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by Dale Waters
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The five dusty soldiers squatted in a circle in the shadows beneath a shattered building. The eldest was little more than three decades old, but in keeping with the habit of young men in combat, the others called him Old Man or Uncle. The stick he held in the palm of his hand was shorter than all the others. He looked up into the faces of his companions.
Black Bandanna said, “That’s it then, Old Man. God has chosen you.”
“Do you think so?” Old Man said. “You prepared the sticks, but you believe God was the one choosing?”
Black Bandanna nodded. “We each took a stick from the bag. It could have been any of us. If not God’s will, then whose?”
The youngest soldier was just seventeen years old. He was always anxious and couldn’t sleep. He rocked forward and back on his heels now and his eyes spoke to Old Man the same as if he had spoken the words out loud: Thank you, Uncle, I was certain it would be me.
The skinny soldier called Gap Tooth said, “God is indeed wise and merciful. He could have taken the boy, but he chose one instead who has already seen many good years, one whose wife has died before him.”
Old Man cast the stick aside. “I’m not much older than you, Gap Tooth, and not nearly as ugly. Who says I could not find another wife?”
Gap Tooth ignored the insult. “You would argue the results?”
Old Man looked to the fifth soldier, but the Quiet One consulted the dirt between his feet and said nothing.
Black Bandanna stood and said, “Enough! It was decided we would draw lots. And now it’s done. Your heroism will be rewarded in heaven.”
Old Man did not feel heroic, and he had been given no say in the decision. Drawing lots was Black Bandanna’s idea, and he had also prepared the sticks and held the bag. The other men began to gather their weapons and gear.
“Come here,” Black Bandanna said, and Old Man got to his feet. Together they peered out from beneath a tilted slab of concrete. Black Bandanna pointed at a crooked metal post. “We have disguised the disturbed earth, but that post where the road passes the culvert is the weapon’s exact location.”
“I helped dig the hole,” Old Man said. “I know where it is.”
“I know you helped dig. I’m explaining the best time to touch the wires together. It will be when the front end of a vehicle passes the post. Pick something big, a tank or personnel carrier.”
“What if there is no vehicle? What if the enemy sends the infantry in front?”
“Then kill them with the bomb when they get close.”
“So I will be a dead hero in exchange for maybe a single dead enemy?”
“It is not about how many you kill—though, God willing, you will kill many—it is about giving our brothers time to get away, time for them to form new defenses on which the enemy will bleed themselves dry.”
“This one bomb will make no difference.”
“It will make the enemy fearful. They will advance more cautiously, more slowly.”
“No, it will make no difference. They already expect such attacks.”
“There is no time to argue this. We were ordered to stay behind and place the weapon, and that is what we must do.”
Old Man resented how Black Bandanna kept saying ‘we’. There was no ‘we’ in his plan. Still, there was little point in continuing the discussion. The lots had been drawn, the issue decided.
Black Bandanna placed his hand on Old Man’s shoulder. “When we return to our village after the fighting, we will tell everyone of your heroism. God be with you, Uncle.” He removed his hand and turned away.
The other soldiers did not look at Old Man again. They slipped out the back of the tumbled wreckage of the building one-by-one.
Old Man found a comfortable spot in the darkness an arms-length from the waiting wires. Here he could rest his back against a smooth section of the remaining wall with a view to the east through the gap beneath the slab. It would take but a second to bring the wires together when the enemy came close.
This should not have been his fate. Black Bandanna had been responsible for the remote trigger, a wireless phone rigged to send a signal to the weapon from a hundred meters or more away. But, when the time came, the phone tested faulty. Perhaps it had been jostled too much, or possibly it had been defective all along. So Black Bandanna decided a man would stay behind as a human detonator. The available wires were so short that the triggerman would necessarily be killed from such a big explosion. Why had they not been provided longer wires? Or time to scavenge more? Or a reliable trigger? There was no one to ask such questions.
The sunlit terrain to the east reminded Old Man of the fields near the village where he had toiled when he was young, except these fields were empty, the crops untilled and the people long fled. A small, dusty whirlwind formed from nothing, blew apart and formed again. It skittered over the barren furrows in the sunshine.
There was no sign yet of the enemy.
He could find a new wife, without question—if not in his village, then in the city. He would be a shop-keeper, sell sweet snacks and cold drinks and rest in the shade all day. His new wife would bear him a son and a daughter. The children would play outside the shop and their cheerful faces would bring in many customers. He would be an excellent shop-keeper, honest and friendly to all. His son would go to university. Perhaps he would be a doctor. His daughter would marry well. When he was truly old and could no longer work, they would all care for him and honor him. It was a happy thought.
But, of course, it was not to be. He could not leave this spot until he pressed the wires together. The flash of light would be tremendously bright and the next instant he would be in heaven. He would not suffer.
But it was all so pointless and so unfair. Black Bandanna had been careless and spoiled the detonator. He could not admit his failure, so he devised this ridiculous plan. And somehow he had rigged the game to make certain Old Man would draw the short stick.
Still, if Old Man fled now and showed up alive back with his comrades, all would know he had failed to detonate the weapon. Would he be shot for not following orders? Even if he was not shot, Black Bandanna would shame him and tell the people of his village that he was a coward, a man with no honor.
Old Man opened his pack and considered the white bandage stuffed inside. What if he stepped out into the sunlight when the enemy approached and waved the white cloth above his head? Would they take him prisoner? Some said the enemy would shoot you on the spot. Others said they knew of men who had been prisoners and returned after they escaped or were turned loose. Who knew the truth of it?
In such discussions, Black Bandanna always said it did not matter, that it was better to die than suffer the humiliation of capture. He always talked about dying heroically, but when given the chance, he rigged the game to save himself.
Old Man pulled the white bandage from his pack and draped it across his knees. Would he feel shame if he surrendered? Would God condemn him for cowardice, even if other men did not? How long would he be held? The enemy forces were advancing rapidly every day now and the fighting could soon be over. Would all prisoners of war be released?
He could not return to his village, of course, after such humiliation. Another reason why he should go to the city and find a new wife. Many years in the future, he would take his son back to his boyhood home and visit the grave of his first wife. She was barren and often sickly before she died, but she had been a good wife to him and he missed her. He would contact no one in the village, just go to her grave and honor her with his son the doctor and tell him stories of his time there as a young man. He would never talk about the war or the fighting. His new wife and his children would never know he had been a soldier.
The sky to the east was changing color, the slate blue of morning smudged now with brown dust stirred by the movement of many vehicles. The enemy soldiers would be here soon. They would barely pause at the line of scrubby trees beyond the fields, then advance across the open ground. A vehicle would come around that blind corner in the road and cross the culvert. He would press the wires together. The vehicle and all the soldiers in it would be gone in a flash—and he would go with them. If the infantry came first, it would be more difficult. He would be lucky to kill more than two or three. He would never know the result, of course. It was a stupid plan either way. It would not change the outcome of the battle and would not prevent the coming defeat.
Still, he must touch the wires. Honor demanded it.
He wondered, why did honor not take into account the stupidity of the plan? There should be a way to tell if a plan was doomed to fail, and there should be no dishonor in refusing to carry it out. God in His wisdom would never approve of pointless sacrifice.
The smell of burning diesel fuel drifted to Old Man on the gentle morning breeze. There was activity beyond the trees, the faint rumble of large vehicles moving steadily. He pushed forward to lie on his belly with his eyes peering through the narrowest crack beneath the slab. He pulled the wires to him, one in each hand, careful to keep them apart. The mere touch of these wires would create a massive upheaval of the earth, toss huge vehicles like toys, and end his life. Yet they felt so normal—just wires like any other wires.
The enemy forces ploughed through the tree line and moved confidently across the open fields, tanks in front, very few infantry who weren’t mounted on vehicles. A minute still, maybe two.
He placed a wire carefully to the side and took the white bandage in his right hand. He touched the soft cloth to his brow and mopped the stinging sweat from his eyes. It would be so simple to crawl from beneath the slab, hold his hands above his head, and wave the cloth. So simple, and not so dishonorable given Black Bandanna’s manipulations and the stupidity of the plan. Old Man said a final brief prayer and asked for guidance.
The enemy tank was almost on him before he saw it, swinging around the corner, gears grinding, moving fast. The tank’s commander, faceless behind helmet and goggles, was exposing half his body above the turret, directing the vehicle through the rubble and over the culvert.
Old Man dropped the cloth and snatched the wire from the ground. He pressed the wires together—
—and nothing happened.
God had cast his vote. He, too, thought it was a stupid plan.
Old Man placed the wires on the ground and picked up the white cloth. He climbed from beneath the concrete slab and stepped into the sunshine.
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Dale Waters is a retired Air Force officer and combat pilot. He is a member of the Arlington Writers Group in Northern Virginia and has previously published a story titled “The Mall” in No Trace, a short story anthology about missing persons.
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