The General……………………………………………………..………………………………..….…………….Luca Mezzanotte, V

The General

Luca Mezzanotte '23

Rain pattered against the starchy cloth tent, making it heavy, yet somehow it resisted the constant bombardment of water and kept the interior dry. I already had on my uniform; it was covered in dirt and blood; the badges and insignias were cockeyed and falling off. Conversations could be heard from around the camp, both solemn and cavalier. And how could I forget the gunshots, the gunshots persisted in the background without ceasing. With all this monotony, something was off; something tugged at the back of my mind like a loose thread. I tried to sort through my thoughts while tuning out the cacophony of war. Who was I kidding, though, by now, it was just white noise. Not only had I been deployed here for what seemed like an eternity, but I had served for at least seven more eternities before this. I knew the sounds: feet shuffling, quiet chatter, mourning, weaponry. I knew the smells: soiled uniforms, smoke, cigarettes, shitty food. I knew the feelings: fear, responsibility, excitement, duty, dread. I left the tent and watched the tan uniform soak up the tears of the sky and turn dark and patchy. Men, my men, sat spattered throughout the camp as if thrown down at random, plucked from their homes, and placed haphazardly in a war zone. Tent after tent after tent. I walked by, peering in each partially open flap to see some sulking, with smokes in their pursed lips, some praying - probably for this nightmare to end, and the occasional tent of good humor. The occasional tent with soldiers sharing their company, whatever crappy drink they could find rationed out among the group, cards being passed around, laughter coming from the cockeyed table. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I did know what they weren’t talking about: war. The only people that could even fake happiness were so detached from the current situation they were of no use to me, they couldn’t fight, and those that were caught up in it were so depressed that they too could not function. Not that this was news, that's what happened. There are winners, and there are losers, yet somehow, everyone loses. The victor makes their terms and imposes them upon the vanquished with no one to stop them, and not until it's too late feels remorse. The vanquished had to live with these harsh terms and pay the consequences. Lose-lose. I was looking at men who had lost parts of themselves; they died with the enemies they killed. Every soul falling down to the depths of hell made its way into each soldier’s pack, adding weight and pulling them down too.

They lost connections, the only proof they had that they were loved was in the memories, but what does that prove? Feelings change. Would they still love a man who murdered tens of other men also wrestling with loss, with families and friends of their own? Even the winner loses, even the enemy feels. No matter how much it hurts to think about, every man killed was being pulled away from their people. I knew that every single soldier in my camp was thinking about it. Dwelling on the grimaces of pain on the enemies' faces just before they went white and still. Remembering the cries of terror, the cries for mercy before putting a carefully aimed bullet right through their skull. The thought, what if it was me? I could

watch them all dive down the rabbit hole as they filled their lungs with sweet, sweet smoke trying to burn these dark thoughts. They couldn’t. They pictured their girlfriends, wives, and children all on their knees, looking up at the sky and yelling, “why god, how could you do this to me?!” Their shirts wet from real tears, not the rain. What a world. Truly tragic, the nature of battle. My shoes sunk into the wet dirt deep enough that they tugged every time I took a step. It was as if the earth was begging me to turn around; it was grabbing me by the ankles and saying, “please don’t go.” But I wasn’t going anywhere; I was just walking. I walked past crates of weapons, now wet from rain dripping through the large cracks running down the wood. Soon the weapons would be covered in mud mixed with dark crimson - what a terrible thought. Why did I do it, this whole fighting thing? I needed to. It was my purpose. My family. Unlike the men who I looked at when walking down the rows of sagging tents, I didn’t have a family to mourn for me. I didn’t have the nagging in the back of my mind giving me endless playthroughs of death. Not anymore, at least. I had the demons, but by this point, we were friends. I couldn’t leave them now. My life had gone so far down the gutter that it was now at that point where the water is in free fall before hitting the ground, and all it feels is fresh air and gravity. That was me, stuck in a state of fake pride and meaning, plummeting back to reality. I walked past a tent that stood out. It was half fallen, the door fully ajar. The man sat on the edge of his cot in a trance. Staring down at a picture, he held gingerly in his hands as it got soaked by the rain. Unlike the others, he wasn't crying, or smoking, or twitching. He was simply looking, wishing that he could be in the picture. I couldn’t even see what it was, but I knew. I had seen enough of them. A blond girl in a pretty red dress flirting with the camera. Her hair and dress being tossed about in the wind. The perfect picture. I knew all he wanted was to put on a fresh suit and join her. Tear off his dirty uniform, wash away the blood, wash away the memories of this hellscape, and jump into the picture. But he couldn’t. Just like me and every other man in the camp, he was stuck here. I was frozen in time watching this man yearn for happiness just one more time. I reached for my pocket instinctively but knew my picture was gone. I remember seeing her, all my prayers answered. Every moment spent building up this very interaction, just to see her with someone else. The pain, worse than a bullet ever could’ve been. All I wanted was to look at the picture one more time, but I remember watching it flutter into the dirt and turning away from it leaving her and my dreams behind. I forced myself to move on, to leave him to his sorrow. My intervention would do nothing; I couldn’t grant him his one desire. I kept moving down the line with no real purpose. I just tuned out the gunshots and the cries and trudged forward. Still yanking my boots out of the mud with every step. I shoved my hands into my pockets as the rain had soaked my skin, making it cold and clammy. I made it to the end of the line without seeing anything else truly heartwrenching and stood there. I looked at all the tents, destructive smoke billowing up in the horizon line, lives being taken. I looked down at my shoes,

crusted over with dried mud and the occasional spatter of blood. Everyone’s clothes had the occasional spatter of blood. I stared on and realized the futility of it. Of war, of this mission, of this camp. I felt the remorse that every soldier feels before putting a bullet through an enemy. I carried the weight of the people I killed and any burden I could pull of the shoulders of my men. I was being crushed and needed to alleviate part of it.

With that, I walked back down the line with purpose this time. I still walked slowly, of course, observing the scenes I remarked on at the beginning of my walk, but I had a plan. I needed to make a speech, something to rally the troops, give them something to focus on. I stared at the conditions trying to formulate words. What sort of compelling beauty could I find here? Maybe I didn’t need to rally the troops after all. I pushed away the heavy tent flap to my quarters as the rain rolled off the fabric soaking my already soaked skeleton. I sat at the rigid wooden chair in the corner, dug deep into the soft dirt, and pondered. I had the words. “Gentlemen,” my voice boomed out across the tents, and people begrudgingly joined me in the rain. “I have something to say. This morning, I observed the sorriest bunch of soldiers I’ve ever seen and realized that even if we win this war, we all lose. We all lose time and memories, and we get corrupted with horror,” I paused to observe the stark faces in front of me. No one was paying much attention; they were fed up with rallying speeches. “This is not meant to rally the troops; in fact, the opposite. Go home,” now I had their attention. Shocked, their eyes panned up from the water sinking into the mud. I took another pause, realizing what I had said. “I am staying; I have nothing to go home to, but you… you have families and friends and dreams and lives. Go live them,” I didn’t know who would leave and would stay. Dozens of faces still stared at me through the rain, falling fast as the bombs on the battlefield making a subtle thumping on the ground and tents. A drum roll while I awaited a response. I still stood waiting for something, a word, a movement but got nothing. “You can leave!” I shouted. “Go!” I lashed out. I didn’t expect anyone to leave, they had signed up to serve, and I knew they would do that. Some of them had been with me since my first deployment, others, the ripe age of 15. Starting with the back, they turned. One by one, they peeled off to return to their tents. But they didn’t continue to wallow in their misery. They gathered the few possessions they had and walked right back out into the rain. They marched, more unified than I had ever seen them, away from camp, away from the battle, toward the city, toward home. I moved back to my tent and sat on the edge of the cot. My uniform soaked the thin brown sheet; I didn’t really care. What had just happened? I had freed my men. I wanted them to go but didn’t expect them to. Or at least this many too. My words echoed through my head. “You can leave!” The sharp words piercing the air, interrupting the gunshots and the rain, clearing the fog in the soldiers' heads. I had won. War doesn’t have winners, only losers. But today, there were winners.