#1
In the distance, the radio tower reaches high, casting a shadow that points directly towards us like some overgrown sundial; a long, incongruous metal spike piercing a hole in the sky. I glance to the radio operator next to me who sits, squatting in the grass, a man coated in a layer of grime, dirt and weariness. He meets my glance and nods - a short and juddering movement that highlights his fatigue. We are a band of broken men, but we are a band of broken men on a mission. The radio operator rises to his shaking legs, surveying the other men in our squad with a grimace. We all know what we need to do. A Stuka shrieks across the sky and we all fall to our knees, clapping our hands against our ears to protect us from that unholy scream from the depths of hell itself, loud as any banshee. There is no room for peace in war.
We move single file - crouched, covered in dirt - a line of ants blindly playing a game of follow the leader, making a beeline for the historic castle-cum-military installation. As we approach, the faint, yet perpetual backing track of war rises in volume; the ringing of rifle rounds being discharged and the intermittent bassline of bombs grow in pitch, reminding us that there is no escape. Our battered radio emits a spluttering crackle, and suddenly, the voice tells us where to go next. We have never met the owner of the voice. It is a calmly aggressive voice, intolerant of failure and never congratulatory. It tells us to advance on the left flank. We obey, as we always do. Then it tells us to hold in position, and we obey. There is no room for disobedience in war.
The rattle of a weak engine becomes apparent, replacing the tones of war. We hunker down, scared but silent, staring and waiting, faces planted in the shredded landscape. An olive green civilian truck splutters its way towards us, its engine coughing and wheezing in the same way that a smoker would. I hear the muted click-click of a round being chambered behind me, and I make no effort to stop its owner from doing so. We don’t know who’s in the truck. There is no room for doubt in war.
The shot fires off, and I hear the sound of glass spraying in all directions from the bullet’s point of impact. There is a dull thud, and we scramble to our feet, rifles raised towards the vehicle, eyes dilated with horror and thrill. At first, it is not clear who is at the wheel of the truck. It is a man – we can see that. His head is slumped against the wheel of the truck in the position of rest - a driver tired of war, tired of life. We move closer, rifles still in attack position, raised to our thumping chests and trained on the slumped man. I move next to the van, rip the door open and grab his hair - once blonde, now dyed a crimson red – and I move his face into our vision. It is a face ravaged by war. It is the face of a man with lines of weariness written upon it. It is the face of an old man with a young man’s eyes. It is my own face. And yet it is not. It is the face of all of us. And yet it is not. It is the face of all the men I have ever shot and killed. And yet… It twists to look at me, to sneer in my face with a cold malice I could never have imagined was possible. Its mouth opens, and blood pours into my hands – aggressive blood. Blood that blames me. I stare down at my shaking hands, coated in the liquid that rushes through the veins of my kinsmen and my enemies alike. But I dispel these troublesome ideologies from my mind. There is no room for empathy in –
I sit in the chair, staring down at my hands. The hands of an old man. Marked by the passage of time with the contours and scars of age. I still remember. His face is still in my head.
There is no escape from war.
