the elite units moved in on them.

Now his men are being hunted around town while he’s cowering under what’s left of his squad.

The stench of the dead was all around him.

The men stand around, talking quietly, most likely smoking.

The town was quiet. No more gun shots.

His leg was falling asleep under the weight.

He imagined this would be the worse way to go. Dying slowly under his own burden. Irony of dying because he was playing dead.

The footsteps start back up again. This time, the steps went away.

He kept on listening as hard as he could. Until the only thing audible were the crickets and cicada starting up their nighttime ballad. He opened his eyes. It was getting dark. This was his best chance to leave. Get out of the city. They no longer control it.

Pulling himself out of the pile of death, he massaged his leg. The foray of prickly pins didn’t stop for five minutes while he rubbed his leg back to life.

There was no one around.

He began to crawl, but he stopped himself.

A weapon may come in useful in the woods. There was one in the pile. Reaching back he grabbed it by the barrel a pulled it out. A loud pop, a clear twip pass his ear, followed by a crack against a rock. The rifle had snagged. He gritted his teeth as if it helped quiet the sound somehow. He looked around. Nothing moved. He best hurry he thought. Dislodging the rifle, he slung it over his shoulder and began to make his way toward the woods. He cursed under his breath every time he knocked over a pile of rocks. His eyes were set on the woods. His escape from this forsaken war.

Inch by inch he went. Crawling over debris which was once a building, someone’s home. The air strikes did this. Not him.

Then he froze. A rifle appeared just ahead of him. It scanned for him.

He made too much noise.

He’s been figured out, but obviously the darkness of night was on his side. But his hands betrayed him. They shook. The very hands that have taken so many innocent lives were always calm against his victims. The town had every right to hate them. Him.

Now he was facing someone level set. Another armed soldier. One that was trained to kill soldiers like himself, as he was suppose to do.

He kept moving forward.

Teeth gritted he tried to remember his training.

Flank.

It was working, the enemy wasn’t able to see him over the mound. Still scanning off to the distance behind him.

He couldn’t believe the tears flowing form his eyes.

It was going to be alright. Another easy kill. The enemy wouldn’t be able to turn the gun on him fast enough.

He checked his rifle, pulled it under his body.

In an instant, he knelt up and opened fire on the enemy rifle while a body collided right underneath of him. He lost grip of his rifle as his windpipe collapsed under thick hard knuckles. Falling back all he felt were the same knuckles against his face. This was retribution. Every knock on his head flashed the faces, of men, of women, of children. They all appeared as the light following each punch faded. Until finally, he felt no more. His body was numb. The soldier sat above him staring down, a monster far stronger than himself. Wetness from his face dripped onto him. A final baptism.

His eyes pleaded, “The war driven me to do those things. Forgive me for the wrong I’ve done to your people.”

The response was clear.

The tears and anger from the soldiers eye said it all.

“Never.”

Bishops of Battle

Six hours have passed and he was still stuck in the hole. Half of his platoon was taken out by the initial strike. Unprepared, most fell without even time to reach for their weapons. While others, like himself, who were fortunate enough to be near the back door, escaped. A mere result of chance let him be alive at this moment. But was it a better fate? Being killed in such quick fashion compared to being hunted, fearing, and knowing the inevitable? He wasn’t sure. They could have ended the battle then and there, if only they stood and fought. But it just took one person to run for it to feel right.

Contorting his body, he took a peek out of the whole.

A flash, a piercing sound of metal against rock, followed by the sound of the rifle.

They are not taking prisoners.

He turned his bead back up to the sky, back flush against the damp soil. Holding his rifle close against his chest he felt his heart racing. There was laughter off in the distance.

The shot was the only gunfire for the past half hour. Tears poured from his eyes. Not only was he stuck in this predicament, the enemy was having fun with his life. He wondered if his comrades shared the same fate. They had split off, but the distant pops told him they saw battle. Whether or not they survived was unknown. Gritting his teeth he continuously kicked the ground with his heel. What can only be described as crying snuck out of his mouth.

Being back home wasn’t a bad idea right now. Hard knuckles dislodging teeth is more comforting then this. At least then he knew when it was coming. All it took was the fragrance of alcohol set the night. It wouldn’t take too long before the force found his mother. The monster thrived on the sense of power. Fueling that appetite with the screams and the crying. And that led to him, always led to him. A defiant little child, eyes tearing with rage, clenched knuckles, and standing by the kicked in door. He was ready. Ready to sacrifice himself. His emasculation for another man’s empowerment. It was worth it as he was told. This was how he will learn to be strong. And the old man may have been right. All the kids in the neighborhood couldn’t fight as well as he did. Didn’t know where to swing. They swung aimlessly at the head. But not him, not how he was taught. The most painful places besides the genitals was the sternum, the kidneys, and even the throat. Those were the places he’d hit first before taking them down, unleashing hell on the poor child. He wanted learn how to enjoy the aftermath of bludgeoned and beaten faces as the old man did. But he never felt like a man. Just a child who cried after nearly beating another child half to death.

Those were the demons he fought. The only weapon he found was in spirituality. And it was shear irony that led him into arms, into battle – for religion. Yet he still feels like a child under the sadistic tyranny of his pursuers.

How many are there?

Is anyone coming to help him?

Are they soon going to flank his position?

The hole was an impact crater. Too large to be from a grenade. It was most likely from an airstrike or a sachel charge. Whatever it was, it was just deep enough for cover. There must have been a building that stood here before. Concrete could be seen among the rubble. He wondered if this would be his grave.

Another shot rang out landing somewhere near him.

He flinched. They were taunting him to come out.

The sun was coming down. Under the dark of night he may be able to get away. But who knows in these times of warfare. All they needed was a simple flare to expose him in this clearing. The next cover was still hundred of yards away.

As the sun set and sounds of the wilderness awoke. Crickets started playing their instruments followed closely by the droning of the cicadas. As noisy as the insects were, they couldn’t replace the loneliness he felt in the hole. Completely isolated from anyone he knew, let alone any friendlies. Even a citizen of the once prosperous would do. Didn’t have to be a favorable one. Just someone that wasn’t out to kill him.

The shifting of rocks alerted him.

Someone was moving in.

It was dark enough for an advance.

They were making their move.

He rolled onto his stomach. He felt fear empty out into his pants. His hands were shaking. His ears only distinguished one person. They were sending someone for him. The noises were spaced apart as if every sound was a mistake.

Without even revealing any part of his head, he propped up his rifle along one edge of the hole. The noise stopped abruptly. The barrel of rifle barely over the hole. He held the rifle at arms length, cradling the end with the palm of his hand. The tears started flowing again. Biting down as hard he could, he tried to suppress the crying that leaked out. He swayed the rifle as if he was scanning the area. There was no movement when he did that. But whenever he stopped, he could hear the rustling start up again.

If he were to run, this would be the best time. He found a few rocks and propped the rifle up. He shifted his body to the other side of the whole and waited.

The sounds came closer. Whoever it was, was being much more careful now. Being so close now, it was critical. He placed his hands against the ground. He looked outward over to a building. It would be quite a sprint to get there. But it was his only choice. He surveyed the battle ridden ground. The obstacles would be a problem. A twisted ankle would be the least of his worries. He imagined if it did happen, he’d have to run through it. It can’t stop him. He wanted to live.

A foreign smell passed through his nose.

This was it.

A soldier sprang forth in front of him. Shots rang out from his automatic. The rifle sitting propped up on the rock shattered to pieces. Startled, he sprang from the hole and ran with all his might, colliding unexpectedly into the other soldier. They both tumbled to the ground. The soldier threw his arms wildly about as his fist found the soldier’s adam’s apple. Choking, holding his throat, the soldier was powerless as the toughened knuckles rained down on the soldiers face. Every punch crushed his skull against the hard rock underneath of him. Until a final muffled crunch told him the soldier’s vertebrae was severed. Their eyes locked for one last time. Like all the other times it tried to relay a message to the foreign body.

“Forgive me,” it told the soldier. “I’ve killed many. Your’s was in battle, this was truly a necessity. Please, this time I have a reason.”

The response was clear.

Pupils closing, the soul of the soldier passed on and whispered on the way out.

“Never.”