Long long way

Tommy Jacobson stood, bound to the bare stump of what was once a tree, heart thumping, trying to think of home and his sweetheart, Jenny.

"Present!"

THUMP and... THUMP and... THUMP and... the sound of his own heartbeat was deafening.

"Aim!"

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

"FIRE!"

The crack of the discharging rifles was hardly heard by Jacobson. He felt nothing of the entry wounds, only the rushing sensation in his head, just like when he drank that tumbler of rum they had given him before they led him out. The firing party made sure they had their own share too, and he had wondered how they would be able to shoot straight, before realising they probably wouldn't.

The lieutenant in charge of the detail knew it too. Jacobson heard the squelching of a pair of boots, and the slight click of the holster button as the Webley .455 was drawn.

Jacobson let out a long, gurgling, spluttering, drawn-out gasp.

"Save the bullet... he's finished..." came the imperious voice of command from further back.

No I'm not, Jacobson wanted to say, but couldn't move his lips. He had no breath left to say it, even if he could.

"Firing party... Dismiss!"

Alone, immobilized by the lines binding him to the tree, Jacobson thought again of Jenny, feeling as if she were with him. As he tried to move to clasp her hand, he noticed the bounds were loose. Painfully, he opened his eyes. Nobody was to be seen. His unit must have been moved forward for the big push.

After some further movement, he was able to free his wrists completely. Ignoring the pain, he managed to remove all of the line securing him. Although he could feel the pain and a damp stickiness from several puncture wounds, he could still breathe and feel his heart beating rapidly. In their drunken state, the firing squad had all missed the target pinned to his chest.

He dragged himself back in the direction of the village, away from the supply roads, staying low to avoid being noticed by passing trucks. Struggling for what seemed like hours, he eventually collapsed into unconsciousness.

He awoke to a concerned looking face. The owner spoke rapidly in French and soon two other faces appeared. He could tell he was in a bed and had bandages about his chest and arms. Some of the French villagers must have mistaken him for a battlefield casualty and taken him in.

Again falling into unconsciousness, he was aware only of the warmth of the bed he lay in, and repeatedly trying to rouse himself. He must have fallen into a delirium for several days. When he awoke next, he was no longer in bed, no longer if France.

He was standing before the door of a house, Jenny's house. She opened the door and stared at him.

"Why are you tied to a tree?" she asked.

Jacobson let out a long, gurgling, spluttering, drawn-out gasp.

"Save the bullet, he's finished..."