Drums of War
The drum vibrated with a familiar call.
“Oy, get lost then,” the soldier said. “We haven’t need of you here, boy. The battle’s lost. You ‘ave eyes to see, ain’t ya.” He squatted over another wounded soldier.
Brick and glass littered the block. The signal of the little drum echoed off crumbling buildings. That morning the city was vibrant and full of life. When the order came to take up arms, assemble in the square, to protect their town, he answered. It was the right thing to do. Pounding out the long roll, moving between the fray, he roused the men into bolder action.
Now, exhausted and battered, it seemed the music wasn’t enough. All around lay men dead and dying. He could help, if they’d let him. Just a quick cadence, something invigorating. A rhythm to speed the heart and fill the lungs. They’d cry a barbaric yawp once again if he could play for them just one song.
“I told you to scram, boy,” the soldier said. He hurled a chunk of brick that ricocheted off the red drum and clattered on the cracked road.
Turning down a quiet alley, scrambling over rubble, heading back to the square. Perhaps the company would regroup there. He’d pound out another call to arms and they’d run to join him.
A small puppy lay at the bottom of one demolished wall. Blood spilled from a gash in its side, one paw lay twisted out of position. Its nose was already warm and dry.
The first soft thump of the drum’s head meandered. A beat caught and continued. Louder and stronger until it jumped off the walls to echo into the ruined streets beyond.
Eyes closed, lost in the tempo, drowned in the swell. This was his talent. The drum gave him purpose.
A high-pitched yip interrupted the rousing beat. The red cur, which lay battered and dead moments ago, sat at his feet. Its wet tongue lapped away his tears. The dog followed him out of the alley, into another scene of defeat.
The drum vibrated with another life giving call.
THE END