We Will Remember

The Squad

He went outside. Just like any normal day. He looked around. Just like any day. But it wasn't.

He knew what was going to happen was going to be unfair. He was unjustly accused of something he didn't commit. And he couldn't prove that the claims were false against the superior officer. He just couldn't. That was the hierarchy of things, and he was at the bottom. Lower than the bottom. He knew it. Of course they wouldn't care enough to check out the truth.

He hummed a song. The only song that came into his head was the Skye Boat song. He remembered it when he was a child. His grandpa sang it to him as a lullaby. A beautiful song. If only he could be part of it. It would be escape instead of this. But he hummed it anyway, regardless of what thoughts it provoked:

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,

Onward! the sailors cry;

Carry the lad that's born to be King

Over the sea to Skye.

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,

Thunderclaps rend the air;

Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,

Follow they will not dare.

Beautiful. Just the lyrics that he wanted to hear as he died. Because today was his death day. Some people were unlucky that they didn't know they were going to die. They didn't get to remember the great parts their life. The sounds, sights, feelings, smells, tastes that represented their lives. At least he got the luxury of listening to the sounds of his life once again.

He thanked God for this luxury.

But with it came the worry. The worry for his friends. His brother, who would have to break the news to his family. For his father, who didn't have a heart strong enough to handle this. His mother, who doted on him and his brother. His wife who loved him more than he loved her. His six year old girl who would see the photo on the staircase and not know it was her dad. How painful is that for a soul? A soul about to be shot?

The commander hated him. The commander had hated him enough to shoot at his foot whilst on duty. The commander then said that he had shot himself in order to get leave to Scotland. Even though the commander knew that he was too loyal and just to do that. But it resulted in him getting killed. The commander was too afraid there was going to be mutiny. That they'd follow him instead of the commander. The commander was a coward. He didn't even need to get his hands dirty in the process of grassing him up. But he promised that the commander would see blood on his hands for the rest of his life and never be able to wash it off. At least he made the commander blanch.

The man gazed out across the battlefield. The one thing he knew he wasn't going to miss was the fighting. He didn't know how he could live without destroying himself through shooting people. He tried to just stun them. But it didn't always work. He injured people. He'd maimed people badly. He had deformed people through hand grenades and shells. He didn't want to see that happen again. He knew that he'd lose himself in the process. And he didn't want to make himself a mindless monster, a mercenary who worked for Death, and Death only.

The trial had been unfair. They would believe anything the commander said, even if it was blatantly obvious it was a lie. Because of two corrupt judges and the commander.

He saw the cannons and the rifles being prepared. Someone was pushing the gunpowder into the barrel of the rifle. He was going to die. He knew it. He embraced it.

He had told his brother to tell their family that he was killed by his own people, and why. He had told his brother that he loved him as a brother and was sad to depart. He had told him that he should tell his wife of the kiss that occurred outside the barn door (and what happened inside, but she would know to think of that), that he should kiss the little babe on behalf of him each time he saw her. He was told to look after his child like he was the father.

He walked forward to the death zone. It was where he was going to die. He strolled along like he had all the time in the world. He didn't. He was living on shortening time.

He had told then men who enjoyed his company that they should not shed their tears for him. Or else he would laugh at them. There was a sombre laughter. He knew he would never hear laughter again.

He looked up into the faces of the firing squad. He would not look at his friends, his brother. He wouldn't want to give them unbearable pain. He stepped forward to meet "punishment" like a man.

"Aim!" the commander said. "Fire!"

The baby...

Death.