An Cosantóir

An Cosantóir October 2018 www.dfmagazine.ie 20 | 20 | BY AJ VOSSE "Sgt, what exactly is that soldier doing?" "Nothing, Sir…" He'd expected the startled expression. Here in the military, men aren't supposed to do nothing, so when an officer sees nothing being done it spells trouble. The Sgt purposely allowed the pause to drag on, allowing the tension to mount until it became almost tangible. He allowed the oppressively hot, humid, heavy air to add to the drama of the moment, as if the smoke of 20 cannons expel- ling their toxic vapour suffocated any thoughts of reality. Sgt Ross glanced at the rosy-cheeked man beside him. He'd planned the familiarisation walk to end in the tree's shade about 15 meters from where the young soldier was sitting. The soldier was dressed only in a pair of shorts and a stained, sun parched shirt. Nondescript, hardly visible against the background of the surrounding thicket of woodland, part of the land. The Sgt's thoughts returned to the new arrival. The uniform crisp, only months old, unlike his faded combat dress that al- though neat, was well past their best days. Damn, why can't they stop sending him these kids? Soldiering is not for babies. They're making them younger each year, he mused. He reflect- ed on the seemingly insane process of sending children fresh out of secondary school on officer's course. Conscription was so cruel, getting good school grades meant you'll likely end up at officer's college before your molars were out of their sockets. Then, next stop? War. In a faraway, forsaken edge of the continent, light- years away from the comforts of home and mommy's cooking and care. How many years more will he have to lead these kids into battle, how many more years will the warlords continue demand- ing more death from their nation? How many more years will the politicians throw the youth of the country at the enemy's guns? He cut short his mental ramblings, glancing at Lt Pendleton. His gaze was again drawn to the mere smudge of a moustache. So young, a fresh-faced boy, yet now he was supposed to under- stand what he was seeing. How the blazes can any man under- stand what they were witnessing? "We've left him to his own devices while we wait for the Medics to make up their minds. He lives out here beneath the trees." Sgt Ross gestured at the lush green world at the edge of the base camp. Here, many miles away from the dangers of the front- line, it was easy to close one's eyes and imagine oneself enjoying the luxuries of a subtropical safari camp. He fixed his eyes on the shell of the man-boy seemingly relax- ing in the old tree's shade. Just months ago, that young man had been an eager, fresh-faced soldier arriving at the front, ready for his own conquest of destiny. "Sir… the lad's not responding to any human interaction. He shuns all contact, yet… there he is, existing only meters away from his peers." Again, the Sgt let the heat-laden billows of silence waft into the mental spaces, seeping into every dark crevice of their minds. His was battle weary; the young LT's dazed and disorientated by his first brushes with the reality that was war. Sgt Ross turned slightly, for a better look at the young man standing beside him. The rosiness was gone, replaced by an ashen likeness of what minutes before was the innocent, fresh bright- ness of an eager young officer. Maybe this one will learn quickly, thought Sgt Ross. Maybe he'll learn and realise there is no glory in war; there are no hero's, dead or alive. Maybe he'll learn that Hemingway's words were true, no matter how just war was, it was ultimately still crime. Maybe the LT will soon grasp that one's own kin bleed and die like the enemy. The Sgt was used to seeing blood, to seeing the remains of his troops scattered on the red earth… and in the trees. He'd watched men lance the enemy with blunt bayonets. He'd seen hate, love… longing… lust for life… depravity. Is that not the lack of love? De-

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