Get Ya Medal

Booms and bangs. Bangs and booms. The ground shakes with each boom a man cries with each bang. Sometimes he falls, falling on other men covering them with blood and mud. Falling off of the ladder overlooking no man’s land. “What happened to him?” “Don’t matter, he’s already dead. Go drag him to the Pile, hurry before they start another rush!”. Then the poor bastard would be dragged through mud, puddles, rats, and piss. Some men didn’t care and couldn’t hold it in. So they pissed on the opposite wall from them before going back to their post. Everyone saw it. Nobody cared. So there goes the poor man, dragged through piss and rats, puddles and mud simply to cuddle another man whose chest is filled with holes, another had a missing arm a failed self-done amputation. Done out of desperation. The gangrene simply wouldn’t stop. But now, it has. He has found his unwanted freedom, no longer does he see, no longer does he feel. The army men march past the Pile, and as the war progresses, more look on with envy. They all have guns… A man near me says, “A miracle it is that we have the men we do!” I leaned back and looked at him and asked, “What do you mean?” “Shit, look at us! Fucking miserable, huh?” He smiled. I smiled. “Yeah we are, none of us have the balls to pull the trigger though!” We laughed with others with open ears laughing too. Another chimed in, “Shit, why not pray to God!” We laughed harder with more joining in. “Which One?!” The trenches smiled for once.

I sit on a crate and stare at my Grand, rubbing the wooden frame of it and wiping away the mud that landed on it. It’s quiet today, they say it’s going to be for a while. The rain amplifies this, as that’s all you can hear, no men talking, no guns firing with everyone sitting and standing doing nothing other than realizing that they are human. 1 shot and they’re dead. For once all of them were scared, truly scared. Even Killer Mike smoked quietly staring at the ground. Everyone is afraid, truly afraid. We all see death in our sights but he always disappears before we look at him. He haunts us now and always will. Killer Mike now prays. I rub my rifle while others smoke cigarettes or stand or sit quietly. The rain pours and soaks our uniforms and digs out parts of our floors. A man walked through the trench, he stepped in a puddle and fell. Yet, no one laughed. He quietly stood and didn’t bother to clean himself and walked away. He walked with a limp and carried a look of tears wanting to burst. A part of me wanted to go over and hug him, to tell him it’d be okay, that he’d live, he’d see his mama and he’d have some soup with bread once again, served with a kiss and hug from her. But a majority of me said that he’d die over and over again. That he’ll never be the same, as of now, he was already dead. I never saw him again.

Men push, men scream, men cry, and in the end, we all die. I’ve seen the Grim Reaper, I looked at him twice the same day. He stared. His eyes were black and he had a strong jawline. He was handsome looking, charming looking. Human looking. He stood in no man’s land ignoring the men who ran past him in a wave rushing toward our trench. I had my rifle hot and shouldered, aiming toward him. But nothing fired despite everyone shooting and shouting. I knew to fire but my body was afraid then a loose bullet was fired. A shot fired by God and struck my arm, tearing into my body. It felt hot. Yet, numb. I’m not sure if I was scared, if I started to cry If I started to scream. All I know is that I fell. I fell into a dark pit with the shouts and gunshots slowly fading as I fell deeper into the void, seeing the light of where I once was, slowly fade into nothing but void. But I saw him again, the Dancing man with the scythe. He smiled and then the light disappeared fully. I was there falling, falling forever, falling without wanting to. I know then, that I was crying, I was scared. I said something but I didn’t know what it was, I was grabbing for anything, simply anything to stop my falling. Anything to make me feel safe again. Just — Just something. But nothing ever appeared, forever falling into a thing we call nothing. Where nowhere is somewhere and where cries go unheard.

Some of the boys paid me a visit. It was Johnny, Eddie, Edwin, and Carter. Nice group of men. They stood tall in everything. They stood at my bedside, still, and watched as I slowly awoke as one poked my eye. We talked, and they brought cigars and bottles of odd-tasting wine from a nearby French Town. They hid it under my bed, for whenever I got lonely. Something to help me pass the time during my stay at the Hospital. Then they left without saying a formal goodbye, simply a short one, they got a call and ran off to answer. I played with those boys, at the park and in their backyards. On tire swings and open fields. Grew up on the same street as all of them. 21 years it has been since the first time I met them. I don’t have a memory that doesn’t include at least one of them. Well, the time I slipped in the shower and broke my elbow into going the opposite way could be one. But they teased me for it and signed their names on my casts the same minute so, they’ve always been with me no matter what. Johnny, Eddie, Edwin, and Carter. I love those boys. I did…

My stay at the Hospital was good. I talked to the nurses whenever one of them came back to check the stitches and replace them. Good people they were. Pretty too, but they were all tired, walking around on their legs every minute of every day, hearing men groan and some scream from dreams. They never slept. Their poor eyes with pale cheeks that were mascara stained. It ran down near their lips before fading toward the chin. I asked a couple of times, but they said nothing and told me to worry about infection rather than themselves. “You are your main thing, worry for it.” That’s what Barkley said with her eyes growing red and voice growing weary. I knew that I should ignore what she said, of me being of importance, I knew I should’ve but I didn’t. I didn’t. I really should’ve, but I didn’t. Why didn’t I? I knew I should’ve. I simply sat silent and laid back down.

The nurses cry, the soldiers cry, this is a house of dying. Of course, it is a house of dying, it is a hospital after all, but these men, these men carry the faces of the dead. Almost all of them do. Their eyes are hollow and have pupils of plastic, their mouths are glued together and their lips always look bluish. In fact, many of them look no different than the Pile people just that they are covered with bandages stained with blood with stitches attempting to slow the flow. One man, the one across from me, has bandages on his shoulder and only on his shoulder since the rest was blown off, his legs have been amputated and replaced with stumps, and his head is wrapped with bandages except for his left eye with a tube being the thing that makes him breath and eat. Nurses come many times a day to check on this man, just a quick glance is enough insurance that he is alive, a simple rise of the chest and its depression. I asked Nurse Barkley about him curious about his name and condition, she said “You’ll be out in a couple of weeks.” then walked away as I stared at her swaying long black hair, wondering “I didn’t ask for that. What of him? What of him? I don’t care for me, what of him? Is it wrong for me to care for another?” These questions were ignored by everyone I attempted to ask, Can you tell me about him, can you tell me about him, none of them cared and walked away. Walking to better things to do.

They took off the bandages and removed the contraption that held my arm still. A doctor wearing his classic white began to move my arm around and told me “It’ll hurt, the muscles haven’t been used in a while.” He was right, I could only clench my teeth. Once they were done they cleaned my arm and moved me to a different room, one of small metal weights and other contraptions that broken men used to practice walking or hold themselves in place.

Weeks later, after some therapy, I was back at my mom’s house on leave. Only a few days before I was to return. We were having breakfast while my father was at work. She looked at me, looked at my trembling arm, at my eyes, at the bent fingers, blank stare, she looked for her little boy. She stared at me deeply while her plate began to cool, its steam gently fading above the warm eggs and slices of bread. She looked and wanted to hold my hand but never did, her hand twitched multiple times and I saw it twitch. I wanted to ask her if she was all right. I wanted to reassure her that it was going to be alright. To hold her hand and say it’s all okay. But I know it wasn’t. For me, it wasn’t. She wasn’t scared for herself but for me, of course she was, she was a mother. The woman who spent 21 years raising me. Just for it to go to waste. Just for one shot to the head being the return on her investment. To see my casket be lowered with a medal on the top, that’s her return. That’s what the world has said was due to her. To watch that wooden box be slowly lowered by men, to be surrounded by family and some friends, to be told that, this is the cost of a just world. A good world. That is the cost, look at it! Across the field of dirt and guns, of rats and blood. That’s the cost. “Was it worth it?” is what she’ll ask, and she’ll ask it forever more. Only in death will she see the answer as she walks among the dead men and hears them speak. “No. It wasn’t.” is what she’ll cry out, “It wasn’t!” “It never will be, dead men, dead men, who’ll ever wanna be dead! We are no noblemen, we are he and she, teachers, fathers, farmers, shopkeepers, and receptionists! We are no special beings of upright standings. Call me immoral, some kind of evil, but never will I give my life for a word I don’t care for. I’ll never die for a cause enforced upon me!” That hopeless cry of dead men, simply hoping that their cry reaches someone’s ear, someone who’ll speak, “Don’t send these poor men off to war.” God, I have to focus on the here and now. I have to focus. I don’t want to lose my present by holding onto the future.

Papa came later that night, I was sitting on the couch looking at the fire with a book lying at my side. He stood at the doorway where my bags were. His black hair was dripping with sweat and soot-stained his face. I stared at him with the same stare I gave Mother. And he stared back with a stare that carried a feeling with it. A feeling I can’t describe, it sent a message to me, it sent me a message that finally broke whatever was holding me. It sent a single word, a question, “Son?”. He walked over and I saw pieces of myself fall as I kept my eyes closed and saw the waters of emotion rushing onto a wall that had sprung a leak. He sat down near me, “Papa?” “Yes, son?” “Why am I fighting? What am I fighting for?” “...”