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257 lines
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO
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OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO"
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OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO'
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OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO
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OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO"
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OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO'
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OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #21 |
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|-----------------------------------------------------------------------------|
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- Above and Beyond -
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by Spartacus
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(As a rule I don't use disclaimers, but I think I'll make an exception
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for this file.)
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Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real
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persons, places, or circumstances is purely coincidental.
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As I woke up this cold December morning, I was for the thousandth
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time greeted by the cold hard staring eye of my accuser. It is ironic
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that an object meant to honor me and bring me pride has instead served
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only to torture me with its mocking gleam, to remind me of what a
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pitiful and despicable being I truly am, a man I would once have been
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ashamed to eat with. This morning I could take it no longer. I felt I
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must come to terms with myself, with what I have done, what I have
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become.
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I had the nightmare again last night. I sprayed bullets from the
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muzzle of my machine gun at enemies all around me. When I had killed
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them all, I turned over the nearest one and looked at his face. It was
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like looking in a mirror. I inspected a dozen more corpses, and they
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were all ME. I should not have been surprised at this. I have dreamt
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that dream more times than I can count. Yet each time I am surprised
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anew and struck with a nameless horror. Then I looked down at my neck
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and there hung the medal, and from it came the sound of a hideous,
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maniacal laughter. The corpses pulled themselves up, each a broken,
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lifeless copy of myself. They came for me, they tore at me with nails
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and teeth. The pain brought me to wakefulness in a cold sweat.
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I went back to sleep then, after a few drinks. I slept dreamlessly.
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I never have good dreams anymore. Only the nightmares, or nothing at
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all.
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I feel the thing watching me from behind. It is making the hair
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stand up on the back of my neck. There, I have moved it from the wall,
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it is lying before me. At least now I can watch it back.
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It still will not let me forget. I cannot shut out the memory that
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haunts me all my waking hours and half of the night. Those terrible
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months...but that one day, the day I won the medal, was worse than all
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the rest combined.
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I was a private in the Army, serving in Vietnam. In boot camp they
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had taught me to kill for my country, in theory. When I killed my first
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man I was sick for hours, but I got over it. I was still quite convinced
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that I was doing the right thing, being a good American, repulsing the
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enemies of democracy everywhere, saving more lives than I was
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destroying. I soon was quite contentedly stalking through the jungle,
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blasting away at any Viet Cong I saw or suspected. I gladly followed the
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orders of my superiors. Oh, I was nervous as hell. Fear was my constant
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companion. But it wasn't so bad. I at least believed in what I was
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doing. I knew my duty, and I did it.
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Of course, at the time, I spent a lot of time thinking to myself
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that war was hell. I didn't know the half of it then. Those were the
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simple times, that part of me still longs for even though I now know
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that everything I then believed was a lie.
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As time passed I was field promoted to First Lieutenant upon the
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death of a superior officer, and that promotion had been confirmed. I
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took pride then in leading my platoon into battle, though the reality
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was not anything like the ancient image of charging into battle at the
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head of the cavalry. In the modern way, the leader bravely stayed in the
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center, sending his troops ahead of him and using them to guard his rear
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and flanks. Most of my subordinates by that time were draftees. The
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volunteers had either been promoted or killed.
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Then came my rude awakening. Our company was trying to track down a
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local Viet Cong base. Some of their local leaders were known to be
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hiding in one of three villages. Since we wanted to capture or kill them
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before they could flee, the company split up. My platoon and one other
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were sent to the first possible village. As it was the most likely
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candidate, the Captain came with us.
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As we approached the village, we were met by about ten young men,
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seemingly unarmed. They blocked our path. One spoke some English. He
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told us that they knew what American soldiers had done to other villages
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and that though they would not attack us, they would not let us pass.
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The Captain called the other Lieutenant and I over. He said, "We
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don't have time to deal with this. Have the men shoot them."
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I had trouble believing he would really order us to shoot in cold
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blood. I said one of the worst possible things a soldier can say: "But
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sir..."
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"No buts! They are to be shot! That's an order!"
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I gave the order. The men standing straight and tall and quiet
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before us fell like the pack of card soldiers in Wonderland. Men lying
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flat, dying, piled like sticks. We walked among them, picking our steps
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carefully, but I think not one of us passed over without trampling on a
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dying human being.
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When we reached the village, there was havoc. Mostly the people hid
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in their houses. Some of the men stood outside their houses like
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sentries. The Captain announced he would search every house for the men
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we wanted. He ordered us to get it done, and to shoot anyone who
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violently protested.
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My platoon was assigned the east half of the village. I told the
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sergeant and he detailed men to search all the homes and the few other
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buildings. There was one home left over. Naturally the Sergeant and I
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decided to search it ourselves.
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It was a one room dwelling without much in the way of windows. It
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was quite dark inside. As I entered, before my eyes could really adjust
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to the dim light, I saw a figure move toward me. It was swinging
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something at me. I fired, heard the peculiar grunting noise many people
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make when they experience sudden pain. The figure collapsed before me.
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In seconds my eyes had adjusted. I had shot a child, I saw, a boy
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not more than ten years old. In the stomach. His mother, who had been
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huddled in the corner in fear, rushed to him and she heard his moans of
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pain. His face was twisted in agony. I knew he would die a slow death,
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no one here could take care of him except our medics, and they would
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never treat him. I knew that. I had to do it. What else could I do? I
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shoved the mother roughly away, sending her sprawling on the floor in
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the corner. And I shot him again, this time in the head. It was the only
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thing I could do for him.
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The woman jumped back to her feet and attacked me, screaming,
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raking my face with her nails. It took the full combined strength of the
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Sergeant and myself to restrain her. She screamed and cried and raged
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with the deep pain of loss, of a tragedy less than half understood. How
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could I explain to her, how could I tell her that it was all in the line
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of duty? I didn't speak her language. She wouldn't have listened anyway,
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or wouldn't have accepted it.
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Her screams and my shouts for reinforcements brought four men. I
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told them to hold her. I had forgotten my bloodied face until one
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Corporal reminded me. It didn't seem to matter even then, but I went to
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have a medic look at it anyway. There no injuries much more serious than
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mine. And no one had found any Viet Cong hiding among the villagers. My
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mind was elsewhere as my wounds were attended to. I began to wonder if
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we were really in the right.
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In the evening we left the village. Less than one quarter of an
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hour out of the village, we were met by a Viet Cong ambush, a big one.
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In the battle most of us were killed or mortally wounded before we
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fought them off. I saw my Sergeant's arm blown off by a grenade. I
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watched as the other Lieutenant was blown into bloody gobbets of flesh.
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I saw the Captain be struck by two bullets.
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But we won. Barely. At last only the wounded Captain, my one-armed
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Sergeant, a medic and myself were left. I was almost miraculously left
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unwounded by the assault. The others were not nearly so lucky. The medic
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was the least damaged of those three. He only had a superficial flesh
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wound on his left thigh. Besides his ruined arm, which we had to
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amputate at the shoulder without the benefit of anesthesia or
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antiseptics, my Sergeant also lost an eye. The Captain had two bullet
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wounds to the torso, neither of which was immediately fatal, but he
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would die without treatment. Since he was unconscious, I was the ranking
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officer. I decided we should return to the village as it was the closest
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place we could possibly treat our wounded and regroup.
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After calling one of the other platoons on the radio and telling
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them to rendezvous with us at the village, we set out. It was hard
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traveling, with the medic's bad leg and the fact that I had to carry the
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Captain, but we made it. Upon our arrival we were greeted by angry
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villagers throwing stones.
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Looking back on it, I understand perfectly well their motivations.
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And that returning to the village was a terrible tactical decision. But
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I wasn't thinking straight then. I threw my one remaining grenade, and
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the Sergeant's last two, at them. I shot the survivors down one by one.
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Men, women, and children. It wasn't easy. They were running at us. After
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the day I'd had I couldn't usually aim well enough to take them down on
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my first shot. If it wasn't for me, though, they would have killed us.
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As it was, almost everyone in that village old enough to walk was
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killed.
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The other platoon should have been there. They were waylaid by a
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small Viet Cong force. When they found us, I was bruised and battered by
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stones. But I'd kept the Captain alive, and both of my subordinates who
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had survived the ambush, though the Sergeant was no longer good for much
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and would probably be shipped back home. That's all they cared about.
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After some patching up and a night's rest, I was more or less
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myself again. Only different. I felt like shit. I'd shot women,
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children, men without weapons. I'd always thought fighting for your
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country was a noble and honorable thing to do. But where was the honor
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in that? And I came to wonder if killing armed men was really any
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different. After all, many of them had wives and families. It seemed no
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less a tragedy to the human race for them to die than me. I wondered
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what I was really doing anyway.
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But when the word came they were going to give me a medal for it,
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what could I do? I couldn't refuse. It was because I'd saved my Captain.
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The higher-ups didn't care either that a whole village was destroyed in
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the process. The whole thing made me sick to my stomach, but I went
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along anyway. The ceremony was a blur. All I really remember was the
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phrase "above and beyond the call of duty." That really did it. I
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couldn't even use duty as an excuse anymore. It wasn't them making me do
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it. It was me. I was a mass-murderer. My own choice. No one else's
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fault.
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They gave me some leave afterward. I didn't enjoy it. I spent the
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whole time hating myself. When I was back on duty, as a Captain myself,
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I just went through the motions. I was an ineffective leader in battle.
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They gave me a desk job. I sat through the rest of the war, filling out
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forms like a madman but not really able to lose myself in it.
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Then after the war I got my current job. I'm a paper pusher at an
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insurance company. Forms are all I'm really good for, it seems. I can't
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keep my mind on anything more demanding on the upper brain centers. I
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still can't lose myself in it though.
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I hung my medal on the wall opposite my bed. I don't show it off to
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the occasional visitor I get, unless he or she asks about it. That's
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very occasional. I'm not a very social person, now. I don't know why I
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keep it there. Maybe so I'll have to face it first thing in the morning,
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I won't have to get my first sight of it for the day while fully awake.
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Maybe because less people will see and ask about it there. Maybe I just
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don't want myself to forget it or the crime it represents for an
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instant.
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The worst thing of all is people think I'm a hero because of it.
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Can't they see I'm not? I'm a criminal of the worst kind! I should be in
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an electric chair, not an office chair!
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I should go to work now, but I can't. I can't face another day of
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this. I can't be a hypocrite, I can't pretend to be an honorable and
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respectable person when I'm not. I must make them see what I truly am.
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[On July 4, 1990, Captain Eric S. Crusher, retired, of the United
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States Army, entered a supermarket in Kansas City, shot all of the
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cashiers with an automatic pistol, and then shot himself in the head.
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The preceding was found by the police on the desk in his bedroom.]
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