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Friends United Meeting |
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December 1998
The Choice
By Elizabeth Downing
The red glow of the sun as it sank behind the trees on the horizon made the light look like blood. It should have been time to go inside for the day but Ferguson had decided to stay out later than usual. He had to work extra hard on the farm to sell enough to get money for food for the coming year. After 1914, when the war started, the economy went downhill. Now, three years later, the country was starting to come out of the recession but the situation was still bad. It was especially hard for Ferguson's family because there were many people who refused to buy from Quaker farmers. They regarded Quakers as being afraid to enlist in the Great War in Europe, and they wouldn't support such cowardice.
Pacifism was something many people didn't understand, Ferguson supposed. He figured that he understood it because he had grown up with pacifist parents. Even as a little boy he had been governed by laws of nonviolence and wouldn't fight other boys. He suddenly realized that he wasn't plowing straight because he couldn't see in the twilight. It was definitely time to go in.
His father and three younger brothers were in town trying to sell some corn left over from last year's crop. They had been gone all week and Ferguson knew that they would probably return having sold very little. His mother and sisters were busy churning butter in the barn. As he was about to begin on his mashed potatoes and gravy, he noticed a letter by his plate.
"Daniel Ferguson," he read. It was difficult to get beyond that. The words "Army" and "Draft" jumped out at him immediately. The letter told him to report in a week to the Army Headquarters in Indianapolis.
"Of course I can't be in the army," Ferguson reasoned. "I'm a Quaker."
The next morning, his father and brothers were back. They had sold a painfully small amount of corn. As Daniel helped his father store the rest of the corn in the barn, he talked of the news from the city. Edgar Ferguson was a big quiet man. He never yelled or talked angrily to anyone. And, of course, he was never violent. "Violence never solves anything the way simple honesty and kindness will," was his favorite saying. Now, he was talking about the latest news in town. "They've started drafting people for the war."
"Yes," said Daniel, not really listening.
"They tried to draft the Smith boy, and when he refused to fight, they put him in jail. He stays there until he's ready to fight, they say. It's this new Act Congress put out, the Espionage Act. It is the ruin of a country when its citizens are forced to kill people." This was a long speech for him.
Now Ferguson was suddenly listening. "They're jailing people for refusing the draft? But Moses Smith is a Quaker; I thought they weren't drafting Quakers."
"Well, now they are," his father said. "Good thing you haven't been."
Daniel realized he was shaking. "Actually," he said slowly, "I got the letter yesterday...."
His father stared at Daniel. "Well you obviously can't fight...but you'll be jailed!" Edgar was scared for his son.
Daniel was thinking over his father's words. He was a little annoyed that his father was making this decision for him. Although Daniel knew next to nothing about the army, he did know that one was paid for being in it. His family needed money, and he could help!
If he did go to war, his parents might be disappointed for a while, but they would be quick to forgive when he started sending money home. He hoped.
That he was even considering killing people astounded him. But whose belief was it, this Pacifism? It wasn't really his, it was his parents. That convinced him. He shook himself and realized that his father had gone in the house. Quietly, he went to his room to pack his bag. He would leave as soon as possible, so there wouldn't be a long, painful goodbye. Tomorrow.
His father's voice was calling him from the living room. Glancing at the sun, he noticed that he was late for plowing the fields, and his father wanted him to get started.
"My last day plowing, " he muttered darkly, and then banished that thought from his mind. "Of course it isn't. After the war, I'll still plow!"
He wondered when he should tell his family. He was not looking forward to that. His father would get the look of a betrayed man on his face, and his mother would burst into tears....He would write a note, and leave before anyone woke up. In his room that night, he labored over the note, trying to make them understand why he had to go. He finished one page and wrote "I love you all." He hoped they'd understand. Sleep didn't come to him that night.
A new recruit was required to be in
training camp six weeks. For Ferguson, it was not a pleasant time. Discipline was everything. Ferguson learned that in the army he wasn't to think at all, only follow orders. He learned to march straight, to shoot with accuracy, and where to crouch in a trench during shell fire. He found it very hard to talk to any of the other recruits. They all talked loudly, and laughed at dirty jokes.
Ferguson's platoon was carried in an
overcrowded lorry as reinforcements to the French front. The lorry dropped them off five miles from the trenches. Outside a small village, they stopped at a recent battle site. Bodies and parts of bodies were strewn everywhere. Ferguson's stomach heaved at the sickly odor of the dead. The platoon officer shouted orders for the men to begin digging shallow communal graves for the bodies. Ferguson unslung his pack and began to dig. He was starting to feel sick-this was the first time he had seen a result of war. Bodies were not only on the ground, some were up in the trees. Shell fire had blown these unfortunate men up on branches. The leaves were still dripping blood. Ferguson shuddered and continued to dig. The man digging beside him looked a little green himself, Ferguson noticed. He was tall and lanky and reminded Ferguson for some reason of a bird.
"Pretty bad, isn't it." He leaned on his shovel and looked around. Ferguson nodded. The men continued. "I've seen other war sights, but none this bad."
"You're not a new recruit?" asked Ferguson.
"Well, I've been out here for two weeks, if you call that new. Name's Bones," he said extending his hand. Ferguson introduced himself. "Since it is your first day, you can stick with me and I'll help you around."
Kindness is found in places where one least expects it, and where kindness is supposed to reign, it often can't be found.
The next morning, German shells began bombarding the trenches. Ferguson froze in fear as he crouched against the dirt trench walls. The whistling of the shells grew louder as they came closer. Dirt flew up over his head as shrapnel fell outside his trench. The noise was deafening. Amidst all the terror around him, Ferguson began to feel oddly claustrophobic. Even though immediate death was outside the trench, Ferguson had a sudden urge to be out there, out of the confinement of the trench. Without even thinking, Ferguson moved a step away from the trench walls. Bones leapt in front of him and shoved him back yelling something. At least Ferguson assumed he was yelling, because with all the explosions he couldn't hear anything else. He wondered vaguely why Bones didn't want him outside the trench. Someone was screaming on the ground at Ferguson's feet. A splinter from a shell had hit the man in the head, and though he was holding his head with his hands, blood was oozing through his fingers.
Still in his detached state of mind, Ferguson was surprised to notice that he didn't feel anything for this man. The thought scared him-he knew he should always feel something for his fellow humans. With a wrench of will, he brought his mind out of the clouds and back into his body. Immediately, he wished he hadn't, for that overwhelming fear was on him again. The man at his feet had stopped screaming and was gurgling. He tried to say something, but the gurgling was gradually subsiding. Ferguson turned away, and when he looked again, the man was dead.
Ferguson realized that he wanted to cry. He didn't even know the man's name, but he felt that it was unfair for this young man to die. Bones heaved the body out of the trench and then had to march forward with the rest of the soldiers, advancing toward the Germans who had just shelled them. "So they can kill more of us and we can kill them," Ferguson thought sadly. "And what do we then accomplish?"
Marching gave Ferguson time to
think. If anything, he had secretly harbored the thought that there was glory in war. He definitely thought that no more. Now, he was trying to think why the war was going on in the first place. This thought disturbed him. He turned to Bones, who was marching beside him.
"Bones, why is America in this war?"
Bones blinked, as though surprised by the question. "Well, the Germans were sinking our ships, and the Lusitania...."
"I know all that," Ferguson said. "And anyway, the Lusitania was a British liner, not American."
"But all those Americans died on it."
"So because 100 or so Americans were killed on a ship, we send hundreds of thousands more Americans to be killed in a war." Ferguson wondered where the logic in that was.
"Well, I never thought of it that way. I suppose it's one way to look at it," Bones seemed confused also.
"And," Ferguson continued, "why did this whole war begin in the first place?"
"Didn't some Prussian kill some Austrian prince or something?" said Bones, trying to remember what the newspapers had told them when the war had broken out three years before. "And I think Germany invaded some part of Russia...Serbia...?" Bones didn't look as sure of this as he sounded.
"Funny," said Ferguson, "I was just wondering, how many of these people who are fighting this war really know what they're fighting for?"
The commander of Ferguson's pla-
toon was planning an attack on an important German railroad that would give them easy transportation to various parts of Germany. This would be the first time that he would be involved in direct combat, and he would be expected to kill. Ferguson wasn't sure now if he could. Maybe his father wasn't crazy in thinking that there was a nonviolent answer to everything. Maybe even, Ferguson thought, there would have been a nonviolent answer to the war, if anyone had sought it. A life was very precious, and many could have been saved. He simply didn't know anymore if he could participate in killing. Likely, however, he wouldn't have a choice in the coming attack. It was kill or be killed.
When they started marching toward the rail lines, the sun was just starting to come up over the horizon. Ferguson shouldered his rifle and marched in silence trying hard not to think. They arrived at the German camp when it was still very early. Ferguson's platoon hid on a small hill looking down on the German camp, just beginning its morning bustle.
Suddenly, there was a shrill whistle. They had been discovered! Shouting commands, the officers and privates charged down the hill, Ferguson with them. Around him, people were already starting to fire their guns, but somehow Ferguson couldn't un-shoulder his. Yet he charged with the animal ferocity of the rest of them. This was an alien feeling to him. Even Bone's face was contorted in rage. Killing was something that only animals did without regrets, so the soldiers must become like animals so they would have no regrets. These thoughts flashed through Ferguson's mind as he ran. He suddenly didn't want to become an animal even for a little while. But he also didn't want to die.
Ferguson dove behind a barrel and let the shooting go on around him. Everyone seemed to be moving away, somewhere to his right. The noise of the gunfire was growing fainter and Ferguson was about to emerge from behind the barrel when he saw a man ahead of him. The man's back was to Ferguson and he appeared nervous because he kept glancing over his shoulder and his gun was ready in his hand. The man's uniform was German. His duty had been made clear to him from the training camp-he raised his gun but couldn't pull the trigger. It was ironic, he thought. For the first time he really did believe that killing was wrong, yet he was planning to kill someone. If he shot this man, could he really live with himself afterward knowing that when his pitiful life was threatened he would throw his beliefs away to save it? "To die for what you believe is noble, but to live for what you believe is almost divine," Ferguson thought desperately. He wanted to live. He wanted to see his parents again, to tell them that he was wrong about war. He cursed the note he had written; he wished he had been able to tell them goodbye instead of writing a cowardly note. He wanted to live! At that moment, the German turned around toward Ferguson. Ferguson raised his gun.
Bones realized that Ferguson wasn't with him and looked back. His view was clear--he could plainly see Ferguson crouched behind the barrel and a German turning around to face him. He watched as Ferguson raised his gun...and then throw it down. Bones was running toward Ferguson, but it was too late. The German fired and Ferguson fell. Bones was beside him.
"Get up!" he whispered harshly.
Ferguson was dead.
It was clear that Ferguson could have killed the German, but instead had died himself. Had Ferguson died just to be another wasted life for this ridiculous war? But looking at Ferguson's face, Bones thought that perhaps Ferguson's life hadn't been wasted. Ferguson had something at the end that Bones didn't.
For amidst all the killing and violence around him, Ferguson had died with a look of complete peace on his face.
Elizabeth Downing, 17, is a senior at Rift Valley Academy in Kenya She has lived in Africa (Sudan, Tanzania and Kenya) since she was five years old-except for one year (1996-97) in Knoxville, Tennessee. Her parents are doctors, under Friends United Meeting appointment, at Lugulu Friends Hospital, Kenya.
Copyright (c) 1998 Friends United Meeting
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