Edge of Death
I wake and stir, a dry heat unlike any other penetrates my being; an unpleasant and foreign heat that carries a familiar feeling. I'm in a tent, two beds and just enough space to stand. Beside me, a rifle propped up against the leg of my cot. A familiar symbol of death, I pull it up into my lap. It is familiar, familiar in the way a person is with the back of his hand. And yet through this familiarity, I cannot remember anything. There is nothing on my person, except for the clothes on me. Still, I go through every pocket in the hope of a clue to my identity. As expected, empty pockets lined with sand.
I pull myself and the rifle up to a stand, the ceiling barely higher than my head. Sand slips off during the motion and onto the dusty ground, it is unnatural. There is dirt and yet sand, too much of each and yet too little. I step through the tent flaps, hand forward in anticipation of the blazing sun. As my head pokes through the flaps, I see nothing. No sun, no clouds, and no city. All around me, it’s a bustle of activity. As I stand and look about, I hear conversations; French, German, Italian, Korean, Japanese, Malay, Chinese, and many others. All in different uniforms, they resembled an unruly mob; Deserters? Impossible, how could I ever be one? More importantly, why is the sky blood red?
On the cusp of pulling a passing somebody for an explanation, a trumpet unlike any ever heard sounds. All activity stops, all stand at attention and lined along the sides of the main avenue of the camp. The gates screech open in a flurry of flying dust, each side being hauled by twenty men. Through the dust a familiar sound thumps constantly, a slow and steady beat. An Eagle, a golden eagle with wings outspread atop a long wooden shaft, pierces through the dust. Out marches an entire legion of Roman legionaries, as if straight from the books about Antiquity. Shields about their sides and spattered with a dark and viscous fluid, they march down the avenue in stoic silence. As the legion continues its steady march down the avenue, another horn sounds. This horn, it is much deeper than the roman trumpet.
Out march a band of Viking berserkers, colourful shields about them and all. Drunk and jolly, they march down the avenue in the wake of the stoic Romans. Each and every warrior is drenched in the dark and vicious fluid that drips from his armour, a foul smell emanating from each drop. As he stumbles past, a warrior flicks a dollop in my direction. It splatters in the dust, foul smell growing ever stronger. I grimace, the smell overcoming me. But at last the Vikings pass and give to yet another call; this time, a drum beat.
Battle standards flutter into sight, three regiments; One French, one Prussian, and one British. Muskets proudly shouldered and colourful clothes soiled, they march to the beat of the drums. Faces blackened from the gunpowder and brows singed, they steadily move on. Officers ride by on horses unlike any other, each giving a strange feeling. My eyes meet with one of these creatures, a sense of death and sage-like wisdom within those beady eyes. A whiny as it continues on, the sound striking through the steady marching; almost as if a mourning for every lost warrior.
As each unit marches down the avenue, a complete melancholy falls upon me. I cannot shake the feeling; the feeling that I have missed something. I feel my pockets again, each yielding an item previously not found. Suddenly, amongst the parade, I was fully equipped for battle. I recognise the vibrant colours of my oath bound duty but I miss the name. I cannot remember anything pertaining to my past; everything but the self, accessible. I remember how to operate the tool I wield, I remember how to never miss, I remember how to always save a comrade, and I remember a face…