Birdsong During Wartime

By Daniel Lumpkin

Each morning the birds begin their song minutes before the sun breaks over the eastern hills and mountains, the very spine of the world where men fought up and down on the ridge only weeks before. Men died. Our village only took losses in some farm buildings that could be repaired, but the families survived. The war moved on. Father said our troops pushed them out of the eastern lands and their tanks cannot traverse the bogs and marshes on the other side again. Some have been left to rust. Father knew much about the war and discussed it with the neighbors. They bring him letters to read from the front, the ones in a language they cannot read themselves, and he tells them what they say. Sometimes the messages are simple: Your son is in the hospital and is expected to recover… Many, though, have declared a boy from our village dead, written by the doctor or nurse who treated them.

My mother tends to our house, an old stone building with many rooms and windows. It was a gift to her from my father’s family when they were married. People remark on its beauty: a lawn so well-preserved, an apple orchard and vineyard, and a house many argue is either a castle or a mansion. It is neither. It is a former estate home that belonged to some dignitary before it was given to the professor and his new bride.

Travelers come and stay the night in the guest wing of the home. Many of them are couriers who bring news or supplies in carts, trying to find some military camp. We used to see the same ones, but then we only saw new faces after that.

“What happened to Gabriel?” I asked a new arrival, wearing the same gray uniform and hat as the young man that used to visit us when he had a delivery.

“I don’t know a Gabriel,” he said. “The last messenger with this route died.”

My father had jobs for me during those dark days. We would get a stack of papers, a portrait of different men all accused of the same crime: treason.

“Go and deliver these,” he said. “Give them to every household.”

“Why does the government give this job to us?” I asked.

“Because they think these men are close by,” my father said with a rare serious tone. Without students at the university, my father helped run some of the local government business of our small town, which primarily consisted of overseeing our post office. This was why he constantly read the newspapers, knowing which cities and towns and borders were under fire and which letters needed to be delayed. Everyone trusted my father.

One morning, as the last snowfall of the year came down on new flowers that had not budded yet in the early spring, my father requested that I head to the hillside.

“Is it safe?” I asked.

“We have not heard gunfire or their bombs for quite some time,” he said, patting me on the back.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“You’ll wait for a courier,” he said. “And you’ll lead them back to our village. It’s a special assignment.”

“Do they have a special letter?” I asked.

“I don’t know what they have,” he said. “But I am supposed to read the letter to the entire village tonight at a meeting.”

“It sounds important,” I said.

“It does,” he agreed.

“Do you think the war might be over?” I asked, but this question made my father sigh.

“How old are you?” He asked me, although he knew I was turning thirteen the next month. When I told him, he just shook his head.

“A father never wants his child concerned about war,” he said with a sigh. “Go, help this courier and then I want you to fish in the southern stream. They should be biting by now.”

“Yes, Father,” I said. He kissed the top of my head and sent me on my way.

I took the main path out of our village, past the crop fields and small herds, heading east towards a treeline that climbed up towards snow-capped mountains in the distance. I knew the courier would find this route as it was the easiest route through the pass. I wore a coat to fight the cold wind and sat in a dry patch of ground in the tall, dead grass. The sun warmed me as I read the book I brought and I occasionally looked up if I heard anything coming from the path, although it never was anything more than a squirrel or one of the neighbors’ herding dogs roaming beyond the fence.

Around the time when I wished I brought some bread or fruit from our pantry, I saw him: the courier, although he looked more like a wild beast than man. He walked with stiff legs that did not bend at the knee. His uniform, covered in caked black mud, fractured with each slow step, but he did not stop walking. I ran up to him and realized his face wasn’t just covered in black mud and soot, but there were dried flecks of blood. He barely blinked and even when I stood, only feet in front of him, he did not take his eyes off our village.

“You need help,” the most obvious words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Special delivery,” he wheezed in a hoarse voice. When he coughed, a small cloud of dust fell from his hair.

I wanted to tell him my father was expecting it, but the man fell in the road before I could.

“I’ll go get help,” I said, but before I could run down the road, he reached for me and gripped my wrist with alarming force. He pulled out two envelopes and thrust them into my palm.

“See that he gets these, brother,” the courier said. I sprinted down the road, tears streaming down my cheeks, wondering if the man would be dead or not by the time I found someone that could help him. I screamed by the time I reached the village. Soon, men with carts had loaded the man up and were rushing him back to the village doctor for treatment. My father attempted to speak to the courier, but the doctor explained that he was in shock.

“He gave these to me,” I told my father, handing him two envelopes. My father opened the first one and barely looked at it. It was a portrait of a man wanted for a crime I had not ever seen before: espionage. By the time my father had the second envelope opened, I saw the portrait on the floor. I reached for it and picked it up. I planned to give it to my father after he had finished reading the second letter, although he fell into the wall and slid down on the floor as he read.

“Demitri,” the others said in the doctor's office. “Are you alright?”

“The push failed,” my father said. “Our forces are retreating. The enemy is heading our way.”

“What should we do, Demitri?” This was always the question to my father, even before the war. Neighbors would come to him and ask him for wisdom and insight. He always gave it, usually with a pipe in his mouth and no matter what other pressing tasks required his time. My father listened and then gave guidance. He believed the easiest way to love someone was simply sit and listen, even if they didn’t want to talk.

“We need to make it as difficult as possible for the enemy to traverse the bog and get past the hills,” he said. “I need a census of every livestock animal. We will slaughter what we don’t absolutely need. We will cull them in the bog. That will bring flies and that will bring the mosquitos. If the enemy has to make it through, they will slowly traipse through poisoned water fighting clouds of insects.”

By that afternoon, word had spread quickly through our village. Each farmer donated what was absolutely necessary. A total of eighty animals, mainly consisting of cattle, sheep, and chickens were scheduled to be taken up through the hills and trees, through the pass and down into the bog on the other side where they would be slaughtered.

The next morning my father and the men in the village began their trek towards the treeline. Everyone old enough to help walked alongside these sweet creatures, leading them to their deaths. The men held whips and switch sticks to prod a stubborn animal. Somehow, I think they knew. In the bog, they panicked and called out in fear as the dark water became stained by fresh blood. The work was slow. By the end, all our clothes were stained red, our faces and hands too. The insects swarmed instantly. Some men stayed behind with my father to place each body strategically.

Each morning following that day of death, the smell came down through the trees and it was a little stronger each new day. I wondered if I would be able to smell it if I hadn’t been haunted by the day itself. Does innocence protect you or simply keep you from seeing the realities of the world?

By the next week we heard the loud guns again. People asked my father what we should do and his answer was simple.

“Carry on,” he said. “We are merely villagers in a town they don’t care for. Perhaps help will come before we see them.”

We didn’t see any couriers for some time after that. My father got word that reinforcements were on their way, that they might have to stay in our village, but we weren’t told when that would be or how many men we would make room for. It was a time of great unknowns. All life is an unknown, but when you feel the presence of your own ignorance and you can feel it staring you down, it can reduce a man substantially.

I saw that when men asked my father what they should do. They would weep while asking him that. These men lost their sons in war or were close to certain the news would come any day. My father held these men, smacking their backs and shoulders, and told them they must carry on.

“We don’t know anything,” he would say. “But we will one day.”

The courier that brought my father the news of the enemy fled during the night after weeks recovering and being taken care of by the doctor, his wife, and their two daughters. He asked Mary, his eldest daughter, to come with him, but she refused. The soldiers showed up, dozens of them, marching towards our village.

Their faces fresh and clean. Their eyes clear. They were young men who had not seen war yet. The captain, a short man with a stern expression and one of the few who seemed familiar with war, met with my father in his study for several hours. Our home had many soldiers in it waiting for word from their commanding officer. The village itself, too, had become overrun by men in uniform leaning against walls or sitting on the benches. Playing and laughing as the villagers carried on with their day. Some attempted to talk to the men. Others tried to ignore them. My mother said not to bother them. The shops sold cigarettes and magazines and newspapers. They sold out of anything to eat. Anytime a woman walked through the village, each man saw her. Some called out, but they mostly gazed as though they had never seen such a beautiful thing before in their lives. Perhaps they hadn’t. Some of the women, I assume, reminded them of someone back home.

That night in the church, my father stood in front of the entire village. They were worried the soldiers would be encamped in the crop fields.

“What are we to eat, Demitri?” The farmers asked.

“The soldiers will not camp in your fields,” my father answered. “They will be in the hills, under the cover of trees. They will set up there at the pass and either move out when ordered or engage with enemy forces from that point.”

“Have you told them about our slaughter?”

“Of course,” he said. “They will not go down to the bog. Word is that the enemy smelled the decay and has made every effort to avoid passing through, so we can call it a success for now.”

By the next day, the soldiers were gone. My father gave me the job of organizing all the children to clean the streets of the trash that the uniformed men left behind. They left all kinds of things behind. Books, pamphlets, military instruction manuals… I even found a Bible on a stone wall. We burned the trash and kept the treasures for ourselves. I did find one thing, however, that reminded me of the courier. A portrait of the man wanted for espionage. It made me think of the courier. I wondered if I would see his portrait soon. On the back of the bulletin, a soldier had scrawled in pencil notes on the man.

His name is William Burton.

He has committed no crime.

He was my chaplain in the barracks during training.

His thoughts on war do not align with the government’s objectives.

He has committed no crime.

I thought little of William Burton for weeks as the warmer weather chased the winter away and spring showers fell upon us. The rumble of thunder sometimes covered the sounds of distant war, but each day the gunshots and explosions came closer. The soldiers did not seem to stick around for long as they moved around the hillside and out towards the real battlefields, but every once in a while, I saw a supply platoon moving through the trees. I would meet with them and bring them a loaf of bread with a cup of butter. Whatever I offered disappeared quickly. They were always starved and grateful. Some of the thinnest soldiers I had ever seen looked upon me as though I were an angel clothed in white bearing the same miraculous mana that the Israelites ate in the desert.

One early morning I saw movement in the trees. It was raining, not hard, but enough to keep everyone inside. My mother reluctantly gave me a loaf and small cup of fresh butter, but told me not to spend too much time out in the rain for fear that I would get sick. I rushed out sprinting through the muddy path, splashing puddles and streaking through the road that cut through the largest fields. By the time I had reached the treeline, I looked around for the men, but I saw no one. The supply teams generally didn’t move fast. They were usually bogged down by heavy equipment, sometimes even cart guns with ammunition hanging like chains, but there was no one around.

“Soldier!” I called out. “I’ve brought you some bread and butter from my mother’s table. Take it and eat.”

After a few moments I heard a voice respond, but it didn’t shout back. It was hushed, just louder than the soft rain falling on the glistening wet leaves.

“Leave the bread and butter,” he said.

“My mother instructed me not to leave it,” I responded, not shouting because I knew the man was close enough, although hidden somewhere. My mother had already lost a good butter knife and small cup to soldiers not returning her items. I had to ask for both back and they were to give it to me. For a long time, I did not hear the soldier reply. I believed the man wasn’t hungry, so I turned and began to head back to the village before I heard him call out to me.

“Wait!” He said, the sound of desperate hunger in his voice. I heard him move down from the tall limbs and land on the soft ground. It wasn’t until he got close, only feet from me, when I realized why he hid. He wasn’t a supply soldier. It was the spy William Burton.

I froze. He stood before me.

“May I have the bread?” He asked. I didn’t move until he asked again. I gave him the linen-wrapped loaf and he opened the cloth and smelled the bread. He closed his eyes. I couldn’t tell if a tear fell from his cheek or it was merely the rain, but he was hungry enough to cry. The man had no fat on him. I understood, by looking at him, what skin and bone really meant.

“Thank you,” he said, but before he ate, he prayed. I recognized the prayer as Christ’s prayer. The one he taught his disciples to pray.

“I know you,” I said to him as he scooped butter into his mouth and ate a bite out of the loaf. He merely shook his head.

“You’re mistaken,” he said, in between bites. “I come from up north, the city, you know? I’ve never come this far south before.”

“I’ve seen your poster,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say that only a child would. Had it been any other soldier, a man afraid for his life, I believe they would have thought to kill me. This man didn’t not nor shake his head. He kept his eyes on the village and ate.

“Would you like any wine?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’ve found a well that I draw from.”

“The Prichart’s well,” I said, knowing the fields well. “It’s a good well. But I meant for communion. You’re a chaplain, aren’t you? A man of God?”

William looked at me.

“How did you know that?” He asked me. I told him of the specific poster I found about where someone had written his name, his job, and that he had committed no crime.

“Do you know the man that would have written that?” I asked him.

“I can think of some,” he said, but he shook his head. “But, no, I don’t. It’s encouraging, though.”

“So you are innocent?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I’m guilty under military law, but I hope to be innocent in the eyes of God.”

“What is your crime?” I asked him. “What are you accused of?”

“Doing something a soldier shouldn’t do,” he said, but he merely smiled and left it at that, even when I asked him to continue. “I would like some wine for communion. How much will it cost?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I bring wine and bread to soldiers all the time from our table.”

“For communion?”

“Sustenance,” I said, shaking my head.

“Still doing God’s work, son,” he said and he patted me on the shoulder. “Yes, please, if you’re able. I would love to have a little wine for communion.”

I turned and ran, telling him I would be right back, but when I returned with the wine bottle, he was nowhere to be seen. On the fence near where we spoke, where I left him, was the folded linen that held the bread and the cup that once held the gob of butter. The butter knife was there, too. I took my mother’s things, realizing the man had probably gone on, but I left the opened bottle of wine for him by the post. Perhaps he was out there, thinking I might come back with authorities. I thought to. I knew I could. There was something about him, though, that made me believe him. I also pitied him. Perhaps I was also guilty of treason. This was a thought that weighed on me as the morning rain ceased and the afternoon soon ushered in sunlight. By the time my father came home from his duties that day, he found me in his study, my eyes filled with dread as I stared into the empty fireplace.

“What is it, boy?” He said, taking off his coat.

“I’ve done something wrong, father,” I said.

“What is it?” He asked, that rare, serious tone of voice. I hated hearing it.

“I believe I’ve committed treason,” I said.

“How did you do that?” He asked, walking over to me, but smiling with pity.

“I bring bread to the soldiers,” I said. He nodded and sat in the arm chair across from me. “I saw a soldier today and brought him bread, but I recognized this soldier, father. Once he came out of hiding, I recognized him. He’s one of the ones in the bulletins.”

“Those men are criminals, my boy,” he said, a serious expression replacing his smile. “Are you sure it was one of the men?”

“Yes,” I said. “He was starving, father. I gave him the bread and said I knew him. I offered him wine for communion. I knew he was a chaplain.”

“How?” He asked me and I pulled out the bulletin I found.

“This is him, father,” I said and I handed the paper to my father. He took it and read it.

“These men are dangerous,” he said. “So you brought him wine for communion?”

“Yes,” I said. “Did you bring anyone with you? Any authorities?”

“No,” I said. “He was hungry and tired.”

“That’s no excuse,” he said. “Come, show me where you met this man.”

My father stood and put his coat back on.

“Father,” I said. “I don’t want anything to happen to this man.”

“Nor do I,” he said. “But he’s done wrong and he must be responsible for whatever actions he’s taken. Now, come and show me.”

I led my father outside and we took the dirt road through the town and all the way out to the

eastern fields which were full of crops and towards the trees and hills beyond. I stopped at the fence as the sun descended halfway behind the horizon behind our village.

“I left the wine bottle right here,” I said, pointing to the fence post. “He must have come along and taken it after I left. Do you think he’s run off, father?”

“Most likely,” my father said, but he didn’t sound convinced by his words. He stepped towards the trees.

“Soldier!” He called out. “If you are a man of God, come out. Stand righteously.”

And then my father spoke in one of the languages he knew.

“What did you say?” I asked him, but he kept his eyes on the trees. Then, the soldier emerged from the trees cautiously. My father gestured for him to stay in the treeline, out of sight and walked over to him.

“If someone sees you, they could report you,” my father said.

“Will you not report me yourself?” He asked.

“I haven’t decided,” my father answered. “Espionage is what you’re wanted for. What did you do?”

“A commanding officer found me where they kept the captured soldiers,” he said. “I prayed with them. I read to them from their religious texts. Some of them shared the same religion with me, others held their nation’s beliefs.”

“That’s a crime during war?”

“In the minds of some commanders, yes,” he said. “One commanding officer was disgusted by my actions. He hates his enemy. He hates me. Accused me of passing secrets I do not have to them. He even said I tried to help them escape. They never attempted escape and they were executed days after. But he filed the paperwork and he outranks me. Upon my capture, I will be executed as well.”

“You can’t merely execute prisoners of war,” my father said.

“Commander Norris behaves in a brutal fashion free from any codes or decrees.”

“You put my family at risk,” my father said. “You put my village at risk. Where can you go?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I come from up north. I’ve never seen fields or farmland until I became

a soldier. The further south I go, the more soldiers there are. Same with heading east. But I cannot go back home. Tell me, how did you know Aramaic?”

“I’m a professor,” my father said.

“He knows many languages,” I said, but my father’s glance at me told me I wasn’t to speak again.

“Of theology? Of religion?”

“Of history,” my father corrected.

“Aramaic isn’t widely discussed by history scholars,” he said. “Surely you-”

“As a young man, I studied theology, but I was asked to leave, so I began to study history.”

“Why were you asked to leave?” William asked.

“I saw how the church became infiltrated by ideas held by bureaucrats rather than men of God,” my father said. “Before the war even began.”

“It’s only gotten worse,” William said.

“I know,” my father responded. “How did you survive the bogs? Are the mosquitos gone?”

“Not at all,” he said. “There’s so many. They block out the sun. In the bog, there’s a small yellow flower, the marigold, that grows well. If you rub the flower on your skin, it will repel them.”

“How’d you discover that?” My father asked.

“Botany is my favorite science,” he said. My father nodded.

“What should I do?” William asked. “I don’t want to put you or your family at risk.”

“You already have,” my father said, studying the choices. “Wait in the trees until nightfall. I’ll figure out a plan.”

“Why are you helping me?” William asked. “You have nothing to gain and plenty to lose.”

“You might be one of the only men of God left,” my father said. “It’s all been corrupted. The church now is merely a megaphone for the powers in charge. Helping you is something I feel called to do.”

“Thank you,” William said.

“Go,” my father commanded. “Now. Stay hidden and wait for me.”

My father and I walked back home and he instructed me to never speak of the man to anyone. I agreed. I went to bed that night hoping my father would ask me to assist him, but he never did. That morning I woke up with rain tapping lightly on my windows, the sky only gray clouds. My mother sat in the study with my father. They both sipped from their cups and clearly had been waiting on me to wake.

“Come in here and close the door, please,” my mother said. I did as I was instructed and sat when my father gestured with his hand to the small couch directly across from the one they shared.

“The man you met in the woods,” My father said. “He is in the old stable barn and he will be there until this evening. He will set out tonight towards the coast. I will give him some money and perhaps he can bribe his way onto a shipping vessel, but that’s all I can do. I don’t have any contacts at the harbor. You will not speak to him or go and see him.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He’s resting, for one,” my father said. “But mainly because of how dangerous this situation is. If anyone discovers him or hears whispers that we ever did such a thing as helping a man wanted for espionage, our family would be taken away. Most likely, we would never see each other again.”

“You can’t do anything like this ever again,” my mother said.

“Yes, mother,” I said, feeling the deepest sense of guilt. “Why are we helping him?”

“I believe it is the right thing to do,” my father said, although he didn’t sound entirely convinced himself. “I’ve heard of Commander Norris. Everything that Chaplain Burton said about him seems to fit. He’s been injured in this war and due to his injuries, he has been forbidden from commanding in battle, so he has been relegated to chasing down deserters, betrayers, and men like the Chaplain.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re helping him,” I said. “What should I do today?”

“What you would normally,” my father said.

“And don’t go anywhere near the old stable,” my mother added. “Stay away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“And don’t speak to anyone about this. Ever.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Promise her,” my father said.

“I promise.”

I stepped forward and hugged her and she kissed me on the head.

“Do you have tutoring this morning?” He asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Go get ready for that,” he said and I left the sitting room saddened that I would never see the chaplain soldier again. I dressed in my room and grabbed the books I needed for my private lesson. I met my tutor, Ms. Lira, at the library for a few hours where we would discuss arithmetic, history, and science. Then she would assign two literature books for me to read each week.

Ms. Lira never smiled. I simply thought it was because she had not married, but my mother said that she was betrothed to a boy in a neighboring village who was off at war. I never saw Ms. Lira with a picture of the man she was supposed to marry and I didn’t want to ask. She had a sturdiness to her, rather than a grace that some of the prettier women in the village possessed. Her hands and arms were thick, as well as her legs and neck. Her eyes were dark brown but lacked any warmth whatsoever. I never heard her laugh and her dark hair of spiral curls could only be tamed, it seemed, by a long handkerchief which she wore everyday.

We went through my work diligently. She was not one to talk of other things and she had always been quite strict on me. By the time I was to leave for lunch, I felt entirely stupid. In arithmetic, I had only got two of the problems correct, which Ms. Lira chided me quite sternly for. In history and science, I felt more lost than usual. I couldn’t keep my mind on the tasks at hand. No, my mind went back to the chaplain. I hoped my mother gave him more than just bread. Perhaps she had a stew prepared or something to warm him on this damp day. I knew the old barn had walls that slowly fell down from age and disrepair.

Ms. Lira warned me that upon returning for lunch, I must be ready to discuss my readings and if I failed that, too, she would send me home with a note to my mother. I ate at home in the kitchen, knowing my father was in his study and my mother was probably out at the shops or meeting with some of the other wives in town.

On my way to the library, walking carefully on the cobblestone path into the main part of the village, I heard a commotion down the street. It was a small band of soldiers wearing darkened uniforms from the rain, although they had special, matching seals on both shoulders. It was a symbol of the oval shield in our country’s colors: crimson and yellow and a silver sword sat atop the shield with the blade aiming up.

A young soldier cried out in the rain.

“Attention!” He yelled out. “Attention all citizens! Under the command of our dear leader and our loving Lord, this regiment, led by Commander Arthur Norris, will immediately seek room and board in your residences as we carry out our tasks! Commander Norris requests a meeting with town leadership at once!”

It couldn’t be. I stood still, feeling ill as the name rattled in my mind. My neighbors turned and looked around. When they saw me, they pointed.

“Go and get your father, boy,” they said. “This boy’s father is the one you wish to speak with.”

I ran back to the house through the rain and puddles and mud.

“Father!” I cried out.

“What is it?” My father answered, coming down the hall from his study with a book in his hand.

“Commander Norris wants to speak with you,” I said. My father didn’t hesitate. He moved quickly, putting on his coat and taking my umbrella.

“Can I come-”

“Absolutely not,” my father said.

“Where is he?”

“Town square.”

“Stay here,” he ordered. I watched my father leave, standing on the front steps of our home as he walked briskly down the footpath towards the center of the village where the new soldiers were. I looked back inside my home for some sign of my mother. The home seemed empty. I waited for a few moments and then made my way down the path as well, hoping to avoid my father’s sight.

By the time I got to the square, seemingly the entire village had gathered and they stood attempting to avoid the rain by huddling under umbrellas, tree branches, or small stoops. I overheard some of the men say that my father went into the church. They said an important looking commander had already been waiting for him there, along with the minister. The soldiers surrounded the church as though they waited for an invasion. My father emerged from the church and there was something in his eyes I had not seen before. It wasn’t fear, but something closely related. His voice was calm, collected, almost comforting.

“A decree from our government,” my father read. “Commander Arthur Norris and his regiment will embark on a mission searching for enemies of the nation’s great military effort. The war office has given him authority to temporarily take power in any city, village, town, hamlet, or other community. Under good information, they believe enemies are hidden in the hills around the village and we are instructed to house them and feed them. Now a word from Commander Norris himself.”

My father moved down from the stairs and the entire village looked towards the two open doors of the church, waiting for the military officer. A man stepped out wearing a decorated uniform with ribbons and medals hanging from his breast coat. His hair was cut very close on the sides and back. He left his dark hair longer on top, but swept it back and slicked it with some oil. His face wore a stern expression of contempt and anger. Starting from his scalp over his right eye, a long, deep, jagged scar ran down across his left eye, curling just under his left ear. The scar shortened his eyebrow considerably and he wore a patch over his left eye, although his patch wasn’t the typical black fabric. No, it glinted. It was made of thick metal.

He stood and looked out across the village, scanning through the crowd, attempting to see all of our faces.

“Weakness,” he said. “Slaughtering animals to avoid the enemy… Weakness. War… War is good for the soul. Every household is expected here tonight. Bring a donation of food and drink. The best from your table. My men are famished.”

“Who is it that you’re looking for?” One of the men in the crown called out. Commander Norris had already begun to turn and head back into the church, but stopped after hearing the question.

“A betrayer of our country and a betrayer of our God,” he said, after turning around to face the crowd again. “This man, a man who served our brave forces as a chaplain, prayed with our enemies. He brought them through their own rituals, the same ones that call for our slaughter. The same rituals where they recite from their blasphemous text that call for our extinction. I heard him utter those words. Above that, he attempted to help these prisoners escape, putting our soldiers at risk. Traitors deserve a traitor’s death, but those who sin against the most-high God deserve their everlasting torment. I am certain God has called me to deliver him.”

I stood transfixed, listening to the Commander, so much so that I didn’t see my father moving through the crowd towards me.

“What are you doing here?” He asked in a hushed tone. “I told you to stay home.”

“I’m sorry, father,” I said. There was no use in lying. “I was worried that you might-”

“Is that your boy?” The Commander asked. Everyone in the town turned and looked at my father and I. He stood in front of me.

“My apologies,” my father said. “He was instructed to stay home.”

“Boy, come up here,” the Commander ordered. I didn’t move. My father held out his hand.

“Please, sir, my son simply needs to follow his father’s instructions,” my father said.

“He needs to follow mine as well,” the Commander said and he snapped his fingers sharply. My father loosened his hand blocking me. As I passed him I heard him tell me that I would be alright. It certainly didn’t feel that way as I walked up the church stairs and stood next to Commander Norris. He grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face the crowd.

“Prepare my seal,” he said to one of his men, who disappeared into the church. “You disobeyed your father?”

“Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes,” I repeated.

“Why?”

“I was scared for him.”

“Scared for him?” Norris asked. “What’s to fear?”

“Soldiers in the village scare me,” I said.

“You’re lucky we’re here,” he said. “Imagine how scary it would be if I wasn’t on your side, yes? Do you see, now? I care for you, boy. I care for your father and mother. I care for this village. See them all. Look out there. Do you see? They are my children. I care for them and want to protect them. You are mine, child, yet you disobeyed. Do you know what that means?”

I shook my head.

“You must face discipline,” the Commander said, and when he did my father attempted to rush the steps of the church, only to be restrained by two soldiers, one of which hit my father so hard in the head that his eyes opened wide and his body went rigid, holding an awkward pose that looked inhuman. I screamed out, but the Commander grabbed my arm.

“That was your doing, boy!” He said. “Now, take your punishment. You will thank me. You will see it as a medicine for your own self-destructive tendencies. You will be proud of my mark.”

The soldier that had been sent inside the church came out again holding an iron rod while wearin a pair of gloves. The soldier took one glove off, handing the iron rod to the Commander and then took the other glove off, helping his officer put it on.

“I put my name on every action I take,” Commander Norris said. “Even conscripted, I need the world, history writers, to know it was I who worked as I am commanded. I am proud of the work I do. It is work men shy away from, but I say, again, that war is good for the soul. This tool holds my seal. I place it on every man I am responsible for. The men you see around you? They have my mark. This village will have my mark. I am giving this boy a gift. My mark. A reminder to always honor his father and mother.”

The Commander nodded and the soldier grabbed me as some in the crowd screamed out. Other soldiers unshouldered their rifles and aimed it at the crowd.

“Do not rebuke righteous work!” The Commander cried out before slamming the hot steel into my skin. My skin bubbled, smoked, and the pain was so great that I fell into darkness.

I awoke several times, but only in flashes before fading again. Doctor Maurice dripped a syringe into my wound each time I awoke and I soon fell back into unconsciousness again.

It was dark by the time I woke up. There was a thickly wrapped bandage on my left hand and the pain still shot through my arm if I moved my fingers. I got up slowly, quietly, realizing I was in my own bed. I moved down the hall where I heard voices in the sitting room. My mother and father were speaking in hushed tones. When they heard me slide the pocket door open, they both turned. My father’s head had been bandaged and he had a pained look in his eyes, yet when he saw me, he reached for me.

I went to him and he hugged me and kissed the top of my head.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

I just hugged him, hoping he wouldn’t see my tears.

“You must go back to bed,” my mother said. “Your father needs rest.”

“Why is he here?” I asked, seeing my father laying on the couch with a pillow and blanket from his bed.

“Commander Norris has taken our room,” she said. I could not make her face out well in the dark study, but the thought of that man in our home terrified me.

“What about the soldiers?” I asked. “Are they sleeping in our home?”

“Many will,” she said. “They are out tonight searching through the village for…”

Her voice trailed off and we did not speak. I wanted to sleep in the sitting room with them. I made a spot on the floor near both of my parents. I wondered about the chaplain and realized all of this came upon us because of him.

I did not sleep that night, or if I did, it was a waking, restless sleep with horrifying thoughts on the

man who now slept in my parents’ bed. For the first time in my life I prayed a terrible prayer. I asked God that the chaplain would die so the Commander would not find out that we ever helped him.

I envied the birds when I awoke and heard their song. I heard their songs throughout my life, but it was this morning I truly understood the separation between man and animal. Their song carries on as we slowly march towards death. We all march, but they keep singing.

I sat up on the floor and looked to the couch on either side of me at both of my sleeping parents. They slept quietly, their inhales slow and gradual, followed by a minor deflation. Both startled awake when a soldier entered the room.

“The Commander requests your presence at breakfast,” the soldier said, standing firm and looking towards the ceiling with bleary blue eyes. My mother helped my father sit up. He grimaced from the pain in his head. My father held my mother’s arm as we moved together, slowly down the hall of our own home, yet it did not feel like our home anymore. An invasion changes the landscape of what you recognize and our home looked strangely foreign to me, although nothing had changed with one exception. Once we arrived in the dining room, the Commander sat at the head of the long table. It was a stark image. I could not see below the table due to the tablecloth, but I believed him to be naked other than his heavily decorated military sash over his pale body. He had mass to him, the man was fleshy, but the Commander was dense with fat and muscle. When we walked in and stood at the other end of the table, the Commander smiled, pausing from slicing a thick slab of steak and motioned for us to come and sit with him, like we were old friends. He beckoned us with a steak knife dripping reddish brown fat. He smiled with meat in his teeth.

“Good morning,” he said as we sat all together on one side of the table. “No, no… boy, sit here. To my left.”

“We would like him-” My father began to say, but stopped upon the Commander’s rather stark expression change. He went from grinning, chewing fat and bleeding muscle to a dead-eyed thousand-yard stare. He looked forward.

“You don’t want me to insist,” he said flatly.

“Go ahead, son,” my father said. Reluctantly I moved around the table and as I walked around the Commander, who kept his eyes on me, turning his head as I passed behind him, the smile came back to his face again.

“That’s a good boy,” the Commander said.

“Do you have any children?” My mother asked, attempting to find human layers to the man who sat before us, naked as a baby.

“No,” the Commander said, as though answering a question similar to if he partook in a particular hobby. “I’ve always been militarily minded. Even as a young boy. Anything that draws my attention away from that is simply a distraction. Some Generals make fantastic fathers, but usually having children weakens a military instinct. It brings out a protective mindset, and while that can be beneficial, I believe the battlefield needs men who have a mindset dedicated to destroying the enemy and not thinking about those back home.”

“Are you married?” My mother asked.

“I’ve buried both women I married,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” my mother said. The Commander made an expression, not of grief, but of boredom, as though the sympathy had no true effect on him.

“Death is all there is,” he said.

“What?” My father asked.

“A man’s life should only be defined by how he dies,” the Commander said. “And the greatest death is on the battlefield.”

“And during a time of peace?” My father asked.

“A time of peace is a waste of time, scholar,” the Commander responded, continuing to eat his breakfast before releasing a single, startling bark of a laugh. “In general, there aren’t many differences between Civilian and Soldier, but when you get to the mentality… that’s where you see that we are much like a different species. Now, tell me, boy. What are the goals for your life? What do you want to be responsible for doing?”

“I want to do well in school,” I said.

“Yes, and?”

“Perhaps study law, or history, like my father.”

“History?” The Commander asked, befuddled looking around the large dining room. “A history scholar can afford such luxury?”

“My grandfather started a manufacturing plant,” my father said.

“Ah,” the Commander said. “I assume they build war needs, now?”

“Yes.”

“And?” The Commander gestured, clearly interested. “What do they make?”

“Munitions,” my father said. The Commander laughed again, but this time he coyly tried to hide his laughter from us, yet he was unable to.

“My word,” he said, before apologizing. “Forgive me, but you must love war more than I. Surely you have more blood on your hands than I. Not many can say that.”

“No,” my father said. “No one should love war.”

“When do you go and fight, boy?” The Commander asked, ignoring my father’s response.

“In five years,” I said.

“Would you like to go earlier?” He asked, as though was offering me some supreme gift. “I can have one of my secretaries draw up the paperwork. It would be easy. Say the word, boy, and I can give that to you.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to fight. I pray the war is over by then.”

“Over? How? We’ve conquered the barbarians in the east or they’ve conquered us here?”

“That, or a treaty.”

“There’s no treaty with those animals,” he said, his voice turning into a growl.

“How do you reason that?” My father said slowly. Even with a brain injury, his brain was superior to most. “You claim to follow God yet you don’t follow his most difficult command.”

“Which is that?” The Commander asked.

“Love your enemy,” my father said.

“I do love my enemy,” he said, finishing the steak in front of him. “I love them as soon as they become my enemy. I love them as I thrust my bayonet into their side or my bullet rips into their meat. The man who marked me. He was my enemy. I love him for it. Surely you noticed, boy.”

I stared at the Commander and he drew up his knife again and tapped the blade onto his medal patch. The metal strikes tinged like a drummer’s cymbals. I nodded, but looked away.

“Curiosity is good,” he said. “Ask me.”

“How… How did that happen?”

“I was young, maybe a few years older than you. I ran away from home to fight. Made my way into an outfit of soldiers that were good at what they did. I joined up with them and they taught me their trade. We traveled far, southern seas and eastern mountains, finding battles everywhere we went. One night, I was on guard duty and we were ambushed by natives in some jungle. They struck quickly, but were overmatched. One had a rough blade left behind by some soldier in some foreign war. He slashed me. Removed my eye in the process, but I continued to fight. I ended up the victor and I broke that blade and fashioned it as a patch to commemorate my evolution. I was a man that day. A true man: a warrior. I love the savage who did this. I still have a part of him if you would ever like to see it.”

“A part of him?” I asked and my father had to stop my mother from objecting.

“A trophy of war? You’ve never seen one?” The Commander asked me. “I have several, many of which would be valuable in museums, but that particular one is priceless to me.”

He looked around the table, hungry for praise for admiration, although we sat silent.

“Perhaps you’re hungry?” He asked. “Once fed, we can begin our day.”

The Commander clapped his hands and the soldiers came in from the servant’s entrance with metal trays and metal covers, placing them before us. The soldiers stood besides each one of us, ready to unveil our breakfast. The Commander nodded and the metal covers were removed. Nothing was on the bare white plates my parents got at their wedding.

“This is our breakfast?” My mother asked. He stared at her, starting to respond and looked at each one of us as he answered slowly.

“Traitors,” he said to her.

“Conspirators,” he added, looking at my father.

“And prisoners do not eat.” he said looking at me.

He nodded again and the soldiers reached for us holding our heads against the table as the Commander sipped from his cup. My father begged, my mother cried. The Commander barely reacted.

“Take them,” he said.

“What have we done?” My father asked, but the Commander simply laughed. They tied our hands roughly with rope so tightly that I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. The soldiers stood us upright and escorted us out of the dining room and out of our own home. We went out to the backyard and down the path through the gardens, through the trees. The birds continued to sing as I heard my mother crying. I cried, too, when my father told us both that everything would be alright. My father never lied and he was quick to encourage others, especially me, and I knew he was trying to give us hope, but his words never sounded more deceitful.

We came to the old barn in the southern pasture and inside there were soldiers moving about behind the slender gaps in the atrophying walls. The trees swayed in the breeze and the buzzing of the pollinators never seemed to stop.

“What are we doing here?” My father asked.

“Silence,” one of the soldiers said. “The Commander will tell you all you need to hear.”

I saw dangling debris caught in broken webs that looked as though it was hovering all by itself. Strands of an abandoned web provided beauty in the world. Even broken, nature is beautiful. Man is the opposite. They kept us outside in the heat for what felt like a long time until the Commander made his way down from the house to us, wearing his uniform. He whistled and suddenly his soldiers came out of the barn like well-trained dogs.

“Show them,” the Commander said and one of the soldiers stepped forward with a wine bottle, most likely the one I left for the chaplain when I met him. “A bottle of good wine. Not something a farmhand would have left behind.”

“I don’t know what this proves,” my father said.

“You helped him, clearly,” the Commander said. “You gave him wine from your cellar.”

“This could have been left by anyone,” my father said. “Soldiers have passed through our village all the time. My son, when he sees them in the hills, will bring them food and wine.”

“Don’t lie, scholar,” the Commander said.

“It’s true,” I said. “I bring them bread, cheese if we have any about to expire, and wine.”

“Bread and wine,” he said. “Do you bring them communion?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just bring them food. The men always look hungry to me.”

I heard more activity in the barn as more soldiers moved around behind the wooden planks and beams. My view was obscured by their constant activity, but the commotion continued to draw my eyes back to whatever mystery carried on. The Commander saw me, saw my gaze, and he smiled.

“Ask, boy,” he said.

I shook my head.

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” I said.

“Then ask,” he said. “The truth will set you free.”

“What’s happening in there?” I asked. The Commander grinned in the sunlight, rays of light cast from the sun reflected in his blade patch and cast light down on the earth beneath him.

“Bring the spy,” the Commander called out. The loyal soldiers moved again from within the barn, quickly finishing their work. It took ten of them to carry it: a wooden cross. The Chaplain, William Burton, held there with spikes hammered into the lumber. His body laid limply as he bled and stared up at us. His eyes heavy from the pain and fatigue.

“Why?” My father breathed. “What’s this man done?”

“He’s abandoned everything in his life,” the Commander said. “His faith, his sworn oath as a soldier. I wanted to remind him of what he left behind. Perhaps save him in his final moments.”

“You’re disgusting!” My mother yelled, forcing the soldier to have to hold her back from charging the Commander.

“Take her to the barn,” the Commander said. “You think your punishment will be any different, woman?”

My father then lunged, screaming, and the Commander wordlessly nodded for the soldier restraining my father to take him to the barn as well. I screamed and cried and fell loosely to the ground. I swore and begged God to do something. These were the most profound words my soul had ever uttered and yet I was met with the sounds of my parents’ screams and nails being hammered.

“And you, boy?” The Commander asked. “Do you want to go the way of suffering or the way of glory and honor? I can give you a chance to have the greatest death of all. In the splendor of the battlefield. Or you can die here alongside these traitors of God and country.”

I suddenly couldn’t hear anything. I no longer felt the clutch of the rope on my wrists or even the imminent swing of death’s long stroke. I felt nothing, but I heard their song. Birdsong. It isn’t apathetic, but rather those pristine notes describe the purest joy in the greatest suffering. I saw it reflected before me. I saw it everywhere I looked. I fell to my knees, the soldier not knowing what to do with me.

“I long to rest where angels slumber,” I said. “Where peace grows wild and green.”

They believed I had broken by all I had seen.

“Do you see, boy?” The Commander asked me. “Do you see, now, how war is good for the soul?”

There was no lumber or nails left. The Commander gave an order that his soldier hesitated at, so the Commander himself bent down on one knee and held the back of my head to where our skulls touched. In the distance I heard joyous birdsong.

THE END