Vibrant burning stars mapped the constellations above. A kind breeze rustled the palm leaves like a conductor sounding an orchestra. By all objective, aesthetic accounts, it was a gorgeous night. A new moon, a time for change, an opportunity for redemption. A hopeful sentiment for nights where the kindness of moonlight was stolen away. Marked by darkness.
A crack and rustle made the hair on her skin stand on end. Her eyes narrowed, and breath quickened. She sat alone. Without hesitating she snapped her rifle's safety off, huddled deeper in her tiny fox hole, and meticulously scanned the shadows. Her eyes peeled away layers of dark, searching for any form of movement, any hint of mischief, anything out of place. A fresh gust cooled her sweating brow. When moments had morphed to minutes she gave slow permission for her breath to return, though not without vigilant control. Each exhale remained tempered, shallow, and silent. Careful not to give any hint of her presence.
As much as she was weary of sound she caught her nerves getting the best of her. Unable to control herself from shifting her toes in her sandals, or worse, stop from clicking the rifle's safety on and off, on and off, on and off. It was her first night on the front line, first time at war. She was alone, alone, alone. As angry as she was scared.
That morning, as they arrived at the front, she had her first glimpse of the heathens. It happened while they were receiving their orders, as their weapons were handed out. That's when she saw them. Captured at their borders. Prisoners of war led to their internment camps.
The voices on the radio had spoken of the crimes they'd committed. Heinous, vile attacks. Ruthless. Merciless. Hurting her sisters, her aunts, and mothers. Shredding apart families, destroying communities, towns and villages. And yet, with the soldiers hands down behind their backs, and their heads bowed, it was hard not to see the terrified humanity within them. Riddled with the same reluctance to be there that she was.
Few were courageous enough to walk with their heads upright. Those she locked eyes with pupil's overflowed with pleas, and fear. They looked the same age as her. They looked different, but not by much. Not the demon's she'd imagined. Not beasts. But boys. Same as her brothers, and friends. The colour of the skin and hair were different, but nothing she hadn't seen before. The same as the tourists. The same as the magazines.
They did not look like the monsters spoken of.
Not at all.
They looked as scared and hopeless as she felt.
Their pale eyes glanced over her and her comrades not with hatred, but clean fear. There was no repulsion. No smouldering disdain. They looked out of place, like they belonged in the same school classroom that she herself had been torn from.
As hard as she tried to bury the gnawing thoughts deep within, her heart had them halted. Unable to pass, unable to hide. The heart knew that in a different world, under different circumstances that she and these people would be friends. They could be family. That their lives could blend without thought.
Now in the darkness, she hated them more.
Despite the afternoon's thoughts, given more time to think, more realizations had bubbled. The echoes of war, the reminder of the violence made the sweet semblances feel as far away as possible. She thought of each prisoner as individuals. Each soldier was a son. They had to have had mothers who loved them. They had to have, to have been born. A father like hers, siblings like she had, brothers like she had. They had to have. It was impossible not to. And if they had mothers and fathers, then they had to have grandparents. There was no way around it. Their lives lost would affect more than themselves.
Moreover, there had to be friends. They had to be loved. These weren't monsters. These weren't creatures or demons as the radios had said, these were boys, those were lies. They looked as confused as her. They had different eyes that emitted the same feelings.
It was in her empathy, in her realizations, that she found her rage again. Kindled, and igniting. She was furious. Furious at them for putting her in this position. Scared for her life, for her village, for her friends and family. That she might have to harm those too cowardly to refuse to attack, or disobey their superiors' megalomania, in order to shield those that occupied her heart.
The ferocity of protection had fuelled her in the weeks prior, but now, under these new circumstances, she was questioning herself. Her fury was warranted. She knew that. She knew that as much horrific truth her epiphanies had unveiled that they could have come to the same realizations. That they should have. It was them that crossed the oceans. It was them that had come to their shores, spilt their blood.
Under the suffocating black of sky, she debated. She worried. She worried over what the actions of the night might do to her soul, to her heart. Thoughts of killing those boys made her nauseous. Concern over the enemy summoned guilt. Why couldn't they break the cycle? Why did she, one so young, have to be the sole soul to realize how foolish this was. How could they not come to the same conclusions?
She hated them for not saying no. For rising up against her and her countrymen rather than their leaders and fathers at home. She hated them. She hated them all. For placing her in a position where she had to hurt them in order to protect innocents. Vile contempt boiled in the back of her thoughts. Bubonic bile eroded her innards and churned her wrath.
Another rustle. Another snap.
She raised her rifle to her shoulder. Silent, she slid the safety from her weapon, and stretched her forefinger. Her blood froze as she contemplated their death, her finger delicately dancing on the trigger, while her eyes tracked imaginary soldiers creeping. Her retinas focused. Her mind raced.
Between staggered breaths she plotted.
She could only hope that she'd be the first to find them. That with grace and cunning surprise she may capture them, and yield the lost souls to the safety of their prison camp. That there the calm of dialog and diplomacy may return them to their lands unharmed, and end the fighting.
While her fantasies raced, her rage quelled. In the calm she checked her rifle and made sure her safety was still off. There was only so much she could do trying to protect everyone. She was furious about it. She would do her best.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write