The Reality of Brutality

The cold grey rain fell in long sheets, pelting the thousands of warm bodies that were heaving, sending a mist up from their ranks as they watched and waited. The grassy meadow had been turned into a muddy quagmire of sucking, grey earth, embedded with sharp stones and hard rocks threatening to bite into the exposed calves of the men in the plaid kilts.

From the other side of the misty, steaming cloud bank a lone drum roll like a death rattle echoed and rebound about the arena of death. Then the first soldier in his bright red uniform of murder came into view of the expecting armies. He was joined by rank after rank of men in uniforms stained red by the dyes from far conquered lands and the blood of the conquered. Their step was steady; their eyes cool and sharp, disdain painted upon their faces for the savages they faced, the ones they knew were their brothers.

The wild men, unbound and free, painted in the greens and blacks of their beloved forest raised their weapons to the pale white disc of the sun that could barely be seen behind its veil of grey smoke, asking blessings of their sky father in their pagan tongues. The young cadets from the red armies, inexperienced and scared crossed themselves, calling upon their holy mother for protection. One looked one last time upon the image of a beloved, a beauty painted upon a small portrait inside a locket kept at his heart. Another licked his lips, eager for his first taste of blood, all of heaven heaping curses upon his damned soul.

Then the drum stopped. The soldiers awaited their commands, fingers upon their muskets. The wild men felt their blood begin to boil, recalling every evil they had ever heard of their captors and even some they hadn’t until the consuming rage rang in their ears as blood rushed into their hands and hate into their souls. They screamed their hatred to the clouds and began their charge for the murders before them.

The soldiers in red lowered their weapons at the command of the commanders and took aim at the painted targets. The call came, the trump sounded, and with a cascade of explosions and puffs of smoke, boiling lead burned into the bodies of the charging wild men. Their blood flowed into the muddy field, their bones broken, their mouths foaming with pure rage and hatred.

The soldiers lowered their weapons and reloaded as the next rank stood. The green men were closer and had raised crude shields to deflect some of the artillery. Some were lucky and others fell coughing on blood onto the field. Then the wild ones were within range of the red ones and arrows flew with deadly accuracy. Arrow shafts pierced soft skin, stones broke noses and arms, the murdered now the murderers themselves. The soldiers and the wild men met with a clash of metal swords and oaken clubs.

Screams and yells echoed throughout the meadow, steam rising from dead and decaying bodies, weak and wounded fighters, the enraged and blood stained as they continued the slaying and the cullings. The sword tasted the blood of fathers, sons, and husbands, the club crushed the dreams, memories, and futures of the young cadets. In a single afternoon, the meadow ran red with the blood of thousands of murderers and murdered.

Then there was a calm. The fighting ceased, the murderers returned to their camps on the sides of the meadow. And then the hell began. The cries of the dying upon the battlefield, of the boys bidding farewell to sweethearts, of men calling for their children, longing desperately for their homes and their loved ones and the warm meals.

A group of generals from the wild men ascended the hill and met with the commanders of the red army neath their canopy. The orchestrators, the leaders, the planners were all together and as they sat listing to the symphony of human agony, they smoked their cigars together and remarked upon the growing dusk of the world; how blue the hour painted the receding clouds.

And then all stopped their smoking and talking. The pale full moon had appeared behind the clouds, a hallo of purity surrounding her as she illuminated the lone figure. A man, dressed as peasant, moved from soldier to soldier with his bucket and ladle. Death has a curious effect upon the human body, it creates a great thirst. And this man, the man in white, moved from person to person and gave them a final drink of cool spring water before they were claimed by death’s icy hand.

He worked his way up the hill, towards where the group beneath the canopy sat smoking. He continued ladling the water, the harden soldiers weeping at their angel as they gave up the breath. Then when he came near the canopy the generals realized he made no distinction between wild man and red soldier.

“You there! Man, what are you doing!”

“Sir, the men are thirsty.”

“But why do you give all drink?”

“I have no quarrel with these men. They are all my brothers and they all need. How could I refuse them?”

“Don’t you realize that blood alone moves the wheels of history!?!”

“Don’t you realize that winning a war is like winning an earthquake… you don’t.”

The commander thought upon the words of the young man as he continued ladling to the dying. His moustache twitched slightly and he motioned with his left hand. Two soldiers came forward and two shots rang out clearly across the evening sky. Water and blood mingled upon the field as the odor of death began to spread.

“Hmm. War is the most profitable industry we have. Only those stupid enough to get in the way of the mighty pocketbook need concern themselves with the… cost.”