If You Count Wartime

By Adam Kaz

The soldier sits. He is tied to a tree. His skin, like every other thing in this war, is a multilayered mess of confusing degeneration. Blood from countless cuts intertwines with the blood of his comrades, and mud from all corners of the country mesh together into a gelatinous goo that coats 95 percent of the soldier’s feeble body.

He’s surrounded by a smell that requires active attention to ignore. It’s too strong, he can’t hold it back. So the solider, resigned, lets his nostrils fill with the stench of death, his own excrement, napalm, mustard gas, diesel fuel, sweat, and horse. As he convulses with cries of desperation.

“Well, well, well, sport, it’s quite a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, eh?” The commander emerges from behind the tree. Now kneeling to the prisoner’s face, the defeated man can see specs of bread worm around the old gentleman’s handlebar mustache. “The boys tell me you said you stepped out to pee, but no piss can last five hours, not on the water rations we’re giving you, eh sport?” When the commander smiles the soldier can only see his bottom teeth peek from beneath his whiskers. He watches the leader’s ghostly breath simmer in the cool air.

“Please, sir, honest, I just got lost. I-I-I—”

“You-you-you,” he mimics, “are lying, soldier. But that’s OK, hardly any use punishing you for insubordination, not when we’ve got your execution scheduled in an hour or so.”

Globs of spittle rain down the soldier’s chin, freshening dried blood with new terror. “Oh, God, sir, no, no,” he cries. The soldier, spasming in fear, thrashes his body against the rope, banging his haggard head against the tree.

“Soldier, come now, cheer up, this is very unbecoming.” Apparently perturbed by this strong display of manly emotion, the old man scans the vicinity to check if anyone can see this disturbing scene. “Come on now, that’s enough. Tell me sport, are you married?”

But he just keeps on wailing and thrashing, crying and screaming, that is until the commander gives him an ol’ four-star slap across the face, which shuts him up good and nice. 

“I said, soldier, are you married?” With clenched teeth the commander grabs the man by his cheeks. His hands smell like lotion.

“Ye-ye-yes,” he whimpers through the commander’s grasp, suckling the blood from his beaten lip.

“And what color are your wife’s eyes?” He lets go.

“What?”

“That was a direct question from your commanding officer, sir.” He leans in close. “What color are your wife’s eyes.” The commander’s breath reeks of gin.

“B-b-brown, sir.”

“You see, m’boy, therein lies your mistake.” The commander stands and paces Quickly Now in front of his man. "I’ve been married 15 years, 23 if you count wartime, and I daresay my fellow, I cannot and should not remember the color of my wife’s irises. Details about her face and hair also seem fuzzy, just as I wish them to be. You see, it’s the reference, the knowledge of life outside war that ruins the man.” He returns back to his kneeling formation. "I, for instance, do not own a single picture of my friends or family. For me, and this is a trick they should teach all boys in academy, I turn my mind to our beloved flag whenever it wanders down the uneven terrain of Nostalgia Trail. That, my friend, is the key: country above everything. Every time you have an unwanted thought, just think of the flag.”

He gets no response from the soldier.

“Maybe too little too late, eh sport?” The commander takes a rag from his coat pocket and rubs the crumbs from his mustache.

“Sir, I don’t want to die, please, sir.”

Sighing, the gentleman puts the rag against his prisoner’s face, dabbing his tears and blotching the scum. For added measure he gives the rag a good spit and then reapplies.

“There, there, there, m’boy. It’s the death that’s got you down?”

The soldier nods.

“Well, you know.” He fondles his mustache and shifts his weight. “Let me clue you in on a little administrative secret: we’re all going to die, sport. DeMont’s men are sure to break through the ranks any day now. We’re nearly in the same boat, brother, you and I. I’m confident there’s a bullet over that bridge just itching to tear me apart, and I’m certain-as-hell certain there’s a bullet in my hip pocket waiting to do the same to you. But, and this is important, I ask you this: how many men on either side of this great conflict will have an end of any significance?  I want you to think of this as a great opportunity. I will shoot you dead within the hour. That has already been decided by our glorious king. But here’s the crux: your death will be more momentous than the deaths of most, if not all of your comrades, that is assuming we do it right. With your sacrifice to country, administered by the hands of your loving commander, you will demonstrate what happens to all deserters. Believe you me, I’ve waited months for a man to abandon post. The generals and I have spoken at length about the rejuvenating powers of a good ol’ fashion public execution. With your death your brothers in arms will see the might and fairness of their king. I think it unlikely we’ll have any more deserters in the future. How lucky you are to reinforce their desire to live and fight. Now isn’t that a good death? Isn’t that a death far greater than one caught between bloody sacks of meat and copper wire? We just need to plan it out right, OK?”

The soldier, touched by his leader’s earnest appeal to reason, sniffles his last bit of snot as he says, “Yes, sir.”

“Jolly good.” The leader pats his man on the cheek. “So here’s the plan, at 18:00 the men will untie you and bring you to camp. It’ll be very pomp and circumstance, a real nice display of military might, so try to look brave, eh kiddo. You gotta make sure you hold yourself together, because if you’re a coward it might discourage the men. We’ll tie you to a cross, I’ll come up, read your crime, ask for any last words. Now here’s your hour to shine. Say something clever, will you, something profound. Last man I saw in your position refused to say much of anything, and it was a real downer. Then I’ll back up a bit and give you a straight shot to the head, no mess no fuss, painless as a kiss on the cheek. And that’s that. How’s that sound, soldier?”

“OK, sir.”

“Very good. Now stay tight, I better freshen up.”