The Shed: A Grievous Experience

Dark was the first thing to describe the interior of the shed. Next was cold. The rustling of pine trees nearby almost covered the intensity of our breathing. Snow stashed up outside the window, and, looking through a window, the sun was still on its throne, but the sky was dominating with its unmerciful grayness. More trees outside, and most of the barren landscape was German snow. Nothing more outside.

Inside was different; it was spacious, airy, and less cold. The wood tiling was moist with melted ice, and I feared the roof would collapse from all the pile of snow hanging up there. Darkness consumed most of my sight, so I could not see Johnson plainly. Conceiving a fire was damn difficult with all of this moisture surrounding the place; therefore all thoughts of warmth were null.

We Americans did not fare fairly on these German lands, and the Nazi bastards did not bother to play fair as well. How I ended up in the shed was a simple story: We were twelve left in our humble platoon, slowly pushing through the ice towards Belgium. The others died in the fall, and others were shot through the head by snipers. Those bastards know how to hide. The last two soldiers before we hit twelve survivors were overtaken by the cold, and died palely on the snow. No time to bury those poor men when German dogs are after your trail; we were against time, Mother Nature, and all the itchy-handed Nazi bastards.

Of course, we had to culminate some losing bravado and morale. Private Geoffrey was spitting out all his speeches to 'rise up our pitiful state and blow more German heads', and only I knew it was not working. I knew everything would end for the worse, and these poor souls--God save their souls--and this nonchalant Geoffrey acting his part of Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address with a hint of otherworldly eeriness and monotonous butchery of the original only proved my notions. However, I kept them to myself; for I swear in that open space somewhere in the forest where we rested--and we should have not rested--I had the most hellacious and selfish alarm pulsating somewhere in the caverns of my stormy mind. Uneasiness made me immobile and mute, with my hands tightly gripping my M141. I stared at my left at Bill Nates, and he was shivering like a beggar in the cold. Geoffrey was still bickering about, and God forbid that I wanted to impale him with my knife like Hamlet did Polonius.

Suddenly, and somehow coincidentally, as Geoffrey ultimately stopped and sat down, my muscles eased their tenseness. I felt the cold winds freeze the troubled state of my mind, and I let the grip off my gun. They made me shiver too, and I thought that was worse than a boiling pot of uneasiness. I then heard the feeble chatter of my famished comrades. Skinny Joe was mumbling some prayer, resting his head upon a tree. Bill Nates was shivering like an epileptic. Geoffrey was glowering over the technical inconsistency of the radio. The others were silent or chattering with each other, while I was overseeing the sullen changes in their faces.

These soldiers, like me, were not ready. They were not ready to face Death. Even Geoffrey was not ready, despite him being knowledgeable of almost all things we do not know. Nothing mattered here. Except if you lived to see the day break or die, nothing really mattered. They had their chances, and I had mine. I realized that these eleven men were all unimportant in the end. I began to be enlightened with the hard fact that we were never be leaving this wretched Gehenna, and, whether it be bullets or canine teeth, we were going to die here. Die hard, I thought. God knows my fate, but the reality of war had just appeared before my eyes, in a bad time, in a bad place. I should have considered this when I was still contented at home! But because of my poor judgment and insight, cocky attitude and mindless vigor, I had picked the sad choice, leaving mother and father all worrisome at home. Cruel destiny! I began to regret and wish that I never joined this martial insanity and patriotism. I could have been an accountant at that sleazy bank--but that does not matter anymore. Nothing matters here anymore. Once you step into this hellhole, your life is but a pawn in the frontline, and that is ultimate.

Out of this hefty consideration of life and death, I was able to breathe a little. Johnson approached me out of the cold and offered me a bottle of Cognac. His appearance took all of my attention.
"Still fresh," he pleasantly remarked, shaking the bottle before me.
"It's cold, and I don't want a sore throat killing me on our way to Belgium. And I don't drink alcohol."
My reply made him chuckle, and a distinct chuckle it was, it made me smile.
"Not if you get killed by Hitler's monkeys first," He said, sitting beside me. "And you not drinking alcohol sounds miserable. It is as if you have not lived, Scotty."
He opened the bottle with his knife, threw the cork, and began chugging it down. I watched him with full eagerness and stupefaction, like one hypnotized by a magician. He chugged till the bottle was half, raised it down, and let out an uncivilized burp. He then noticed me watching him as if he was entertainment.
"I thought you weren't alcoholic, John."
I smiled to his reply, but how things were currently, how insidious and repetitive the suffering and sacrifices I had to face, and actual reality of war, I could not help but laugh out my soul. Not a thing made laugh this hardest and loudest before this one. I laughed as if it was my last, and Johnson joined me too. I laughed as if I was slapping the face of Death. It was the most honest laugh I ever did in my life, and the reason why, I never really figured it out. Perhaps it was Johnson's affable yet nosy comedy that seems to heat the air with his every presence, his noble face that expressed an indifferent yet varied sociality, or his being Johnson at all? I know not of the ways of men, especially of a dignified man like Johnson.
I stopped laughing as I turned away my face from Johnson, and stared towards the infinite skyline, expecting Allied planes to pass by any sooner. I still recall how vast was the stretch of the scar that seems to bleed with calm sunlight. Johnson continued drinking the Cognac.
"Hey, Johnson," I inquired his attention.
"Hmm?"
"Have we lost all our minds?"
"Ask that to a Nazi and he'll blow your head before answering you"

Another round of chuckles. This time, Johnson straightforwardly answered me:

"No, I think we all lost it once we joined this goddamned army. It's foolishness, Scotty, which drives most younglings to war. That's why one of God's greatest blessings might be ignorance. But I was all for it--I was all for my country. Whether it was Uncle Tom or the persuasion, I was ready to serve for my people. But at some point in my life I thought it was foolishness that drove me here into this pickle. I wanted to be a teacher, or a philosopher, perhaps have a book written and published. And this war pickle turned me into something undesirable, something I shouldn't have been. But it was all ignorance, Scotty, and sometimes, ignorance is a way to good things.

"But have I lost my mind? Almost. That's my answer for you: almost-- because war has killed us all already, and it's our rationality that matters and remains: good and bad are the things that really matter here, and nothing else. I can still tell the difference between them--but can you?"

His reply astounded me. I felt the cold air again pass and sweep through me. A sprinkle of snow fell above our heads and the chatter became apparent again. What confab must they be so deeply focused in, they forget that this is war. Their momentary exchange of the past and the imaginable comforts them in this time of madness. It is also comforting to watch them experience their old lives again through expressions and normal language. Certainly, it is a waste of good men. What a good factory War is! Producing men who are coerced to release their banal ways of living and assume a transparent one whose reward is but death. You may ask, "but, what if they lived?" Then they have already lost time to explore the rest of their lives. That is one more sad reality.

Hours passed like minutes, yet not a sign of command to proceed towards Belgium. We were duly commanded two hours ago to hold our positions and wait for the next command. We waited, and nothing yet. The men were losing themselves; I could see it from the dramatic and observable vicissitudes of their weary faces; one by one lost brightness on his smile, and the confabs soon died away. Reality began to cling on their skins. The sun was leaving heaven, and night would be coming. Command or no command, we had to move now.

An odd sizzle came from somewhere. It was the radio, and it had received a message. Geoffrey went on to hear the news. Afterwards, he assembled us to pass the message.

"Good news, gentlemen," he formally started, the bottle of Cognac still in his hand. "Buccaneer and his regiment were able to clear a passageway for us to safely walk through. We are expected to meet up with those guys at the eastern part of the city. Situation's pretty critical. I'll get you all updated while we're on foot, but right now, you all need to quickly and efficiently pack up all your things, because we are moving on."
Sometimes, what is more lucid and satisfying than silence is the sound of work: the patting of boots upon the soft snow, the strapping of cumbersome bags, the chain of commands, and the sound of chugging--yes, beside me, Johnson was finishing the bottle of Cognac to its last drop. It might be his last.
"You will never find a drink colder than this in hell," he said gullibly, with a slight frown on his young but stern-looking face.
"What if I find one?" I asked out of my boundless curiosity as we continued our journey towards Belgium.
He looked at me like one amused very conspicuously.
"You're still here--so don't start looking."

Private Geoffrey led the way. I looked again at the sky and saw the first signs of the coming twilight. It was going to become very dark, and very susceptible. The many woods before and around us were never good objects, for they could act as possible covers for yet unseen enemies. We had to assume a heightened state of awareness. This is critical, I thought.
Snow was also a bummer; some Nazi nut-heads smartly thought of ways to conceal their uniforms by merging as one with the whiteness of the snow. The bushes laid ubiquitously around the land provided our enemies with the element of surprise. They could go up a notch too and climb trees with thick foliage and wait there. All of these were precautions for us to keep our eyes peeled, and we also had to keep our ears open to the surroundings. Any sounds of leaves rustling or snow falling from above us are indications of disturbances or hidden tangos somewhere.

Yet how careful we were, how meticulous and vigilant we tried to be, the Germans had the upper hand on their environment.

Before us was a clear, white road, and on either side were trees increasing on our way to Belgium. The afternoon was getting darker and darker and more insecure. The skies were, on the other hand, producing their own fanciful luminosities of colors that seem to float at every glance we set upon them. This phenomenon trapped my two eyes in a whirlwind of amazement. Below the show of Nature's lights, ahead of our way, two mountains of unequal dimensions rose up from the farther portion of the land; at their bases thrived hardy vegetation, and on their summits was snow covering them wholly. Between these edifices of Nature was a gap, and this gap displayed the vestiges of the retreating sun: his ever-might rays bursting outwardly, contending with the fanciness and ardor of the colored skies for prominence. To my own eyes they were both magnificent, and for me witnessing such moment of Nature at work pleasantly subdued the chaotic earthquakes in my mind. Silence accompanied this rare scene, as if painted by the hands of Monet in ghastly fashion; and this calmed my troubled state. However, an unwanted flash suddenly reminded me of war.

Why is the acquisition of peace so elusive? Why is it so short and brief? War has shown me the violent inclination of man to kill. It is a crack in our humanity that breeds us to engage in wars, and a disgrace it is to recruit innocent men. Those who say it is a brave and noble thing, it is better for them to remain innocent and ignorant of the unwanted things that happen during war: I have seen good comrades shot before me--shot through the heart, through the head, speared by bayonets, seized apart by explosions, ran over by tanks, and tortured by the vilest of all creatures. I have seen disjointed fingers fly upwards the smoky battlefield, the screaming soldier who crawls upon the dust leglessly, the innocent children crying in their mothers' lap, while cannons bombarded the city and shook the ground. Who could, from anyone of us, sleep as if he was back home with fear in his beating heart, a fear that consumes the weak flesh and spews forth acids of terrible brutality towards our thought; for who could run far away from his pursuing enemies when one cannot help but trip over bodies of the dead, whose skins are black and lifeless, and upon their faces, gaunt and gaping, the horror of the universe is smeared with dark blood.

Forgive me if I troubled you with the clear descriptions of what I have inevitably seen; however, as a reader, one must be ready to know that he is reading the pure truth. Let us move on.

After that flash of unspeakable memories that tried to pull me from a fragile state of docility, I was able to resist panic and enjoy again the landscape of notorious Deutschland. We had walked a distance of ten kilometers, yet we were still far behind. Johnson walked beside me, gazing left and right, always watchful of anything that could stir. In that time of individuality, I still had faith towards the phrase "no man is an island."

"John," I softly called him, and then he turned his face to me. "When, whe--" I remembered stuttering there, "When do you think this war will end?"

His face certainly had a soul of nobleness. A balanced nose, a dignified forehead, paired with two eyes of captivating depth. His gaze was stern but understanding, calm but forgiving. When I gave my question, he smiled with his set of dazzling pearl-like teeth that shone freely. He was an inch taller than me and he was older than me. However, he had priceless knowledge stored in that vault of his; perhaps his answer could alleviate my astatic state.

"Ah, Scotty," He started with an air of joviality, smiling. "When was the last time you drank water, ey? You seem thirsty! My god, look at that lips of yours, dry as hell! Here," he offers me his canteen, cold to the touch, "Come on! Drink! Don't complain of the cold. By the time we reach Belgium, it will be hot as home there!"

I drank the frigid water, for the sake of fulfilling his request. I felt my throat burn coldly.

"You should've drunk that Cognac I offered you. It was cold, but it would have made you somber."

Somber? Johnson's perception was an oddity and a true mystery too. He enjoyed war, after all.

"From what will that beverage make me somber to?" I asked him, my curiosity excited for an answer.

Johnson hesitated, spending his sight on the perambulation, enjoying the recurring breeze that passed through us from the east. He then looked at me with audacity.

"War, my friend," he calmly answered.

I do not know, but how he pronounces those mere three words had a heavy effect upon me. I could never forget them. They struck me dumb, like one immersed under the rhythm of the rain dropping, then fatefully shocked by lightning, by clarity. That shock showed again unwanted memories in vivid and clear reproductions. The mention of "war" triggered everything that would have buried me six feet down the icy land of Germany. I was troubled by the word, yet I was living and surviving in it. Too much that I do not know!