Peace on Earth

In front of us, the golden sunset extends over the ocean blue as far as the eye could see. Our spot on the cliffside ensures there is nothing to see but the ocean and beach, and nothing but pasture at our backs. The two of us are so far out that there’s no longer the sound of traffic, or even that of the birds; the only thing to be heard is the wind, constant and calming. It moves without the weight of the world on its back. I wish I could say the same. 

“Do you mind if I have a final cigarette?” the man next to me asks, calm and resigned. His gaze remains fixed on the view, blue eyes peeking through his thread-like black hair. His eyes hold a hoary fatigue of which I am familiar. His form is bulky but lacking of any tension, dressed in a plain gray collared shirt and trousers, as if this were only a picnic; though he is well aware of the reason we are out here, away from the rest of civilization. I was not instructed to come this far out for the job, but I figure someone of his circumstances deserves an end more dignifying than the dirt of the woods. Besides, I have killed enough men in the woods for one lifetime. 

“I don’t see why not,” I responded after a moment, fetching my pack from my jacket pocket. I hand it to him and he takes it wordlessly. He puts it in his mouth and I light it for him; the cigarette brightens as he takes a puff, before sending a cloud of smoke into the air. It wafts upward with the wind, like a soul ascending to heaven.

“Thank you again for entertaining my request to come here,” the man speaks, taking another hit of the cigarette. His gaze remains locked on the view like something horrible would happen should he ever look elsewhere. “She loved the ocean. We would often take walks out to these parts to watch the waves. I can almost see her in them still.”

“Only men of my caliber deserve to die in the dirt,” I respond. “Those like you can at least see the beauty of life at its end.”

“Oh, and beautiful it is,” he says, eyes unfocused, taking the whole scene in. I take a moment to commit it to memory, too; my dreams are plagued only by gray skies and the smell of mud and death. A serene sunset would add some much needed variety.

“If only our dreams could be of this,” I start, “and not of the war.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette before finally flicking it over the cliff, down to the rocks below. I lose track of it before it lands on the ground.

“If only,” he agrees, hands resting on his knees. “We both died alongside the men we killed in the trenches, and dead men can dream no longer. Dreams are only for those who still have life to live.” 

“I still dream sometimes,” I reply after a pause, “of a life where I can help people instead of killing them. I would let you go if I could.”

“I know you would,” he replies in certainty. “The boss would just kill me myself if you don’t, though, and in a fashion much worse than this. His brother’s blood is on my hands and he would love nothing more than for me to drown in it.” He lays his back against the grass with no concern for the cleanliness of his clothes. We’ve both been much dirtier.

“You did what any man would’ve done,” I sympathize.

“I would’ve done worse if I could,” the man continues. “My wife was the only thing pulling me away from the part of me still in France. With her it was as if I could finally rest. I hope it will be the same once I see her again.”

“There is no salvation for men like us,” I counter. “Still, though, perhaps you will see her again, wherever that may be. It must be more restful than the world we’ve lived in.”

“I can almost see her reaching out to me,” he says in a near-whisper, eyes glued to the sky, “her arms dead and gray, asking for me to join her. They remind me of the sky at the Somme. We never truly left there, you and I. They took our souls and buried them with the bodies.” I could not form an adequate response with words, so I opted to nod instead. Any semblance of the man I was has been gone for some time now, a fate he and I share. I stand up after a moment, making him break his focus on the empty sky above.

“Is it time?” he asks calmly. There is nothing to be found in his voice or expression that would tell of a man that still wants to live.

“It is,” I say curtly as I pull my M1911 from my jacket. I rack the slide, almost from muscle memory.

“I see,” the man says finally, sitting up again on the cliff ledge. “I nearly made it out of France. I stuck my hand out of the mud and touched the grass, and she tried to pull me out, but she just got dragged back into the ground with me. We got close, though. So fucking close.” He looks out to the ocean again. “I will be with you soon, Caroline.”

I aim my handgun at the back of the man’s head and pull the hammer back. Before I fire, however, the man begins to sing, voice attuned almost to that of an angel:

“It came upon the midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,

From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold;

"Peace on the earth, good will to men

From heaven's all-gracious King" –

The world in solemn stillness lay

To hear the angels sing.”

His voice falls silent as he finishes, and he looks into the sky in anticipation. My finger tightens around the trigger, as it has many times before.

Silence, and then a bang, and then silence again.

His body falls forward and over the edge of the cliff, far down towards the rocks below. I do not bother to watch. I only lift my gaze to see the ripples of the ocean, perfectly reflecting the sunset still. He has joined the ocean now, with his wife, away from those memories of what we had both done. I consider joining him for a moment, but I find myself content with simply staring at the world in front of me. 

After some time I take the magazine out of my gun and throw it over the ledge, before throwing the gun itself. I am done with this life, I think. There was a time, though I have trouble recalling it, where I helped my fellow man instead of killing him, and perhaps I can find myself as that kind of man again. He got close to it, before the world dragged him back under for good. Maybe I have a chance, still. Maybe I can lay down my gun for the final time.

I turn around from the cliff and start making my way towards the woods, closer to town. I don’t quite know where I will go yet. Maybe my past will catch up with me too and I will die in the dirt as I was supposed to all those years ago. Either way, though, I will get my peace. One way or another.