Bochinche, Venezuela
December 2, 1896
It was surreal. All he could see was an image of himself…running. He was shooting across an empty plain like a bullet, but felt as if he was in the midst of some out-of-body experience. The plain was all that could be seen for miles, as if there was nothing more in the world than him and this piece of grassland. The ground below him was a beautiful shade of green, the plants still tinged with the morning dew. In the distance he saw neither mountains nor forests nor an ocean. It was just him and this terrain which seemed too vast to have any boundaries. The sun could not be seen.
He ran with terrible form, stumbling over himself and flailing his arms to and fro; there was clearly no regard for such a thing. Had anyone seen the look on his face, they’d have thought the man was running from a beast of unspeakable horror. Sweat poured profusely from his face, dripping to the ground and soaking into the earth. After a moment’s pause, the chase resumed.
The runner dashed for what seemed like miles without another pause. Not once did he look up at the sky, nor back at what lie behind him, not even down at the ground. His face was fixed; resolute. It faced only what lay before him. As for the eagle that came swooping out of the blue yonder, clasping him in its talons and dragging him violently along the surface of the earth—he never saw it.
The pain was harsh, stinging. A bruise here, a scar there; when the bird dropped him, he was on the verge of death. The majestic bird flapped its mighty wings, creating a tiny storm beneath it on the flat ground. It perched in front of him, blocking him from yet another ferocious beast.
The lion was the greatest of creatures; surely it could take down a bird. The one lunged at the other, and so began the fatal fracas. A slash here, a cut there, and a bite or two at this leg and that wing; they were clearly evenly matched. The runner, laying near-death on the ground rose again, drawing from its sheath a dagger that had formerly been hidden…or had it even been there? The blade twinkled in the sun at first, and then stole the light from the very heavens. The scene grew dark as the runner, half-crazed, beaten and bruised, plunged the knife into the bird’s wing. Down it went. The terrible flyer moved furiously, struggling to maintain its position vis-à-vis its two opponents, but could not. It was going down.
The lion circled around the eagle and now stood between it and its prey, the avenged human. The bird refused to give up. What followed was too quick and blurry to recount in detail. The bird quickly spun around. It bolted at the lion with what energy it had left, and the lion turned around. Here the runner thought he was safe, but couldn’t have been more wrong. The lion turned around, grabbed the runner, and threw it at the eagle. With total disregard for the grace that had formerly characterized it, the eagle tore apart the runner without compunction, ripping at its sinews and tearing apart its organs. Once done, it flew off, leaving the runner dead on the field. The lion was satisfied. It too departed. The corpse of the human was all that remained. The face looked eerily familiar. It was…it was…
“Mr. Haig,” the nurse said, tapping the sleeping soldier gently on his chest. “Come on, Mr. Haig, I know you’re just-”
“AAAAAAAHHHHH!” Haig burst from his sleep, screaming in fear like a child. Even after he saw that he was awake, the terror did not relent. He went on and on, not satisfied with his release until it was complete. Only after he had run out of breath did the shouts of terror cease.
The nurse had jumped back several feet, dropping the tray of food that had been prepared for Haig’s consumption. “Oh, Mr. Haig!” she slapped at his arm. “Don’t you dare do that again!”
He was still breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, miss. It was just that damned dream.” He had no compunction about swearing in front of women. She looked taken aback.
“The one that you won’t tell me about?”
“Yeah…” he paused. “Yeah, that one.”
Unhappy about being kept out of the loop, she frowned and began to scrape up the food. “Well then I can’t help you.” After a few futile attempts at salvaging what had looked like a nice bowl of oatmeal, she gave up on it, looking quite distressed in the process. “Oh, shoot, I guess I’ll just have to get you another bowl.”
The Briton struggled to forget his unhappy affair with the night. “You know Helen; it’s hard to act like a prisoner-of-war when you’re treated this kindly.” Helen had neglected to reveal where she was from, but he would have guessed Norway.
“I’m just doing my job as a Red Cross Worker, just like you’re just doing your job as a soldier. As for why you became a soldier; that I can’t understand?”
“Pardon?”
“War is a mighty awful thing, Mr. Haig.”
“Amen to that.”
“Besides that, you’re clearly partial to the drink. Perhaps you wouldn’t have gotten caught if that weren’t the case.”
It wasn’t clear if that was just a jest or she really thought he had been captured while drunk. The reality of the situation was much worse. I wish I had been drunk, instead of lying face-down in a muddy ditch. “Miss, I-”
“Well, well, well, if he hasn’t come to? And I’ll be damned. I thought for sure that you were dead this time. I guess I lose a bet, eh Joyce?”
“Hello again, Colonel!” Her face lit up. Although Haig, both because of his condition and because of the basic wrongness of the potential situation, had no real interest in Joyce aside from something of a friend, he felt a sort of jealousy for the Colonel. What is it that she saw in him that made her face light up as it did now?
“Hello, Joyce; Captain Haig, how are you healing up? For a moment, I thought you were dying in your sleep.”
“Colonel, don’t joke like that.”
“Who’s joking?” The startling frankness silenced her. Undaunted, he turned to the captured Briton. “Captain Haig, correct? I don’t believe we’ve met—well, you haven’t met me, but I’ve seen you before around here. My name is Charles Heywood, Colonel-Commandant of the United States Marines.”
“I would salute you, but I’m fresh out of giving a-”
“It matters not,” he said, cutting off the captive from his curse. “We are very happy to have you here.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all from your underlings—the Venezuelans.” Just such a Venezuelan walked by just then. He gave her the most evil look he could muster. “They’re big fans of me.”
“I don’t very much care for your sass, Haig, but I am trying to maintain my politeness here. Don’t bother me with your resilience. It will do you no good.”
Haig scoffed at the notion. “What do I need your politeness for, Colonel Heywood? It isn’t as if I’m getting off for good behavior any-time soon, is it?”
“Well no, I wouldn’t say that.”
“What are you so interested with me for, anyway?” Haig was clearly bluffing. He knew exactly what was going through their heads, but tried to press his advantage. “I’ve been treated in this place for the past few weeks, while all of my comrades who were captured—British or colonial—have been shipped off. What is it about me?”
Heywood raised one eyebrow, and then nodded. “Yes, you have been getting special treatment, while we’ve been shipping your partners off. Don’t worry, you will join them shortly.” It was as if he was acknowledging his prisoner’s attempt at deceit, a failure though it was. “You’re only receiving greater care than your friends because of your valor.”
“My valor.” He didn’t make a question out of it. The charade could clearly not be kept up.
“Your Victoria’s Cross, you know? Your bold raid on San Felix, of course? Are any of these ringing a bell?”
Haig had a good deal of experience when it came to poker’s faces, but even he had to struggle to hide his emotion now. It wasn’t what Heywood had said that was the problem; the Colonel had finally found something which held worth for the British warrior. “Where is my Cross?”
“Don’t worry,” he emphasized. “It’s in good hands.” And with that piece of vague and discomforting information, he nodded again and turned around. Only the nurse remained to pick up the pieces.
“Are you going to be alright, Mr. Haig?”
He needed a distraction. “Joyce; have I really been receiving better care because of my worth as a prisoner?”
She was quick to dismiss the notion. “Of course not; we do our best to treat everyone equally.” The problem was that Haig believed her, or rather, he believed that she believed herself. She was not the type to tolerate preferential treatment, especially since this was a Red Cross endeavor. But she couldn’t so easily prevent it.
“Right,” Haig affirmed. She gave a weak smile, trying to help him recover mentally. He looked to the bed to his left. “Say, whatever happened to Lieutenant Lutyens? He was in the bed next to me when I went to sleep, right? Did they move him too?”
“Er…no.” She struggled to come to grips with the reality of the situation, as well as the inconvenience of the timing. “Mr. Lutyens died last night in his sleep. He had a heart attack.” Evidently, even the kind nurse didn’t know how to recover from that one. After another faint smile, she deserted him for another patient.
Bochinche was a moderately-sized town with a colonial architecture that brought with it a sort of old world charm. Not much of that charm could reach the eyes of the prisoners-of-war, who were situated in a fenced-in, open air hospital/prison at the outskirts of town. The wind blew through the holes of the fence and cut into the skin of people like Haig who were healthy enough to be out in the weather. Some others were in tents, but he didn’t mind the situation. Something about the outside air helped to soothe his mind.
It didn’t work now. “Fuck.”
December 2, 1896
It was surreal. All he could see was an image of himself…running. He was shooting across an empty plain like a bullet, but felt as if he was in the midst of some out-of-body experience. The plain was all that could be seen for miles, as if there was nothing more in the world than him and this piece of grassland. The ground below him was a beautiful shade of green, the plants still tinged with the morning dew. In the distance he saw neither mountains nor forests nor an ocean. It was just him and this terrain which seemed too vast to have any boundaries. The sun could not be seen.
He ran with terrible form, stumbling over himself and flailing his arms to and fro; there was clearly no regard for such a thing. Had anyone seen the look on his face, they’d have thought the man was running from a beast of unspeakable horror. Sweat poured profusely from his face, dripping to the ground and soaking into the earth. After a moment’s pause, the chase resumed.
The runner dashed for what seemed like miles without another pause. Not once did he look up at the sky, nor back at what lie behind him, not even down at the ground. His face was fixed; resolute. It faced only what lay before him. As for the eagle that came swooping out of the blue yonder, clasping him in its talons and dragging him violently along the surface of the earth—he never saw it.
The pain was harsh, stinging. A bruise here, a scar there; when the bird dropped him, he was on the verge of death. The majestic bird flapped its mighty wings, creating a tiny storm beneath it on the flat ground. It perched in front of him, blocking him from yet another ferocious beast.
The lion was the greatest of creatures; surely it could take down a bird. The one lunged at the other, and so began the fatal fracas. A slash here, a cut there, and a bite or two at this leg and that wing; they were clearly evenly matched. The runner, laying near-death on the ground rose again, drawing from its sheath a dagger that had formerly been hidden…or had it even been there? The blade twinkled in the sun at first, and then stole the light from the very heavens. The scene grew dark as the runner, half-crazed, beaten and bruised, plunged the knife into the bird’s wing. Down it went. The terrible flyer moved furiously, struggling to maintain its position vis-à-vis its two opponents, but could not. It was going down.
The lion circled around the eagle and now stood between it and its prey, the avenged human. The bird refused to give up. What followed was too quick and blurry to recount in detail. The bird quickly spun around. It bolted at the lion with what energy it had left, and the lion turned around. Here the runner thought he was safe, but couldn’t have been more wrong. The lion turned around, grabbed the runner, and threw it at the eagle. With total disregard for the grace that had formerly characterized it, the eagle tore apart the runner without compunction, ripping at its sinews and tearing apart its organs. Once done, it flew off, leaving the runner dead on the field. The lion was satisfied. It too departed. The corpse of the human was all that remained. The face looked eerily familiar. It was…it was…
“Mr. Haig,” the nurse said, tapping the sleeping soldier gently on his chest. “Come on, Mr. Haig, I know you’re just-”
“AAAAAAAHHHHH!” Haig burst from his sleep, screaming in fear like a child. Even after he saw that he was awake, the terror did not relent. He went on and on, not satisfied with his release until it was complete. Only after he had run out of breath did the shouts of terror cease.
The nurse had jumped back several feet, dropping the tray of food that had been prepared for Haig’s consumption. “Oh, Mr. Haig!” she slapped at his arm. “Don’t you dare do that again!”
He was still breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, miss. It was just that damned dream.” He had no compunction about swearing in front of women. She looked taken aback.
“The one that you won’t tell me about?”
“Yeah…” he paused. “Yeah, that one.”
Unhappy about being kept out of the loop, she frowned and began to scrape up the food. “Well then I can’t help you.” After a few futile attempts at salvaging what had looked like a nice bowl of oatmeal, she gave up on it, looking quite distressed in the process. “Oh, shoot, I guess I’ll just have to get you another bowl.”
The Briton struggled to forget his unhappy affair with the night. “You know Helen; it’s hard to act like a prisoner-of-war when you’re treated this kindly.” Helen had neglected to reveal where she was from, but he would have guessed Norway.
“I’m just doing my job as a Red Cross Worker, just like you’re just doing your job as a soldier. As for why you became a soldier; that I can’t understand?”
“Pardon?”
“War is a mighty awful thing, Mr. Haig.”
“Amen to that.”
“Besides that, you’re clearly partial to the drink. Perhaps you wouldn’t have gotten caught if that weren’t the case.”
It wasn’t clear if that was just a jest or she really thought he had been captured while drunk. The reality of the situation was much worse. I wish I had been drunk, instead of lying face-down in a muddy ditch. “Miss, I-”
“Well, well, well, if he hasn’t come to? And I’ll be damned. I thought for sure that you were dead this time. I guess I lose a bet, eh Joyce?”
“Hello again, Colonel!” Her face lit up. Although Haig, both because of his condition and because of the basic wrongness of the potential situation, had no real interest in Joyce aside from something of a friend, he felt a sort of jealousy for the Colonel. What is it that she saw in him that made her face light up as it did now?
“Hello, Joyce; Captain Haig, how are you healing up? For a moment, I thought you were dying in your sleep.”
“Colonel, don’t joke like that.”
“Who’s joking?” The startling frankness silenced her. Undaunted, he turned to the captured Briton. “Captain Haig, correct? I don’t believe we’ve met—well, you haven’t met me, but I’ve seen you before around here. My name is Charles Heywood, Colonel-Commandant of the United States Marines.”
“I would salute you, but I’m fresh out of giving a-”
“It matters not,” he said, cutting off the captive from his curse. “We are very happy to have you here.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all from your underlings—the Venezuelans.” Just such a Venezuelan walked by just then. He gave her the most evil look he could muster. “They’re big fans of me.”
“I don’t very much care for your sass, Haig, but I am trying to maintain my politeness here. Don’t bother me with your resilience. It will do you no good.”
Haig scoffed at the notion. “What do I need your politeness for, Colonel Heywood? It isn’t as if I’m getting off for good behavior any-time soon, is it?”
“Well no, I wouldn’t say that.”
“What are you so interested with me for, anyway?” Haig was clearly bluffing. He knew exactly what was going through their heads, but tried to press his advantage. “I’ve been treated in this place for the past few weeks, while all of my comrades who were captured—British or colonial—have been shipped off. What is it about me?”
Heywood raised one eyebrow, and then nodded. “Yes, you have been getting special treatment, while we’ve been shipping your partners off. Don’t worry, you will join them shortly.” It was as if he was acknowledging his prisoner’s attempt at deceit, a failure though it was. “You’re only receiving greater care than your friends because of your valor.”
“My valor.” He didn’t make a question out of it. The charade could clearly not be kept up.
“Your Victoria’s Cross, you know? Your bold raid on San Felix, of course? Are any of these ringing a bell?”
Haig had a good deal of experience when it came to poker’s faces, but even he had to struggle to hide his emotion now. It wasn’t what Heywood had said that was the problem; the Colonel had finally found something which held worth for the British warrior. “Where is my Cross?”
“Don’t worry,” he emphasized. “It’s in good hands.” And with that piece of vague and discomforting information, he nodded again and turned around. Only the nurse remained to pick up the pieces.
“Are you going to be alright, Mr. Haig?”
He needed a distraction. “Joyce; have I really been receiving better care because of my worth as a prisoner?”
She was quick to dismiss the notion. “Of course not; we do our best to treat everyone equally.” The problem was that Haig believed her, or rather, he believed that she believed herself. She was not the type to tolerate preferential treatment, especially since this was a Red Cross endeavor. But she couldn’t so easily prevent it.
“Right,” Haig affirmed. She gave a weak smile, trying to help him recover mentally. He looked to the bed to his left. “Say, whatever happened to Lieutenant Lutyens? He was in the bed next to me when I went to sleep, right? Did they move him too?”
“Er…no.” She struggled to come to grips with the reality of the situation, as well as the inconvenience of the timing. “Mr. Lutyens died last night in his sleep. He had a heart attack.” Evidently, even the kind nurse didn’t know how to recover from that one. After another faint smile, she deserted him for another patient.
Bochinche was a moderately-sized town with a colonial architecture that brought with it a sort of old world charm. Not much of that charm could reach the eyes of the prisoners-of-war, who were situated in a fenced-in, open air hospital/prison at the outskirts of town. The wind blew through the holes of the fence and cut into the skin of people like Haig who were healthy enough to be out in the weather. Some others were in tents, but he didn’t mind the situation. Something about the outside air helped to soothe his mind.
It didn’t work now. “Fuck.”