The Beast

A major recounts a tale of a young soldier during the great war. A tale of dehumanization and survival and how they correlate. A story of why war makes men mad.

• Short story

								
“Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.” 
-Ernest Hemingway
“When did it begin, Mr. Shawland?” The older man cleared his throat and began to speak, his southern accent leaking into his words. It began in France during the great war in its final year. It was a Tuesday morning about 7 am, I rose from my bed. That is if you could call a small, dirty corner of a trench a bed. I began doing my rounds in the morning light of dawn making sure the men didn't drink too much so they could keep their wits once the krauts finally woke up and began shooting. As I did, I found this poor spic shaking in his boots, his rifle turned downwards, the bayonet resting in the dirt. He stared forward across the field covered in blood, ash, and rotting corpses. His face was like a child's, soft not gnarled and scarred by the world like my own. There was innocence in those large eyes, and I knew by that alone he was a fresh constript. I asked him what was bothering him, still shaking. He answered just like this:
“I-I'm not scared to die, sir, I-in c-case you're wondering.” He said stammering just like that. 
“I-I’m just scared of b-becoming a murderer.” 
That poor boy was scared to death of killing another man. God, I feel like crying just thinking about that poor boy. He had such a childlike gentleness to him that I wanted him to remain untouched. Like a dandelion in a meadow, allowed to remain beautiful and pure. But sadly, winter was coming for that dandelion and surely it would perish if not cared for, and I sure as hell didn't want that poor soul to perish. So I looked at him keenly in those eyes, and I asked him. 
“Do you hunt, boy?” He said he did; he told me that his father would occasionally go hunting and bring him along, and he told me that he would occasionally hunt rats in his household back home. At that point, I noticed something. I noticed the head of a kraut poking out of the trench, across the flesh-smelling battlefield. He didn't seem to notice us, so I grabbed the boy, placed him up against the muddy wall of the trench, took the gun from the ground, wrestled the bayonet off, and shoved the rifle into the spic’s hands. I pointed towards the kraut with his shiny black metal helmet and its sharp point that stuck up in the air. 
“You see him boy.” I said quietly pointing towards the oblivious kraut soldier and the young spic nodded slowly. 
“Take aim and kill him.” I said. You should have seen his face, Doc, the horror on his face when those words left my mouth. The poor boy whimpered but did as he was told and placed the gun up on the trench wall, and began to take aim, squinting one eye. I saw sweat visibly run down his tan face, and his grasp upon the rifle began to shake like mad. I grew closer and began to whisper.
 “I want you to look at that man. I want you to imagine that slimy kraut as the dirtiest rat you have ever seen. I want you to look at his hair and imagine it as black fur, I want you to look upon his eyes and see big red beady ones staring back at you, Now for his helmet think of two ears that shoot straight up. You understand me boy?”  I'm sure what I said to him seems silly but if I have learned anything from my years at war it's far easier to crush a man if you imagine him as an insect. The young spic looked at me with wide eyes and gulped, nodding his head wearily. He stayed that way for a few minutes panting, sweating and trying to hold his gun steady but in all that time he did not fire. That deeply depressed me. I knew he wouldn't last a day. The fearful don’t last long in the face of the fearless. I began to walk away deeply dejected, and as I turned around to examine the young man one last time because I knew I would never see him again. As I did he fired a loud bang exploding across the no-man’s land and I saw that kraut's head practically explode to bits. I will never forget it. I will forget the words that left his mouth when he fired that shot. 
“He was a big fat rat, wasn't he, sir?” He said, looking towards me with a wide smile on his childlike face. I was shaking like he was earlier, and I told him, “He was son; he was.”
His name was Havier Villabestia. 
Born and raised in East Side Chicago
He was 20 years of age at the time. 
And later became the best hitman of the Rosso Mafia 
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