What They Were Actually Like

Zak Barham

To this day, I wonder why I, a monster, survived and not one of my many wide-eyed soldiers. Before I knew it, I was giving people orders, inspiring my comrades, telling them to give their hearts to America. I fooled my comrades. Fooled myself. I was no leader. I was a betting man. I assigned everything to luck, every tough decision I made was a gamble, and my last gamble had been a bust. And now on top of a mountain of their corpses, I stand.

What a beautiful view I must have.

I imagine their lifeless eyes staring back up at me, their lips that once formed hearty grins twisted together in grimace, colour draining from their faces, while shadows claimed their features. Blood shining a bright crimson thrived against such a dull backdrop. The torso I was balanced on felt limp beneath my boots. Glaring up in wonder, they wanted to know what we would do with the sacrifices they had made, what would become of the hearts they gave?

There was a distinct drumming at the front door. “I despise crows, do you know that Levi?” I could hear the rhythmic thumping of Levi’s tail against the armchair as he cautiously eyed our front door. Anxious whimpering filled the otherwise silent room. Ignoring the gradual increase in pace and ferocity of the knocks, I continued.

“They are the maggots of the animal kingdom.”

I stroked Levi’s matted mane, attempting to bring comfort to his quivering body. It wasn’t enough. My ears were soon deafened by barking as he charged towards the window, scaring the intruders off for what seemed to be the fifth time this week. I guess he must hate the way they peer at me through the glass like I was some caged monster. Or he must hate the way they always yelled names like “baby killer”, from a distance.

I had grown attached to that doting dog. I saw Denny in how he’d protect me. I’d always wished he wouldn't. I could never understand Denny’s selflessness; how he saw my miserable life worth more than his. It had never made sense to me, his life had had so much more potential. He’d had a girl back home, Sophie, the name of the girl he would always ramble on about. He would tell us about the way her bright orange hair flowed down to her ankles and the way her sunny smile never faded. I wonder if she was still able to smile, after hearing what he had died for. I wish I could see his bright, smiling face again, but the crows tore it apart. They devoured his bright blue eyes like hors d'oeuvres and dined on the heart he gave.

“Tick”

The clock continues to tick like this without fail as days pass. Finding purpose is hard and finding a job is even harder. No one wants a murderer for hire, not even the butcher. The only break in the monotony of life is me and Levi’s nightly patrols of the block. Midnight is the best time to avoid interaction; the darkness an escape from the sniper-scope eyes that trace me as I walk. I remember one such reconnaissance where I failed to adhere to this schedule, Levi and I were approached by Josh Lakley’s sister with an invitation to the funeral they would be holding for him in three days. The exchange itself wasn’t all bad; she seemed very kind. However, due to the way the funeral turned out, from then on, I ensured I kept to this nightly timetable.

It was an extraordinary ceremony. You could tell Josh’s mother had put many months into its planning. Levi, with his head firmly pressed against my shoe for the majority of the service, didn’t enjoy it. He had never liked these sorts of things; I presume he could sense the sombre nature of the gathering. Amongst the chatter, I overheard someone mentioning that there wasn't much of him left, and they were right, we had left his guts in Vietnam. The crows had gotten to him before us. They tore him to shreds and, in their bloodlust, distorted his image. He came back a grotesque mess. And that's all people saw him as. The birds cared not for his sacrifice; he was just a meal to them. The heart he gave, the cherry on top.

What made this funeral unforgettable, was the moment I felt a trembling hand grasp mine.

“You’re Commander Erwin aren't you... His sacrifice...was it meaningless?”

A voice blurted out before I could even respond, “Is America better off thanks to the heart he gave?”

I stood, speechless. After an eternity, the hand retracted and the voice exclaimed, “I’m so sorry. It just seems like such a waste. Thank you for looking after my son.”

Even then, I could sense that this gratitude was forced. It had become apparent to me why, after months of careful and meticulous planning, I had been invited. That was the last funeral I ever went to.

It wasn’t that she intimidated me; I understood her pain. It was just that I came to realise I wasn’t wanted. No one wants to mourn with the murderer. It really must have been hard for her to come to terms with Josh’s death. The two of them had been inseparable ever since his father had left. Protecting her had been the only reason he ever signed up for this godforsaken war. I guess that was the reason we used to call him mommy’s boy as, without fail, after every recon, demolition and rescue mission, he would bury himself deep in his foxhole to write home to his mother. He would ask how her day had been, if her hands had stopped shaking, how Josie's studies were going, if she had taken her medicine that morning, if her boss Darren was treating her alright, what the gossip was, if Petra had ever brought his name up in conversation. His letters had always gone on and on. Despite all his mother’s probing, he never mentioned the war. How could he. He knew she didn’t want to hear about the lump of metal that whizzed past his right cheek, or about the screams the children had made as napalm scorched their backs, or about the way the crows cawed as they circled above us. Looking back, the only time he had ever alluded to the war was when assuring her that he would stay safe, knowing that “the great Commander Erwin was leading him”.

How terribly wrong he had been.

On May Seventh, 1961, I sent his last letter home alongside a mangled corpse.

“Tick”

Rain pounds excessively onto the miserable roof as the fire smoulders, lapping lazily against the few shards of newspaper that remain, encasing the room in a faint haze. It will take a great deal of poking and prodding to keep the flames motivated and I can’t be bothered. Something about the rain's metronome leaves me reflecting this time, like many others, on the words she had spoken. It pains me to say this, but I think she was right – what exactly had their sacrifices changed? The war was still raging and would continue to rampage like a fierce monsoon.

Their sacrifices had changed nothing; the purple hearts they gave, glorified bird feed.

They weren’t heroes. They weren’t important. And yet their stories are still worth telling, aren't they? Maybe that was my purpose, why I was left alive, maybe the mountain of their corpses was the perfect vantage point to tell the world. Thanks to the attitude to the war, no one wanted to listen. Levi was the best I could manage. I told him everything, making no excuses. I told him about Kenny, and how he always smoked his dope after a successful mission, until his legs were blown off by a stray landmine. I told him about Danny, and how he always kept a polaroid of Sophie stapled to the brim of his cap. I told him about how the Vietnamese children screamed as their brothers' heads hit the floor. I told him about John, and how he always recovered dog-tags, till his head had been blown clean off retrieving Kenny’s. I told him about Josh, and how he sobbed as he watched a village burn. Finally, even though Levi probably didn’t understand a word, I felt better.

“Tick”

Sure, in the end we all became monsters, but at least we weren't crows. Those were the true predators perched at their oak desks, ordering noble men to give their lives for a war that meant nothing. From the safety of the treeline, they watched, waiting to swoop in and feast on the sacrifices we soldiers made. They not only lived on the hearts we gave, but they thrived on them. They were the true enemy.