Parched Lands, O Desert Sands

We awoke at dawn to find the army doctor paraded through the streets on a donkey, dressed in women’s clothes. Nailed to his torso and back was a sign that read: “Unworthy of being a respectable citizen; fears death.” He was to be shot at the end of this circus. Some thought it was deserved; others felt it too lenient. His crime was refusing to operate on a soldier afflicted with the bubonic plague, fearing he might contract it and that the army would lose one of its two doctors.

Stranded in the Egyptian desert, being humiliated and shot was far better than dying of thirst and heat like a starved dog. There were fifteen of us on the first day we decided to abandon the army and flee wherever fresh water flowed in abundance, where tasty wine could be gulped until vision blurred beyond repair, and where exquisite women waited in red light districts for those starved of affection. On the second day, we awoke to find only nine left. We rejoiced in the irony, deserters deserted by fellow deserters who had changed their minds and returned to fighting in a meaningless war.

As night gave way to dawn, I woke to find the sand beneath me wet. Water, I thought. But as consciousness returned, I realized it was not water, but blood. A fellow comrade had slit his throat while we slept. I was confused as to why he had not chosen a painless bullet to the head. I suppose he was kind enough not to wake us. We did not bother to bury him; the sand carrying winds would do so soon enough.

We walked and walked and kept on walking, then walked some more, beneath the burning sun and above the flaming sands. By then, we had all come to regret our decision. Thoughts such as maybe they breached the city and perhaps reinforcements arrived with more supplies flooded our minds. Alas, nothing could be done, not with one rifle, nine empty stomachs, and skin aflame beneath the sun.

By the fourth day in the desert, we thought none of us would live to see the fifth. When we reached the fifth, we did not dare hope for the sixth. And when we awoke to find ourselves seven days deep in the blazing sands, beneath a scorching sun, we believed it impossible to witness another sunset. At some point, we began fighting over the single rifle and its three remaining bullets. We negotiated who would earn the mercy of killing himself to escape this boiling nightmare.

And so we found ourselves at the port. The five of us who remained claimed to be messengers and guards entrusted with the heavy and renowned words of General Buona Parte, bearing orders bound for the capital. In truth, we were starving, dying of thirst, and desperate for a ship and a crew to sail us home. If the emperor was treated like an emperor, then we, his supposed messengers, were treated like kings and princes. Soft, silky beds awaited us. Fresh water. Mouth-watering wine. All the fish the Mediterranean could hold.

We sailed and sailed, away from death and misery, further from that desert. Remove the sand, and you would find countless bodies buried beneath it. We sailed, hoping never to stop, until we were met by a British warship. The moment we laid eyes on their flag, we knew survival was no longer possible. Hellfire from cannons, bullets, and mortars rained upon us, just as the scorching sun of the Egyptian desert had done for seven days.

Seven days we feared being buried beneath hot sands. Now we drowned and drowned and kept on drowning until we reached the bottom of the Mediterranean.

I dream too much.