From Private Daniel Asbury

In the beginning there was the sun and the moon and stars and grass and dirt and trees and beauty! In the beginning people were grateful and kind and willing to love thy neighbor as thyself and obeyed the commandment of thou shalt not kill. In the beginning God prevailed. In the beginning there was love. This is not the beginning. There have been 1,944 years counted since the marked birth of Christ. People hate. People destroy. There are guns and planes and wars and bloodstained terrain and dirt clods and torn families and lost friends.

I am not a soldier. Not by nature. By force. I write. I am a writer. No more. They put a gun in my hand. They put a gun in my hand and showed me to use it. Guns are foreign to me. Frightening. Dangerous. I am no good at these things. Displaced. Scared. Alone. Alone. My mother is left at home to tend the house. We left her. All alone. In the rural country. She waits every day for a Western Union messenger with a letter. Driving a car with a star. Bearing a letter and a flag. A letter and a flag and tags, little metal ones with a name stamped on it. One of our names. She hopes they will not come. She hopes she won’t get a visit. But she will. She will get one soon. My brother is dead in the trench. I watched him fall. I was behind. Behind the cloud of smoke. Before it came he was standing. It cleared and he was gone. Another soul lost. Another soul gained above. Another soul living only in memory. I stared. I stared until my instincts spoke. I ran. I ran quickly and found shelter. There is a cove dug into a hill. I ran there. I hid. There are occupants. I am safe with them. I am cowering behind a heap of bodies with my pad and pencil. They won’t shoot at dead people. Not on purpose. The dead are dead. It’s no use. Waste of ammunition.

My best friend is lost. We are separated. I need him now. To make me laugh and say it’s okay and tell me I look good in a dirty uniform and to talk to and reminisce and pretend we are home. Far from here. We are never apart. Inseparable. Hard to distance from each other. They did it though. They made a separation. This thing and these people made easy work of it. I want to cry. Half of me is missing. I need him.

There is killing and death. I see it. Young death and old death and forceful death and passive death and purposeful death and accidental death. Death for many reasons. Any reason. No reason. Death is unrestricted. It runs rampant. It takes the boys. It takes the men. It takes the unfortunates in the villages and towns. Death is an enemy. I’ve heard otherwise. Death is a friend. In the right place. Under the right circumstances. Death is welcomed. When all faith is lost and the end is imminent it is welcomed. I hope I will not come to that state. If I don’t. I don’t. If I do. I do.

Daddy where are you? Lost in Normandy. They told us so. I need you! My daddy! The boys lying here—these boys—are dead. No more. Their fathers will miss them, but I miss you. Mother will miss you. I wonder if she’s gotten her visit. I wonder if she’s gotten your tags. Daddy, I don’t want a stranger to deliver my tags to Mama. I want to go myself. I want to give myself to her. I want to see her again. If they find me in time, they will send me home. This heartless system that threw us here sometimes softens. When enough of one family is lost. When nearly all are gone. When the family is utterly shattered. When one strand of hope remains. The heart softens. What if they don’t find me? What if I am gone before they come?

A bullet whizzes past my barricade. I flinch. It burrows into the ground. Spreads the sand and dirt. It stops there. It has done no damage. Another plunges itself into my barricade and punctures a body with a dull thud. I shriek. He doesn’t. He doesn’t scream. He can’t. He’s dead. I can. I’m not.

Clouds move in. They block the sun. The air is grey. Grey and heavy and threatening. I can barely think. I stare in horror. My eyes are wide. My pen is unfocused. I look heavenward. Shrink in fear. The sky flashes with bright light. Deafening sounds explode. Another attack wave. I move to get lower. A coward. Hiding behind the formerly brave. I see an officer running toward me. He spied me in my safe haven. He wants to drag me into the fray. I don’t want to go! He calls to me and then falls to the ground. Not dead, writhing and screaming. I need to help. I should.

I have run to him. I tried to help him. I have been hit myself. Not fatally. I am not so fortunate. I lay here and write with feeble hope. I will soon welcome death. Jaded. My face is in the dirt and spoiled nature. Blood slides from my leg. It makes no sound. It waters the hatred and flows into the earth. It will germinate the seeds. The seeds of the next generation. My only hope is that a generation finds this. Any generation. Reads this. Takes this to heart. Uses this. I hope. Until then I must concentrate my energies. Death, will you be my friend now? Daddy, I will see you soon. Mama, I am sorry. I must leave you. I am sorry. My other half may be waiting. My world grows dim and my pencil dull.

In the beginning there was the sun and the moon and a God. This is not the beginning. People befriend and invite death. God has abandoned us. I can not imagine a God who would let this happen. My faith is ended. The world is ending. This is the end. It must be.

©2002 Skweeker McCain

skweekermccain@hotmail.com

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