The Face of War

I am alone now. The years have slipped away like sand through my weathered fingers. Our small home once full of life, laughter and sadness, cocoons me like a tomb. Its walls filled with fading memories of them.

My boy Peter was first to leave, sent like so many other young men, as mere cannon fodder against this invading force. I still hear his protests as I pleaded with him to stay, youthful arrogance and stubbornness pushing him to their war.

Three months later they came to inform us of his death.

Rita, my wife never got over the news they brought to us that day. It broke her heart and destroyed her soul to have her only child taken from her. She physically faded over the following weeks and took her own escape one morning as I tended the land.

We had been married thirty eight years and I still remember the first time I laid eyes on her. It was the brightest of summer days and she was standing outside Morton’s old place on the Main Street of town. Her blonde curls sat gently on her broad shoulders, glistening in the sun and when she smiled at me as I passed, I knew I wanted to see that smile for the rest of my life.

Our love faltered down the years, I suppose love always does. She grew resentful that I moved her here to the countryside, away from her family and the bustle of the town. The arrival of our son, painted over these cracks for a time but it was always there beneath the surface.

As I stand here looking over the last light of autumn as it stretches over the nearby hills, I know I will have to leave also. The forces that my son died trying to keep out are drawing closer and soon the whole country will fall.

Tomorrow I will leave before the winter takes its grip. Studying the map I have laid out on the table, I figure it will take three days to reach the border. I place some clothes in a tattered suitcase from under the bed and some food in a satchel. I will leave everything else, all those memories right here where they belong.

The morning air is cold and crisp as I shut the door of our small home, a creeping sunrise in the sky still in its infancy. I make my way along the path to the forest at the back of the house, the ground soft under my boots from the early morning dew.

Fallen leaves coat the floor of the forest, the trees bare and twisted as natures deathly season commences. I slip slightly more than once as I move up the hill that snakes through the woodland but my old legs hold firm on the sodden track.

I catch my breath at the top and remember how my son would spend hours in this place as a youngster, hunting rabbits or entertaining himself with a child’s imagination.

The trees thin out as I traverse slowly down the far side of the slope, the surrounding fields becoming clearer in every direction.

When I emerge from the forest, I am greeted by a warmer sun and decide to remove my coat and sit for a few moments. I pick at some of the bread I have brought and wash its staleness down with water. The peace and quiet seems to be a stark contradiction from what is raging behind me in the distance. Reinvigorated by the rest, I gather my things and continue on.

Fields roll into one as the afternoon draws to its end, a slight drizzle masking the last of the daytime brightness. Up ahead I spy a farmhouse and make my way toward it.

When I reach it the drizzle has turned to an angry shower, soaking me absolutely. I knock on the door and wait for an answer but one does not come. The house, like my own, abandoned by those who called it home. I try to open the door without success and search around the back for shelter.

I find a barn and make camp for the night out of the persistent rainfall. Some dry hay inside helps me to start a small fire, the heat from which lifts my drenched spirits.

Rita fills my dreams. She is standing by a lighthouse waving to me, that smile on her face before I wake up and she has vanished again. Confusion sets in as I look around to find my bearings, the smell of hay and wet wood bringing me back to where I am.

The rain outside has stopped and even though it is still dark outside I leave the barn and begin my journey again. My joints ache from sleeping on the hard ground slowing me down considerably but I must push on.

My aching subsides to a dull throb by the time the sun comes up, illuminating the road ahead. I stop to check my map before a rumble in the distance catches my attention.

I glance over my shoulder toward the source of the noise and see the outline of a vehicle still someway off. Panic begins to seep into me. I leave the road at pace and lay flat in the long grass of a nearby field. The sound of the vehicle’s engine gets closer, a strident, gnarling, metallic rumble growing louder within my ears. I tilt my head up to see what is approaching. A large green military truck drives by mere feet from where I am laying, the emblem of the enemy embossed on the side.

My heart is pounding savagely in my chest as the truck roars down the road and is soon out of view. Afraid to stand I stay with my face in the grass its sweetly aroma invading my nostrils. Unsure of how much time has passed I eventually embrace the courage to get up, relieved that the road is deserted.

Knowing that the road is too dangerous I change direction, sticking to the fields that run alongside. Fear gives me the energy to move with more speed but old age conquers this before long and I am forced to stop to rest.

I find some trees clumped together some way off the road and use them as cover. I sit with my back to one as my laboured breathing begins to return to normal. Every so often I look out in the direction of the road, each time comforted by its beautiful emptiness.

I start to walk again and it is not long before I see black smoke billowing into the sky ahead. The flames are the next thing I see coming from the green truck smashed into a tree at the side of the road. I rush toward the cab and pull at the door handle. A young man, the driver, slumps lifeless onto the ground at my feet. His face smashed from the impact. I climb into the cab and quickly pull the passenger out. I drag him off the road just before the explosion deafens me.

With my ears still ringing I turn the man over and notice he is still breathing. A large cut at his forehead has blood streaming from it so I lay him on the ground and run to my suitcase. I grab an old shirt, ripping off a strip before returning to the man.

His eyes are now open, filled with disorientation and fear. I wrap the cloth tightly around the wound before giving him some water. He says something to me in a language I don’t understand, his voice no more than a whisper. I give him more water that he sips greedily.

I return to my suitcase and close it up. Hearing him move behind me I turn to see that he has gotten to his feet and is staring at me. Holding the makeshift bandage on his head, he mouths the word water. I take the water from my satchel and make my way back to him.

He puts his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. The pain screams through me as the water pouch drops to the ground. I look down to see his knife being pushed further into my abdomen. When I look up his eyes are filled with rage, looking intensely into mine as he thrusts the steel in deeper. He swiftly pulls it out, my blood dripping from the blade before he knocks me onto the grass.

I look up at my last sky, grey clouds melting into one another. The young soldier now stands over and spits down on me. His face full of hate, his eyes full of war.