The line between is thin

Roger Edwards lay in his makeshift hospital bed with a glowing heart. He had been brought in yesterday, with a bullet wound in his right arm, a broken leg, and the jubilant cries of his mates in the squadron. His father had come in a few minutes back, burning with pride, and with good reason. His son had almost single handedly won the battle. The enemy surrendered and a treaty was signed. The hospital he was currently housed in was a little dingy, but it was just temporary. Tomorrow he would be moved to a much better place. One fit for the hero that he was.

From all the other men in the ward came various groans and cries of anguish. Even though the ward was overcrowded, special preference was given to the lieutenant—the man of the hour. The nurses called him Britain’s saving angel. His bed was separated from the others’ by a thin cotton bedsheet, patterned with violets. The privacy was superficial, however, since he could hear every word and cry on the other side distinctly. A temporary measure, He reminded himself. This time tomorrow he would have his own room and be attended by the best doctors. His leg hurt. The glow in his heart faded a little, although it still acted as enough of an anesthetic to keep him from crying out. Somewhere, a creaky old boom box began to play a muffled song. He could not make out the words.

From the bed next to his came a loud groan. The man howled like he was dying. He had been carried in about an hour ago, and was clearly in bad condition. His groans and cries had been persistent in the last hour, and Roger was beset with alternating twinges of pity and annoyance. This time, It was the latter. Men in that condition should go straight to the morgue, not be sent here to disturb our rest. He decided he would sort that as soon as he had the power. After his triumph, it couldn’t be long in coming.

He pictured himself once more, standing off to the edge of his battalion, unnoticed. He felt the dirt and the grime in the air, the sound of war thundering in his ears. He moved his lips once again, made silently the word “Go”. He saw in his minds eye himself, leading his troops around the defense, far around the battlefield. They advanced on the enemy from behind.

At this point there was a commotion in the ward. It seemed like the ward boy had discovered the little boom box, and had taken it away from the man who owned it.

“You devil!” came the shrill voice of the man, carried through the curtains. The accent was clearly french. Ha, serves the villian right, ran Roger’s internal monologue.

“This is mine now.” the ward boy sneered. There was the sound of a bed creaking. “What, old man, will you fight me?” A thud. The man had fallen back into the bed. They can’t possibly house these french scum next to us, Roger concluded. No wonder there’s trouble in the wards. The noise died down.

The lieutenant returned to his pleasant memories. The wind whipping in his face. The march. The terrified faces of his enemies as they slowly realized all was lost.

The music moved closer towards him. He recognized the tune. A children’s song, one his sister would play relentlessly in their youth. Something about bells, from a movie about a hunchback. But the lyrics had haunted him through the house, running in his head over and over, driving his childish brain to a frenzy.

A high pitched shriek rang in the hall. A woman’s. She was shouting desperately, but her voice was determined.

“I will see my husband right now! And if you, y-you hag try to stop me, god save me I will tear you into pieces!” The ward went silent, the only noise made by the boom box, still playing the weird sequence that passed for a song. Roger wrinkled his nose at the woman’s disgusting tongue and loud, manly voice. He had to learn french if he wanted to advance in the army, but it was a studied he had undertaken with revulsion and disdain. Anything that was associated with those demons was vile to him.Unfortunately, he could now understand their words. Try as he might, he could not help paying attention to the drama taking place in his surroundings.

The door flew open, the sound reverberating in the still room. A shuffle of feet. A sob. The woman had children with her, two, from the sound of it. They went directly to the bed of the man next to the lieutenant. The boom bax played. The half-forgotten words came rushing back to Roger. To the big bells as loud as the thunder.

“My Lord! What've I came to! Me husband dead, and me two poor children left with no one but their ma to fend for 'em! Oh lord! How will I live!”

“I’m not dead yet, Marie”

“Ye are too, for much good it’ll do us how you look. Oh, my children”

Here the nurse, frightened and unable to deal with this desperate, rather strong countrywoman, as her speech clearly showed her to be, was heard calling out for help in the hall.

“Tell me who did it you, I will tear ’em bit from bit!”

“Please, Marie, don’t say that—” The man launched into a violent coughing fit. He continued after a minute. “ Please. Take care of the children. I have some money laid by, in my bureau, and in the bank. Take the key from my coat. You know, the coat I would wear when it was mighty cold, and--and, you know which one. There should be enough to keep you. If they rob you , Marie, if the rascals take everything you have, you must trust—” Here he paused to recover himself— “ You must trust to the lord to take care of you. I have done badly by you, I have. Forgive me, and tell my old mother that she needn’t despair—her son died in battle.”

“Oh my husband! Lord! My life!”

And they gazed up in fear and alarm. Roger could not help feeling a little pity for the couple. He checked himself. These scum deserve no better. But the pity stayed.

“Oh what will I do? What will I do? Oh monsters, to reduce me to this pain, oh monsters! John, please come back, come back please. Please.”

The music of the boom box played, starting to rise in pitch and volume. The strain of the woman's voice matched with the chords for a moment, and Roger felt his heart swell with compassion. His reason was completely overtaken, as is the case when music and pain combine. Though ambitious, Roger was not a hard hearted fellow. His traitorous heart now swelled with compassion for the demon. He was angry, nay furious, at the man who brought this family so low. To purge the world, Of vice and sin.

“Oh lord! Ye are good as dead. Me ’as never asked ye for much,b-but I ask ye now, tell me who did this to ye!” Roger seconded the wish in his heart. Dies irae, dies illa, Solvet saeclum in favilla.

The coughing fit subsiding, the man answered “Very well. It was the devil who crept up behind us, the coward. Quartered our men, he did. I was lucky, me mates were not so much. They were dead ’fore he left off them—” Here he fell into another rib-wracking bout of coughing. The help had now come, and his wife was pulled from him, along with the children. Roger could hear them struggle. He felt himself grow cold. I am guiltless. Or not.

“Britain’s angel they’re calling him—the devil more like.” He shouted after his wife, racked with cough. “I would’ve cut open the devil myself, like an honourable man no less, for I’s no coward myself I ain’t. I ain’t.” The man sighed. “I ain’t no coward” he whispered, and was silent. Too silent. He slept, and slept eternally.

A frost went over Roger's heart. The boom box played loud and clear now–it played the very lines that had haunted him as a child—

Now here is a riddle to guess if you can, he whispered, hoping that the next line would be changed, while knowing in his heart it wouldn’t.

Who is the monster and who is the man?

Who indeed?