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What is War?

Joe A. Oppenheimer

I.
    “What is war?” wondered the little boy aloud. He was both tolerated and out of place in the room of partying adults. The little tyke’s long hair draped over the collar of his navy blue ‘footed’ one piece pajama, printed with toy soldiers, tanks and airplanes. Why he wasn’t already in bed was anyone’s guess.
    “War happens when a nasty man tries to destroy others, kid,” the blonde in the slithery dress and spiky heels responded. Standing under the chandelier, she hadn’t turned around to face the little boy. She was holding a drink in her left hand. Her makeup was a failed attempt to hide her face’s half century of wear. Her small bejewelled faux albino-leopard hide purse was hooked over her right arm.
    “Oh come on, babe, it isn’t always a man. Women go to war too,” said the fellow who had his left hand on her ass. His other hand was holding a drink. His short sleeves bulged with biceps that were groomed with hormones and curated with tattoos.
    “Yeah, well war needs some big-prick politician who feels he can grab something he wants from his neighbors,” said a grey-haired man standing not far from the woman. He was staring at her legs, and wearing an “I Voted” pin even though there had been no election for years.
    “But what’s war?” the little boy insisted.
    “War’s why they hired me,” said the man in the much decorated army uniform. The grey-haired man laughed, and gave the uniformed man an affectionate slap on his back. The move caused some of the medals on the officer to jangle against one another.
    “Clausewitz had the answer centuries ago, boy. He taught us war is politics by other means,” pronounced the old professor in a self-satisfied manner while sitting alone on the sofa. The blond turned and looked at the old man assessing him as she might some left-over she had decided to throw out.
    The kid was not satisfied with these comments but didn’t ask again. The grownups turned to other topics of the day, including their very favorable opinion of the bourbon the host was pouring. Someone turned up the music, and some of the guests began to dance. Laughter and music filled the air.
    Given the noise, no one heard the soldiers enter the home.
II.
    Entering the room, one of the soldiers took hold of the boy, and marched him to the officer in charge. The soldier said, “Sir, what should we do with the kid?”
    “Monkovitz, you heard our orders - there are to be no exceptions.”
    “Moskovitz, not Monkovitz, Sir!”
    “Monkovitz, Moskovitz, what do I care,” the officer replied.
    “Then I can take him out, sir?” But his leader’s head was now turned toward the much decorated officer, and was no longer paying attention to Moskowitz. So Moskovitz took the kid outside and placed him in a jeep, saying, “You wait here. Someone will be right back.”
    The boy asked, “Is this war?” But Moskovitz had already turned around and didn’t hear. He was going back inside the big room. When the soldiers left the house, only the boy was still alive, and the soldiers took him with them.
    The soldiers piled into their jeeps and pick–ups and sped back to their base, mission accomplished. But upon returning to camp, the commander roundly criticized them. He was furious, “You dumb asses. That kid now knows what happened and where he is. So we can’t let him go. And we certainly can’t take him with us. Even if we could, what if he were to escape? He creates a big problem. What were you thinking? Lieutenant, eliminate him. Have him disposed of. Tonight. No evidence. None.”
    “Yes, sir.” Then, turning to his aide, “Sargent, get this done.”
    “Yes, sir,” and the Sargent turned and shouted, “Moskovitz!”
III.
    Within minutes, the boy was tied up and thrown in the back of a jeep. The air was quite warm. Though the moon was out, clouds covered enough of it so the scene was quite dark. The driver of the jeep, the man who was ordered to kill the boy, was the lowly soldier named Moskovitz. He soon drove the jeep off the road, and onto a field not far from the encampment. Visibility was hampered by a mist that covered the field and obscured everything beyond. When he stopped the jeep and cut off the motor, Moskovitz looked at the boy and said, “Sorry, but I’ve got to kill you, kid.”
    “Why,” asked the boy?
    “Those were my orders,” he responded. He started to dig a grave.
    “Is this war?” asked the boy.
    “Yes,” answered Moskovitz.
    “Is that why you went to the party?”
    “Of course,” answered Moskovitz.
    “My name is Timmy. What is yours?”
    “Hugo.”
    “I’m gonna be a soldier when I grow up.”
    “Why would you do that?”
    “ ‘Cause then I’d be like you! I’d drive a jeep, and have big guns and things. I play soldiers and war with my friends. But you are real.”
    “Maybe you shouldn’t talk, Timmy.”
    “Why, Hugo?”
    “I don’t know . . . it makes my job harder.”
    “I’m sorry, Hugo. I don’t want to do that.”
    And for about 30 minutes Hugo dug the grave. “There, I think you’d fit in this.”
    Timmy, still tied up in the jeep, asked, “Do you want me to lie down in it?”
    “Yes,” said Hugo.
    “Will it be cold?”
    “For just a minute.”
    “OK, I can do that.” And Hugo lifted Timmy up and lay him in the grave.
    “I fit!” exclaimed Timmy.
    Hugo lifted his rifle and took aim. But he put the gun down without taking a shot “Look kid, this isn’t going right. I can’t kill you. You’re just a kid.”
    “But we’re still playing war, aren’t we?”
    “Sort of. How about I fill up the grave and pretend you’re in it. Then I untie you and you run home.”
    “I don’t know how to get home, Hugo.”
    “Weren’t you at your home at that party?”
    “No, I was just there. My parents went to the movies. I live next door.”
    “Oh,” said Hugo, “I’ll drive you home. First, I’ll have to fill up the grave.”
IV.
    And Hugo filled the grave, and Timmy sat in the passenger seat of the jeep as Hugo sped him back to his home.
    “I love playing war,” Timmy said.
    Hugo didn’t say anything. As they arrived at Timmy’s home, a soldier spotted the jeep. He shouted, “There they are!” and threw a grenade. The jeep was pulverized as were its passengers.
    Noone has moved the wreck from outside Timmy’s home.

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