SWNOVELS Chapter 1945
“What’s the word, LT?” hissed Private Jones from somewhere to his left. It was May 14th and they had been on this damned hunk of volcanic rock for over a month. Between the moonless sky and the smoke from the burning jungle, it was almost as black as pitch.
Lieutenant Abernathy silently slid his bayonet from its sheath.
“Why don’t they just give up?” growled a voice farther down the line. “They gotta know they’re beat.”
Abernathy tapped his sergeant on the back. The two could barely see one another. “I’m going over. You wait for the screaming to start.” As Abernathy laid down his rifle, an explosion lit up the long line of soldiers lying against the embankment. “Then you bring the boys. We’re taking this hill tonight.”
The sergeant nodded his understanding. A hiss of whispering started as the order was passed down the line. Taking some mud created by the blood of dying soldiers, Abernathy rubbed it along the blade of the bayonet. When he was done, it no longer reflected any light from the distant shelling.
Slowly and silently, he left the cover of the ravine. Even at this late hour, it was hot and humid. Abernathy couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t sweat-soaked. He tried to ignore it as it ran down his neck, tried to blink it away as it stung his eyes. He had to keep moving and keep quiet. Embers burned his hands and clothes. Barbed wire and shattered trees grabbed at his shirt, slowing his already tortoise-like a crawl. Rolling over on his back, he was finally at his objective. Over the small mound he was lying on, he could hear the enemy soldiers whispering.
Abernathy laid the knife on his chest, feeling the weight of the blade as he breathed. Slowly, he pulled two grenades from his belt. He pulled the pins on each and waited. His angle was wrong. Patiently, he rolled over onto his stomach. The knife fell with a thud. He froze as the whispering went silent. Sweat was pooling in his ears and burning his eyes. An explosion overhead lit up the area. A helmet was just visible nearby. The lieutenant held his breath as another soldier scanned the area. The light faded. Had he been he spotted? No alert was called. He listened. There was no movement from the fortifications.
Silently and slowly exhaling, he began to creep forward. Triggers clinked free. The small, pineapple-looking metal bombs flew in different directions. His hand found his knife then he covered his ears. The ground shook. Soldiers screamed. Lt. Abernathy threw himself over the dirt into the nearest trench, his knife slashing and stabbing, finding purchase in the stunned enemy.
He grabbed his sidearm, firing into the face of a screaming man attacking him with a rifle and bayonet. Pain burst through his lower back. He had been shot. He spun and fired, taking down the man who shot him.
They would be on him in a second. The night lit up with explosions and gunfire. A shell hit behind him. The sound was cut off. He was dazed, confused. The screaming, blood-covered face that raced toward him made no sense. A rifle butt slammed into his head, blacking out the rest of the night.
* * *
The sun was up now. Lieutenant Abernathy hated being hot. Blinking, he could see by the sun’s angle that it was already late morning. He tried to move. His entire body protested. The pain in his head made him want to throw up. The problem with that was he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. A shadow passed over his vision. His trusted sergeant stared down at him. Standing next to the sergeant was Private Jones, a man he had never really liked.
The man wore a stupid grin on his face. When he spoke he didn’t bother to take the disgusting, spit-soaked cigar butt from his mouth. “Gol’ damn, LT. You is an artist with a blade, I tells you.” He was laughing now. “Right, Sarge? He musta cut up a dozen a dem Japs.”
The sergeant frowned at the subordinate. “You know in this company we refer to them as the enemy or the Japanese,” he growled.
“Yeah, Sarge, whatever you say. I just knows that our LT’s an artist, an artist.” He laughed, walking away and swinging his hand in a slashing, stabbing motion.
“He’s not wrong, sir.” The sergeant spoke as Abernathy was bundled onto a stretcher. “You did an amazing thing with only a knife.”
“I simply paid attention in training, Sergeant Thayer.”
The two men saluted each other. That was the last time Lt. Abernathy saw Sergeant Thayer.
* * *
Years later Abernathy still felt the blood on his hands, sticky and warm. He would see the blood stains on his hands out of the corner of his eye, no matter how often he tried to clean them. Sometimes, at night, he could see the faces contorted in pain and fear. He could see his hand on the hilt, holding the knife, the blade sunk deep into the flesh, the blood spilling over his hand warm at first but cooling quickly. He would wake covered in that damn sweat. It clung to him, drenching him in the stench of burning jungle and cordite. He would scrub his hands and face. The sweat and the blood would be gone, but he could still hear the screams.
“Artist with a blade,” he would mumble when his hand shook whenever he picked up a knife to cut his food. Sometimes, it would shake so badly he had to give up. The motion of the blade cutting through meat could send a thrill of terror through him. Along with the guilt—not for taking so many lives, but because he enjoyed that power. The gun was good, but to see the light leave their eyes close up—knowing you held the power over their existence—was a great feeling. Soon, he found meat no longer agreed with him.
* * *
Abernathy looked at the wall as he hung his degree. It had been over five years. It was time. He reached over and took down his medal. It had been presented to him for that day on the island. A medal for taking the lives of fourteen enemy combatants, eleven of which he had taken using his artistic talent.