Mercy On the Battlefield

Seconds.. minutes.. hours.. How much time has passed? Fog, impenetrable condensed mass, blanketing the terrain, obscuring vision, engulfing with terror.

He was lying motionless, looking towards the sky, not seeing anything but the clouds directly above and around him. Grey, everything was grey, color has left the land keeping only the withered and the decayed behind.

Wounded and abandoned, like an unwanted pup left by a human cruelty to die or fend for itself. Blood still dripping from his shoulder, seeping into a soggy ground that was just a wheat field yesterday, before the combat left it ravaged and unrecognizable.

When a battle begins, there is no turning back, only direction is forward, whether marching, sprinting, running, crawling, the opposition will do the same. Hesitation on the battlefield is fatal, there is no room for it. He wondered going in, when you get in a thick of it, in the heart of a fight, how could you even tell who’s on which side? How do opposing sides differentiate between each other, amidst all the bloodshed and frenzy. Granted, they are usually wearing different garbs, fatigues of different colors, but how attentive could you really be in the moment? When you are inches away from a bayonet slicing your jugular, or a bullet leaving a hole in your body. Friendly fire is not much different from the enemy fire when it comes down to it, because at that point it’s every man for himself, every man is against this planet’s history of violence: hands unleashing a beating on a face, rock being smashed on a head, spear piercing through a chest, sword severing a limb, knife carving a scalp, cannon pulverizing its targets, grenade turning bodies into mush — only strong will survive, or more likely the lucky ones.

He was one of the latter batch, but luck wasn’t always on his side. The very reason he ended up there was a petty crime he committed, stealing god knows what from the market, while doing so he got caught and arrested, thrown in jail, and a few days later his country was drawn into a conflict of the war that was raging on the continent for several years. He was offered a jail free card, but at a pricey cost, to join a penal battalion and fight side by side against the common enemy, all the convicts were welcome to redeem themselves, to serve their country for once.

It was a suicide mission, the enemy outnumbered their unit, but the commanders didn’t have much regard towards the criminals, as with no room for doubt they sent them to the front lines to be cannon fodders, an expandable human shield. He had no moral problem becoming a turncoat, or simply fleeing from the battle all together if the opportunity presented itself, skipping town and never looking back, as he was a natural survivor, he had no choice but to be one all his life to make it all the way up until that point. The word honor was not a part of his lexicon, so he didn’t care for it inherently. But their infantry was under a serious scrutiny, every wrong move was considered a treason and was punished by death, by becoming a firing squad target practice.

He had mixed feelings about a sense of patriotism and a difficult relationship with his motherland. He didn’t believe in wars to begin with, he was a pacifist at heart and always thought them to be inhumane and blatantly dumb. People were ripped away from their families and thrown on the battlefield to kill each other, with no remorse or regard for the lives they led prior. Caused and controlled by the government’s political leaders striving towards their greedy personal desires. Many men were aspiring to be heroes, have a meaning in their life, but he didn’t have the same desires, he wasn’t blinded by the heroism and didn’t have any illusions of grandeur for that matter. He would never join the army if it was solely up to him, on his own accord. Unfortunately he got himself in a pickle and was there only to redeem himself for the crime he’d committed. All actions have consequences, he knew that. He still believed in people, humanity aiming to become better, war was a dozen steps backwards on the evolution scale.

With his beliefs, if he was a free man, he would just want to protect his family and help them escape and get to safety, instead of staying and fighting to protect the country. It meant nothing to him. But the thing is, he didn’t have any family, he was an orphan, moved from one orphanage to another throughout all his childhood. He was discovered by nuns on a doorstep of the church, covered in nothing but a wool blanket. Naturally he had severe abandonment issues, and knew nothing about his parents. He would misbehave, act out, was not good at listening to authority figures, and would constantly get in trouble, hence his frequent relocation from one institution to the next. Some caretakers were very cruel and didn’t have much patience to deal with him, which resulted in a lot of physical abuse described as deserving punishments, masked under the pretext of “for his own good”.

Young warriors, teenage soldiers were always the ones on the front lines. Recruited and manipulated by the old people, who know better than to fight their own battles, who have seen enough to be afraid to lay their own lives on the line. Naive and impulsive kids thrown into a senseless combat, driven by their insecurities and teenage angst, in a false attempt to be strong, or rather to be perceived strong. Children who can’t fathom the notion of them dying, being in the stage of their lives where they feel invincible — blind courage running through their veins.

Our soldier was young too, he was only 19. The battle began, the blood was spilled, the opposing factions collided, many were killed in the first few minutes, many more were killed in the next hour. His memory was hazy, but before he was shot and passed out he terminated a couple of “enemy” soldiers, which he wasn’t proud of and detested. The skirmish was over, it only took an hour of the massacre, the soil was soaked in blood. Bodies and body parts of the dead and mortally wounded were spread and scattered throughout the land. His unit had lost, the “enemy” was already gone when he finally woke up.

After lying there for some time, in pain, still bleeding, enveloped in fog, he mustered all his remaining energy and started crawling. He didn’t have any sense of direction, he just wanted to escape the no man’s land, he could no longer stay there. He needed to treat his wound, he needed water, he needed food, he needed shelter — all the basics on the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs pyramid. He couldn’t see anything, he was just crawling, hoping to find salvation, moving slowly across the remains of persons that an hour before still had their lives, hopes and aspirations intact.

It was dead quiet, he could hear nothing, no sounds of nature, no movements of wind. Suddenly he saw a dove, white as milk, sitting on top of the mound, singing a song. He thought that was surely his imagination playing tricks on him, that he was having hallucinations. The closer he got to the dove, it would jump up and fly further away, choosing another heap to sit atop, continuing with his sad and somber song. How marvelous the bird’s singing was, a melody reminiscent of childhood, loneliness and rejection, visions of the vast and deserted plateau, qué tristeza. He thought maybe it was a divine intervention, his guardian angel appearing to lead him to safety, so he followed the dove.

Exhausted after a couple hours of crawling in the pursuit of his guide, he shut his eyes and fell asleep again. After waking up some time later, the dove was no longer there, but the fog slightly lifted and he could see some trenches further up, which looked to be abandoned. He managed to stand up and slowly limp towards them, hoping he could find some provisions there.

Luck was on his side yet again, he entered the barracks in the trench and managed to find some canned food and water left there. He had his long awaited “victory” meal and was thinking what would be his next move. He found the maps of the area and located a small village a few dozen miles away, that was where he set his sights on. He bandaged up his wound, which finally stopped bleeding at that point but was hurting no less. He decided to take another nap in the cot to get some energy before his journey.

In the comfort of the cot, in deep sleep, he was having visions of a girl he knew very well. Cuddling him from behind, warming up his bony frame with all of her curves, whispering in his ear that everything is going to be okay. Two lovebirds rolling around in a field under the silver moon, in secret so her parents wouldn’t know. In a field where a wooden shack stood, where on a bed of hay they laid for the first time, the time he became a man. She would give her all to him, hips that didn’t seem to have an end on either side, vast as the unexplored ocean, warm as a loaf of bread fresh out the oven, sweet as a pastry from a local bakery, the womanly body capable of giving life and raising a large family. They were too young to fully grasp the concept of love, yet it was hard to keep them apart from each other.

Women were not given a better hand in war either, left behind in hopes that their men will return home to them in one piece, living every day not knowing if their love is still breathing. Having to take care of children with nobody to help or provide; or having to go to a factory to assist in weapon and ammunition production, that will ultimately help with ending lives; or joining the infirmary in attempts to prolong the lives of disfigured and limbless bodies, witnessing the results of carnage from up close, striving to give those patients a chance to see old age, grow white hairs.

When he woke up it was already morning of the next day. He got up and was able to walk slowly. Exiting the barracks he started his voyage down the trenches. After turning another corner he had to come to a halt. Before him was a person he didn’t want to run into, it was an “enemy” soldier, sitting down and sobbing, with a rifle in his lap. The “enemy” quickly pointed the weapon at him and angrily shouted something in his foreign language. Our young soldier raised his arms and pleaded for forgiveness.

The “enemy” kept on screaming, suddenly firing his rifle, as a warning shot into the sky, pulling on a bolt handle and pointing the barrel back at our soldier. The shot would’ve surely drawn the attention of others in the surrounding area, if only there was anybody else left alive. Our soldier dropped to his knees, with his hands remaining above his head, asking for a pardon, tears streaming down his muddy cheeks, he felt as if his whole body shrunk, all his internal organs reduced in size tenfold, his whole being was in question, imminent death was tapping at his front door.

The “enemy” looked young too, even younger than our soldier. Disheveled hair, that was blonde once, was covered in dirt but still had a youthful glow to it. His fatigues were all torn up yet it did not seem that he suffered any visible injuries, more of a psychological post battle trauma. His malnourished face with sunken cheeks, coated by a layer of soot, screamed that he was in a dire need of a hug and a warm meal. His body appeared gangly, tall and skinny youth, he belonged more on a marathon course at the olympic games, running in hopes of getting a gold medal and making his country proud, instead of running the gamut of taking lives on the battlefront, in the name of his country, for the greater good as they told him. What made him enlist and join the war? Was he forced to or was it his own choice? Why was he crying, not in a general sense, but specifically, why exactly was he crying then, when our soldier discovered him?

After a minute or two of the standoff, which felt like an eternity to our soldier, being on the receiving end of the gun, looking down inside its barrel, the “enemy” doubtedly and with apprehension lowered his weapon and started weeping uncontrollably, yet again. He waived his firearm to the side, signaling to our soldier that he was free to pass and can keep on going. Plenty of people already breathed their last there, there was no point for another killing. The mercy on the battlefield.

Our soldier hastily left that trench before the “enemy” had enough time to rethink his decision and change his mind, he attempted to run to get further away faster, which did not work out exactly as he wanted. He was still wounded and managed to only limp-jog for less than a minute before collapsing to the ground and breaking into tears. Those were the tears of joy, the humane act he witnessed firsthand, the kindness in the “enemy’s” heart. He picked himself up and kept on walking towards his destination.

The sun had already set before he ventured into the village. The place was quiet, torn up by the brutality of the war, some houses looked abandoned, some dilapidated. Grief was in the air. There was a dead cow in the middle of the street with its body half-decomposed and its abdomen eaten by crows and stray dogs — he could hear barking and howling in the distance. Our soldier was at his wit’s end, half-alive after a long journey, his wound opened up and was beginning to bleed again. He found a small house with the lights on, knocked on the window and blacked out again.

When he came to his senses, he was bandaged up (with fresh new bandages), lying in bed under a candle light. His fatigues were removed and left folded on top of the chair at the foot of the bed. On another chair an older woman was sitting beside him with a wet cloth in her hands, that she would dampen in a small tub underneath her and apply to his forehead, patting it gently and with care. She encouraged him to drink some water, putting the cup to his ashen lips. When he was unconscious she washed his body, removing all the dirt and blood from his face. She was speaking softly in a foreign tongue, he could not understand a single word.

Few days they spent together. Her nursing him back to health, and him providing a company for her. She took a good care of him, his wound was disinfected by the alcohol and was slowly but surely healing. The kindness of a person towards a stranger was baffling for him, but he was overjoyed with happiness and hope. She would cook the little food she had and he would help her chop up the wood for the stove. Like a little make-shift family they found solace in each other and let the days pass quietly one by one, forgetting the atrocities of war, if only for a second.

After spending about a week together, he was woken up in the middle of the night. Softness of the cotton was pressing down on his face. Burrowed in the pillow heavy as a cloud, he was losing his breath, his life was slowly slipping away. The calm turned violent as he started jolting and shaking, but to no avail, his hands and legs were tied to the bed posts, he couldn’t shake off this nightmare. The old lady was smothering him with the pillow, the oxygen levels circulating in his body were rapidly dropping. He was attempting to bite on the cushion, shake his head, scream, but none of it worked, muffled low sound was all he exuded, a hopeless murmur. A song of the dove was all he could hear, a somber melody was coming from a distance far away, inviting, leading him towards itself — like a ray of light seeping through this obstruction — while he was listening with all his being. It was the last thing he could hear.

Now, in complete silence, he was standing in the middle of the street with hundreds of soldiers lined up on both sides. It was a parade, the raindrops were splattering everywhere, coming down from the overcast night sky, the soldiers were firing their guns as a salute into the air producing no sound. Tall empty buildings could be seen directly behind them. He marched down this street as he was greeted by a deafening silence of more and more rifle shots, smoke trailing from their barrels, thick mud covering his boots. With every step he was sinking further and further into a swamp of dirt. He was crying, tears mixed with rain, invisible to anybody but him. Our soldier wasn’t ready to go, but death does not care for a special invite and operates on her own time and schedule. With a blinding lightning strike in the distance, embodying a coup de grace, he was fully submerged underneath the mud.

After a final attempt to remove the pillow and take the deepest breath, he stopped, his body did, it could not take it any more, he couldn’t resist any longer, couldn’t fight this battle anymore. He just wanted to rest as his brain ultimately shut down. She suffocated him.

She had no-one. Her good for nothing husband drank himself to death before the war could even begin, leaving her with three children: two boys and a girl. The boys were drafted and killed in the war with nothing but a letter returning from the front to notify her of those heartbreaking news. The girl, her youngest, her daughter, the liveliest of the bunch, the last one who remained by her mother’s side during the war. She was raped and murdered by the soldiers that raided and pillaged their village. They beat up the old lady, left her lying on the floor to be the witness while they were doing the unthinkable to her daughter. After the soldiers left the area to advance to the next combat location, she buried her poor tormented daughter’s body in a burnt field behind the house. Three small handmade wooden crosses stood there as a painful reminder of the terror, one for each child lost. No mother should ever bury her child, let alone behold their execution.

She was alone and had nobody left, all her family was taken from her by war, by its inexplicable cruelty. She had nothing else left to lose. The old lady was a kind and understanding woman, but everyone has their limit, she had to do what she had to do, she was left with no children and no choice. That was her act of mercy and a form of deliverance. Ridding the Earth of yet another violent person, so she thought. Forgive and be forgiven concept no longer worked for her. Somebody had to pay the price for all the horrors she endured, all the violence and savagery of the war, and it so happened to be our unlucky soldier.

Pitifully she committed this act, translating personal sorrow and grief into the force moving her hands, led by sheer desperation. Similar to taking care of a farm animal, nursing it back to good health, until it’s slaughtered and served on a dinner table — another cross to be added to the back field. Her grip was definite, her mind was determined. She coddled him tight with her motherly instinct, without any chance of letting go, as he slowly departed from this cruel and merciless world, like a white flag signaling complete surrender, ripped off the pole by a strong wind, just floating away into nothingness…

Meanwhile, in a place far away from war, the girl woke up from a little kick she felt in her stomach when it was still dark out. She was dreaming of our soldier that night, about him coming back, about her jumping into his arms, returning like a long awaited spring’s bloom after the coldest winter. But now she couldn’t shake off a feeling of him leaving her, leaving to a place with no return, our poor soldier. The little one growing in her belly, the future warrior, probably sensed it too, being on edge, kicking and waking his mom up from a lovely dream to an unapologetic reality. It was his turn to be born into this cruel world, to join and continue the never-ending battle of men, the one that took his father’s life, the one that took countless others, the one with the highest death toll.

It’s been always up to women to correct men’s mistakes, find solutions and live through the aftermath, salvage what’s left and rebuild from chaos, and when it seems there is only but a glimmer of hope, give birth and nourish the new generation, teach them good and bad, right and wrong, hoping they won’t repeat the same mistakes, that they would do better than their fathers.