THE BASTION: Defender of His Principles.
“…No one engaged in warfare entangles himself with the affairs of this life, that he may please him who enlisted him as a soldier.” — 2 Timothy 2:4 (NKJV)
It was another cold morning when the reveille was played. We were all lined up according to our platoon numbers, awaiting instructions from the sergeant for the next drill when some trucks pulled up. In no time, we were clad in weighty armor, and tightly laced boots. We even had loaded guns, shields poised for action, and our faces smeared with black war paint. “You are all ready to be deployed," was what we heard the Chief say.
With my ever-active sixth sense, I sensed Saviour’s eyes on me. We had met the night we were dispatched to the camp; he was my partner for the physical fitness and weapon handling test. From his brief introduction, I knew our stories weren’t the same, but there was a similarity in what had brought us here.
Just as we didn’t need to hear anyone to feel the shift in the atmosphere—from tension to excitement, we all knew that every orientation and training we gave ourselves to after being enlisted was for this sole purpose: our lives, we were more than ready to lay it down.
Still maintaining the long lines and hushed tones, we filled the trucks.
The thickness of the air in the truck became unnerving. It had been close to an hour of swerving, yet no one had been audacious enough to utter a word.
Quickly, I scanned the truck to see if the guy called ‘Joy’ was seated. The typical Joy would have shared one of the tales his uncle told him, but alas, there was no Joy in the truck. All of a sudden, I felt a pang of jealousy; ‘he must be cheering them on in the other truck,’ I said to myself. I had always considered him irritating, overly chatty and friendly for my liking — but it’s surprising how appreciative I had become of his personality. I was in dire need of his voice to reduce the tension in the air. I guess I just have to give it to him: Joy knew how to make even a suicidal comrade want to live again.
Taking a thorough second scan, I noticed some comrades holding pictures of their loved ones in their hands, even though they were practically crushing them, I knew I could blame that on anxiety. While others, who had no pictures, closed their eyes, silently raising prayers to God.
Since there was nothing of interest to focus on, I decided to meditate on Psalm 23 and 91, just as Papaa had taught me. I teared up the moment I reached the last two verses of Psalm 91: ‘He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.’
As part of my routine to honor him, I whispered, ‘I love you, Papaa.’ Right after the words left my mouth, the truck came to a full halt. Not far from where we parked, I heard the deafening and thunderous sounds of gunfire and grenades. It was then I realized I hadn’t been honest — with Papaa, myself and everyone else. I wasn’t ready to die.
The battle was fierce. It was nothing like I had imagined; it was more than what we had prepared for. A few seconds after merely alighting from the truck and trying to get our formation right, we all watched as Joy’s organs were violently separated from his body by a missile. In that moment, we lost every sense of mobility and agility.
Joy, our point man was down! That meant there was no hope for us. It felt as though our enemies knew our every move, as if they had partaken in our daily drills and combat preparations.
Nothing we did was new to them. The more I thought we were gaining ground, the more bodies I saw.
I lost count of the number of times I prayed to faint. ‘I should probably stop running,’ I told myself, but I couldn’t; my legs kept acting on their own accord.
My legs found a new owner after the incident: while I was trying to do a reload from my ammo pouch, Saviour — the guy I knew in ways I couldn’t describe — chose to cover me and got hit.
The bullets were more than four. As I bent down to hold his hands, his eyes, though filled with agony, conveyed one message: they shouted, ‘RUN!’
“God, please, I cannot afford to die like Saviour,” were the only words I could mutter as I ran. I could feel myself losing balance, slowly slipping off the steps I was climbing, as the mixture of tears and blood on my face kept blinding me. The enemy was close; this I could tell through my ever -active sixth sense, but just as I thought I’d be joining Saviour, a hand from the opening in the roof grabbed me. It was Chief, in a chopper.
The reveille played again, and the new recruits were scampering to make it in time for the test before the drill.
A captain with a prosthetic arm stood in front of the recruits to address them. Just as he was about to speak, one of the recruits yelled from the crowd, “I heard Saviour died for you.”
I responded, “Yes, He did. That’s why I’m your new captain; I’ll be laying down my life for you as well.”
