Good Company

I read once that wars aren't worth fighting, that they only lead to pain and suffering of all involved. Maybe so, but it doesn't stop us from having them. And somebody told me that some battles, you just can't win. Maybe so, but it doesn't stop us from trying.

"Company, stand down," we can all hear the grave tone of our fearless leader before the words fully imprint themselves in our brain.

I took advantage of the split second where the gunfire halted, and the wind whistled through our bones. The drummer could be heard, echoing even though the sticks had frozen in shaking hands. Crepe Myrtle flowers drifted softly downward, soaring despite the chaos around them. The birds were all gone; animals know when to leave. Why don't humans know too?

"Company, stand down," the order vibrated in the summer air for a moment before we listened, "it's over."

I thought about Father Francis, who had come with us to pray over every battle. At dawn, back at camp, he had muttered some prayers before rushing to the main tent. We didn't think much of an old man's ramblings when he told us not to go. After all, what would a reverend know about war? Had he stuffed his rifle with bullets, set his aim dead straight, and fired with the intention to take a life? Had we not sniffed powder in bloody Monday air and inhaled the still-smoking, always-burning flesh of a town after a riot? Did we not train for this battle, the-end-all of all previous battles? Was this not the day we had waited for, yearned for like a soft touch, lusted after? Did we not look with pride in our eyes, hope in our minds, dreams in our palms, and plans drilled into our temples, to the rising sun that tasted of victory? Didn't we know better than him?

Memphis stood up from his crouch, "But, sir, the enemy is approaching! We almost had them-"

"Be silent! I'm your superior, and you'll do as I say, when I say. Stand down."

So we stopped. We stopped because Memphis was a private, and we were just infantry. Who were we to argue with the big boss? We dropped our guns and our pride on the mushy ground that infiltrated our boots like soldiers to an enemy line. Then, one shot rang over the horizon, barreling towards the captain. A sputter left his thinnly pressed lips, but we couldn't hear even if he had said anything coherent. Sometimes, even Goliath falls.

The peace was gone, the boundary between men and beast severed, all ties to honor and loyalty smashed under the enemy's boots, our lines had broken. The birds would not return to their nests for a long time. Gun smoke and sweat and blood filled my lungs. But I was in good company to die.