Anonymous

Anonymous

It can be said that in times of peace every man is a friend and in times of war every man is a foe. I have always found peace and war to be the dualities of this world. Friends and foes can be found in either. One cannot exist without the other. Men fear war and yearn for peace yet they would not know fear should peace alone exist. Perhaps it is a poor way to live, knowing that destruction is always lurking just outside your serenity, but I can only speak to that which I know.

The horns had blown that morning. The enemy was advancing again, they would be on the field by midday. We would meet them there. Outside my tent I could hear the men packing up the camp, the men beside me were sharpening swords and praying to whatever god they thought would get them though the day. I had considered the theory of a god at length and sill I had no answers. I knew how to fight, the sword had belonged in my hand from the day father put it there. I remembered my mother weeping, but it took me a long time to reason it.

Her god was merciful, but he was also cruel. He granted mothers children only so they could march off to shout the name of a lord as they thrusted a sword into the belly of the man shouting a different name. My father had told her to be silent, that a man had to learn how to fight.

I hadn’t been a man then. I had been a boy, but my father’s god was made of steel, blood and honor. He did not care to make such fine distinctions.

I slowly lifted my chainmail over my head and smoothed the scales over my chest. Next came the armor plate. My hands were deft at fastening the worn leather straps by now. They didn’t shake anymore.

I didn’t believe in either of their gods, the gods of my parents. It was too, perhaps the word is happenstance. It all relied on man to believe in something he had to assume true. The only truth I knew was that I survived.

No man is born good or evil. He is born screaming.

I strapped my sword to my belt and stepped out of my tent. My company hurried to acknowledge me with their titles of respect and ridged posture, but I ignored them as I walked to the ridge. Our camp over looked the field where men would die today. Those higher than me had chosen this place because of its relation to the landscape. All I saw was the razed land that had been burned by fire. It had been a field, people had grown food here.

My father had been born a farmer. He taught himself to be a killer. He taught all his sons to be the same. My brothers were ash now, spread to the wind watered by my mother’s tears. I had done it well, evidenced only by the fact that I sill drew breath. I knew my mother cried for me still. In this life, if you didn’t die for long enough they gave you a company. Men still full of peaceful dreams whose hands shook as they attached their armor. They gave you their lives to command and to throw away. I didn’t bother to learn their names anymore. I knew they hated me, that they wanted to go home and hug their babies, sing them sweet lullabies and burry their swords in the dirt. I knew they thought it was me who kept them here. The heartless commander with steel in his veins.

Those who still thought they had a soul would ask after a few drinks if I cared about anyone. If I ever felt guilty. I never answered, they would find those answers soon enough. They would ask me questions about right and wrong. About whether or not we were on the righteous side. Apparently that mattered to their god. I told them that all men die, in the end no one really cares what they died for. Sides only mattered when it was over.

They thought I was a monster. They had wanted a friend. I only made that mistake once.

My commander rode up on his horse to stand beside me. His beast snorted loudly. He pointed to the opposing tree line where our enemy had started to crawl out of the forest. I simply nodded. He rode away to rally his men. To remind them why we fought.

I never listened to those speeches. There was no point really, we all fought for our own reasons. I didn’t trust men who couldn’t admit that. I didn’t trust the men who said they fought for honor or country. Nor for glory. There was no honor in fighting, no glory to cutting another down.

My men assembled around me silently. They weren’t men anymore, they were machines. They had one task, it was simple.

I felt the wind whip the flags around and the horns sounded. Some of the machines screamed as they ran down the hill. I just counted breaths.

My father would have lamented the burning of this field. He would have held a handful of ash in his fist and threw it down in disgust. He would have said that it was a stupid man who burned food.

….

You are supposed to say that your enemy died well when it was all over. It wasn’t because you wanted to make them any more human or brave, but because you wanted to make yourself feel better. The truth was that no one dies well in war. No one goes out with a glorious speech or with angels on their back. They die like every other man. In the dirt, covered in blood and no one cares as they step over their lifeless body if they fought bravely or not. They still died.

I stood over the body of a man wearing overalls under his crude armor. I don’t know if I killed him or not. His reason for fighting was clear even in death. This had been his home.

They called us soldiers. Just because you say something doesn’t make it true.

I headed back to the rapidly disintegrating camp. We would be moving to the next village now, the next enemy to obliterate.

They would fight for their righteous cause and they would die. Their gods would witness their blood soaking into their fields and they would stay silent.

My men asked me if we were the villains. I told them to look at the ground dotted with bodies. I told them the answer was there. We fought for what we brought with us, our hopes and dreams, our opinions. They fought for theirs. Who were we to judge right and wrong when at the end of the day both colors lay in the mud. Who were we to say that gods rallied on our side when we all used the same means? We were both villains and victors. There was no difference really.

Not to the dirt. We were nameless, faceless and in the end we would all be bones.

Bones all looked the same.