The Squad Page 2

gas, rotting sandbags and stagnant mud was part of us. The evil of war had crept into our very being. Curt was initially overwhelmed, but soon he got used to the smell, but for some reason he kept his faint aroma of freshly washed clothes. He was always apart from the horror.

  When Curt had first seen a dead soldier rotting on the battlefield, the corpse grotesquely disfigured, eyes eaten by rats, he'd been sick. Then he said a prayer for the man and started to bury him. Initially we laughed then, instead of just marching on, we helped. Curt insisted we bury all the dead and amazingly we did. Curt grew used to the lice that infested our clothes, without complaint. The trenches infestation of frogs, slugs and horned beetles were playful curiosities to him. Curt still had compassion. That was what made him different, he had compassion and goodness; that is why we all needed him.

  The day he was tried I knew he was innocent. None of us thought he would be found guilty. The battalion was paraded; Curt was brought forward and the verdict was announced. Guilty? My heart almost stopped. Guilty? Surely the punishment would be military prison? But not in the crazy world where we exist. The sentence was announced: execution by firing squad. It couldn't be true. The whole process of the military court had taken less than twenty minutes. We really weren't going to shoot one of our own? Surely the Captain would save him?

  'Bang!' The earth shakes. I open my eyes just in time to see dirt rain down on us. Almost a direct hit. The Captain is bent over my body holding on tight. Slowly he raises his head. His face is ashen white, clearly terrified, like a baby rabbit caught in headlights. Is that a tear in his eye?

  'That was close. But we're still here Davies! Soon we'll be going home.' He hesitates. 'At least you'll be going home.' He tries to smile. I wonder how old he is.

  The cold pain of death is creeping through my body. I must confess. I must make my peace before I die. I try again. 'Curt wasn't guilty.' Just letting the words escape from my heart for a second time makes me feel lighter. The Captain doesn't respond. Did he hear?

  I spit as much blood out of my mouth as I can. I must tell what I know. I breathe lightly. I must make one last attempt. I gasp for air. I grab the Captain's arm and pull him towards me.

  'Curt was innocent. It was me!'

  The Captain stops and looks into my eyes, as though he is trying to look deep into my soul, trying to find the truth. 'What do you mean?'

  I struggle. My time is short. 'Curt was innocent. It was me.'

  The Captain's face looks as thought it was made of stone. He looks at me. Does he understand?

  'You're delirious. Your injuries are making you talk rubbish. Curt was tried and found guilty!'

  A whistling sound interrupts us. The Captain ducks down. The earth a few yards from us is torn apart; battlefield debris falls around us. We hold our breath. A single shell?

  I'm back with the squad. We've done our duty and Curt is dead. The golden boy is now just bones and flesh, just something for the rats. We're given extra rations, but none of us can eat. We are stone-faced, not talking, not crying, not men anymore: the last shreds of human decency taken from us. No future, no past, just the here and now. Where are our souls? Is our only salvation death? As we sit around a smouldering fire, the atmosphere is filled with self-hatred and loathing. We are silently aggressive with each other, each man trying to control his own sense of guilt. Why didn't the Captain stop the execution? Why didn't I stop the execution?

  Our faces are hollow and sunken, when we move we walk with the stoops of old men, even though we are barely out of our teenage years. One of the squad threw down his food and muttered, a second man told him to be quiet. Within moments they both grabbed their rifles. Only the intervention of the Captain stopped the men from killing each other. The rest of us simply sat without any thought of interjecting. When we rejoined the rest of the unit we were outcasts. We have committed a crime not even these cold-hearted killers could forgive.

  From that day on Curt haunted my waking hours, a strange daytime dream, did I see him in the line-up for grub? Did I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror when I shaved? He was everywhere: especially in my dreams. Never angry or dangerous: just a constant companion reminding me of my guilt.

  The Captain raises his head and looks at me. 'Curt can't have been innocent! We executed him!'

  Blood dribbles out of my mouth. Look into my eyes. Understand that I speak the truth. Leave me to die!

  'It was me!' The words come out of my mouth through short irregular heavy breaths. This must be my time.

  The Captain grabs hold of my jacket and hauls me into a sitting position. Dull pain shoots through me, but I am too close to death to yell out.

  'What do you mean Curt was innocent! He was just a child! You can't have let us shoot a child for something you did?' The pain and agony are engrained into his face.

  I look at him. It's true. I'm guilty and Curt was innocent. The only words I can manage are, 'it was me. I'm sorry!'

  The Captain shakes me. 'You're lying! Tell me you're lying! Tell me you're lying, you bastard!'

  In all this madness the Captain still has a sense of right and wrong. Maybe there's some hope for us all.

  I fall back to the dirt with a thud. The Captain has flung me to the ground like an unwanted piece of rubbish. He takes his pistol out of its holster. The cold steel of the barrel is pressed hard against my head.

  'Tell me the truth! Tell me whether Curt was guilty or not! If you don't I swear I'll shoot you!'

  The Captain is deadly serious. I smile to myself. I can only murmur. 'I did it.'

  The Captain howls out in pain. Even in the midst of the battlefield he still feels the pain. He is shaking with rage. Now just pull the trigger and we'll all escape. But he doesn't pull the trigger. What's he thinking? Is he trying to hold back his tears or his own guilt?

  He looks directly into me eyes. 'You bastard. You let a child die in your place.'

  He pushes his pistol harder against my skull, as though trying to drill into my mind. He has nothing but hatred written in his face. He moves his face close to mine. I can smell his breath. 'He was an innocent. He was an innocent child. He was like a brother. Rot in hell you bastard!'

  Out of the corner of my eye I see his hand tighten its grip.

  I have seen sights so terrible I shall never forget them as long as I live. I emptied my rifles magazine into four wounded enemy soldiers as they came out of one of their deep dugouts. They cried for mercy, but I had my orders, take no prisoners. They would've done the same to me.

  I have fought in battles and been through the hellish furnace of war; seen nearly all my battalion wiped out by enemy artillery; been buried alive: been wounded by machine fire and collapsed in this world of horrors.

  But Curt was my breaking point; he was the one who tipped me over the edge of reason. We'd been trained to be cruel, sadistic and murderous, but he made me see the insanity with painful efficiency. His compassion shamed me. He made me understand my inner lie, I wasn't doing God's work or fighting for my country, I wasn't killing for good; I was just killing.

  A loud bang rings in my ears and then pain explodes inside my mind. Is my destiny hell or heaven?

  Darkness claws at me.

  Do I hear Curt calling me? He reaches out with a bottle in his hand. Is that the bottle of wine that I stole and we shared? The bottle that did for both of us?