Great Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  The other man’s face puckered into a frown. ‘Don’t you think you’re a little bit too intense on all this,’ he countered. ‘I mean, there are hundreds of thousands of soldiers out there fighting for their lives... maybe millions of rebels doing just the same thing. Why get involved and risk your life? Look, I know you have a penchant for war but isn’t it more sensible to observe it from an armchair in your front room in safety. There’s no point in endangering yourself, is there?’

  ‘You miss the point,’ continued Evan adamantly. ‘It’s the thrill of being there, holding a rifle or a machine-gun, killing the enemy, enjoying the rewards of victory. That’s what’s important. At least it’s important to me.’

  ‘Well I know what’s good for me,’ stated Walters equally adamantly, ‘and that’s sleeping safely in my bed with my family around me, away from all wars, conflict and such like.’

  ‘That’s the difference between us,’ retorted Evan sharply. ‘I want to get involved. I yearn for it. It races through my blood every day like a torrent of lava emerging from a volcano. It’s what I dream of every night.’

  ‘As I say,’ muttered the other man slowly, ‘it takes all sorts to make a world. Here’s me, worried about all the money I owe and there’s you wondering how to get yourself killed in a strange country by a faceless foe you’ve never seen or met.’

  ‘There must be a solution somewhere,’ claimed the wannabee mercenary. ‘A way of getting it out of my system.’

  ‘There’s a moral in it somewhere. Hey, that’s a point. Why don’t you talk to your priest about it. He might give you some kind of direction to help you.’

  ‘I’m not religious,’ stated Evan miserably. ‘I don’t go to church so I don’t know who my priest is. I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘Well this may be a good time to find out. It’s a pity you can’t pour all that mental energy into something useful.’

  Evan walked home slowly that evening. There was a lot to think about. Firstly, he could visit his priest and ask him his advice on the matter. Secondly, he considered he might go to a psychiatrist to help him try to expunge the subject of fighting from his mind. Thirdly, as Greg Walters had suggested, there might be something of greater interest, which he was currently missing, to fill both his time and his mind. He ruled out the second point, feeling disinclined to pay money to lay on a couch and pour out his secret life to a completely unknown stranger. Such action would hardly help him drive the subject from his mind. It was more than likely he would end up having continuous sessions with the doctor to absolutely no avail. Furthermore, the third item, to find something of greater interest, was pointless because he had no idea what else he could do. He certainly was no writer, no artist, no musician, no tradesman, no serviceman. In fact, he considered that he had no talent at all. Therefore, it was important for him to see a priest to exorcise the demon in him or give him advice on how to proceed in his miserable life. He returned home and picked up the daily newspaper to read in bed.

  ‘Elite anti-terrorist units pressed ahead with a brutal offensive against separatist rebels in Katangila this morning in condemnation of the violence. As thousands of refugees fled into the mountains, politicians urged the government to end its blockade of the con- flict zone and allow access for representatives of the United Nations. The anti-terrorist units were responsible for systematically destroying the near defence- less village of Domiltoran which they said was the stronghold of the rebel army. The fighting in recent weeks is believed to have killed more than one thous- and people.”

  More than one thousand people dead! It was all so exciting to Evan that he found it impossible to go to sleep. In essence, war was an important means by which to keep the population of the world under control. Fifteen million people were killed in the first world war; even more than that in the second world war; twenty-five million were murdered by Stalin in his economic and power-struggle; two million were slaughtered by Pol Pot in Cambodia, and so on and so forth. However, it was important to realise that compared with the number of people who died from heart-failure, cancer, liver complaints, other diseases, road and other accidents, it was minimal. One thousand deaths sounded a lot but they were just a drop in the ocean. It simply meant suffering to the wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, cousins and other relatives at the premature loss of their loved-ones. As time passed by, in a clinical world, it mattered very little in the long run.

  He visited the priest at the vicarage on the following morning. They had never met before even though the holy man had been installed almost ten years earlier.

  ‘I don’t think I’m qualified to discuss your obsession with you,’ began the priest after being told the problem. ‘You really need to see a psychiatrist.’

  ‘I’m not going to a shrink,’ exclaimed Evan angrily. ‘All they do is to listen to your whining as you lay on a couch. That’s not for me. I’m a man of action.’

  ‘Have you thought of the alternative affecting your mind?’ asked the priest calmly facing him directly.

  ‘Alternative? What do you mean?’

  ‘It may not be the excitement of war which stirs you but the need to be regarded as a hero yourself. Let me put it another way. When we’re young we dream, and sometimes pretend, that we’re the captain of the England football team, or the leader of a team climbing Everest, or some other fantasy. It may be that you’re seeking to be that kind of hero inside your head, to receive awards and medals for valour. It’s a demand for recognition. It is possible, you know.’

  ‘A hero!’ retorted Evan sharply. ‘That’s the last thing on my mind. The very last thing.’

  ‘Well,’ continued the priest firmly, ‘you may believe that but the mind is very strange... very complex. You may wake up one morning and be extremely surprised at the truth.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned morality.’ The comment came hard and fast as though the visitor wanted to be reproached for enjoying counting the number of deaths of people whom he didn’t know in distant lands.

  ‘Morality is a matter of the soul,’ preached the priest slowly. ‘It’s part of you, not part of the church. For example, a person who spends his life undertaking criminal activities is hardly likely to be persuaded by someone like me to give up his pursuits. Consequently, during most of his life he’ll be a menace to society and almost certainly an unbeliever in God. My belief is that it’s in each one of us to find morality. It’s inherent in each one of us or not at all.’

  ‘Does this mean you support my views about war? That’s it’s a part of man’s inheritance stemming from our ancestors.’

  ‘Hardly. I’m a man of peace. I pray to God that all wars will end. I can’t support any of your views.’

  ‘But if there weren’t any wars,’ argued Evan wholeheartedly, ‘the world’s population would keep rising. Perhaps to unreasonable proportions. There wouldn’t be enough food in the world to keep them all alive.’

  ‘God has determined a master plan of which we are all part. He will provide when it’s necessary. Have faith, my son. But, before you go, there’s one question I’d like to put to you.’

  ‘Fire away!’ retorted the parishioner.

  ‘You’re so eager to become involved with conflict. Can you tell me what difference one man could make to any war?’

  ‘One man,’ repeated Evan thoughtfully. ‘Well, if you’re talking of one man, what about Drake, Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, Montgomery, Pershing, Eisenhower? They were only one man and look at the difference they made.’

  ‘But they were admirals, commanders, men in charge of navies and armies. You’ll be only one single recruit in the ranks.’

  ‘So what do you suggest I do?’ asked Evan realising by now he would receive no guidance to his problem from the church.

  ‘Do as your heart tells you,’ returned the priest sagely. ‘If you feel that your life is incompl
ete because you can’t participate in belligerent activities, then you must follow your heart. After all, each one of us is designed by God in his master plan. It’s not for me to prejudge your deeds or to try to alter what he’s set out for us to do.’

  The scene was set. After seeing the priest, Evan was determined to become involved in the conflict of war somewhere... somehow! The first question was to determine in which war he wanted to become involved. It would have to be one with a fully-organised army, with defined levels of command, with a secure method of distribution of weapons, a sound strategy and excellent tactics. After listing the number of wars and their locations on a sheet of paper, he narrowed down the choice to two of them. It was either Zenolata in Africa or Knom Vinh in Laos. Both were in hot countries but the atmosphere in Laos was far more humid than that in Africa. In any case, he resented the attitude of the government in Zenolata in favour of a much better regime promised by the anti-government rebels who, according to newspaper reports, were very well organised. Therefore, after further analysis, he decided to go to Africa to join the rebel forces. However, his finances did not reach to a passage by aeroplane so he caught the ferry to France and hiked across Italy, Yugoslavia and Albania before working a passage on a merchant ship to North Africa. Fortunately for him, Zenolata was only five hundred kilometres to the south-west of Port Said where he landed. The trip was useful insofar that, by the time he got to his destination, he was fit, slim and ready for action.

  He had little trouble finding the rebels. In fact, it was they who discovered him. No sooner did he cross the border into the country, by means of traipsing across some rough bush-land, than he was suddenly confronted by half a dozen soldiers dressed in a variety of ordinary clothing who carried a miscellany of rifles and grenades. One of them spoke English and he explained to him that he had come from Britain to join forces with them as a mercenary. They looked on him with a great deal of suspicion. They hated mercenaries from other countries. After all, it was a dispute between the government in power and the government they intended to be. Foreigners were not welcome! Not only that, but the rebel forces considered the government would collapse imminently and the war would be over within a few days. Unfortunately, Evan was not aware of this possibility. All the information gathered by him had been taken from British newspapers and, as everyone knew, reporters often took sides or placed bias in their reports.

  He was shortly taken to a ramshackle hut to face the leader of the rebels in that part of Zenolata. The man was enormous, being six feet five inches in height and he seemed to reach about three feet round the waist. He towered over Evan looking extremely menacing, holding a bull-whip in his hand which he continually flicked from side to side.

  ‘What you want here, Englishman?’ he demanded sharply, looking the newcomer up and down with a jaundiced eye.

  ‘I’ve come to join your forces to fight against the government currently in power,’ he replied boldly.

  There was a long pause as the leader considered the situation. ‘Why do you want to get involved with our cause?’

  ‘Because I’m a mercenary,’ he stated calmly. ‘I’m a soldier in the business of war.’

  ‘And where have you just been fighting?’ came the question.

  ‘In Knom Vinh,’ he lied brazenly, thinking momentarily of the reaction of his priest if he ever found out. ‘That’s in Laos. The war’s almost over there.’

  ‘The war’s almost over here,’ claimed the leader firmly. ‘I’m afraid you’re too late to have any impact, Englishman. Best to go back to your own country or fight some other war somewhere else.’ He snapped the bull-whip across his hand and made towards the door. ‘That’s what I suggest. You go back to your own country.’

  He departed from the hut leaving the miserable visitor to his own devices. However, Evan refused to be dismissed in such a brusque manner by a local leader of the rebel forces. He found a narrow strip of cloth which he tied around his head and turned his jacket inside out which made him look as incongruous as the rest of the fighters. Then he went outside and, noticing that the giant was nowhere in sight, approached the men who were talking to each other as they sat on some logs.

  ‘Hi!’ he greeted. ‘I’m a new recruit to your outfit. Tell me, where do they distribute the rifles?’

  The men stared at him for a few moments before one of them replied. ‘You getta rifle when you tek it from one of de government forces. Dat’s when you get it!’

  ‘You mean I have to kill someone... one of the enemy... and take it from him?’ He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised but it was quite clear that he was from the expression on his face.

  ‘Dis aint no supply depot, man,’ returned the rebel with a sneer on his face. ‘We do as we do.’

  ‘I see. We do as we do,’ repeated Evan understanding the meaning even if he didn’t understand the English. ‘How do you expect me to fight for you without a rifle and ammunition?’

  ‘You find a stick and fight with dat,’ replied the man easily. When you kill a soldier, you can tek his gun and ammunition. Dat’s how we all got started. It was never easy. An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else. Tek his food and water at de same time. It’s very precious here.’

  He sat with them for quite a while until they decided to eat their evening meal. None of them offered to share anything with him and he knew that he would have to find his own food and water in the future if he were to survive.

  On the following morning, the group moved out over the terrain to seek out the enemy. Evan felt very much at a loss. All the information from newspapers in Britain related to features of the war but, now that he was practically in the thick of it, he realised the deficiencies in organisation that were never reported. There was no proper control. The rebels simply roamed the land at random. Equally, there was no evidence of any defined levels of command. He hadn’t seen the giant leader or heard from him since he had faced him in the hut the day before. Consequently, there was little to comprehend in the form of strategy, and the tactics of the group left much to be desired. But possibly worst of all, which was never mentioned by war correspondents in their newspaper reports, there was drought, famine, hunger, and deprivation suffered by everyone. Subsequently, he felt extremely alone and unarmed in the middle of a serious deadly conflict. Even if he could find the enemy, what use was a stick or a tree branch against a trained soldier armed with a machine-gun?

  He followed the rebels into the bush staying some distance behind them. After a while, he realised that he was lost and none of them were in sight. He turned back to return to the camp but, in the heart of the open countryside, he soon lost his bearings, wandering off into unknown territory. Eventually, he heard the sound of voices and hope rose within him. However, on reaching the top of a ridge, he looked down to see seventy five uniformed soldiers carrying rifles making their way towards him. These men were clearly government troops sent to flush out the rebels. When they saw him, they released loud cries and started to hurry up the slope behind him. Evan panicked and ran back down from the ridge as fast as he could. He made good headway, staying about six hundred yards ahead of his pursuers. In the distance, he could see a military compound and he made for it hoping that it was a rebel stronghold. After all, what could one unarmed man do against seventy-five well-armed troops. Shots began to zip around him as he came fairly close to the buildings. Then he ran out of breath and slowed to a halt. The effort of running such a long way was too much for him. He accepted his fate... to be shot and killed where he stood. And then a surprising thing happened. The leader of the government forces decided not to go for the kill but to capture and torture him for information. It was a reasonable decision to undertake but the tide had turned in favour of the lone, unarmed man. As the soldiers moved towards him, there was a series of explosions signifying that the area in front of the compound had been heavily mined. Forty soldiers were killed or wounded within seconds and anoth
er twenty died while trying to retrace their steps to safety. Fifteen of them remained trapped where they stood not daring to move forwards or backwards for fear of setting off the mines. Evan proceeded to move forward very gingerly and shortly reached the comfort of the first hut. He was quickly surrounded by rebel forces who had been watching him with interest. They slapped him on the back shouting excitedly, commending him for his bravery and heroism. They were well aware that the unarmed man had single-handedly killed sixty heavily-armed enemy troops and had trapped a further fifteen who would be captured in an action which could only be considered above and beyond the call of duty.

  The following day, the government was overthrown and the rebels raced through the capital with euphoria. Evan joined them jubilantly in their celebrations. At last he was given food and water after an event which had ended far swifter than he had imagined. To his surprise, he was lined up with five other rebel soldiers in the main square with the ranks of the victorious force standing to attention behind them. Their deeds were shouted out so that they rang across the square after which the new President of the country stepped forward to attach medals of honour to their clothing.

  When he returned to Britain a few days later, Evan sat in his front room reading the national newspapers. They all contained a picture of him receiving his medal, being the only Briton involved in that particular war. He was a hero having done absolutely nothing except to get lost and run like hell away from a number of armed troops. It was sheer good fortune that the minefield had been there and even greater luck that he was not killed or maimed when he crossed it. Nonetheless, he could boast about his heroism to his friends and the priest when he next met them. However one thing was certain. Being in the action and seeing exactly what it was like in real terms cured him of his obsession about war. He was never very interested in the subject ever again especially as he could never rely on the reports of war correspondents in the newspapers!