War Story

I am crawling on my belly in the mud. The night is black as a puddle of engine oil; the stars obliterated by the dark silhouettes of the tropical forest that crowds on top and all around us. We three followed Knuckles, a man we hated, feared and trusted. He was the naked killer we would have been if only we could get rid of this damned fear. Knuckles was the only man I had ever seen get back up after taking a bullet, everyone else stayed down whether they were seriously hurt or not. When someone close to Knuckles, someone who had fought and survived a long time at his side, sometimes even weeks together, was killed, Knuckles had no tears, no moans, no facial muscles for that slackening of the adult & re-emergence of the boy I sometimes saw come over my comrades as they contemplated the pieces of their lifeless friends. Knuckles had a different reaction, his stern face unchanging, he would mutter long strings of swearwords: motherfukincuntsuckingshittywhoreofamotherfuckingcocksucking... like a mantra through clenched jaw; like George Carlin without the humour.

The night was hot, humid, close and scary, but I kept my fatigues tightly laced at all extremities for the nasty bugs and slithering things that bite, sting, lay their eggs under your skin. Back at camp we had dry cots to sleep in, showers, clean clothes, our friends, but it was as foreign to me as this, this lying on my belly in the darkness with only our weapons and each other between us and extinction. Indeed, though I longed for a sense of safety, I was no longer capable of actually remembering what it was like when life wasn't scary. My fifty pounds of weapons and equipment a part of me, in the same way I guess a man with a beer belly feels, he gets used to carrying it around because it is part of him. Then a silent pat from a comrade's hand, passed back from Knuckles and we know it is time to stop, time to wait looking in the direction we hope they will come so that we can kill them, hope they do not come so they won't kill us.

We sit quietly, we sweat, we wait. I am scared. Scared. Scared. No, wait a minute, I am angry, no, sad. I am outraged, I am a hero, won't my family be proud? I am a boy fighting for politics I don't even understand, I am tired; I am ready... the seconds are long and irrelevant, the moment is not slow- it is eternal, and I within it. The only sound: a million insect heart-beats and thoughts of sunrise are so impossibly far, this long series of long seconds seem to banish day forever. We sit, we wait, we sweat. Suddenly: Blam! From a spot in the unfathomable depth of the darkness before us, the night is torn by sound and a flash that lights the trees all around it but not the men behind, leaving my eyes seeing flashes in the dark afterwards. They haven't seen us but at 15 kilometres from camp they know we're close. A million insects are suddenly absolutely silent. Focus your eyes man, come on, they'll be here in a minute, as we all hunker down behind the swelling roots of the tree we leaned against.

The eternal seconds race with ever-greater velocity to a moment that is: now. Really Now, and every second after that is as fast as my heart-beat, too fast to metabolise. More blasts, more light, they are closer, did they see us? Is it coincidence? Are they surrounding us? Oh, it doesn't matter any more, Knuckles is up on his knees, face composed, focused like a freshly honed axe, the others are firing too, oh, so am I. Most of the bullets fall away far to our left and right, far above, or short of our distance. But some are so close I can hear death's message in the whiz, the chunking sound as they burrow into the wood of the tree, or deep in the mud of a shocked earth before us. Damn, damn, damn, there goes Sam, is he ok? No, no, he's not ok, he's not even Sam any more, his body still upright against the tree, his head hanging by some small part of his neck along his back. Shit, shit, shit, only three of us left, I wonder how many they are, I wonder if we've killed any of them...

Then suddenly they are upon us emerging from the darkness behind, we manage to get to our feet, someone blasts an M16, but the big guns rattle to the ground as we reach for our pistols & knives. A man is on me, no time to look at his face, I watch his weapon, I watch the long machete; my left swings like a windmill, I parry the blade with my forearm and luckily catch the flat of it. Just as quickly my right hand is under his arm, my knife deep in his side. Now, in the darkness, I see his face, my soldier's body tells me I'm vulnerable, my hands are committed, if he slashes back with his sword it would be very difficult for me to avoid a deep cut to neck or face, but I don't move, I just feel my knife inside his body as if my nerves extended down its steely length. He drops the machete instead, and with a look of confusion gently holds my forearm with his two hands.

The next second I am in my uncle's study satiated by a big and delicious meal, I am cradling a snifter of brandy and have all the time in the world for interesting conversation in a loving atmosphere, what the hell am I doing? Was I just daydreaming in the middle of a battle for my life? No, I wasn't, there was no time for that, I was already engaging a new enemy before the other had slumped to the ground, though there had been time to notice the slurping sound of the knife as I pulled it out, and the feel of its serrated edge scrape hard against his rib. And I hear it even now, as I write these words.

The men around me struggled, we all struggled, there was no running away, not for them, not for us. There was no help and though there was still room for hope, we had no time for it. We, they, fought in silence, with the occasional groan, sharp schoolgirl squeak, clash of weapon, loud, soft, expiration of breath. A perfect form of meditation where every cell in the body is focused on one intent and the mind takes a holiday, free to think of whatever takes its fancy.

I killed three men that night, perhaps more, if my bullets shot into the darkness hit anybody.

I don't know how much time has gone by, but I open my eyes to a pale blue sky peeping through dense foliage. I don't move, I just feel; I seem to be ok except for the one spot, my right leg reporting damage with screaming pain. I don't know what has happened to my leg, or if it is still attached to me; if me, still owns that leg. But I don't look yet, I lazily focus in the direction my eyes are facing and I see the carnage around me, and yes, even underneath me. I don't move but form the thought that I recognise a chunk of meat, it is Sam's arm, naked now, lying in the mud with the rest of the meat, but his arm has a lively dancing girl tattooed on it, it seems the only living thing until I see the bugs hard at it, taking care of the first step to sending these atoms back to nature to be used for something other than making Sam.

I wonder if the bugs are working on my leg also, but I don't move. I know that--leg or no leg-- I am the only lucky one this time, and I will soon start my way back to camp but I still don't move, my brain keeps me in a daze, my brain gives my body time to think. Hey! This isn't scary any more; I am not scared, whew! What a relief.

Happiness Versus Suffering

Christians are always talking about suffering & in the foremost Christian countries the whole religion has become a cult to suffering with the virgin mother as its centre (the Dolorosa) but all the saints are either crying or bleeding or at the very least in an anguished pose of ecstatic revelation (pain/pleasure of physical climax). Even the priest's celibacy is seen as sacrifice. The 33 years of life of the Christ himself, where he taught with surprising success, is portrayed in churches mostly through the 12 hours of the Passion & final crucifixion. The religion's symbol might have been a Jesus standing in the act of teaching, or perhaps forgiveness (arguably the main ideological difference introduced by his teachings to the old testament) but the church chose, & people worship instead, his mutilated body dying on a cross.

As men imagine the thorns thrust into their own scalps or nails into their feet, or the humiliation of the scourging in the street as reward for doing/being good, they can empathise & therefore worship Him for that sacrifice... that willingness to suffer instead of doing what most are taught to do, are taught is right: the pursuit of happiness & evasion of suffering. In the United States it is even written into the political infrastructure for Christ's sake!

But in-fact all religions deal with this question of suffering first, & then the three big questions (where do we come from? Why are we here? Where are we destined?). In the Orient (beginning even in ancient Greece with the slave-philosopher Epictectus) they say: Want nothing & you will want for nothing, id est: avoid suffering. In the occident they say: life is suffering, but if you accept it you will get a reward after, like my mother used to say on my frequent childhood visits to doctors & dentists- if you don't cry I'll give you an ice cream after... the former denies passion, the latter, ecstasy, neither are satisfying, truthful or in tandem with human nature.

Now consider this: perhaps it is happiness & not suffering that is life's bane. Exactly like opium which turns life into a satisfyingly sweet dream just as it sucks one's vitality & passion. Maybe Happiness is the part of life we can barely stand & it is only the balm of suffering that relieves us of its burden. Perhaps without suffering we would be crushed by the weight of happiness.