IT IS ONLY THE DEAD

If one lives long enough, everything will come, even death; and death did finally come to Richie’s family. 
I had known Richie when he was barely in his pampers as by then his parents and I were neighbours and I was working together with his father in an institution. The close relationship between our two families had endured in the normal natural spurts even after our retirement. 
This time, I had visited the family to condole with them as they buried their son Richie. Richie had been a soldier stationed in Somalia and had met his death by a hail of bullets from a jihadist gun. He was a fine soldier, his superior officers had said. A very social being, generous and very committed to his faith, the villager’s had murmured. No hint of scandal or pride, they added. The village came in full swing to condole with Richie’s family. The eulogies were long and sad and all dwelt on the loss of a young fine man.

It must have been Plato, the famous Greek philosopher who had coined the expression; It is only the dead who have seen the end of the war. Plato’s argument, therefore, acknowledges that human nature is just another ingredient in the recipe for war, along with varying portions of racism and religion, geography and language, and economics and culture.

 In other words, war is too complicated for us to prevent. War, to put it in the guilt-free passive tense, just happens.

 There are a lot of expressions soldiers use to explain death in the combat zone. You could be “Zapped”, “Dinged”, “Burned”, “Popped”  “Smoked” and many more. You could even be “Wasted”.

“Wasted” seemed to be an ideal expression as I looked at the young life apparently not yet ready to be enclosed in a coffin….If things were normal,  Richie at 22 and standing six feet two inches in his regulation military socks, could ideally have been part of the country’s boxing team, a heavyweight definitely, bobbing, grunting, ducking and weaving in a square ring.

If things were normal.

Or he could have been part of the Country;s rugby team.

If things were normal

If things were normal. But indeed things are normal, war and conflict are the most common human interactions, statisticians say, we fight more and love less. Things are normal, it is the new normal. 

With the eulogies over, the military in its crisp action now took over funeral procedures. Perennially steeped on tradition, the military is a cloistered society, a nation within a nation with a different set of governing codes and a skewed angle of looking at issues. Six pallbearers stepped forward shouldering the flag-draped coffin for the final journey to the prepared grave. It was a solemn slow march led by two buglers; with Richie’s twelve other colleagues, sombre, holding their weapons in reverse, an outright show of mourning. At the graveside, after appropriate wordings from the military chaplain, the 12 pallbearers took up position for the final salute to a fallen colleague. Commanded by a sergeant, it involves firing of three volleys from their weapons in the air.

The sergeant, a veteran with a weather-beaten face loudly gave an order to his charge:

“Detail load!”

Karakacha! There was the sound of clank of metals on metal as bullets were slipped into the firing chamber ready for firing

Another guttural sound from the sergeant and the pallbearers uniformly lifted the rifle to the shoulders.

“Two, three!”The sergeant barked and the rifles thundered as the twelve weapons released a volley to the heavens. The sound was unexpected, a surprised murmur rose from the mourners, some villagers took off, a grandmother fell down in a faint. Monkeys chattered from yonder. A dog gave a surprised bark.

“Detail reload!” -  Another grunt from the leathery face.

Another round of Karachakachaks

“Hup!” rifles on shoulder

“Two! Three!” – Another  bark

“Reload”!-another Karachakachaks

“Hup!”-  A bark

“Two! Three!”

“Hup!”-another grunt; the firing party slowly in a deliberate motion lowered their weapons, their eyes all downcast. The coffin was then honourably lowered as the buglers sounded the last post.

It is only the dead ….

The sound of the buglers playing the last post has become one of the most distinctive sounds in the world. Eerie, symbolic and evocative, since, the First World War, the last post is played every evening in the fighting military units to signal the end of the day. During funerals, it symbolises not merely the end of the day but of this earthly life.

The last post played on. 

The sound lifted itself all higher and our souls I imagined went with it. The sound rose and like smoke wafted in into mud walls of the local primary school Richie had attended. The sound settled briefly, some said later, at the playing field where he had been the star goalkeeper. It lifted and briefly floated at the local church where he had donated some musical instruments for the choir and then it rose, far, far into the air into the heavens where he truly belonged.

And as the last post played on, my mind wandered and  I wondered what were Richie’s thoughts as life ebbed away, his body contents pouring forth in viscous torrents away from the warrior body as it soaked into the Somalia floor. What were his thoughts? Were they debating the ethical dilemma? That he had been shot by a people he was trying to improve their livelihood…Is it true that in the long run we do come to hate those who perennially do good to us, that, there is no loathing  that any man harbours more intense than towards his benefactor

…..And did he embrace the new life …near death experience shows us that there is a sort of indescribable glowing light at the end of the tunnel so enchantingly beautiful that all of us long for, yearn for it and our entire being or is it soul strive to embrace it. Did Richie reach out for this embalming light, going gently into that good night, or like Dylan Thomas, did he fight, rail,  no,  rage, rage against the dying of the light.

When on our death throes are we too busy dying to think of living?

“Ash to ash” the chaplain intoned as the final funeral rites were given and the burial commenced. With that over, the buglers again sounded the reveille. Again in military circles, the reveille is sounded at first light and is normally the first call of the day, in funerals while the last post symbolizes the finals; the reveille is deemed it to signify the soldier's rebirth into eternal life. It, therefore, has a hopeful sonorous sound.

With the reveille finished, the Sergeant now gave a clear and succinct order, voice raised as I imagined the funeral rites were now over.

“Shoulder arms!” - He called out, the weapons came at shoulder level,

“Present arms”! -The soldiers in unison raised their weapons, slapping the sides loudly, feet instep giving a final salute to a fallen comrade.

They turned around smartly and marched smartly out on the quick march.

The business of life was life. For Richie, It was all over.

It wasn’t over.

I remained glued to the spot with biblical words of that balding genius tent maker and practically the founder of the doctrine we call Christianity. The writer of the epistles, Saint Paul ringing in my ears “O death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory?”

It is only the dead that have seen the end of war.