The memory of that night continues to haunt me. I cannot recall the last time I stepped beyond the doors of this house. Even the sight of a tree, or a bush, chills my very soul.
Once I believed that the earth remains impervious to our existence; that we live out the dramas and tragedies of our lives, like ants. Living. Dying. Pointless existence. All swept away by the sands of time.
But what happens to all that love, hate, desire, passion? Does this energy dissipate into the void, or does it survive, trapped within each decaying heart?
I was not always this way; a hermit cringing in the depths of this self-imposed prison.
I was a soldier once, serving with the British Army of the Rhine. It all seems so long ago now. The war had ended some years before, but the scars remained: The bullet marks on the walls of the old Wehrmacht barracks, the rows of gleaming white crosses in the war cemeteries.
Older, but equally terrible scars were also in evidence, however; scars which the hand of nature had never really healed.
Between the camp at which I was stationed and the nearest town lay a forest, vast, dark and oppressive, bisected only by an ancient path. In daylight it was a sprawling mass of brown and green, but the black shroud of night destroyed any semblance of life it possessed, until it took on the appearance of something dark and unholy.
Soon after I arrived I learned that this forest hid a terrible secret.
Somewhere within those depths lay the remains of countless victims of the plague; that hellish medieval murderer that had wiped out a third of the population of Europe. Their bodies had been taken here in their thousands to be buried in huge communal pits. In time this wreck of humanity was absorbed into the slow cauldron of nature. Seeds grew, thriving in the rich soil, developing over the centuries into a vast natural tombstone that had nourished itself on death, and had retained that atmosphere within it’s poisoned depths.
The locals regarded the forest as if it still harboured the plague, and told each other that the doorway to hell itself lay within. Certainly the forest seemed to respond to the elements of another world. Sometimes the great trees swayed and rustled while all around was calm and still. At other times they seemed unaffected by the wind; even the bitter east wind that blew from the far away Russian Steppes, and told of sons and fathers lost long ago in those frozen wastes.
Whatever the truth of it, the forest was regarded with unease, even in the testosterone world of the British army, and most squaddies gave the area a wide berth as they flooded into town every weekend.
On one such night I had become detached from the usual beer-sodden melee, and found myself in the company of a Glaswegian Corporal by the name of Andy Cunningham. Andy was the characteristic paradox in uniform; highly trained, courageous, homesick, unstable. He could switch from lager-lout to philosopher in the same breath. This night he was unusually subdued. I had assumed this was because one of his platoon had recently gone absent without leave. We indulged in the usual small talk for a while, before the conversation tailed off altogether. Before long my mind began to follow its well-worn path; home...girlfriend....civvy street...
Suddenly Andy was talking again: “Did ye see that war cemetery we passed the other day?” There was an unusual edge to his voice.
I nodded. “I think it was German. It seemed to go on for ever.”
“What a way tae end up,” he went on, “just a few scribbles on a slab of stone. Ah mean, those graves don’t just hold lumps of meat. What about all that grit and fire and what have ye...?”
I understood what he meant. The pride and courage that had surged through their blood. The sense of beauty, wonder, dignity, hope, that helps to create the unique sentience of human existence.
“Where does it all go?” he wondered.
“Into the ground with them,” I replied inanely. “That’s the way of things.”
“Aye? And what then?” He looked troubled. “Ye know that forest up the road? Ah tell ye man, there’s something no’ right about that place.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “I hear the Regiment has started to patrol in there now. Training for Ireland.”
He nodded unhappily. “Ah took the platoon through the other day. Jeez, man, the further we went in the darker it got. Ah’ve never known anything like it.” His voice was low and strained. “It was like being buried alive. All the lads were glad tae get out of there, but wee MacQuillen was the worst of all.”
“MacQuillen? That’s the lad that went A.W.O.L., isn’t it?”
“Aye, that’s what they say,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?”
Andy shook his head. “The thing is, everywhere ye go there’s graveyards and battlefields and the like. Every generation gets sorted by something or other; whether it’s war or disease or famine or whatever. It’s like a cull, tae keep some kindae balance. Ye know?”
“You make us sound like dumb animals,” I said.
“That’s just the point, we’re no’ like dumb animals. Ah mean, if ye splatter a sheep or a pigeon all that’s left is a grease mark. But if ye waste a human being there’s always something left behind. It doesnae matter whether it’s Culloden or Belsen, or that bloody forest, it’s there man. Ye can smell it. And when that smell gets intae ye...”
I didn’t know what to say. I had never seen him like this before. Looking back now it is obvious that something had found it’s way into his soul, filling his mind with apocalyptic visions. All I could think at the time was I’d had enough of this nonsense.
“Come on Andy,” I said, “I think you’ve had enough for the night. It’s time we got you back to your pit.”
He rose unsteadily to his feet. “Ah need tae get hame, man. Get ma heid sortit. Ah’ve been out here too long.” At that moment he looked tired and frail.
Outside, the full moon hung like a lantern in the night sky. Its soft beauty helped to revive us as we followed the ancient path that led incongruously to our camp. We had even begun to talk of home as the path began to melt into the black, silent depths of the forest. Automatically I began to make for the road that led circuitously to our barracks. I could imagine the lights of the guardroom in the distance, the bored sentry yawning at the main gate.
“Let’s take the short-cut through the forest,” Andy said.
I thought he was joking. “Aye, right.”
“Naw, Ah’m serious. Let’s go through the forest.”
I was horrified. “You are off your head if you think I’m setting foot in there!”
“Fair enough, Ah’ll go on ma own.”
I think I knew even then that my brave and troubled friend was trying to face the demons he had raised. Fear, however, had taken complete hold of me. “Andy, this is not a good career move, pal. Listen to me now; we’ve both had too much to drink. Let’s get back to our pits, get some kip. Tomorrow we’ll go to Hamburg, eh? What do you say? We’ll have a wander round the Reeperbahn. Come on, eh?”
I knew I was babbling, desperately trying to take control of the situation.
He looked at me contemptuously. “Don’t be such a Jessie. Ah told ye Ah’ll check this out on ma own!”
Suddenly it dawned on me. “Oh my God, this is about MacQuillen, isn’t it? You don’t think he’s gone A.W.O.L. at all...”
Andy made no reply. I could see the anger in his eyes as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crypt-like entrance to the forest. As he went he transferred his wrath to the black mass of trees around him. “Come on ya bastards, do yer worst!” he bellowed. “Ah’m no feart wee laddie.”
I stood rooted to the spot, a helpless spectator.
“Ah’m gonnae pit a match tae this whole diseased dung-heap...” Andy was yelling, his anger stabbing and slashing all around him. Gradually his voice faded into the night.
The trees suddenly began to sway and creak as if a breeze had swept through them.
“Andy!” I shouted.
There was no reply.
“Andy!”
I call
ed his name several times, but my cries were swallowed up in the darkness. For a moment I thought of running for help, and immediately felt a wave of shame.
I knew I would have to go in after him.
It is odd how much courage a man derives from yelling every oath he was ever forbidden to utter. That night, I drained every drop of courage I possessed as I stumbled and cursed my way through the black tunnel of that path.
I found Andy in a clearing deep inside the forest. All around him the trees swayed and groaned as if a storm raged above them. Immediately I saw that he was not alone. Around him figures were moving, detaching themselves from the shadows, edging towards him. I saw them flit between darkness and moonlight, like hunters stalking their prey, and I realised with horror, as each one fell on Andy, dissolving into him, that his attackers were not shadowy figures, but the very shadows themselves.
It was as if the darkness was taking human form to gain possession of him, while he remained held by an invisible web; his body jerking and convulsing as each column of darkness entered him.
I remember little of what followed. I have a vague recollection of running blindly along the path, the cold, black, whispering night taking shape behind me.
When I recovered consciousness I was in a military hospital, where I remained for several weeks. Eventually I was classified as psychologically unfit for further military service. The authorities had listened politely to my story, giving it as much credence as one would have expected.
No trace of Andy was ever found. I believe he remains officially absent without leave, along with young Private MacQuillen, and God knows how many others.
I don’t venture outdoors anymore. There are too many scars on this ravaged planet of ours. Too many trees, with branches that reach out to the empty sky, and roots that ensnare themselves in the aching depths of my mind.
THE END
THE GUN
by Brian Y. Rogers
https://www.byrogers.com/