‘Kimchi’ Jones Is Scared of Killing

Ayshe Dengtash

 

Luke “Kimchi” Jones flicked at the cigarette ash which was slowly settling in between the sparse blonde hair on his arms. He felt commander “Speedy” Mike’s heavy shoes tap rapidly on his back, knocking on his spine, too harsh for his liking. Pushing down on the lever for speed he glared out of the small hole of the M3 Lee tank at the brown sludgy mess of a field in front of him, keeping an eye out for ditches. He knew “Speedy” would warn him if they were nearing a large ditch that he felt they would not be able to cross, if not for his crew’s well-being then at least for his own, but this was war and Jones knew that here you couldn’t trust anyone.

He never knew that such evil could exist until he’d ended up here two years ago ignorant and innocent at the age of twenty-one, thinking he’d just be helping his country like he had helped his wife at home wipe the dishes dry as she washed them. It was only later, that he realized they hadn’t told him why his country needed help. He had never felt threatened or in danger before the war and when they told him that he had to kill the enemy, the “other” in a foreign land for his country he didn’t understand.

“We’re gonna kill. We’re gonna fight for our rights,” shouted the fresh-faced young men around him on the first day they’d been called in. Recalling the promise he’d made when he was seven years old after watching his mother slit the throat of an agonized chicken, he knew he wouldn’t kill. The desperate squawk of the flapping chicken had haunted him every day till he saw some of the chanting young men blown to pieces, their remnants slowly rotting into the soil.

He’d prayed that they’d find a weakness in his physical health, something that he’d not noticed in himself before. He saw that his ankles were thinner than all the men around him and wished that the generals would see this as a disadvantage when running towards the enemy. To his dismay they had not dismissed him from the army but he felt that they had assigned him one of the more dignified roles in war. At least he didn’t have to kill.

“I can smell the smoke, Kimchi,” shouted “Slow” Buck, who was huddled together behind Jones with “Thrifty” Dick, munching away at a block of spam.

“And I can hear you eating that pink piece of shit like a boar,” bellowed Jones.

“You gonna blow us up, man,” said Dick. “I’ll tell Speedy.”

“Go to hell.”

“I don’t want to die by blowing to pieces,” said Dick.

“You probably will. That’s how most die here,” said Jones bluntly.

“We won’t die, will we Buck?” asked Dick. Jones craned his neck to find him stroking Buck’s dirt-smeared cheek.

“We might,” said Buck, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve which drew a long gray line across his chin.

“No we won’t. Tell me we won’t, Buck.”

Jones thought that he felt Mike’s foot press down in between his shoulder blades, but now he couldn’t feel it and so he carried on driving, half listening to Dick begging Buck to tell him that they’d make it all back home in one piece, fingers crossed, and trying to concentrate on the field ahead of him. The last time he’d stopped the tank when he wasn’t supposed to, Mike had threatened to give him a gun and send him out to fight on foot.

“STOP. STOP. YOU’VE HIT SOMEONE. ONE OF OUR OWN.” It was Mike, his head close to Jones, his breath tickling the inside of his left ear. “I TOLD YOU TO STOP. I PRESSED MY FOOT ON YOUR BLOODY BACK.”

Jones lifted his foot off the clutch and tugged at the steering levers. The tank suddenly came to a halt, Buck and Dick flew into Mike, causing his helmet to hit into Jones’.

“Do you think I killed him?” whispered Jones. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“He’s dead all right,” said Mike.

 

Ayshe Dengtash is a Creative Writing PhD graduate. She currently lives in Hong Kong, with her two cats and partner, where she teaches English Literature. She is passionate about writing and is only at peace when seated at her desk writing away, anything else is a chore.