Brothers in Arms

The old man's bones rest in peace on a green grassy hillside overlooking the valley that was once his home. I know because I was there to hear his last words, and when he was gone I buried him on that spot as he had requested.

I happened upon him one misty morning. I had been sent out by the commander of what was left of my unit, looking for survivors and maybe even for something edible for the men who were left. The fields below still smoldered from the battle whose echoes continued to ring in my ears as I clawed my way over the foothills. Smoke mingled with the foggy morning air and helped conceal the mountains farther in the distance. There was an incongruous peace in the air, here where so much violence had raged only hours before. As I climbed, stumbling, over the top of one of the hills, I saw him.

He was lying on the ground, propped up against one of the trees that grew all along the hills here. His uniform was bloody and tattered to the point that you couldn't tell his rank, or even which side of the conflict had been his. I might have taken him for dead already except that when he heard the rustling and crackling of my footsteps he moved his hand in a futile attempt to raise himself into a sitting position. Startled, I walked closer with more caution. I considered taking my rifle from its place on my back but didn't do so. As I drew nearer, I heard the old man's voice, half cry and half gasp, calling out, "Marco, is that you?" I couldn't answer for a moment; my only brother's name was Marco, and the vision of him dying in the battle just concluded was still vivid enough to render me speechless. But the old man called again, "Is that you, Marco?" and that forced down the lump in my throat. "No, I'm not Marco", I answered hoarsely. "Do you have some water, even a little... I am so thirsty", he said. I reached around and took my canteen, opened it and extended it to him. He didn't reach for it at all -- and I realized that although his eyes were open, he probably couldn't see me or the canteen. I placed it in his hands and guided it toward his mouth. He drank as though he had never tasted water before, until finally he pushed the container away from his lips. When he spoke again his voice was still weak but now a bit clearer. "You didn't desert me, boy. I'm glad you returned for me. When they hit us last night and all the men scattered in the flames and gunfire, I didn't know if I would ever see any of you again." "It's all right, I'm here", I answered. "Relax, preserve your strength. Those of the men who are well enough are out looking for survivors. I'll help you back to camp."

I looked over the old man's injuries and saw that it was unlikely he would make it back to our camp alive. His entire shirt was soaked in blood and it appeared that he had been too close to one of the exploding shells; he had taken a good deal of shrapnel. It seemed miraculous that he was still alive. I decided to make him more comfortable because I couldn't move him in his condition.

As I adjusted his position on the ground, he groaned in pain and then spoke once more. "Marco... have you seen Marco?" "Marco's dead", I snapped after a lengthy pause and immediately regretted it. He seemed stunned. "Are... are you sure?" he pleaded in a faltering voice. "He was my only son." Tears came to the old man's eyes as he spoke. "I'm sorry. I don't know if your Marco is alive. My brother's name was also Marco. He's dead, like so many of the others. But if your Marco is alive he's either in camp, or we'll find him and bring him back. Captain Pavlik takes care of his own." At this the old man seemed to shudder, but no words came from his lips. After a few minutes of silence which made me think he might have lost consciousness, he spoke once again. "I remember the old days, when these valleys produced crops enough to feed everyone, when the ground wasn't red with blood and black with ash. I was a young man then. My brothers and I farmed the land our father left to us. Good land, it was, fertile and bountiful. I married my Marie and we had our son Marco and his sisters, all born in the house my great-grandfather built, the house where I was born. We weren't rich but we had everything we could ever want from life. I thought I would never leave my valley, my farm... nothing could ever take me from them and my family. That was before we knew war." At this he paused and I gave him another sip from the canteen. Then he continued.

"We fought for truth and freedom. We knew that we were right, and we couldn't wait to take up our guns and defend what we believed in. We were sure that God was on our side and victory was assured and imminent. We forgot that there were men on the other side, equally determined and convinced of their justification. And we didn't yet know that war meant only destruction, and suffering, and death. I went back to see my farm but it was gone; my Marie was gone, there was no sign that the land had ever held my great-grandfather's house and the generations of family that had lived there. There was no telling that the land had once nurtured life instead of burying it forever. I never went back again. I never can go back again."

With this his eyes swelled with tears. He coughed and pink foam formed at the corner of his mouth. But somehow, somewhere he found the strength to speak again. "We weren't soldiers, we were farmers. We knew how to till the land and harvest our crops. We learned to fight -- and to die -- the hard way. I tried to lead as best I could. They all looked up to me, the oldest son of the oldest family in the valley. Through it all the men did their best, but we forgot one thing: the men we fought, and killed, were just like us. They also had their families and homes, and they wanted to return to them in safety and peace just as we did. We could only keep up the fight until we were forced to realize that they were just the same as us, only we were on different sides." The old man paused and I gave him some more of my water. He took it and said he would sleep for a while now. He closed his eyes and I sat alongside, knowing that he didn't have much time left.

As I sat I looked out at the land. The mist was clearing from the mountains in the distance as the sun burned off what was left of the morning's fog. The foothills, green but with great gashes of dark destruction, bore witness to the fierceness of the battle that had been fought there. The valley below was pocked with craters and scarred by the fires of battle. It was easy to envision the beauty and peace that the old man had once seen here, but it was also easy to understand that this land would not soon return to that state.

As I looked out from my vantage point at the top of that hill, my mind replayed the events of the previous day. Confusion, explosions, rumblings of manmade thunder and hellfire, shrieks of pain and the stench of death overwhelmed the senses. Inevitably the picture raced to the image of my young brother Marco, whose courage was undisputed, charging ahead with the rest of our unit and being caught full in the chest by gunfire that tore him apart and ripped the life from his body. That picture was imprinted in my mind and I knew I would see it until the day I died.

I was alone with my thoughts through the day as the old man slept, miraculously clinging to life. As the sun was about to disappear behind the mountains in the west, he finally awoke. I gave him another drink, the last of my water, but he refused a share of the stale bread that was my food ration. "Night's coming", I said, "I'll have to head back to camp. Unless you want me to stay with you through the night." He shook his head slowly and simply said, "No, I will stay here myself. This is my home now. But before you go..." He broke up in a coughing fit and red blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "...I want to thank you for not deserting me. Farewell, my brother."

I looked at him, lying there under the tree, and realized what I must have known subconsciously all along: this man was one of the enemy, one of those we fought and sought to kill, one of those who had killed my own brother. And he must have realized the same of me. Yet we had spent a day sharing our thoughts, our water, our memories, our hopes, our pains, our dreams... and we had come to see that we were far more alike than different. What would he have done if our situations were reversed? Seeming to read my mind the old man spoke for the last time. "We all do what we have to do, son. The choices are never easy, and pain is usually the result of our efforts. But we all share the same heritage, and we will all share the same destiny. Whoever wins these battles we fight, whatever the result, one day we must learn that we are only fighting ourselves. Until that day comes there will be no peace in this valley, nor anywhere else in our world. But I still have hope that we will learn from our mistakes and no longer be fools. Someday I will see you again. Until then, I hope you find peace."
With those words the old man's head tilted to the side and his labored breathing ceased. I stood there for a long time as the sun set and the full moon rose over the valley, before I started digging a final home for the old man, there, overlooking the valley that would be forever his home.