"Your son fell heroically fighting. Fighting the enemy until the last bullet. He did not faint, he did not flee, he remained at his post faithful to the end. With his sacrifice, he saved our lives from mortal danger. If we are still alive, we owe it to him. They had surrounded us from all sides, their fire was mowing us down. We began to retreat, looking for a way out of the ambush. He covered our retreat with his machine gun. Only when he was sure that we had escaped did he get up and run to follow us. A few more steps and he would have been safe. But it was not his destiny. A bullet hit him in the neck. He died instantly. He did not suffer at all. We took the body and buried it on the beach. On the grave, each soldier left a souvenir as a sign of gratitude. Another a rosary, another his lighter or a pack of cigarettes. We will never forget him. Neither will you. Be proud."
That's what I told her. I took her wrinkled hand, squeezed it in my palms, looked her straight in the eye, the words came out of my lips on their own as if someone else were speaking. I didn't hesitate at all. But what else could I do? Tell her the truth? That her son was a drunkard? That he only cared about his skin and in battle he was always looking for a way to outwit her? That he was a brawler and undisciplined and constantly created problems in the company? That the other soldiers avoided him and the captain punished him every now and then? And as for his supposedly heroic death... I'm tired! But how can you tell a mother that her only child went ignominy like a dog in a vineyard? And neither an enemy killed him, nor in battle, from too much drinking, did he eat his head. The night the accident happened, he abandoned his weapon and his watch and ran to the fields to get drunk. Returning to the camp at dawn, blinded by his drunkenness, he lost his way and entered the minefield. Before he knew it, as he was staggering along, he stepped on a mine and was blown up into the air. Nothing was left. We gathered the pieces, a finger here, an ear there, and with these we held the funeral...
"Stay with us for dinner. It would be an honor to have a companion of our son at the table."
She looked at me almost pleadingly, her eyes red and wet from crying. She wanted to hear more, as if my every word would resurrect her son. I thanked her but declined the invitation, I couldn't sit any longer. I had to leave. I had other mothers to visit, deaths to announce, and a story to tell or invent for each one. This is now my duty since no one else from the "Elpinor" platoon was left, only me, a platoon without soldiers.
"I'll come by another time," I promised her as I left. "May his memory live on forever."
photo Sheikho_07, https://pixabay.com
