Three Bullets

The world was slowly adapting to the present changes, sounds of bullets and bombardments instead of birds, the smell of gunpowder instead of flowers and the echoes of the sobbing families, whose husband, son, brother or father had recently lost their lives in the frontlines, filled the atmosphere. The “Great War” as it was dubbed, had been continuing for over two years and no one knew when it would end.

One day after the weekly meeting in the Town Hall, discussing the necessities of helping the families in these times and preaching how the soldiers were being imprisoned and tortured by the opposition, John and George came out with their own opinions. With boiling blood and raging passion John climbed on the nearest boulder and proclaimed, “I am going to be a soldier.” The motivating speech at the Town Hall by the renowned orator, Rev. Richard Williams, had excited him and the thought of dying for his country suddenly sounded heroic to the lad.

“Are you serious?” said George, looking incredulously at his friend's passionate face as he stared at the horizon with his fist clenched in the air as if playing a part in a Shakespearean play. “You know that it would be risking your life?”

“I don’t care. Didn’t you hear what Rev. Williams said, ‘You live once and you die once. But what you do with your life makes you remembered.’ I want to die fighting for my Country, George. Don't you?” and John jumped down from his post and firmly grasped both the shoulders of George as if to enforce his words.

“Very well then let’s enroll our names. What are you staring at? Can’t let you be the hero alone.” George said with a grin. “But have you thought about how you would manage to tell your mother about your heroic decision?”

George knew John well and in their one and twenty years of life, they had become the closest of friends to each other, being sometimes referred to as ‘David and Jonathan’ by the townsmen. John came from the family of the ice merchants and his father was well-known in their little town. Before the war broke they were the wealthy family having every bit of luxury. But recently, after the death of his father, the trade dropped drastically and they went under a huge debt causing them to lose out on most of their belongings.

The only way for John to help his family was by joining the war and the remuneration for the soldiers, though not much, would be good for the rest of the lives of his mother and sister. He thought it through and nodded his head to George in reply to his question, though he was yet scared whether his mother would stop him from going.

Everyone in their town was equally inflamed. Newspapers everywhere had only one headline— “War!” People had a common topic of discussion in the town. At every nook and corner there was one person or the other trying to motivate the agitated young men about the war and its reasons. As John walked up to his home, he could see women proudly boasting how their son or husband or fiancée had sent letters from the war front and how boldly they were fighting against the opposition. Some women gathered in a cluster under the nearby tree discussing something political, very seriously. 

Making the decision was easy but explaining to his family was the hardest. George was quite persuasive and managed his way to get through with the conversation but John, being the only man in his family, was unable to gather how to put the fact that he shall be going to war leaving them to survive by themselves. But the care for his country now brightly sparkled in his eyes. 

He was always drawn towards adventure, and was known to be the hero of their little town since he was a boy of fourteen; jumping to save the day, not bothered about risking his life. That was when his father was there and John looked up to the heroism of his father. He grew up with the gallant tales of their family taking part in the major wars and movements of the past for the country. He was after all a Stevenson and the Stevensons' never hid their face when it came to helping others.

Today was his turn, so how can he let go of this? Would he be doing justice to his family’s honour if he cowardly sat behind suddenly fearing death? Doing something heroic was his only thought as he grew up but this time it was different. A known voice was calling him to the frontlines and he felt it in his bones that he belonged in the battlefield. By the time he reached the doorsteps, he had made up his mind. 

After the dinner was over he decided to pop up with the conversation. He came near the little parlour; stopped at the archway and said to himself, “It’s not that hard. George did it, so can I.” 

He peeped inside through the curtain which separated the dining room with the parlour. His mother was sitting as usual on the sofa beside the fireplace with her knitting basket beside her and his sister sat on the hearth rug, reading her favourite Jane Eyre. He smiled at the beautiful scene they made.

As he entered, both the heads turned towards him and trying to maintain his smile, he approached the sofa. He seated himself on the floor at the feet of his mother and looked at her with eager eyes. But before he could say a word, as all mothers can, she read his face. 

“You have decided to go to the war?” with a soft voice she asked in a keen inquisitive manner.

John started and looked with awe at her mysterious capabilities. But his eyes fell as he replied, "Yes."

“Don't be ashamed. If your father would have been alive he would have done the same thing. You both are so alike in personalities,” she continued softly, as she smoothed his dark tousled curls and said, “He would be proud of you, my boy.” Tears filled her tender eyes but she quickly wiped them. 

She pretended to be strong while sending her husband to the front a few years ago but today it wrenched her heart with the thought of losing her only son. Shaking her head, she turned towards the fire, her hand still smoothing his head. She stared at the fireplace as if thinking of that day when in similar fashion her husband came to announce his enrollment as a soldier.

John saw the change in his mother’s countenance and earnestly asked “Are you happy with the decision?”

“No mother can be happy with the thought of their son running towards danger,” she said absent-mindedly, still staring at the fire. “It is impossible. But I know you have an obstinate nature just like your father and would do what you have decided, so I would not stop you. I can be proud of your decision, but don’t ask me to be happy, John. That I cannot.” John nodded and lay his eyes towards the fireplace. In the blazing woods John could see his father for a while as if coming to wish him luck. 

“Christie?” He turned towards his sister, who was staring from one person to the other, with a half curious, half excited glance.

“I am quite excited to know that you are going to be a soldier like the heroes from the stories. But...” her smile vanished at her approaching thought. 

John put his arm on her shoulder and looked at her. His eyes grew darker and with a determinate air he said, “I would go. I have already decided that, whatever may be the outcome,” and he got up. John was about to go upstairs to his room when his mother called him back. 

“Give me your hand, John.” He obeyed. She untied a silver ring which hung around her neck and placed it on his hand. “This ring was your father's, which came back from the camp with his other belongings, now it belongs to you. It shall remind you to safely return to us.” 

 ****

Two years in the horrifying battlefield had passed since the time they first enrolled their names at the Town Hall with several others and marched their way to their respective camps saying their final goodbyes to their families. John and George both were placed at the same camp which was composed of a troop of twenty men. 

At first though the scenes of severed bodies with bombardments and bloodshed scared them, but they soon grew used to it. Their camp had come a long way capturing one after the other posts like pieces of cakes and with turns guarded their posts at night so that the opposition cannot take hold of it.

"It would be great to be part of history. Isn't it George?"

"We surely are about to write one for our country," shouted George on top of his voice as the sound of bullets echoed in the background, the air filled with the smell of gunpowder and rivers of blood streamed wherever the eyes reached. "Do you think the war will be over?" 

"Don't know; don't care," cried John with an air of freshly risen motivation, as a bomb blasted close by. "It's thrilling here, don't you think?" 

The words were not even spoken when Houston, a lad of eighteen, suddenly towards the next shelter in a hurry in spite of the order which stated him to stay in his position. John quickly picked up his gun, covering for the boy but in a moment several rounds of bullets pierced through the young flesh and he lay motionless on the ground. 

As John got up to bring Houston back, with a loud thunder a tank rolled towards them. John ran towards Houston taking shelters behind the boulders, while shooting a few rounds of bullets towards the approaching army. George signaled John to get behind the boulder quickly but he sprinted ahead towards Houston and slid at the last moment, taking shelter with the pale body of the boy. 

"We need to get back to the bunker," shouted John on top of the deafening sound. As the area cleared they shouldered their guns and carried the body of their little man; one holding from the shoulder and the other, the feet. 

As they reached the trench the boy was soon getting paler. They placed him near the hastily built fire pit over which their dinner pot was hanging. George drew out the first aid kit and tried to quickly bandage his wounds while John held firmly on the others so that no more blood was lost.

Everything was quickly arranged and they somehow managed to cover all the wounds, but Houston still lay without any movements. The pulse was still there but at state they could not even send him to the medical camp which was about two miles from their post.

They went up to the battlefield to capture their next post leaving Houston in the safekeeping of old Joseph, who acted doubly as the cook as well as medic as their troop had lowered in number since they came. He was also responsible to keep guard of their bunker while the rest fought on the field. 

After their successful attempt of capturing the new post, John went to see whether there was any progress with Houston’s health. As he came inside the bunker he saw that Joseph was in tears. John touched the body; a cold, stiff, lifeless body of little Houston was lying before him. He checked the pulse, but he showed no sign of life. 

The boy had grown like a family to them and especially to Joseph, who treated him as his own boy. The fate of Houston came too soon. “He was merely a boy,” John thought aloud and he wondered for a while staring at the ring his mother gave him. He shook his head at the thought. He had decided not to think of his family, at least not on this battlefield, as he thought it would do nothing but weaken him. 

With burning passion John was about to climb out of the trench to avenge poor Houston when George clasped his shoulder and said its dusk. John looked out and perhaps for the first time in these two years noticed the strange calmness of the atmosphere. Everywhere the eyes went he could see several bodies lying, some in such horrifying state that even he shuddered.

He stepped down the ladder and looked at George who looked soberly at his face which made him forget the scenes outside. That was it; this is what they have been doing for all these years. Suddenly the death of this young boy cannot change the fact that they had to get back on the next day repeating the same thing.

“Well today seems to have ruffled you up, mate. Come, let's have a drink.” George dragged him towards the little shelter.

At night as he sat on guard with Fred, Bob and George, the words of his mother “It shall remind you to safely return to us” still echoed in his ears even after all these years as he stared at the ring. The thought of his family seemed to not leave him today. He believed it to be an ominous sign. But before he could think anymore, the sound of rapid footsteps at a distance alerted him and he sat up, firmly grasping his gun towards the noise. 

The night was dark and still and even the lightest of sound came to the ears sharply. As the noise became louder, he heard some whispers in a foreign language. Pointing his gun he signaled his troop to follow him. They crawled through the narrow trench in the direction of the noise. John peeped up and saw a troop of seven soldiers of the opposition was approaching their post. They were outnumbered but their post could not be left. Without thinking anymore he silently crawled forward, ordering the other three to cover him when absolutely necessary. 

George refused to obey the command and followed him instead. They unveiled the bayonets as they closed by and like a guerilla crept behind the one farthest and stealthily attacked one after the other and hid their bodies behind the bushes and boulders till there were only two left. 

John did not realise they had come a long way from the trench. His plan was going well but he failed to notice that another soldier was lagging behind. As he was about to approach his other target, sounds of bullet firing came from behind. He sharply turned and saw a soldier sprinting towards him while George lay on his back, lifelessly, still clutching his gun as if he jumped in between to save John's life. 

Before he could load his weapon and shoot him, bullets were shot at him on his back and he fell on the ground forcing his gun off his hand. John groped for his gun but the moonless night betrayed him and a strong foot crushed him further on the ground. 

He could feel a person walking towards him as he lay helplessly under the foot of the soldier. They had a conversation in an unknown language and burst out into laughter. John kept silently wiping on the dirt for his gun. A cold metal touched his hand. It was a gun. He picked it and turned with a quick motion, disbalancing the one stepping on him. With three successful headshots he killed all and fell motionlessly on his back.