Silence, no wind, and the night sounds had suddenly stopped as if a switch had been thrown.
Silence so pure it was a noiseless scream ringing in his head. He was a town square statue, void of all motion. Frozen in place partly by fear, but also in his all consuming awareness seeking to see or hear something, anything. He waited, breathing shallow and slow. Seconds were hours. Almost positive he had seen one layer of dark shape move over another off to his right, but his eyes strained against the pitch black, searching for that real shape among false images. He stood still, feeling and trying to measure the air all around him with his senses, seeking a brief vacuum, a push, or a whiff of air, just a tiny tick of a sound. Black nothing.
There was nothing out there yet he knew there was. They were there and if lights came on suddenly, the real terror would be in how many and how close they were. How many countless sentries on isolated posts, or guards on watch, throughout the long history of man had felt the same? They surely had felt the same horrible trepidation, the total and crushing feeling of doom. They had suffered the loneliness and fear of what awaited them out there, the sure death. A death that crouched, waiting with terrible patience in a heartless night.
Yes, the end would be tonight, he was sure of it now. It had been three days. Three long days since their offensive push began. His company had been in a full retreat and overrun several times, the enemy right on their heels. They were so close tonight – a matter of a hill away or a stand of trees on the other side of the valley. They were right over there in that direction of black. Tonight he’d been drifting in and out, like a slow steady dream. Almost totally exhausted and at times all but sleepwalking his post, ready to self sacrifice to the relentless lurking presence out there. Welcoming, no requesting, a razor edged bayonet in his back. At other times like this, he would snap back, pure animal instincts and survival.
He finally sensed the movement again, off to his left this time, almost felt a push of air before he heard or saw anything. It was an almost casual, arrogant movement. His eyes wider than wide trying to pierce the darkness, his ears tuned to hear the smallest twig. Yes there it was on his left again at about 11 o’clock and close. Damn close, moving slow, steady and confident. His inner voice screaming now and so scared he had fight it, pushing the paralyzing panic into a closet and bolting the door.
Pretending to ignore its presence, he let it come closer. It was a monster, not a man, the monster from childhood nightmares. He caught a slight whiff of barn hay and rifle oil, a certain gaminess and cold hard gun metal. Now, more clearly he smelled sweat, a bitter clinging sweat. A sweat which was not his and one that reeked of ritual brutal combat. The anticipation in these seconds is exquisite, a strange raw desire to prolong this deadly silent courtship whispers to him. But this rush to death would overpower both players, the final embrace inevitable.
This dance of death, so ancient and instinctive, so intoxicating. He’d never felt so alive, so engaged. Like stepping off a great uncharted dark cliff and not seeing the ground hurtling up, he turned only his eyes to the left. The noiseless scream in his head was now a low moan as he continued his turn slowly, eyes unseeing but wide open in the dark as he brought his gun around in dream like slow motion……his blood pounding pulse like a countdown to engage his invisible foe…..a tiny twig snap. Abruptly, he bows to his partner as sharp steel swishes the air gracefully over his head. An old photograph flashes by his eyes, the house he grew up in and his mother at the door waiving to him.
Soon, very soon, the music would die and the dance would end for one.
