Remnants of the War

Copyright © 2016 by M. A. T. Blackthorne
All rights reserved.

Remnants of the War
By

M. A. T. Blackthorne

Copyright © 2016 by M. A. T. Blackthorne
All rights reserved.

“The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.”
–Leo Tolstoy

Copyright © 2016 by M. A. T. Blackthorne
All rights reserved.

The charred land stretched from the Qinling Mountains all the way
to the Yellow Sea. It was supposedly the largest battle front in the
history of the world. The old man did not care about that. What
concerned him was not its length, but its width. It was hundreds of
kilometers long, but only five kilometers wide. Five kilometers
that he dared not cross.

He stood gazing over the landscape marked with artillery blast,
mortars and tank rounds. The camp circulated rumors that on the
final day of the battle, land mines dropped from the sky, blotting
out the sun. The old man did not know for sure. The sky was
hidden when inside a tank.

He did not know how land mines could fall from the sky anymore
then he knew how battalions upon battalions of tanks could
suddenly stop dead in their tracks. The magnitude was impossible
to understand—for Man to build so many instruments of
destruction and bring them all to a single place in time. Then have
them stop all at once. He remembered the chaos that ensued as
guns jammed and grenades failed to detonate and men tore into
each other with claws and knives and gun butts. Nothing else
worked.

“That was war,” he thought. “That was true war. Gazing into the
eyes of your enemy as you fight him… slay him. Everything else is
just a game. Everything else is just pretend.”

Still, after all these years, after his wife, son and daughter-in-law
had perished, he still feared the expanse: the rusting tanks, the
inoperable land mines, the skeletal corpses of his comrades. He
feared it because it wasn’t dead yet. Like a wounded tiger it still
claimed lives. If the old man was alone he would not have fear the
charred land. If he was alone he would embrace it, hoping it would
finally take him instead of sparing him as it did all those years ago.

Yet, the old man was not alone. His grand-daughter stood by his
side, holding his hand, gazing at the same wasted landscape. Shao

Copyright © 2016 by M. A. T. Blackthorne
All rights reserved.

waited for him to move. He breathed in deep, tasting the rusted
metal in the air.

“Five kilometers,” he told himself. “Five kilometers between this
camp and a better life for Shao.”

He gripped Shao’s hand tighter and carefully edged down the
embankment. The first looming tank came into view. No damage
except time was discernable on its armor. The barrel of the gun
was pointed straight at him and Shao. He shuffled to the left and
continued past it.

A few minutes later he looked back. He could still see the camp. It
seemed they had hardly moved at all. The tanks and exposed
landmines required constant retracing or adjustment of his
footsteps. He wondered what it would be like if he made it to the
middle of the charred land and no longer had a guidepost. Would
he wander in a circle until they perished?

The next obstacle loomed ahead. It was ruined building that
probably served as a command post. The wall facing him had been
blown away. The roof was missing. A staircase led up to the
second story. Perhaps from there he could see the end of the
charred lands. His heart filled with hope.

He jogged and Shao ran to keep up with him.

Inside the command post he stopped, listening. Something was
wrong. Shao slipped past him before he could grab her. She
scampered up the steps to the second floor. The wind picked up
then, a low whine, growing stronger.

“No… it isn’t the wind,” the old man thought. He knew that sound.
A helicopter… The Americans called it “black hawk.” Its propeller
blades were coming to life. The noise grew in his ears as he rushed
up the cement steps after Shao.

The helicopter ascended over the wall’s edge, a monster rising
from the dark depths, a corpse revived. Its blades were bent, one
broken in half. Rust covered its nose. The black glass viewing

Copyright © 2016 by M. A. T. Blackthorne
All rights reserved.

window revealed no pilot. Black, mocking pits—the charred land
had fooled the old man. It was going to take the last thing he held
dear. A jagged length of blade broke off as the helicopter’s engines
roared with power. It ricocheted off the crumbled wall and pierced
Shao in the chest.

+++

The old man screamed and sat up in the darkness. The wind was
dying down now. He rose quickly and walked to the edge of the
camp, staring at the charred lands. The first sun rays broke the
grip of night.

A small figure moved up next to him and took his hand. Shao
waited for him to move. He breathed in deep, tasting the rusted
metal in the air. He could not go today.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” he told himself. “Perhaps tomorrow.”