An Excerpt from an Endless War

There was death all around the camp. To his left, Private Harris saw two soldiers piling sand into a grave containing five bodies. One of those bodies was his good friend, Private Jackson, who had saved his life on more than one occasion. Behind him stood a cliff where vultures pecked at the decayed carcass of an onyx. To his right was the captain’s tent.

Harris held Jackson’s dog tag. They were both so far from home. They’d come thousands of miles to stir up trouble in a desert no one cared about. When Jackson told him that he had snuck around and overheard a conversation between the captain and the general, something broke inside Harris.

A shout came from the tent. “Private Harris! You’re up!”

The tent was spartan, containing only a large desk where the captain sat. On the desk was a map of the region. Harris stood by, waiting for an acknowledgement, but the captain remained fixated on his map and twirled a knife idly.

“I'm a busy man, Private.” the captain said. He didn't look up from his map.

Harris swallowed, “I—I came to say—”

“You came to say what, Private?”

“I came to say I—I quit. Sir.”

The captain looked up. His pudgy, scarred old face stared straight through Harris with black eyes.

“You are aware…” The captain sat back in his chair. “... that one cannot simply quit the army—especially in the middle of enemy territory.”

Harris was ready for the question. “The way I see it, sir, there's no other option but to quit.”

“The fuck you on about, Private?”

“Sir!” Harris caught himself shouting, “We're in the middle of nowhere—you've taken us way off course. And the shit we've been through… h-half our platoon is dead. And—”

Harris grew more courageous with the momentum of his speech. “And we all heard about you ignoring orders. Jackson—when he was alive—overheard you and the general. He heard you lie about our position—about how many of us are alive.”

Harris held the captain’s gaze, too afraid to look away. Half a minute passed in complete silence.

“So let me get this straight. Jackson thought he overheard a conversation between the general and myself— something he had no clearance for— and you lose your nerve and decide to… hand in your resignation?” The captain stood up. He stepped around his desk, closing the distance between them.

The captain was a large man—standing one inch taller than Harris and bulkier. He carried himself well, each step made with precision and intent. He stood toe-to-toe with Harris, chin up, eyeing him intensely.

But Harris wouldn't back down. He'd seen so many die for nothing. Now he and his platoon— his brothers— we're pushing themselves past the point of exhaustion every day in a godforsaken land. For what?

“You know, a thought hit me.” The captain’s face relaxed. “Why don't you just take off? Why come to me? Head north and take your chances in the desert. It's only, oh, forty miles to the next city? Hell, they'd love to see the enemy come waltzing in expecting a hero's welcome.”

Harris remained silent. He wasn’t going to be baited that easily.

“No? Fuck me, I thought that idea had legs. So you mean to tell me you came in here not only to resign, but to ask for a goddamn limo back to civilization? Is that it?”

“I came…” Harris paused. “...Sir. We've spent the last three months in this desert trying to approach the enemy city. But we were never supposed to be near it. Jackson heard the general— we were never supposed to approach. We were supposed to head back and hold our position.”

This seemed to affect the captain. The relaxed expression he wore while delivering sarcasm faded, and he turned back towards his desk. His head hung in thought. Again, there was a moment of silence.

“How long have you been here, Private? Out in the desert, I mean. Two years? And you've already lost your nerve. I've been fighting this enemy for nearly twenty. Nearly twenty years— and what has changed? For twenty years I've seen dead soldiers. For twenty years I've watched commanders view this war from afar and lose their sacks. Again and again, I’ve seen our countrymen die to get one inch of land, only for some general to call us all back the moment war gets too bloody for them.”

Harris froze. The captain looked up at him—was he in tears? No, Harris could see now that his eyes were just red, bloodshot.

“Every year those generals plot a little ‘statistical victory’ for us. A new little inch we can enjoy for a while. But our enemy knows our weakness: we can't stomach the risk. They merely tease us with each new inch we gain, only to flank, trap, or ambush. Then a general gets on the radio and pulls us back. Our little inch—gone.”

“No one wants to die for nothing…”

“Well, that's exactly what they are dying for, Private! Nothing! And with every inch we lose, I see that more and more. I've got a different plan. I plan to ram a fist down the throat of my twenty-year nemesis once and for all!”

The captain pulled out his knife and stabbed it through the map on his desk. He twisted it upward, the map sticking to the blade and flailing with it. He chuckled softly to himself. Harris grew nervous.

“You know what, Private? I accept your resignation.”

Harris saw him coming. He dodged but fell backwards. The captain stabbed his stomach again and again, the map still stuck to the knife. Harris bled out as he was hoisted up by both his neck and by the blade in his belly. He screamed as the captain ran with him out of the tent and all the way to the cliff, where he threw him down.

Harris’s body smashed against the rock below. His head split open, and his guts spilled blood. The captain stared down the cliff at him, watching until the vultures grew interested and perched beside the body. Then, there was another moment of silence.

The two soldiers burying the dead were in shock. “You two!” He yelled. “Get down there and fetch my fucking map!”