Ready, aim, fire

April 13th, 1917

Diary of Major Horace S. Browntrout

Today is emblazoned in my memory forever.

It began with the sweet memory of taking my leave from Effie yesterday and returning to France for new orders. I was on my way to HQ to receive my orders when I saw a young, uniformed Saysquack being dragged and kicked by two human officers. I looked closely and though I personally inducted all 5,000 of them, the face seemed vaguely familiar. Stanley was with me. He said, “Umph!” with alarm, pointing. I made my way to the trio posthaste.

I blocked their path and on closer inspection, saw that the two officers ill-using the Saysquack were both captains. Seeing as I outranked them, I demanded to know what they were about. They rather glibly said they had orders to bring this Saysquack to a firing squad! On what charge, I demanded to know. Cowardice and desertion, was the reply. Impossible, I said. Impossible. I snatched their papers from their hands and read aloud. To my horror, it was not a sick prank. The order was signed by my new superior officer: Brigadier General Mac Allan Macaby, “Mac the Body Stacker” as he is known for his frontal assaults that lead to many thousands of casualties per engagement — on our side. A man of legendary incompetence.

The date and time of the execution were listed on the orders — a mere thirty minutes hence. I asked the officers if there had been a trial and they said there was. Who conducted it? They had? What was the specific nature of the accusation? The commanding officer of the Saysquack alleged that when he blew the whistle to go over the top, the Saysquack did not follow. And what was the Saysquack’s defense? “Umph.” Was it possible that he did not understand the order given? Maybe, but that was not the concern of his commanding officer.

Without further ado, I informed the captains that I was canceling the execution. They testily replied that I did not have the power to override my superior’s orders. I replied that that was correct, but that even a General cannot violate army codes and protocols, specifically, the execution of a minor child for disobeying a superior officer in wartime. As proof I went over to the Saysquack and gently motioned him to open his mouth to reveal his perfect white teeth. I explained how any medical doctor can see by his dentition that this Saysquack is younger than the age of eighteen. The captains pointed to his induction papers which gave an age of eighteen and pointed out that I signed them, which I countered was a mistake on my part — I examined and inducted 5,000 Saysquacks over a three-day period. Mistakes were bound to happen. His physiognomy was greater proof of his age than my signature.

By now, we had been arguing a full hour and General Macaby — who I had yet to meet — had come along to ask what the fuss was about. He began cursing at his captains for delaying his execution. “I have a strict bowel maintenance schedule to keep!” he bellowed. “This had better be bloody good!” It wasn’t bloody good. When I explained my reasons for calling off the execution, he scoffed. “Well you shouldn’t have signed his papers if he wasn’t old enough to fight,” he said. “And anyway someone must be made an example of. We need more examples! What better example than a shirking Saysquack! Bring him to the firing squad. Carry him if you must.”

By now, the young Saysquack had a very real sense that something terrible was about to happen. He moaned, shook his head, dragged his feet, began to sob. The captains returned to punching and cursing him, muttering at him to “face it like a man.” Stanley and I followed them.

When we reached the place of execution, the soldiers with guns were lined up and there was no doubt in his mind what was to happen. He began to fight for his life. It took five men to subdue him. “If only he decided to fight like this against the enemy,” the General sighed. I thought to myself: we are his enemy. They placed a black bag over his head and dragged him to a wood pole, binding his paws behind him. The order came. “Make ready.” The soldiers cocked their rifles.

I told them to wait, that he had not been offered clergy. General Macaby threatened to have me shot as well, for insubordination. He said I knew as well as he that the Saysquacks have no religion. I said that was untrue.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw an Anglican priest smoking a cigarette with another soldier. I reached around from behind him and deftly snapped his vestments off. I quickly threw them over Stanley’s shoulders. I pointed to Stanley and told the General that Stanley happens to be clergy in the First United Church of the Reformed Saysquacks. “Oh bloody hell,” spat the Brigadier. “Tell him he has five minutes. Not one minute more.”

I told Stanley, “Go to him. Comfort him.” Stanley shrugged his shoulders and looked at me with terror, rage, sadness. “You’ll know what to do,” I assured him. “Go.”

Wearing the priest’s vestments, Stanley hesitatingly went to the young Saysquack, still fettered to the pole. He gently lifted up his hood. Their eyes met. A shiver went through the young Saysquack, then he was calm. He nodded. They embraced. “Time’s up!” barked Brigadier Macaby. I gently led Stanley away. Our backs were turned as we heard, “Ready! Aim, fire!” and the fatal report. I looked back over my shoulder. I caught a glimpse of the slumped Saysquack lying in a pool of blood.

We walked around the corner of the staff officer motor vehicle pool. I fumbled a cigarette out of my pack. My hands were trembling too much to light the damn thing so I gave up after several tries and threw it in the grass. Stanley pulled out a flask of brandy, took a long pull from it and then handed it to me. I did the same. I then of a sudden felt a homicidal impulse run like electric current through my body. I would murder Brigadier Macaby, no matter what the consequences. I unholstered my service revolver and began to walk back toward the firing squad. Stanley knew me all too well. He snatched the pistol out of my hands and pinned me against the wall of the building. He reached into my breast pocket and pulled out my locket that contained the photograph of Effie and Branwell, holding it up to my face like a talisman against an evil spirit. I felt my body go limp. After staring at it for several long moments, I took the locket back and quietly snapped it shut.

Just then an Anglican priest happened by. “I say,” he said, “It’s the damndest thing but my vestments seemed to have gone missing right off my back. I don’t suppose you chaps have seen them lying around anywhere?”

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