Battlefield Goings-On... at Night
Recently, my pup Agatha Wags and I took a long walk on the battlefield. While there, we spotted a soldier atop a very high pillar. I immediately felt sorry for him. There he was, suspended in midair, so far away from his friends and the earth. I imagined that his sadness must be reminiscent of Rapunzel's... but worse, for he lacked a rope of hair that could be let down to potential visitors.
Anyway, the poor fellow perched upon the pillar gave me an idea for the story. Here it is:
Every night is the same: the sun starts to dip toward the earth, the moon begins to rise in the sky, and a peaceful hush falls over the battlefield. Tourists call to their kids, herding bored-to-tears teenagers and rambunctious youngsters into tired minivans that have idled all day beside statues and quiet cannons. The older children wear lackluster expressions and drag their feet, but the younger ones smile from beneath felt caps, marching with plastic rifles tucked tight at their sides. The families will venture back to their hotels or downtown to grab a bite at a local establishment; the locals will finish their end-of-day jogs, whistle to their panting canines, and head home for dinner.
And then, when not a single human soul remains in the vicinity… that is when it happens.
It’s John who ventures first from his post, wiggling his toes and flexing his fingers and slowly, carefully, tentatively lifting one foot from its slab of cement. His knees creak. His elbows crack. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he reaches up to smooth an unkempt mustache. Then, fluidly, he steps onto the grass and strides across the battlefield, pushing back the brim of his cap to better see Charlie mounted there upon his horse. The massive creature exhales loudly as John approaches, a puff of steam erupting from large, quivering nostrils. “Wanderlust,” the officer says in greeting to the beast, and then with a polite nod, “Charlie.”
“Evening, General,” the younger man responds. “Weather’s a bit chilly tonight, isn’t it?”
“’Tis, yes. It’ll no doubt be colder for Frank, I’d imagine. Shall we walk over and ask if he might like to join us below for a bit?”
Charlie very slightly flicks his wrist, adjusts the reins of his horse, and offers a brief grunt of agreement. With legs rusty from holding the same stance since dawn, Wanderlust steps slowly from his stone slab and onto the frost-coated grass. He whinnies softly before starting toward the tall statue positioned one hundred yards to the north.
Captain Francis Jefferson, known as Frank by those closest to him, squints through the darkness, watching his friends as they approach. He’s been on his feet all day. They ache terribly and his toes are numb with cold. There’s an icy chill to the air and an earthy aroma of snow can be detected each time the wind gusts at his back. Frank sniffs, runs the back of his chapped hand across his dripping nose, and then carefully lowers himself to a sitting position, his legs dangling thirty feet above his comrades below. “How’s the weather down there?” he bellows, and Charlie, his face pale beneath the glow of the moon, shouts up, “Warmer than it is up there, I reckon. Come on down, Frank!”
Sadly, the pillar upon which Francis Jefferson is perched affords him no ladder or stairs. It is with great despair that he throws his hands into the air, sighs heavily, and answers in glum fashion, “If only I could.”
“Jump!” John suggests, just as he suggested last night and every night before that. “Your legs are strong as bronze, man! They won’t break!”
It’s a tempting thought. How long ago was it that Frank’s feet last touched solid ground? A hundred years? A decade or two more than that? Earth, even when it’s frozen, would feel fine to his throbbing feet, which spend the majority of each day planted firmly upon a cold cement slab. Perhaps he could jump…
“Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and scoot yourself right over that ledge,” Charlie encourages in his youthful way. “Won’t hurt a bit, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
“On the count of three,” John contributes. “One… two… three!”
Above him, Frank shakes his head apologetically. “I can’t,” he insists. “I simply can’t.”
From behind the black curtain of night, a new voice presents itself, asking in a gritty baritone, “How many nights you been trying to get down from there now, Frankie? Goin’ on five or six million, ain’t it? Might be time to do something about it, eh?”
Both Charlie and John turn to face the newcomer. Wanderlust snorts affectionately as the grizzled man reaches out to touch the beast’s long snout. General Jack Ridley narrows his eyes, furrows his brow, and considers the distance between Frank and himself. “I suppose it might be something of a trick to find your way back up there if you do manage to get down,” he muses. “It’s a right difficult predicament, Frank. Right difficult.”
“Right difficult,” Frank murmurs dismally. And then, just as he does every night, he grumbles in resignation, “Be easier to just stay put, I s’pose. Easier in the long run, I mean.” He peers down at his friends, a forlorn expression washing across his face, and watches as the three men below exchange glances before slowly raising their shoulders in a uniform shrug. “Easier in the long run,” they mutter to one another. “Definitely easier in the long run.”
Resignedly, John and Jack hunker close to the ground, propping themselves against the stone pillar. Charlie slumps exhaustedly into the saddle of his horse. The men swap bits of mindless conversation while high above them, apart from his friends, Captain Francis Jefferson listens to the echoes of their hushed voices.
The soldiers will eventually resume their rightful positions, when the sun once again begins to yawn itself awake, but for now they are content to congregate at the base of a thirty-foot pillar, mumbling and chuckling and muttering about the cold.
Just as they did last night, and just like they did every night that came before that.
And so every night is the same.