Sunday, January 15, 2012

First Kill


I can remember the moment as if it were yesterday.  It left a horrible taste in my mouth like nothing else has ever done.  I guess they call it, “The taste of the kill.”  I cannot think of anything in my life that pierces my soul as deeply as this incident has done. 

When I close my eyes I see him standing guard, tall and proud, not aware that he was in my sights; not even privy to anyone close by, and in seconds he was going to meet his maker.  Diligently he watched for any kind of movement that might indicate the presence of intruders, and thus, sound the alarm.

My hands began to sweat and I felt tightness around my heart for which all the training in the world could not prepare me.  My stomach, woozy, gave off a groan of anticipation.  I felt as though I were at a crossroads wanting to take a detour away from the situation. 

Knowing my potential, because of the many hours of shooting paper and preparing for this moment, it was fruitless to even think that I could leave.  I was an expert marksman, but cutting flesh of a live target, rather than paper silhouettes, would be the true test.  All of my practicing was about to pay off.

I began to squeeze the trigger evenly and slowly, not losing the sight picture, while thoughts ran rampant.  My life passed before me as I realized that I was about to take another’s life.  Time stood still—my first shot cannot miss—there won’t be a second chance.  My disciplined mind prevented me from thinking, “What if I miss; and then what?”  Under my breath I kept telling myself, “It’s only a target and nothing else.”

Words from a close friend came flooding back into my mind, “You’ll never be the same once you’ve taken a life.”  I told myself, “I’m young, but there are guys younger than me with less training and experience that followed through.  They found it within themselves to swallow hard and pull the trigger.”  Yes, they did experience what many red-blooded American boys had to do in the name of manhood—kill.  

While holding my breath something happened!  A tear obscured my sighting eye!  Everything got blurry!  I took the corner of my fatigue collar; moved with care, cautious not to bring attention to myself, and patted it dry. 

Once again I took aim, checking the wind, finding the front sight in the rear peep; wondering if fate had anything to do with the tear.  Maybe one of my comrades could do the job instead of me, but they weren’t around.  There was only my rifle, the target, and myself.  Again with full sight pattern, I squeezed, and it happened!  A hit!  I got him! 

He fell just beyond my visual!  Was he dead?  Was it a good kill?  I had to find out for sure!  Rifle in hand and ready, I made my way through the dense, jungle-like shrubbery, moving very slowly, watching closely not to step on any land mines.  Not knowing what I would find I tried to prepare myself for the worst. 

There he was!  I ran over to his side, but he was still moving—he wasn’t dead.  His eyes looked deep into mine as if to say, “Why, why me?” His brown eyes began to glaze over and closed for the last time.  My heart was broken.  If I had seen his eyes before I shot I would not have pulled the trigger; but it was too late.  The deed had been done—mission accomplished.

Questions began bombarding my mind, “Did he have a family?  Was there anyone back home that depended on him?  Did he have a companion, now left alone to bring home life’s sustenance for the family?” 

I slipped my arm through the sling and pulled my Daisy pump up over my shoulder.  As I reached with both hands; forming a cup to pick up the frail body; I noticed that the figure was still warm, but not breathing.  I turned to look where my target had perched itself on top of the television antenna, and began walking back toward the closed gate at the side of our house, staring at the lifeless body in my hands.

Just inside the gate was Dusty, my dog.  As I continued the procession down the side of the house, not caring if Dad’s shrubs hit me in the face, I again watched where I placed my feet, careful not to step in dog poop, as I looked for a place to bury the fallen sparrow.  I vowed never again to take the life of one of God’s little creatures.

Thinking back on this incident in my youth it reminds me of my relationship with Almighty God.  Though I am a Christian, sometimes fear of the unknown overshadows me.  At times I feel insignificant when I compare my finite existence to God.  His majestic presence everywhere and limitless power causes me to become awestruck, with a feeling of irrelevance. 

(Psalm 102:7), “I lie awake, and am like a sparrow alone on the housetop.”

A natural instinct is to ask, “How can the creator of all living things and the master architect and originator of the universe even see me, or know my name?” 

Reading the Word gives insight to God’s love.  The Bible is His will and testament to us.  He breathed upon holy men of old to record, for our edification, the depth of His great love through His son Jesus.

(Matthew 10:29-31), “Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin?  And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will.”  vs.30 “But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.”  vs.31”Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

If God is aware when a sparrow falls to the ground, how much more attentive is He to our needs?  Keeping up with my receding hairline must take some doing, but Father God knows me intimately.  He knew me in my mother’s womb, and loves me with a never ending love.  He calls me Son.

Written by,
Papa Boyd 

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