The Call of Duty

I.

He stood there, very still. His head was heavy, not from thoughts, but from the almost rhythmic drumming of rain drops on his scalp. His blazer, which was reminiscent of something a public school student prides and cherishes, was heavy as well. The wool had allowed water to seep through and drenching his shirt to reach his bare skin underneath. His tie, a fine pattern of red and white, was suffocating him. It was a knot, he has particularly worked hard at, for it was the first time he had knotted it that way. The watchful eye of the warden in the corridor ensures his obedience. There was no way he could undo his tie, even for a little bit. His trousers soaked, his shoes now filling with water. But, he must not move. For if he did, he knew there were far worse things in store. His hands now clenched into a fist, he becomes the rightful epitome of his school's heritage. Unflinching and unmoved in his resolve to see this punishment through.

His thoughts began wandering to the incident that led to his temporary purgatory. His tenure in this school had never seen an incident for which a student was even harshly reprimanded, let alone stand tortuously in the rain. For any reason, his crime did not equate with his punishment.He stared with angst at the piece of cloth that now rested inside, away from the rain, for someone deemed it disrespectful to let it be in the rain.

His time of punishment almost over, he realized, there wasn't a lesson to be learnt here. Just never to disrespect  that banner. A simple flag that would never matter to him ever in life and the attachment that it had to folk around him was so silly, it wasn't even right to give it credence.

He suffers in silence.
The warden decides, the boy has had enough.
He calls the boy and without another word, dismisses him.

Once in the corridor, he shakes off some of the precipitation from his uniform and adamant to the end, shows little remorse for his action. His head is held high and his shoulders straight as he walks by the stand, where the flag, completely dry, keeps watch. He sneers at it and walks to his room, his tie still knotted.


II.

His numbers were failing him. He knew, at that moment, he did not have enough men. His mission was ahead of him and  through the operations at night, he had lost half. The words of his instructor resounded like  howitzers in his ears, " The platoon is every officer's first command. It is the first time an officer comes into combat with a group of men, whose responsibility he bears". He had failed his men so far. Also been told , that causalities are a part of battle and that an officer should have a clear head to get the job done. He should be prepared to do what is necessary in the face of overwhelming odds. He knew the words, they did him no good here. He was cold, starved and injured. There was nothing he wouldn't do as a person to be somewhere else.

He, however, did not have that luxury. For at that moment, the academy credo comes to mind. The words of the Army that are like scripture. " Country First".

All other things are secondary to him now. He holds his rifle with a silent resolve, garners every ounce of strength that comes from his bleeding legs and stands. His men should see him. His men should know. He is their platoon leader and lead he shall. For he is an Infantryman. And anyone who knows anything, Infantry knows only one way. Forward.

He turns, smiles at his men, fixes his bayonet and says " Follow me ".


With madness he charges, his men in formation behind him. His column emerges from the fog into the wee hours of morning. The enemy caught unawares, turns and fires. With the mud, human grit touches a pinnacle, as the officer leads the charge pinching his bayonet into the first of the enemy. The order of the battle was simple to his spartan ears. It was kill or die. His staccato diminishes enemy numbers and yet he sees his men fall. The numbers are too much for one single man, but that man will not give up. Till his last breath he shall fight because, it is only the country that he fights for. And so he does. Until the very last of the enemy falls, his bayonet doesn't lose the color red. It is emblazoned with a shade of crimson that only a warrior recognizes. He surveys his field, knowing that the enemy has been vanquished. He looks at his men, only 5 remain from twenty, the night before. There are wounded he must attend to. He too is bleeding from bullet wounds but he pays no heed. Quickly dispatching orders to tend to the wounded, he sets up a defensive line across the post. There is a particular lack of oxygen that now stings him, reminding him of the task accomplished. Once he makes sure that the site is secure, he removes his backpack and unzips it, taking out the national colors.

He cannot walk, yet he seeks no help from his comrade-at-arms. He stumbles and falls many times, his breath still heavy from the morning mist, for at this altitude every little action becomes laborious. He summons every vestige of his strength to climb the final rock and wraps his country's flag on a pole to hoist it over the lay of the land.

Victory now lay at the Infantryman's feet.

He salutes his flag, a symbol of everything he fights for, a symbol of sacrifice to wield the godly right to kill another man for it. The flag gives him strength to his tired frame and gives his the right to shed a tear for his fallen comrades. He salutes for every soldier that came before him and every soldier that will go after.

He knows that flag alone can make him a legion.

And even as his head was again heavy, this time from his losses, the boy hasn't forgotten his punishment.That ensign, this flag is his whole life and he knows now that a suffocation from a tie standing in the rain was maybe too lenient a sanction.

He would die for it now. Any day.