I woke up on the jungle floor, the sky collapsing all about the wilted, scorched, canopy. Scattered ash was floating down from the morning sky. I turned my head and saw a soldier sitting against a tree with his stomach laying across his lap. His left arm missing, both legs torn from the knees, the extremities blackened and cauterized by extreme heat. More than half of his face was melted away, and yet, the frozen expression of fear was still recognizable. I could not clearly identify if he was friend or foe. His uniform had been torn from his body. His race and nationality marred by fire and blood. My sympathies for the solider resting against the tree would forever be ambivalent.
I gazed about the forest, expecting to find bodies strewn all around me, but to my surprise, there was no one else. South of me, the impact area was obvious, every tree within a certain radius was snapped from its base and burnt into the earth. Pillars of smoke and fire oscillated about the edges, bursting from the tinder, then quickly dissipating. Even something as elemental as fire was a malfunction in this malicious combat zone. I and my friend were a good distance from the impact, but our bodies, especially his, had suffered from its effects.
I hadn’t noticed that my own body had been obliterated as well, until I reached up to wipe my brow. Before my eyes were the tasseled remains of my fingers. I had lost all but my ring finger, which stood out as a comical mockery of what used to be my hand- one obscene finger left. I could feel all my fingers on my other hand, my left hand. I rolled them against the ground, counting as I went, too scared to look. Five fingers, I counted five fingers. How they looked didn’t matter. I could learn to be a lefty. I had at least one functioning hand.
With all the turmoil set before my eyes, I hadn’t felt any pain, at least not until that moment. An insufferable pain enveloped every part of my body except for below my waist. My heart raced. Were my legs blown off? I didn’t want to look, so as I did with my fingers, I tried to move my lower limbs, but nothing happened. I wanted to wiggle my toes, thrash my legs, or even just stomp my heels against the ground. I felt absolutely nothing. I prayed to myself: ‘Please Lord, not my legs.’ I propped myself up on my elbows. Torn and bloodied, yet fully intact. I had both of my legs. They weren’t functioning, but at least they were aesthetically pleasing. After a respite from the fear of losing my legs, I became shocked at the realization that I was paralyzed. I didn’t know the extent of my paralysis, but I knew I wasn’t hiking my way to freedom. I would have to somehow drag my body through the forest, like a wounded reptile.
My first thought was to get to higher ground. I went to flip over to my stomach and as I turned towards the soldier, I noticed a little pale boy sawing away at what I could only guess was the man’s liver. The stomach had already been neatly cut and placed to the side. His back was turned towards me as he fastidiously cut away at the man’s entrails, operating with a frightening precision of a well-educated surgeon. I watched for a while, mentally separated from the reality of my situation, amazed at this elaborate, pristine operation. Parts were parceled, wrapped in leaves and laid about in an orderly manner. Nothing went to waste. The body was thoroughly hollowed out.
The boy turned and noticed I was watching. He looked to be about ten years old. He had short jet-black hair and wide green eyes. He was wearing nothing but a strip of cloth about his waist, his body lean and malnourished. I could see the outline of his ribs protruding through his skin. He stood up, cocked his head to the side, and smiled. It was a boyish smile, but most of his teeth were missing.
He picked up a knap sack I hadn’t noticed and packed up all his victuals. He slung it across his shoulders and disappeared into the forest.
I dragged myself for most of the day to higher ground. It was a long and arduous journey. When I had got to the point I had designated as higher ground, I was at loss at what to do next. I pondered my next move. I felt helpless. I couldn’t remember how I had gotten so far removed from my platoon. I remember it was a fierce battle, the enemy in our midst, the line broken, but I don’t remember much after that. Where I found myself was not familiar, not just because of the bombing, but because nothing looked like anything I had seen up to this point. The trees, flowers, even the ground were different, foreign from the terrain I had been in previously.
Frustrated, with no foreseeable way to get back to safety, I began to yell, then I began to weep. I exhausted myself with madness, clumsily turned to my back, and fell asleep.
When I awoke, it was night. It wasn’t dark, for a new fire had lit up in the more interior of the jungle. Every now and then a breeze would blow the heat up the hill. I was thankful for the warmth, not knowing or caring if I was in any danger. Behind me I heard a stick snap. I lifted my head to the right and saw nothing. If I had only chose to look left, I would have noticed the boy, who had snuck up behind me. I would have been ready to defend myself. I moved just enough to avoid being stabbed in the neck. He thrust the knife into the top of my chest, pulled out it quickly, and ran off into the darkness.
“You little shit!”
I flipped over to my stomach and peered off into the direction of his escape. My eyes were slowly adjusting. I spotted the boy, but my perception of him was confusing. He seemed to weave in and out of the forest in an unnaturally quick motion, in unison with the flickering of the firelight. His green eyes would become bright and luminous, ever focused on me and my position, and then disappear.
I lost sight of him. I listened intently, hoping that if I couldn’t see him, then maybe I could hear him before he got too close. I felt the knife thrust into the middle of my back, agonizing pain shooting up to my neck. His approach was much stealthier this time. I rolled over quickly and caught him by the wrist before he could pull the knife back out. His green eyes brightened and he opened his mouth wide. He left his mouth gaping and with some visual straining and shaking of the head, some little jagged sharp teeth sprang up from his maggot-riddled, rotted gums. He grabbed my arm with his free hand and bit down. I punched and pushed but couldn’t get him to release. Finally, I reached back for the knife, and pulled it out of my back. I raised it and then paused. I saw the boy, not the monster. He looked up, saw the knife, and released my arm.
He slowly backed away from me. When he got a good distance, he sat down and waited. We stared at each other throughout the night. I refused to look anywhere else, he refused to move.
“Go home boy.”
Sometime during the night, I had fallen asleep. I woke up startled, looking frantically for the boy. He had moved but he was still keeping watch. In his hands was a meaty liver. He playfully put it up to his mouth and took a large bite out of it. As he chewed, he smiled and laughed. I should have stabbed him when I had the chance.
He finished off his liver. I was hoping his hunger was satiated, but he didn’t budge. I wondered where my gun was. Maybe I could find it and scare him off. The boy, as if he perceived what I was thinking, pointing over to a spot by the dissected solider. There on the ground was my gun.
“Shoo. Go on. I ain’t dying you little bastard. You stupid fucking buzzard.”
“Shoo,” he responded. “Buzzard.”
I growled at him. He growled back. I couldn’t handle another day of this, much less, another night.
“Where’s your mom. Your mom is missing you! Go back to your family. Mom boy! Your mom!”
“Mom?” He looked inquisitive, as if he wanted to ask a question, but not able to articulate it. He scampered off into the woods.
The fired died down. I was feeling a chill coming over me. I crawled over to my gun and picked it up, but it was unusable. I turned back over and laid on my back, looking up into the sky. I heard a rustling behind me but I was too tired to care. Let him attack and we’ll finish this. He walked up and stood over the top of me. He didn’t attack; just stood there looking down at me. Finally, he knelt down and pointed to where the bomb had fell.
“Mom.”
I don’t remember how or when I was found, but at some point, I was rescued. I woke up in a hospital. I asked about the boy, but no one knew what I was talking about. Every soldier has a secret. Every solider has a lingering fear, but at least those are reasonable, those are tangible realities to be scrutinized by psychiatrists. Mine, I can’t even begin to understand. It’s a memory best left forgotten. Somewhere back in that jungle is a boy starving, but not unfed.