Battlefields
I love battlefields. I like them fresh. When I say fresh, I mean years old, not centuries. The information I get from the ghosts is too outdated by that point and their link to the earth is too strong. Their language comes out garbled.
I’m crouched behind a log looking at the broken gun turret of a Japanese guard’s nest on the North Pacific coast. They successfully defended this beach from 456 Americans, all of whom died on the beach that I’m squatting on.
It’s night time now. Brilliant stars twinkle down on this unspoiled beach. There aren’t a lot of structures around this horn of the island. The wind shushes through the reeds up on the ridge, mixing with the soft slow pulse of the surf behind me. There’s a volume knob on nature’s version of radio static being twirled slowly back and forth all around me. The effect is absurdly calming.
The maggot-white soldier beside me smiles up at the moon. He’s sitting with his back to the log and is facing away from me out towards the ocean. He has a spectral cigarette dangling from his fingers. He’s as transparent as the ectoplasmic smoke curling away from his fingers.
The smoke obeys the wind of the beach he died on. It ignores the gusts I feel blowing around us.
His one good eye squints up at the moon. His monochrome freckles twinkle a bit like sparkles on new snow. For a second he looks like a black and white film clip stuttering in the air beside me.
“Maria loved a full moon.” He sighs.
“Tell me about the battle.” I say. “Tell me what happened.”
For two hours, that’s what he does.
Some of his buddies come up out of the sand like they’re waking up around a campfire. It’s the light of my life that wakes them up a little, gives them a strength and focus. It’s not draining at all.
A few of them walk up out of the ground like barmen coming up from a cellar.
As I’m scribbling down notes about the battle, some of the others interject with little corrections.
I glanced up once to see three white round faces looking down at us from the gun tower.
I am a battle historian. As far as I know, I am the only person who can see these dead soldiers and dead soldiers are the only ghosts I can see. I don’t know why. I am not scared of the night and these gentle warriors.
It’s the daytime and the whiners that are alive that tire me with their complaining.
When I give my publishers the transcripts, they never believe my explanations but there’s no doubting the accuracy of my reports.
My name sells the books and they fund my trips. Our dislike of each other is tempered by the money I generate for them.
tags
I’m crouched behind a log looking at the broken gun turret of a Japanese guard’s nest on the North Pacific coast. They successfully defended this beach from 456 Americans, all of whom died on the beach that I’m squatting on.
It’s night time now. Brilliant stars twinkle down on this unspoiled beach. There aren’t a lot of structures around this horn of the island. The wind shushes through the reeds up on the ridge, mixing with the soft slow pulse of the surf behind me. There’s a volume knob on nature’s version of radio static being twirled slowly back and forth all around me. The effect is absurdly calming.
The maggot-white soldier beside me smiles up at the moon. He’s sitting with his back to the log and is facing away from me out towards the ocean. He has a spectral cigarette dangling from his fingers. He’s as transparent as the ectoplasmic smoke curling away from his fingers.
The smoke obeys the wind of the beach he died on. It ignores the gusts I feel blowing around us.
His one good eye squints up at the moon. His monochrome freckles twinkle a bit like sparkles on new snow. For a second he looks like a black and white film clip stuttering in the air beside me.
“Maria loved a full moon.” He sighs.
“Tell me about the battle.” I say. “Tell me what happened.”
For two hours, that’s what he does.
Some of his buddies come up out of the sand like they’re waking up around a campfire. It’s the light of my life that wakes them up a little, gives them a strength and focus. It’s not draining at all.
A few of them walk up out of the ground like barmen coming up from a cellar.
As I’m scribbling down notes about the battle, some of the others interject with little corrections.
I glanced up once to see three white round faces looking down at us from the gun tower.
I am a battle historian. As far as I know, I am the only person who can see these dead soldiers and dead soldiers are the only ghosts I can see. I don’t know why. I am not scared of the night and these gentle warriors.
It’s the daytime and the whiners that are alive that tire me with their complaining.
When I give my publishers the transcripts, they never believe my explanations but there’s no doubting the accuracy of my reports.
My name sells the books and they fund my trips. Our dislike of each other is tempered by the money I generate for them.
tags