Duty
The cell was a cold grey, the evening light casting long
shadows of the bars that stood between the condemned and their final sunset.
Too high to reach or see out of, all one could do was stare at that fading
glimmer. The floor of the cell was a hard concrete, the grey stained by all
manner of horrors. In the far corner, there was a puddle of still-drying blood,
the stench of which filled the room; a final reminder of why he was here.
Smith’s shoes made a sharp click-clack, click-clack, shattering the silence and making every
step a gunshot, echoing off the white walls, a never-ending cascade of noise.
From somewhere nearby, he heard a voice raised in pitiful cries. The screeching
and clicking folded together, the entirety of this place summed up in a few
simple sounds. Madness, suddenness, silence. Even when Smith stood still, the
noise circled round and round in his head.
Searching for something, anything to take his mind off the
cacophony, he found his gaze irresistibly drawn to the deranged scrawlings that
littered the wall. Some were indecipherable, some other language real or
imagined, some were purely illegible, the tortured minds that produced them
unable to remain sane long enough to form words. But a few were all too real, a
name here, a prayer there, a date and a place and another date and here; the
only testament these men would have, their own eulogy spilled across the walls,
written in chipped plaster or red blood.
“Ah, you’ve arrived early, Smith.” Smith whirled, the voice
that knifed through the silent echo chilling him to the bone, the upbeat tone
at odds with the severity of its surrounding. Smith regained his composure
without missing a beat, saluting crisply. “Well then, let’s not waste any time.
I’m afraid we’re a little short of staff here, so you’ll be guarding the
prisoner tonight, if you wouldn’t mind. No chance of escape, of course, but
they tend to go a bit mad on the last night. Understandable, I suppose.”
Smith let the sergeant continue the monologue, feeling his
fists clench and something in his stomach squirm. Everything about this man was
jarring with this place; he was smartly dressed amidst the untidy scribbling,
he stood straight where so many were broken, his voice rose crisply over the
screaming from the other cells. After some time, the speech ended, and Smith
was shown to the door of the cell, where he began the long, slow wait.
***
It was midnight where the sobbing started. The walls muffled
the sounds just enough that Smith could still hear them, each wracking moan and
wordless cry came to him, as if from far away. Occasionally, he could decipher
whole words. Home. Mother. Die. Why. Names broke through to him, meaning
nothing, only echoes of people he never knew.
After an hour or maybe two, in which there had been no
peace, the noise finally stopped, the silence just as haunting. There was a dim
shuffling from inside the cell, and Smith knew it was coming closer. He felt
the inevitable knock on the wall behind him, and moments later, the voice.
“Come on. I know ye’re there. Wouldn’t leave me wit’out a
guard, would they? Just talk to me. Just talk.”
Smith was paralysed, unable even to breath. If he remained
still, silent, then perhaps the prisoner would give up. Perhaps he would forget
who he was calling out to, or slink back into the silence, and Smith could go
back to pretending he didn’t know why he was here.
“Just talk.” Came the voice again, hollow and cutting,
reaching down to the very fibre of Smith’s being. How could he ignore a dying
man’s wish? Was he that inhuman? He knew it was stupid; in six hours he would
be killing this man. But somehow, he just couldn’t ignore him. He couldn’t
speak, either.
“D’ya know why I’m in ‘ere?” the walls whispered to him. He
gave no answer, but the prisoner somehow knew he was curious. “Disobeyed
orders, didn’t I? Mad ‘McLellan, not doin’ as ‘e’s told. Mad, mad McLellan.”
The voice gave way to a high-pitched laugh, which seemed to tear out Smith’s
insides and rearrange them in a grim parody of a human. Every word, every
syllable, and both of them became closer to being animals.
“Told ‘em their war was bloody stupid, din’t I? Wouldn’t go over,
would I? And they called me a coward. Hahhahahaha! Me, a bloody coward! And yet
‘ere I am, facin’ death with no way out. So when you’re out there, tomorrow
mornin’, linen’ up yer shot, just ask yerself: Who’s the bloody coward now?
Who, eh? Who?”
The last word was screamed out, shattering whatever was left
of Smith’s resolve. The madman knew his piece was done, and slunk back to the
silence, his scream becoming a mutter as the night wore on. Mad McLellan’s
words went marching through his head for hours, and eventually, only one
thought remained.
Mad, mad McLellan, the man who wouldn’t fight, was the only
sane man he’d seen since London.
***
The morning light was cold and harsh, the rain becoming ice
and making the footing treacherous. Smith picked up the rifle and marched into
the courtyard, where McLellan stood upright, tied to the wooden pole in front
of the stained grey walls. Smith didn’t need to see through the bag to know
he’d be grinning, knowing that he had the last laugh over his executioners, who
now formed a line and stood ready. Smith noted with some sickness that, apart
from his own, no hand trembled on the rifle. These men were executioners, cold
and ruthless.
“Firing squad. Ready.”
Rifles came to shoulders, Smith moving as one with the rest
of the men, doing his best to do anything but think. It was no good.
“Aim.”
The air was silent, their breaths wisps of cloud taken on
the wind, the gentle breeze ruffling the king’s flag that Smith could not take
his eyes off. The seasoned executioners adjusted their aim, turning this brutal
business to an art form. Smith’s own weapon wavered, pulled left and right by
the burning desire to miss. McLellan stood a little straighter, defiance incarnate.
Who’s the coward now?
“Fire.”
***
Author's notes:
- This piece is based on a very real place and setting; on my visits to Belgium I've seen a prison cell and execution range very similar to the ones described here, and it was genuinely a chilling experience. If the description of this setting is at all like I think it is, I hope there is a real sense of that in this piece.
- One idea I was playing with when writing this was that Smith took on this role of executioner to 'save' Robson from it. In the narrative I'm developing here, there's an interesting dynamic between those two characters, with Smith doing what he can to protect Robson's innocence in the hell of war, while Robson is constantly trying to achieve the 'glory' he signed up for. I'll leave that there, as it's something I want to play with in another piece coming up soon.
That's all for today. As always, thanks for reading and feel free to comment.
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