FORGIVE ME, SON

The battle is won.

We, the playthings of our highers, shall grow fat and merry this night, for we are victorious. A great cause for celebration, I admit. My boys, the youth and vitality of our company, earned their night of revelry. They fought bravely and with so little blood spilled on our side.

But I am too old and tired for celebration tonight. My body is still fighting its own battle against time and old wounds, and my mind is occupied by the bloodshed of my youth.

In the civilized world, I am a man of only forty-four, but against the fresh-faced boys of Bravo Company, I am ancient.

I pray they will all live to see the day they, too, can unnecessarily bitch about their knees hurting when the rain rolls in, or see the soft faces of their gals become roadmaps of every laugh they shared together.

My boys will forget about me and spend their evening talking about sports and sharing tales of their gals back home. And that is okay. They’ve earned the reprieve.

They saw loss today through the lens of capable warriors raring to save the world.

And as a father would, I weep for the murder of their innocence.

The winter night is close to silent, except for the distant sounds of youthful cheer that fade as I further retreat. I pull my blanket more securely around my shoulders. The moonlight reflected off the fresh snow aids my path and crunches underfoot, my gait uneven from years of abusing my body as I make my way to the village chapel.

My boys will celebrate merrily together, as young men do, but I’ll mourn alone.

I do not have to fight for a seat nearest the center aisle, as my wife often has me do before Sunday morning services back home in our small Tennessee church. She is a holy woman but her love of being the first out of the church every Sunday comes across as lustful.

I don’t write to her as often as I did when I first got here two years ago. There is never good news I have to send her, just reminders that I’m alive. So I wait for word from her instead. Musings about our two little girls and the innocent trouble they’re always getting into while I’ve been away. The reminders of the birthdays I’ve missed, milestones I’ll never get to properly cherish with my love.

A shiver rattles my whole body from the cold oak pew seeping through my clothes.

The Man who bears the thorny crown on His head and the crux on His back stares down at me from His place front and center in the chapel.

“You say, ‘do not rejoice when our enemy falls’, Father. How do I convince young men with a bloodlust for evil of such an idea?”

There is much evil in this war, but I see it on both sides. I see young men who are killing each other on behalf of the ideas of old men who are safely tucked away in their beds every night, bellies always stuffed full of a hot meal.

Who’s to say my supposed enemy is any more evil than I am?

The fattened boars in fancy suits, choreographing the demise of innocent young men, or the snakes with their typewriters that can paint a pretty picture of who I should believe is my enemy?

No. My enemy isn’t the man pointing his rifle at me from across the battlefield. My enemy has no vessel because I’ll never truly have the chance to bring my boot down upon the necks of the real perpetrators of the endless fighting. My enemy is ideology crafted by evil individuals that inflict their hate on the innocent. Turn good men into savages, kind women into vile fiends.

We progress as a society, but our spirituality has stagnated. Are the two so independent of each other that we will remain slaves to manmade beliefs of what’s good and what’s evil, blindly perpetrating the atrocities of those who hold power over us while our souls shrivel up and die?

I clasp my hands together and bow my head. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”

I have sinned so tremendously. When my time comes to stand at the pearly gates and confront my wrongdoings, I know the gatekeeper will turn me away with an easy shake of his head. And I won’t argue because war makes devils of us all.

But I can pray. I can beg for the forgiveness of my boys that are fighting a battle they truly know so little about.

“Forgive their ignorance, Father. Forgive their youth.”

The creak of the door off to my left is unintentional, as if someone did not want to make a sound.

The footsteps are quiet, but in the peace of the chapel this winter night, backlit by the embers of battle, they are profound and alarming.

Although my German is lacking, asking for forgiveness at the steps of our Father sounds the same in any language. The desperation, the begging and pleading—there’s one dialect when it comes to asking for forgiveness when you no longer believe you deserve it.

Perhaps the young soldier with the shaggy, blond hair did not see me when he came in.

He drops to his knees in front of the towering crucifix, hands going together and head dropping down. I listen to his quiet pleas.

He’s a boy, no older than Hanes—the nineteen year-old private from Nebraska.

“You shouldn’t be here, boy.”

The only evidence I’ve startled him is the flinch he can’t hide. But he doesn’t turn to me. His cries ramp up and he begins to gently rock, back and forth on his knees, pressing his clasped hands to his forehead.

I rise from my seat and approach him, wielding my loyal pistol—a gift from my father-in-law when he learned I was to return to the land that blackened my youth so many years ago.

“Are you alone?” I ask, sternly.

He doesn’t react. No shake of his head, no move to fight me, only the frightened tremble of his thin frame.

I kick his boot.

He turns and falls at my feet, hands now grabbing at my boots, his foreign words a clear cry for mercy.

I kneel down and pull on the back of his coat until he sits up, hands back together, but their purpose is for begging forgiveness from a mere mortal. Which is useless. I haven’t secured my own forgiveness and it will do the boy no good to plead with such a blackened soul.

“You alone?”

More nonsensical German flies past his lips, alongside his sobs.

“Sit down, kid,” I grumble.

He looks up at me, pale blue eyes shining and pleading, a youthful softness in his features. This is not the face of an enemy.

The boy hisses in pain as I grip his left arm, and my palm comes away covered in blood. The enemy’s blood is on my hands.

Kid’s bleeding pretty bad. Could be any number of causes. Razor wire, bullet wound, a poorly aimed bayonet strike. Padding all my pockets, I find the personal medical kit we’re all meant to keep on us. We’ll be getting supplies hauled in tomorrow afternoon and no one will question why my kit needs restocking after today’s battle.

I kneel down and the boy flinches away when I grab his arm again. “Dammit, be still. No one’s trying to hurt ya here.” I hold the kit up, hoping it’ll communicate my intentions because I know I’ll never be able to do so with the limited German I was taught.

The boy’s gaze switches from the kit in my hand, up to my face. He’s trying to figure out how much he can trust me. If I were a good soldier, the boy wouldn’t be able to trust me at all. Lucky for him, I’ve lost my edge and veered from my immorality.

I inch closer. The boy doesn’t jerk away when I carefully begin to bandage his arm. “You gotta be more careful out there, kid. Don’t ya know there’s a war going on?” A gentle laugh escapes me, but the boy’s eyes betray his ever present confusion and fear.

When the bandage is securely fixed, I retrieve a bit of bread from my satchel, holding it out to the boy and passing him my canteen. He eats and drinks quickly, returning my canteen with a grateful nod.

“You got it,” I offer.

The boy turns back to the alter, bowing his head and closing his eyes, praying to the God I hope is watching over him and every other young man roped into this tragedy of a war.

And I sink down to my knees beside him, mirroring the way he confronts our Father. “Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer…”

Because suffer we will. No matter the uniforms we wear or the loyalties we’ve pledged, we’re all going to suffer as so many have before us.

Letting my eyes slip closed, I reach out and take the boy’s hand, cradling it firmly against my chest. Gripping a corner of my blanket, I drape it over his back and wrap my arm across his shoulders, pulling him into my side.

He’s just a kid, dammit. Trying to survive in this hell created by men.

“Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer…”

***

Some days I wonder if we’ll ever seen the sun again. Or maybe we’re doomed to eternal clouds and gloom.

I step out of my tent, shoving a cigarette back between my lips and padding my pockets for my matchbox. “Dammit,” I mutter when I come up emptyhanded. Must’ve lost the damn thing last night.

Staff Sergeant Donnelly is standing outside his own tent, giving quiet orders to two privates that’re hanging onto every word that Donnelly says.

Donnelly normally has his lighter handy. If not, I know he’ll have a spare matchbox nearby.

I take off in his direction, not looking into the eyes of any of my boys that pass me by. Today is not a day I can face them. The wounds from our victory are still too fresh.

But two of my boys walking towards me with a triumphant bounce in their steps wave me down. “Hey, Sarge!”

The uniform adorned by the prisoner they’re steering is sharp looking, even with the striking bloodstain on the left sleeve of the German boy’s jacket.

“Found him sleeping in the chapel, Sarge,” Davis, the private from Georgia tells me with a puffiness in his chest that only saddens me. “Gerry bastard’s a spy. He’d tried hiding his uniform, but we found it.”

He and the other private from Donnelly’s company laugh, each giving the boy a good shove.

“Lieutenant Price got us orders on him already, Sarge.”

For the briefest moment, I look into the hollow eyes of the young German before me. A spy, I would’ve never guessed. Perhaps I truly don’t believe it either. He doesn’t carry himself in such a manner. More than likely wrong place, wrong time. It’s an accusation that’s nearly impossible to beat, though.

And I’d say he’s resigned to his fate, as am I.

I’m given the smallest of nods from the boy, dropping his gaze to the muddy ground below.

I nod, telling my boys, “Carry on.”

Their mutterings and laughter fades away as they retreat.

Pulling my cigarette out from between my lips, I stuff it behind my ear and drop my head back to face the clouds above, squeezing my eyes shut as the tears slide down my temples and into my hair.

“Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer…” I whisper. “Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you life as your victor’s crown.”