The Whisperer
The harsh winds blew past me, whispering in my ears. Today’s the day, they told me. I shut them out with both hands, but through the cracks between my thin fingers, their words leaked through. Today’s the day, Peter. Today’s the day.
I continued down the deserted path, ignoring the company of the winds. I tried to put my mind elsewhere, in a world far different from my own. But a canticle of sadness already occupied my thoughts, taking the form of a raucous watchdog, preventing me from entering my reverie. The song spoke of the sacrifice of the many for the unburdened life of the few, and no matter how many times I placed myself, I always ended up within the many—the unfortunate, insignificant many. I wanted nothing more than to be one of the few. I did not want to throw my life away for nothing.
It was two days since I left camp, two days since I shared a word with another, two days that I survived on the run. I abandoned my gear long ago, with only a rifle and canteen left by my sides. So far, only one proved useful. I had planned to keep it that way.
The oaks and pines swayed as the winds grew louder, giving them precarious postures, like drunken men downing what’s left of their beer. I held down my hat and walked on, not knowing where I was headed. You could have called me a coward for abandoning my comrades, but I think it takes a certain intrepidity to journey into the unknown all alone. Bravery gave me a feeling of ease. A little peace of mind is all I ever wanted, but it would be long before I’d experience the quiet.
A sudden sharp snap stopped me in my tracks. I quickly took cover behind a nearby bush and prayed, prayed for an animal of sorts to pop out from behind the rustle. But God had other plans for me.
A soldier of the opposition emerged onto the path appearing as weary as I was. You could say in a sense that my prayer was answered, for a swastika patch was sewn firmly onto his dowdy uniform. I did my best to keep still and silent as the soldier dragged his tattered shoes across the dirt; but the winds had it in for me since the very beginning. With one callous gust, my hat flew onto the common path.
“Was zum Teufel?” The German soldier pulled out his pistol. His voice shrieked at such a pitch, that I stumbled into his line of fire. I immediately held up my hands in the air, telling him to wait. I could tell from his misty eyes that he understood.
“Don’t shoot,” I said. I slowly got up with my hands still reaching out towards the sky. I felt the sudden absence of the wind—for the first time in two days, the air fell silent. I heard the irregular beating of my heart.
“Nicht bewegen!”
I stood still as the soldier placed both hands on his gun. We locked eyes, neither of us taking the chance to blink. It dawned on me how young he appeared with the innocence in his voice unlatching freely from his words. His facial hair seemed plastered onto his smooth face, in an attempt to keep his youthfulness concealed.
“Don’t shoot,” I said again. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He hesitantly took a step back with his pistol frozen in place. “You’re lying,” he said with a surprisingly clear accent.
“No, I’m not.” I took a small step forward. “Put down the gun and just let me go.”
“No.” His gaze shifted between my eyes and my canteen.
I heard over in Japan, the government convinced civilians through propaganda that the marines would rape and kill whoever was captured. So the mothers, while crying, threw their children off cliffs and jumped after them to their deaths. They responded no better than caged rats eating their young, despite translators shouting through megaphones not to jump, that they would be protected and given food. People believe what they themselves are capable of—the monsters inside them turn false fears into bitter realities.
The boy didn’t believe me, because he himself was capable of hurting me. In his mind, if he didn’t kill me, I’d end up killing him.
“I’m like you,” I said, “I’m running, running away. Just let me go, and you can go on too.”
The young soldier slowly lowered his gun, his body trembled with a combination of fear and anger. “No,” he said, his voice softer than it was before. “Don’t move.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
The beating of my heart sunk in, matching the tempo to the hymn in my head.
“Give me,” the soldier said, pointing to my canteen. His dried lips bristled when he spoke.
“Okay, okay.”
I slowly dropped my hands to my side and pulled the canteen off my shoulder. I tossed it to his feet, which compelled him to step closer to pick it up. He shook it in one hand, beckoning the sound of water, and like the oaks in the wind, he bent back to take a sip, only to receive a bullet in the chest. The canteen and pistol both fell to the ground, with the boy following them shortly after. I strapped my rifle back over my shoulder and retrieved the canteen before his blood had the chance to sully its rim. With the last of his strength, the young soldier reached for his pistol, but before he could grasp it, I shot him again, this time through the skull.
And like his words, his blood unlatched from his head, staining my uniform and boots.
He was now one of the many, dead for nothing. And with his death, I became one more person closer to the few. The melancholy echoing in my head grew slightly sweeter in tone.
The pistol was proof of our crossing, so I decided to keep it, smudging off the blood on the barrel. I needed another gun anyways in case my rifle were to fail me. I opened the pistol's chamber and found it empty. The kid was bluffing the entire time! He played me like a cold killer. But then why did he reach for the gun in the end? Was I wrong to believe the monster inside me? I killed a man, because in my mind, he was going to kill me.
I killed him, because he was going to kill me.
The winds returned as if never having been gone, breathing again into my ears. I welcomed them, knowing what they had to say.
“Today’s the day,” I whispered. “Today’s the day.”
But instead of dying out from my acceptance, they continued on with their obstreperous chanting. Today’s the day, Peter. Today’s the day.
Within an hour after I fired my rifle, I was surrounded by two members from my camp. Officer Brian had the decency to track me down himself, leaving the other soldiers to prepare for their inevitable end in the absence of their dear leader.
“Private Nolan, you are advised to accompany me back to camp, where you will be punished for your desertion.”
“Now Lieutenant Brian, sir, hear me out,” I said. “I spotted an enemy scout near our camp and chased after him. I did not have time to alert you or the Captain.”
“Yes, I saw the body, Private,” replied the Lieutenant. “Quite a number you did on him.” The observing private had his gun pointed in my direction. “However,” continued Officer Brian, “I don’t believe a goddamn word coming out of your mouth.”
It’s funny, how the remedy to my previous encounter drew in my captors. With no other option, I followed Brian back to camp and received a brutal beating for all to see. Luckily enough for me, a battle erupted the very next day; I was spared to die at the hands of another. But what my punishers didn’t know was that I became capable of more than just compulsory participation. I fought to kill, in order to survive—I’m here, aren’t I? That day, I eradicated myself of all false fears and drank in a life of bitter realities. To become one of the few—the survivors—I had to kill as one of the many. And kill I did.