The Squad

by Wilde Blue Sky

THE SQUAD

  by

  Wilde Blue Sky

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  The Squad

  Copyright © 2010 by Wilde Blue Sky

  The author would like to thank Louise, Kate and Lynne for their support.

  Note to reader - if you appreciated this short story please, if you are able, make a small donation (equivalent to 5 minutes work) to a charity of your choice.

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  The Squad

  How did it come to this? Above me cloudless blue sky, below me blood sodden dirt.

  Memories flood back: the vain attempt to break the enemy's defences, endlessly bombarding their lines with every imaginable form of weapon and hatred. The clatter as they rushed out of their dugouts the moment our guns stopped roaring.

  The long wait for the whistle and shout to go over the top. The sounds of creaking ladders as we scrabbled out of the trench. Boots encased in mud, heavy and huge as we ran through the battlefield mire. Machine guns spitting death, slicing young men into mangled pieces of meat. But my heart wasn't racing; it was numbed by guilt. I charged and fired like a madman, it was my time to make amends.

  The sounds of the battle, muffled gunfire, bullets whistling, explosions, screaming and feet scurrying in desperation fill the air. Burnt human flesh, sweat and cordite assault my nostrils. Flashes of light and dark smoke plumes interrupt the perfect summer sky.

  The sky is so bright. I can't remember seeing such a beautiful sky. I could be lazing on my back in mother's garden on a long hot summer's day, but I'm not. I am here, in a man made hell.

  'Davies, Davies.' Someone is shouting my name. The voice sounds familiar.

  A face appears in front of me, blocking out the sky. The Captain!

  'Davies. That was the bravest thing I've ever seen. You crazy bastard! You've been hit but don't worry; the medics are on the way. Just stay with me. We'll soon have you in hospital.'

  I don't want to be saved. I want to die in this field. I want my guilt to be gone. How can I make him understand?

  'Captain.' Even uttering the single word makes me convulse and cough up blood.

  'Davies! Don't try and talk. You've been hit. Save your strength. We'll get you out of here soon. Medics! Medics! Where the hell are those bastards? Medics!'

  Don't call the medics. Don't save me. The Captain tries to stop the flow of blood.

  'Don't save me!'

  'Don't worry Davies. We'll save you. Help will be here soon. Medics! Medics!'

  'Let me die!' The effort of talking sends cold spasms through my body, but I must make him understand.

  'We won't let you die. You're a hero. You bloody fool. When we get home I'll make sure you get a medal. In fact you'll get a chest full of medals.'

  'Captain. Let me die. I'm a coward. I've committed a terrible crime.' The words come out, but it has taken my last reserves of energy and my head slumps onto the ground.

  'Listen to me Davies. We've all done terrible things, but that's what war's about. Going into battle; annihilating the enemy. Hand to hand fighting; so close you can see the fear on their faces and smell their breath. But you must forget all that. You must forget this place. Soon you'll be in a hospital and then on the way home. You'll be out of this madness! What you did saved many of our boys' lives.'

  The Captain is doing everything he can to save me. Can't he understand I have done such a terrible thing that I don't deserve to live? Why does he think I charged the enemy machine gun? I want to die in this field, I want to escape my demons; I want to escape what I did to Curt!

  'Curt!' the word involuntarily spits out of my mouth along with a mixture of saliva and globules of blood.

  The Captain stops working on my smashed body. His face hovers just over mine. His eyes filled with sadness. 'What happened to Curt was necessary; he committed a crime and had to pay the price. Forget him; you're a hero and he,' the Captain hesitates; he can't find the words. 'What happened to him was part of war.'

  The Captain's words take me back to the day the whole unit was marched into the wood and we were ordered to draw lots to decide who would be part of the squad. The stab of pain as I looked at my short straw is still with me; I was going to be part of it.

  We were split off from the rest of the unit and ushered into a small clearing. Our rifles were taken, loaded and issued, each of us hoping we had the blank cartridge. The Captain watched us, eagle eyed, so we couldn't check for the blank. The Captain told us the drill, aim at the white handkerchief pinned to his heart, aim well and hit the target, better a quick death than a lingering one. Even when he was talking, we all believed he would stop it or maybe he would give us all blanks? No army would execute a child? The Captain couldn't really order us to execute Curt?

  The image of Curt, helpless, blindfolded and bewildered, being dragged by two military policemen to a tree and tied like an animal makes me want to weep. His sobbing filled the air as he tried to comprehend what was happening. There were tears in my eyes but I did nothing to stop it.

  A sharp, crackling command from the Captain and the six of us took our positions. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the Captain, rigid and in control.

  'Ready.' He ordered. Our rifles were at our shoulders. Next order would be stop. It must be stop.

  'Aim.' Each man gazed down his barrel at the white handkerchief fluttering in front of Curt's heart. Surely the Captain was going to stop us. This was crazy!

  Curt straightened up and then stood motionless.

  'Fire.'

  In unison we fired. No longer men, simply part of a military machine. The sound of the volley rang out. A flash and puff of greyish smoke spat from the muzzle of each rifle. The rifles heavy recoil in my shoulder told me I hadn't shot a blank.

  Curt fell slowly, inertly, he settled to his knees, head up. For a fraction of a second it seemed he tottered there, on his knees, mouthing something at those who had taken his life. Then he buckled backward, twisting at the waist, his legs doubled up beneath him, face turned towards the sky.

  Curt began to convulse. There was no hiding the tears in my eyes. The Captain moved swiftly, drawing his revolver from the big black holster strapped to his waist. He placed the muzzle an inch away from Curt's temple and pulled the trigger. Military justice had been done. A boy cut down in a war, not by the enemy, but by orders to obey rules of conduct. But who could think of rules of conduct, when every day is just endless carnage and butchery? Where every day is insanity?

  I just want it all to end. Please God, if you exist, don't let the medics come. Don't let them save me. Let me die in this field. Let me be buried in an unmarked grave with my crime; let me be free!

  I must confess. I must clear my conscience. I summon my last few breaths.

  'Curt was innocent!' Pain rips through my body, but my heart feels unburdened.

  The Captain's face appears. 'He was tried by a military court and found guilty. I know you were part of the firing squad. I know you feel guilty. But these things must be done in war. We must have order within the ranks.'

  I try to speak, but all I do is cough up more blood. I want to shout that Curt was innocent, that I know he was innocent. I must get up and explain.

  'Davies! Stop trying to move and talk. That's an order! You saved many men's lives today. You're a hero! But if you don't stop thrashing around I swear I'll shoot you!'

  I stop moving. If only you knew Captain, you wouldn't just talk about shooting me, you would. You would do it without a second thought.

  As my eyes close I see Curt. Was he really eighteen years old? He looked barely fourteen. An oddly beautiful boy, not very tall, scrawny, but strangely attractive. Just an innocent child caught up in an insane wor
ld of death and destruction. From the minute he joined our unit he became our unofficial mascot, always the butt of our jokes, but always the first one everyone checked on after the battle. He was like everyone's younger brother or, to the older men, a son. Even after going into battle and seeing the horrors of war he retained his child-like view of the world; he even talked of going home when it was all over. His innocence made us all think of our former selves, of us when we marched proudly out of town, naive would be heroes cheered on by friends and family, off to serve our country.

  Curt was a link to a human world, a link to normality. We were all consumed with hatred, not for the enemy but for what we'd become. Curt was different; he still knew the difference between right and wrong.

  We'd lived with stalemate for years, the trenches moving at most a few hundred yards back and forwards. The evil stench of the frontline, rotting bodies in shallow graves, overflowing cesspits, cordite, the lingering odour of poison