The Soldier and Death

The smell of rain hung heavily in the night air as a sail flapped below us in the harbor. The moon that had shown so clearly earlier in the evening now hid within a heavy cloudbank as lightning flashed in the far distance without the following echo of thunder. What had started as a pleasant sea breeze began to sting my eyes.

“Storm’s coming,” Marcus said quietly.

I nodded. The bar had closed a couple hours earlier and the pullover I wore had long since stopped keeping me warm. Even though I should have left hours before, I still was not ready to say goodbye. Between us was the warrior’s bond, the kind that only death should ever sunder.

“When do you think you’ll return?” I asked hopefully.

A few hours before we had all gathered at the Rusty Skipjack for drinks and appetizers and sat at a table looking out over the water. We sipped our whiskey and ate shrimp and oysters on the half shell while people at other tables chatted amiably. A cool breeze rippled the water in the harbor, the reflection from the surrounding lights glistening atop its gently rolling surface.

“Death comes to us all,” Marcus said with a sigh.

We all nodded, raising our glasses silently to the fallen. But no one spoke again for several minutes. What else could we say? Time passing, the tables around us gradually cleared, the resultant quiet punctuated by the sounds of the boats lining the dock as they jostled one another. Marcus brooded over his drink. Lost in our own individual worlds, the rest of us stared into the distance with a kind of peaceful melancholy. Marcus did not speak again until the sky grew dark and the moon breached the horizon.

The last of us still wearing the uniform, the worst one might say of him was that he did not suffer fools gladly. The stories that soldiers typically tell are straightforward affairs, sprinkled with tedium and terror, for those after all are the soldier’s lot. But Marcus is hardly typical. It was just like him to begin a tale at the end rather than the beginning.

But this evening he was slow to speak. Perhaps the shrapnel buried in his flesh dully ached in the cool air or the collective weight of too many combat tours burdened his emotions. It goes without saying that we had all suffered. We all bore hidden scars. But we had looked forward to this visit and felt a collective disappointment at his uncharacteristic silence.

He was already telling us goodbye, we just failed to notice.

Eventually he cleared his throat, saying – “I told you fellows when we last met that I had volunteered to fight in Ukraine. I can say with some confidence that I know now what it feels like to fight a better equipped enemy. To say the least, it was not at all what I expected.

“Our first day of combat, Russian jets streaked low over our heads, air assault troops poured out of transport helicopters, tanks rumbled down adjacent streets while we haplessly bounced along a cratered road in a Toyota pickup. Total insanity. The Russians were the ones calling for artillery and airstrikes rather than the other way around."

He broke off for a bit, taking a sip from his glass, the ice within it clinking lightly. “Do you remember our first battle, how scared we were?” he asked with a chuckle. I nodded, the fragmentary memory of bullets whizzing past me appearing like a distant flash in my mind but failing to revive its original terror.

“But in Afghanistan we did not rely on the bullets in our rifles and machine guns alone,” he continued. With a single radio call, we could unleash Hell upon our enemies. I didn’t appreciate that until my first fight in Ukraine when I didn’t have any of them.”

“I’ll bet you were shitting bricks,” Clark said enviously.

“I’ve never experienced such terror in my life,” Marcus confessed. “In the early days of the fighting it was really bad. A lot of the volunteers were quick to leave once they realized the fearsome odds we faced. Day after day my buddies and I would come to the same conclusion. ‘This is madness.’ We would tell each other. ‘We can’t possibly survive.’ But each new day brought a fresh mission and instead of leaving we would gear up and do it all again.”

He shook his head and cursed softly to himself. “But the Ukrainian soldiers were always cool and collected. Can you imagine? We were there to help them learn the art of war, most of us hardened combat veterans. But we had never experienced anything like it.”

Pausing, he lifted his glass to his lips before realizing it was empty. Beginning to stand, he asked – “You fellows ready for another round?”

“Let me get it,” Clark offered. We waited quietly while he was away, Marcus taking the opportunity to gaze over his shoulder at the moon, full and low on the horizon. A cloud slipping across its bright surface slowly absorbed its light, turning gray and ominous in the darkness.

Once Clark returned, he said “Last round, boys, the bar’s closing.”

Marcus nodded and thanked him quietly before taking a sip and murmuring his approval. “Top shelf bourbon?”

“Only the very best.”

But after taking an additional sip Marcus gazed over his shoulder a second time.

“Have any of you ever seen the blood moon?” he asked unexpectedly.

Once we all murmured no, he softly continued. “I saw one in Ukraine after four days of heavy shelling and infantry attacks. I don’t even remember what day of the week it was. Really bloody work. No matter how many of them we killed they just kept coming. On the late evening of the fourth day the shelling finally stopped and deep silence fell. I was so relieved that I stepped out into the night air and wept like a baby. Once I collected myself, I was surprised to see the blood moon low on the horizon, not unlike the one tonight, save for the color. Something about it filled me with unease. Like waking suddenly from a very bad dream. The sort of fear that you can't shake in the darkness, but never experience in the light of day.

“Another volunteer in our unit stepped outside for a cigarette and joined me when he noticed the moon. Gesturing toward it, he said grimly – ‘Death wanders the battlefield tonight.’ I thought he was speaking metaphorically, of course, and nodded with a smile. ‘You think I’m joking? Wait here … you will see,’ he warned.

“Something in his tone unnerved me, so I asked him if he had witnessed Death literally walking the battlefield. He looked at me coldly before answering ‘How do you know I am not Him?’”

Clark whispered “Bullshit” beneath his breath.

Marcus paused and asked – “Do you want me stop?”

“No, of course not. But you’re pulling our legs, right?”

“I’m absolutely serious.”

“You’re not peddling some bullshit fairy tale?”

“Fairy tales begin with Once upon a time and end happily ever after,” Marcus replied. “Trust me, this is no fairy tale.

“He was a soldier. He was one of us. He was the best fighter in our unit, hands down. And man enough to face both the darkness and Death.

“He told me tales that night of hundreds of pitiless battles, filled with the kind of brutal terror and slaughter only an experienced warrior could conjure.” He paused to take another sip of his whiskey. “Maybe he’s crazy – or I am for believing him. He did not appear any older than forty but claimed to have to have fought in battles from the Greco-Persian wars until the present.”

“Rubbish,” Clark grunted.

“It might be the tale of a lunatic, but it’s not rubbish. By then our nerves had stretched to the breaking point. We had so little sleep over those four days that every one of us had experienced waking hallucinations. Maybe what followed was no different. When he told the story of his first encounter with the blood moon, the fear in his voice as he spoke drew me into that world as if falling under a spell. Our surroundings twisting out of all recognition, the buildings where we stood faded into mist, replaced by a battlefield littered with the dead. The only other similarity was the blood moon shining palely over the carnage.

“I saw the soldier wearily standing guard in its pale light as if standing there with him, heavy plumes of smoke rising from a hundred ships burning in the harbor. A thousand pyres fueled by the bodies of the fallen poisoned the air with the stench of roasting flesh. The soldier stared numbly at the carnage surrounding him, his face a patchwork of dried blood, his shield scarred by the chaos of battle.”

Clark laughed in disbelief before asking sarcastically – “Did he fight in Afghanistan too?”

“He did actually. Most recently in the Korengal Valley.”

Clark angrily shook his head. “Most recently? For Christ’s sake, Marcus, we fought in Korengal. Is he somebody we know?”

“He’s somebody we fought.”

Clark stood up slowly. I was glad it was too dark to see his expression. I had seen him enraged before and had no desire to see it again. “Stand up,” he demanded hoarsely, but Marcus did not move or speak.

“Stand up, I said. This joke is in poor taste, Marcus, even for you.”

“It’s not a joke, Clark. He fought us the day that Danny died.”

“God damn you Marcus, you twisted prick. Stand up.”

Marcus sighed deeply and finally stood. They faced each other in the dark for a long time without speaking. A big man who knows better than most how to use his fists, Marcus is a full head taller than Clark. He stayed in the uniform because he was born to make war.

Angrily kicking the table, Clark abruptly turned and strode away. Nobody in their right mind ever fought Marcus, not even Clark, no matter how angry. His car roaring to life, his tires squealed as he sped from the parking lot.

Marcus was slow to sit down again. He finished his whiskey with a long swallow but did not speak again for several minutes. Danny was Clark’s best friend. Marcus should never have brought him up, especially once Clark lost his temper. I wondered briefly if he had done it on purpose to drive him away.

When he finally continued, he meekly asked – “Have any of you ever seen the blood moon?” as if forgetting he had asked us the same question a few minutes before. A chill ran down my spine at the fear in his voice.

This time no one answered.

“That night in Ukraine, it hung in the sky like tonight’s moon, but full and red and terrifying. It felt like an omen. But the spell the soldier’s words had conjured did not last very long. The ancient battlefield disappearing into the haze, the buildings we had defended during those four days of fierce fighting slowly returned to view. ‘Death has definitely visited this place,’ I whispered. But the soldier only nodded as he took a deep pull from his cigarette before crushing it beneath the toe of his boot.

“He pulled out a chain from around his neck to reveal the amulet that he wore for luck. It was the sort of thing you might see in a museum collection from antiquity. Illuminating it with his lighter it glistened in the darkness, the face of Medusa crudely pressed into its golden surface.

“He then shared the tale of his journey home some months prior to seeing the blood moon. He carried three honey sesame cakes that he planned to eat during the three days it would take to return home. But as he walked, he met a one-legged beggar leaning on a crutch. Since he had no money, he gave him one of his cakes thinking to himself that he could eat the other two. But before long he met a second beggar with only one arm and gave him the second cake thinking that at least he still had one remaining. He had hardly continued his journey when he met a third beggar, a man who had no legs at all. Pitying him, he gave him his last cake, thinking he would get by somehow.

“Before he turned to continue his walk home, the beggar shouted, ‘Wait, Brother, please let me help you in return.’

“‘I cannot in good conscience take anything from you, for you are poor,’ he answered him.

“‘The beggar smiled. You need not worry on my account,’ he replied, ‘the life you have led is hard. You bear its scars on your flesh but not on your heart. You gave me the cake that you had saved for yourself. I will not let your goodness go unrewarded.’

“He pressed the golden amulet into the soldier’s hand for protection. Thinking it a blessing, he thanked him. If the soldier had known its true power, he would never have accepted it. But he did not know and hung it about his neck, hiding it beneath his breast plate. Two months after he returned to his wife and children the Persians began their expedition to conquer Athens, and soon he was marching again to war.”

“But standing guard under the light of the blood moon he saw the gaunt and twisted figure of Death approaching him. Lowering his spear, he told Death that not even He could pass. Death laughed with a deep and haunting baritone before silently gesturing for the soldier to follow.

“‘I cannot desert my post as you can see,’ the soldier answered, ‘I will not leave it until my commander releases me.’

“Death smiled grimly, His teeth glistening like blood in the moonlight. ‘I have invisibly followed you in many battles,’ Death hissed. ‘I have but to touch your heart with my finger and you will perish in my arms.’ But when Death reached out to push his deadly fingers into the soldier’s chest, the amulet repulsed him, and He drew back His gaunt hand in surprise.

“Death was cunning, however, and challenged him to unarmed combat. If the soldier forced Death to yield, He would give the soldier a long life and if the soldier yielded to Death, He would take his soul. Protected by the power of the amulet, the soldier should have refused him. But Death cleverly appealed to the soldier’s sense of honor, and he agreed to drop his weapons and armor to fight Him.

“‘I had fought many men like this over the years and never varied my strategy,’ the soldier told me. ‘At the earliest opportunity I would violently knock my opponent to the ground, slip my arms beneath his, interlock my fingers on the base of his neck and use my powerful thighs to immobilize him. Applying pressure to his neck, the blinding pain it would cause quickly compelled most men to yield.’

“But Death seemed to anticipate and evade his every move. When the soldier attempted to sweep His legs from under Him, Death would leap higher than any man to avoid the fall. If the soldier dropped to his knees when Death attacked, He would leapfrog over the crouching soldier before he could leverage Death's momentum and flip him onto His back. Death was both faster and stronger than the soldier, eventually knocking him face-first to the ground and wrenching his arms with such fury that both popped out of their sockets.

“But thinking of his waiting wife and children, the soldier refused to yield, even when only his legs were fit to continue fighting. After enduring more pain than the soldier had ever experienced before, he managed to lock his deadly opponent's neck in the vice-like grip of his thighs. No matter how much Death struggled, the exhausted and trembling soldier never loosened his hold. But only once the sky began to lighten with the approach of the sun, did Death finally say, ‘Let me go for dawn is breaking.’

“The soldier told me quietly that he suddenly found himself standing guard again as if the battle was only a waking dream, his pain disappearing as if he had never experienced it at all. In his pride he told himself, ‘I have beaten Death.’ But he only said such a foolish thing because he had not reckoned at the price for such a feat. That he learned only later.

“After the soldier’s commander released him, he eagerly returned home. But before long the Persians returned, and he marched again to war. The seasons passed as he fought one battle after another, his release from duty delayed again and again. Who he fought on the battlefield and why blurred slowly out of recognition till the soldier lost all sense of time and place. He would not realize the truth for many generations of men, but he existed now only to send other soldiers to the underworld with the ruthless efficiency of a Berserker. When he finally had an opportunity to return home again, his wife and children were long dead.

The days, weeks, seasons and years had blended into a seamless and unfathomable whole, moments formerly fixed in time becoming all time. The soldier wept at the memorial stones laid atop their graves for many days, tearing his hair and cutting his arms with grief. He begged Death each night to take his soul that he might join his family in the underworld, but Death did not answer.

“The soldier’s eyes shone wetly as he finished his tale, my own welling with pity as I listened. He had described in simple words the passing of a hundred years. Thousands more still awaited him as he wept over the burial stones of his loved ones. As I gazed at him, I began to believe that by defeating Death he had unintentionally taken His place, condemned by his determination to live to make war until the ending of the world.

“In the light of the blood moon, his eyes seemed like dark and bottomless pools, as if twenty-five hundred years of war were recorded in their unhappy depths. I, who never believed in God, angels or devils, was overcome with terror when I saw in their reflected light the gaunt figure of Death approaching.”

After those words passed his trembling lips, Marcus grew silent. We were slow to realize that he had shared as much of the story as he could bear, his reawakened fear and grief too fresh to continue. We all waited several minutes out of respect, but after that Banner and Tony made their excuses and said their goodbyes.

Was I the only one who recognized that Marcus was not himself? I felt his goodbye in my bones long before I understood why. But I failed to share my own heartbreak even after the wind began to blow in from the harbor, its salt sting irritating my already reddened eyes.

“Storm’s coming,” Marcus said quietly.

I nodded. The bar had closed a couple hours earlier and the pullover I wore had long since stopped keeping me warm. Even though I should have left hours before, I still was not ready to say goodbye. Between us was the warrior’s bond, the kind that only death should ever sunder.

“When do you think you will return?” I asked hopelessly.

When he did not answer I finally understood why he had not finished the tale.

“Do you wear the golden amulet?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.” He paused for several seconds before continuing. “He gave it to me in the last light of the blood moon. Then he followed Death wordlessly across the battlefield. I never saw him again.”

Tears slowly filled my eyes. I had known Marcus from childhood and loved him like a brother.

“What do I tell the others?”

“That I’m returning to Ukraine.”

“And when the war ends?”

“There will always be other wars.”

“And after that?”

“And after that? You know the answer to that as well as I. One day in the unknowable future, the blood moon will return. Death will call for me on that night, just as he called the soldier when I stood in terror at his side.

"Death comes for us all.”