It started with a whisper

It started with a whisper.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  It started with just a whisper.

We were on patrol, just south of the main line of defense of the Western Alliance.  I got pulled into this war young.  My parents didn’t have to lie and write that I was of age.  Their dead, killed early on during an air raid.  Mom sent me to fetch an order from the local grocer.  I heard the explosion.  Somehow I knew my life just changed; I felt my parents souls leave.  I hope they went to heaven.  I have no family now; we had moved from a place my Mom called “A place of living Hell” to this place when I was just born.  The Northern Alliance is all I now know.  It is both my Mother and Father.

 

I was second man behind our bands leader, John Johns.  No one believes that is his real name, but that is the name we know him by.  He is a good leader and we’ve lost few fighters under his leadership.  He is a heavy bearded man, dark black hair seems to come out of any opening in clothing, pours from rips, it seems to have a mind of its own and wishes to escape it’s bonds.   His voice is soft and deep.  I’d like to remember my Father’s voice being the same, but I can’t seem to remember.  It is a sin to forget the face of one’s Father; I’m very blessed to possess a picture of my Mother and Father.  It was given me when I was taken to join John Johns’ unit.  Given to me by John Johns’ himself.  He told me to keep it close to my heart and I have every minute since.

 

I heard a slight whine, more like an arrant bee fly past my ear, just a whisper.  The world turned red, fighters were falling all around me.  The crack of rifles shots came after; after I and five others had hit the dust.  Blood poured from horrendous wounds turning the dust to red mud.   The skies filled with screams, bullets and choking dust.  I lay where I fell, watching those around me gush life giving blood into the greedy dirt.  Our medics were checking each quickly for any signs of life.  I felt hands on my body, cloth ripping allowing openings to my wounds.  “This one’s gone” I heard; but I’m not gone, I’m still here.  I can hear what’s going on, what’s being said.  The sounds of the battle loud in my ears.  I see comrades pulled up and carried away to be saved or prayed over until death.  John Johns is in my face, he looks closely into my eyes.  He must see something “God is great” and then he’s gone. 

I lay face half buried in dust for hours; the pain at first horrible but now less.  My fingers and toes once numb now can move just a little.  I’m getting stronger and stronger.  The battle is far over and I can just make out explosions in the far distance.  The time has come for me to try and set up; oh the pain is much but lessening quickly.  I stand; I must return to my Unit; slowly at first then with as much speed as I can muster.  I run like the wind, my Unit have need of me greatly.  John Johns counts on me.  The battle is raging in the near distance and I ask fighter after fighter if he knows of my Unit.  Finally I catch sight of John Johns waving our men on into the fight.  I race up to greet him.  John Johns jumps back, face twisted in fear “No no you’re wounds were great”  “You had no life” He swings at me and runs into the hail of bullet screaming, but not the screams of battle cries.

I’ve now joined my seventh Unit.  I’ve been martyred the sixth time and I will continue until our God calls me to heaven.  God is great!

From the Ramblings