This is an anti-war story and contains some violent content.
My Lie
I don't know why I stopped killing. Maybe it was her little round eyes. Her little what, eight--maybe nine--year old eyes? I slung my rifle over my shoulder and kneeled, reaching out a hand. She cowered and pressed herself harder against the corner, hugging her knees against her chest.
Outside, the sounds of war carried on. The derisive shouts of rampaging soldiers revealed the mayhem. The intermittent splat of burst fire from rifles reported the murders. The screams of the villagers were dying away, the brave having fallen already and the fearful cowering now with their voices stolen, like this little girl in front of me.
They’d be silenced soon, forever. Just like she would. What difference did it make if I wasn’t the one who killed her? If one of the others found her, she’d be dead anyway. It wouldn’t be long before someone else poked their M16 into the hut and dropped her without a thought.
I stood, walked to the open door and took in the spectacle. Bodies lay in the narrow packed-dirt street, blood pooled around them. The little man with the limp, who’d smiled at me as we walked into town this morning lay about five yards away, his wheelbarrow of roots upturned beside him. The old lady who gave me my bánh bao for breakfast was crumpled against a wall, her baskets of homemade goodness scattered around her.
Everywhere were people who’d been unexpectedly denied their lives while going about their day-to-day business. Soldiers still stalked among them looking for the wounded. Random shots around the village echoed wherever the survivors were found.
Down the street a ruckus broke out, followed almost immediately by rapid bursts of rifle fire. It was over in seconds. More death. More victory.
I stepped away from the carnage I had helped create. My little girl was still in the corner, wide eyes fixed on my every action.
My little girl. I only had a few minutes to decide how to save her.
I knelt again and held out my hand but she just cringed. She was staring at my rifle. I wasn’t going to have any luck as long as it was a part of me, so I unslung the weapon and tossed it behind me. I reached out to her again.
“Come on, sweetheart. I’m trying to help you. I don’t want to hurt you, honey. Come on, it’s okay. Come on, now.”
I edged slowly closer as I whispered to her, the way I’d approach a frightened cat back home. As I inched closer, my words became a soft sing-song-of-a-thing. She looked almost feral, but I could see she desperately wanted someone to rescue her. Hope appeared in her eyes as I stopped moving and let my hand hang limp in front of her.
“Take my hand, honey!” I stretched my fingers out to her and wiggled them. She looked at my hand and back to my eyes. I leaned forward just a bit and whispered, hoping she understood the only French I knew.
“Allons-y!”
Her mouth opened and closed, and she took my hand. I pulled her in close to me and hugged her tightly.
(story excerpt only)
I finally got a chance to read this. Wonderful and terrible story, and more so because it was based on reality.
Great writing, Jon. I could really see myself there.
Thank you. I might not have tackled this--it's a story I always meant to write but was certain I couldn't do it justice. After reading "Comfortably Numb", it's been begging to be written. Reading that gave me an insight I hadn't had before. So, thank YOU!
This is truly beautiful and horrible and sad, @jonknight. You put us right there in that time and place, into the horror of war. Just... wow.
Thank you @jayna. Your insights during editing helped enormously.
Wonderful to hear! And of course I’m happy to help.
Hi @jonknight. This turned out even better than I thought it would. What a story. I love what you did at the end too. You are also a pleasure to edit. I'm resteeming this.
Thanks, Andrew. I have you, @jayna, and @tinypaeokitchen to thank for the fleshing out of the lieutenant in the final scene. As always, I am blessed with such friends who aren't afraid to make me dig deeper.
We are all here to help each other. It makes all the difference to have people who will really read your stuff and share insights. I feel blessed too!
Glad I didn't read this in the queue, I feel I would have been robbed of the impact your finish piece had on me just now. I second Jayna's comments and commend you tackling such a harsh aspect of reality in your writing.
Thanks for posting Jon.
Thanks, man.Sometimes these stories find their way out of me. I can only say that I feel like they need to be told.
Takes courage to not shoot.
i agree. there's no such thing as a good war.
incredible story to share @jonknight
thanks for stopping by to read it!
Congratulations. This post is featured in this week's Muxxybot Fiction Curation post.https://steemit.com/curation/@muxxybot/muxxybot-fiction-curation-16
Thank you!
Thank you for writing this.
Thanks for stopping by KD! It's a story I thought needed telling.
Wonderful story! I couldn't stop reading once I began.
Thanks brother! Glad to see you on steemit.
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One of your best stories yet, Jon!
Thank you! I think so as well.
Wow! This is a good one. Following you Immediately to get more of this. I'm a writer too
Thanks! If you like writing you might enjoy the Writers' Block. Drop by and say hello!
A very powerful story. From all of the horror of that time and place, you wrested an almost happy ending. That’s a hat trick. Well done. I couldn’t stop reading either.
Thank you. It was a confused time I'm sure.
A question about the title of your piece: So the former soldier you were speaking with was present at the Mi Lai masacre, and your title is a play on words with the name of that village?
Tom was his real name. Served with him in the Acores, Portugal in the early 1980s. Tom really was in the army, and he did serve in VietNam, and he did request a transfer to the USAF at the end of that war.
He never told me this story, however. It came from dreams I've had since I was a child, and watching the war unfold during the late 60s and early 70s on the little black and white television in our living room. My stepfather was there. Six times. A repeat volunteer.
The stories he told me were horrible. He never admitted the horror to himself even though he described it in vivid detail. Acted as if it were just normal. He was a very violent man. Nearly everything I know about violence, I learned from him.
The title is a wordplay on the Mi Lai massacre, allusion used to remind the reader just how horrible men can become when we decide to play war.
This comment may not make much sense to folks now that I've removed the prologue. I had meant it as a part of the story, and found it was being interpreted literally. Thanks for the questions and the interest in the background here. I'm going now to get in your ducky-row, so add another duck to your followers!
Thanks so much @jonknight! Its good to hear some of the back story. Knowing a little more now, it seems like some of the richness in your story here comes out of its resonance with your experience. And isn't that what we as writers are striving for. Thanks again for your post. It really inspires me to try and bring more of myself to my writing.