The Shed: A Grievous Experience of a Veteran

Part IV

After that flash of unspeakable memories that tried to pull me from a fragile state of docility, I was able to resist panic and enjoy again the landscape of notorious Deutschland. We had walked a distance of ten kilometers, yet we were still far behind. Johnson walked beside me, gazing left and right, always watchful of anything that could stir. In that time of individuality, I still had faith towards the phrase "no man is an island."

"John," I softly called him, and then he turned his face to me. "When, whe—" I remembered stuttering there, "When do you think this war will end?"

His face certainly had a soul of nobleness. A balanced nose, a dignified forehead, paired with two eyes of captivating depth. His gaze was stern but understanding, calm but forgiving. When I gave my question, he smiled with his set of dazzling pearl-like teeth that shone freely. He was an inch taller than me and he was older than me. However, he had priceless knowledge stored in that vault of his; perhaps his answer could alleviate my astatic state.

"Ah, Scotty," He started with an air of joviality, smiling. "When was the last time you drank water, ey? You seem thirsty! My god, look at that lips of yours, dry as hell! Here," he offers me his canteen, cold to the touch, "Come on! Drink! Don't complain of the cold. By the time we reach Belgium, it will be hot as home there!"

I drank the frigid water, for the sake of fulfilling his request. I felt my throat burn coldly.

"You should've drunk that Cognac I offered you. It was cold, but it would have made you somber."

Somber? Johnson's perception was an oddity and a true mystery too. He enjoyed war, after all.

"From what will that beverage make me somber to?" I asked him, my curiosity excited for an answer.

Johnson hesitated, spending his sight on the perambulation, enjoying the recurring breeze that passed through us from the east. He then turned at me with audacity, his carefree hair following this motion.

"War, my friend," he calmly answered, calmer than the German breeze.

I do not know, but how he pronounces those mere three words had a heavy effect upon me. I could never forget them. They struck me dumb, like one immersed under the rhythm of the rain dropping, then fatefully shocked by lightning, by clarity. That shock showed again unwanted memories in vivid and clear reproductions. The mention of "war" triggered everything that would have buried me six feet down the icy land of Germany. I was troubled by the word, yet I was living and surviving in it. Too much that I do not know!

His words still ringing in my ears, we both stare upon the snowy path, studded with patches of moss and chunks of rocks. I took a quick glance behind me, and saw the moon, walking the carpet of darkness, ready to be the queen of the skies for a night above this land. I then remembered my question to Johnson—so did he.

"You know, Scotty, war is like mamma's veggie dish, for me," Johnson began, taking the water canteen from my hand, opening it up, and drinking a good amount of water; "Although it tastes and looks like chickenpox, you got to stuff it in your mouth and start chewing; but it does strengthen your bones, improve all your immunity, protect you from diseases, make your eyes, teeth, ears, hair, skin—all that mountebank quack. Huh. What do you say about it, Scotty?"

He closed the bottle after taking another quaff, and placed it inside his bag.

"I say you are pretty mindless with metaphors." I had but the truth to say.

"Hah! You just don't understand!" he chuckled. "You see, vegetables do a lot for us, although they taste bad: they make us stronger, they make us—ah! You see what I mean! I mean war is something our mankind needs. War breathes, if you could imagine: it just stops for a while, and resumes again, and it never ends."

I listened patiently to his answer, but I was seeking more.

"What, then, is the cause of wars?" I questioned again, with a curiosity burning with thirst.

"You know," he started."I can't remember the name of the country—or kingdom?—but I read that this particular kingdom lived in peace for almost a thousand years, I think? But guess what happened afterwards? War; the kingdom was fought over by conflicting leaders, and in the process, was devastated economically and nationally. That kingdom then forgot the flavor of peace.

"And the cause? It's observable, Scotty—difference. The good thing is we are different; the bad thing is we are different. We like to fit into this world our own set of accords, and we also like to impose them to our fellows. It gets worse when you force them, just like what Hitler is doing now."

"So, Hitler succeeded in inciting his countrymen to revolt against the world? "

"No, the countrymen acceded to the foolishness of the Nazi father. Some people do not need to be forced; some just accept what one "great" person spits out."

It is a dangerous habit to hark without understanding. It destroys one's insight towards objects of interest, and turns him into an undignified social mongrel, one that becomes so gluttonous that he speaks as if eats, and listens as if he is insatiable. A citizen to this degree is no doubt a zealous worshipper of his leader, and around him, he creates his own religion, his own understanding. How many false gods have we created for our own whims? Poisonous and pompous declamation does infect the heart, and great is its manipulative power.

From Johnson's decisive answer, I became regretful, wishing that I listened to my mother's heartfelt pleas. Never will I forget her. Her smile was a nepenthe for anything that troubled me, so glistening that it outshone even the fairest moon. Her soul was gentle and forgiving, even under a stormy midnight, when everything seemed to be touched by disaster and bad omen; yet she still smiled even in those days, and took care of me when I was struck by the most unpleasant of all illnesses. Oh mother, remembering you only made me more miserable and downtrodden. When shall I meet you? I thought.

Darkness was above us, removing our eyes of clear sight. Out of fear of danger, we had to cease our journey and settle down somewhere for the night. I distinctively heard a small murder pierce through the heavy sky, and saw them, darkly ethereal and colored so naturally, as to blend with the shadows of the night. Although the firm breeze strongly disabled us to hear our surroundings at times, I could hear the added rustling and flustering of the pine cone trees, an alarming movement within them, and the revived chatter of my comrades, yet it was anodyne and partly disheartening. No sound of vehicles or aircraft startled us, so we were quite safe at a haven. Smith Wells and Skinny Joe were established as night watch after a brief meeting. The rest of us tried to sleep, even when Slumber could not overtake us.