When Young Men Die
A Ghost on the Battlefront
“We need to talk about Private Reggie sir.”
The Major stared back, I watched as his eyes twitched.
“Sir? Reggie, sir?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sergeant.”
The anger welled up in me, like mustard gas oozing out of a foxhole.
“With all due respect Major, we’ve all seen him. We need to establish protocol for this type of a situation.”
“Private Reginald’s KIA, we recovered his tags yesterday.”
“I know sir, but we’ve all seen him and — ”
“Get the fuck out of my tent Sergeant.”
I clenched my jaw. My gaze fell to the Major’s shaking hands. One had bent his lit cigarette in half. I’d never seen the Major afraid before. His face was like stone, but his hands gave him away.
“Sir, he’s one of our own, we can’t just pretend we don’t — ”
The Major jumped out of his chair, screaming at me like it was my first day on the front.
I could see his lips moving, but I’d stopped listening. I was thinking about Reggie. God-damned Reggie. Were we all losing our minds? Some sort of collective delusion, maybe?
Time would tell, I guess. It didn’t matter, we’d all be dead anyway. The bloody Germans were hell-bent on doing us all like they did Reggie.
I saluted the Major, who was still yelling. His eyes were bloodshot, a man possessed by fear and an ungodly rage. I turned and stepped out into the night.
…
After a day, fresh blood turns from red to black. Under a full moon, it turns silver, a gory glaze clinging desperately to the grass and tree trunks.
Wisps of smoke rose from my cigar. There was something comforting about them, the way they twisted and turned, danced almost. I’d almost forgotten I was surrounded by pieces of my men; In fact, I would have if it wasn’t for the smell.
Something moved to my right. I reached for my pistol and turned.
A man, painted in moonlight, stared back at me.
“Private?” I whispered.
He was still. Maybe he was really dead this time, a lifeless body hung up on a tree branch, stiff as a board, frozen.
God damnit, he’d blinked. His lips were moving. The whole right side of his head was gone, but I could see his lips were definitely moving.
“Reggie, you’re supposed to be dead.” My voice cracked. “What is it you want, private?”
His lips stopped. He pointed to my belt, my mirror. I’d forgotten to take it out of my pocket when I shaved earlier.
“You want this?” I held it out to him. He reached out to take it. I dropped it and it fell right through him.
I collapsed, shocked, to the ground. Crawling backward, my hands slipped through the mud (and God knows what else).
He sat down next to the mirror, beckoning for me to come back.
It was cold as hell out, but I was sweating bullets. I slowly moved toward him and sat with him in front of the mirror.
He bent down as if to look for his reflection. But it wasn’t there. A soundless breath blew forth from his mouth, fogging up the glass. I turned abruptly, letting loose my shit-can dinner from earlier in the mess hall.
When I turned back, he was dragging his fingers across the mirror, writing something in the fog.
Tell her I love her.
He looked at me and nodded. I nodded back.
Reggie got up and walked into the woods, leaving no footprints, turning not a single blade of grass.
“I’ll tell her for you, Reggie.” I jumped up, “I’ll tell her, I swear I will.” He kept walking.
Just before the tree line, he stopped and stood still — as if he’d heard something calling to him. Finally, he turned, saluted, and vanished into the shadows.
I sat there ‘till daybreak. The silver landscape turned to gold, then red and black again.
It’s strange what a man’s mind does to him, when the shells batter his brain and the bullets kiss the edges of his clothes.
I’ll tell her Reggie. If I live, I’ll tell her for you.