GREGORY and other stories

Gregory

GregoryMy hand was sweating as I held the pistol. The curve of the trigger was biting against my finger.

Facing me, Gregory trembled.

His whole being was beseeching me, “Don’t!”

Only his mouth did not make a sound. His lips were squeezed tight. If it had been me, I would have screamed, shouted, cursed.

The soldiers were watching…

The day before, during a brief meeting, they had each given their opinions: “It’s tough luck, but it has to be done. We’ve got no choice.”

The order from Headquarters was clear: “As soon as Lieutenant Rafel’s execution is announced, the hostage Gregory is to be shot and his body must be hanged from a telegraph pole in the main street as an exemplary punishment.”

It was not the first time that I had to execute a hostage in this war. I had acquired experience, thanks to Headquarters which had kept entrusting me with these delicate assignments. Gregory’s case was precisely the sixth.

The first time, I remember, I vomited. The second time I got sick and had a headache for days. The third time I drank a bottle of rum. The fourth, just two glasses of beer. The fifth time I joked about it, “This little guy, with the big pop-eyes, won’t be much of a ghost!”

But why, dammit, when the day came did I have to start thinking that I’m not so tough, after all? The thought had come at exactly the wrong time and spoiled my disposition to do my duty.

You see, this Gregory was such a miserable little creature, such a puny thing, such a nobody, damn him.

That very morning, although he had heard over the loudspeakers that Rafel had been executed, he believed that we would spare his life because we had been eating together so long.

“Those who eat from the same mess tins and drink from the same water canteen,” he said, “remain good friends no matter what.”

And a lot more of the same sort of nonsense.

He was a silly fool - we had smelled that out the very first day Headquarters gave him to us. The sentry guarding him had got dead drunk and had dozed off. The rest of us with exit permits had gone from the barracks. When we came back, there was Gregory sitting by the sleeping sentry and thumbing through a magazine.

“Why didn’t you run away, Gregory?” we asked, laughing at him, several days later.

And he answered, “Where would I go in this freezing weather? I’m OK here.”

So we started teasing him.

“You’re dead right. The accommodation here is splendid…”

“It’s not bad here,” he replied. “The barracks where I used to be are like a sieve. The wind blows in from every side…”

We asked him about his girl. He smiled.

“Maria is a wonderful person,” he told us. “Before I met her she was engaged to a no-good fellow, a pig. He gave her up for another girl. Then nobody in the village wanted to marry Maria. I didn’t miss my chance. So what if she is second-hand. Nonsense, peasant ideas, my friend. She’s beautiful and good-hearted. What more could I want? And didn’t she load me with watermelons and cucumbers every time I passed by her vegetable garden? Well, one day I stole some cucumbers and melons and watermelons and I took them to her. ‘Maria’ I said, from now on I’m going to take care of you.’ She started crying and then me, too. But ever since that day she has given me lots of trouble, jealously. She wouldn’t let me go even to my mother’s. Until the day I was recruited, she wouldn’t let me go far from her apron strings. But that was just what I wanted…”

He used to tell this story over and over, always with the same words, the same commonplace gestures. At the end he would have a good laugh and start gulping from his water jug.

His tongue was always wagging! When he started talking, nothing could stop him. We used to listen and nod our heads, not saying a word. But sometimes, as he was telling us about his mother and family problems, we couldn’t help wondering, “Eh, well, these people have the same headaches in their country as we’ve got.”

Strange, isn’t it?

Except for his talking too much, Gregory wasn’t a bad fellow. He was a marvelous cook. Once he made us some apple tarts, so delicious we licked the platter clean. And he could sew, too. He used to sew on all our buttons, patch our clothes, darn our socks, iron our ties, wash our clothes…

How the devil could you kill such a friend?

Even though his name was Gregory and some people on his side had killed scores of ours, even though we had left wives and children to go to war against him and his kind - but how can I explain? He was our friend. He actually liked us! A few days before, hadn’t he killed with his own bare hands a scorpion that was climbing up my leg? He could have let it send me to hell!

“Thanks, Gregory!” I said then, “Thank God who made you…”

When the order came, it was like a thunderbolt. Gregory was to be shot, it said, and hanged from a telegraph pole as an exemplary punishment.

We got together inside the barracks. We sent Gregory to wash some underwear for us.

“It ain’t right.”

“What is right?”

“Our duty!”

“s**t!”

“If you dare, don’t do it! They’ll drag you to courtmartial and then bang-bang…”

Well, of course. The right thing is to save your skin. That’s only logical. It’s either your skin or his. His, of course, even if it was Gregory, the fellow you’ve been sharing the same plate with, eating with your fingers, and who was washing your clothes that very minute.

What could I do? That’s war. We had seen worse things.

So we set the hour.

We didn’t tell him anything when he came back from the washing.

He slept peacefully. He snored for the last time. In the morning, he heard the news over the loudspeaker and he saw that we looked gloomy and he began to suspect that something was up. He tried talking to us, but he got no answers and then he stopped talking.

He just stood there and looked at us, stunned and lost…

Now, I’ll squeeze the trigger. A tiny bullet will rip through his chest. Maybe I’ll lose my sleep tonight but in the morning I’ll wake up alive.

Gregory seems to guess my thoughts. He puts out his hand and asks, “You’re kidding, friend! Aren’t you kidding?”

What a jackass! Doesn’t he deserve to be cut to pieces? What a thing to ask at such a time. Your heart is about to burst and he’s asking if you’re kidding. How can a body be kidding about such a thing? i***t! This is no time for jokes. And you, if you’re such a fine friend, why don’t you make things easier for us? Help us kill you with fewer qualms? If you would get angry - curse our Virgin, our God - if you’d try to escape it would be much easier for us and for you.

So it is now.

Now, Mr. Gregory, you are going to pay for your stupidities wholesale. Because you didn’t escape the day the sentry fell asleep; because you didn’t escape yesterday when we sent you all alone to the laundry we did it on purpose, you i***t! Why didn’t you let me die from the sting of the scorpion?

So now don’t complain. It’s all your fault, nitwit.

Eh? What’s happening to him now?

Gregory is crying. Tears flood his eyes and trickle down over his clean-shaven cheeks. He is turning his face and pressing his forehead against the wall His back is shaking as he sobs. His hands cling, rigid and helpless, to the wall.

Now is my best chance, now that he knows there is no other solution and turns his face from us.

I squeeze the trigger.

Gregory jerks. His back stops shaking up and down.

I think I’ve finished him! How easy it is… But suddenly he starts crying out loud, his hands claw at the wall and try to pull it down. He screams, “No, no…”

I turn to the others. I expect them to nod, “That’s enough.”

They nod, “What are you waiting for?”

I squeeze the trigger again.

The bullet smashes at his neck. A thick spray of blood spurts out.

Gregory turns. His eyes are all red. He lunges at me at starts punching me with his fists.

“I hate you, hate you…” he screams.

I emptied the barrel. He fell and grabbed my leg as if he wanted to hold on.

He died with a terrible spasm. His mouth was full of blood and so were my boots and socks.

We stood quietly, looking at him.

When we came to, we stooped and picked him up. His hands were frozen and wouldn’t let my legs go.

I still have their imprints, red and deep, as if made by a hot knife.

“We will hang him tonight,” the men said.

“Tonight or now?” they said.

I turned and looked at them one by one.

“Is that what you all want?” I asked.

They gave me no answer.

“Dig a grave,” I said.

Headquarters did not ask for a report the next day or the day after.

The top brass were sure that we had obeyed them and had left him swinging from a pole.

They didn’t care to know what happened to that Gregory, alive or dead.

From the collection:

In Ethereal Cyprus, Fexis Publications, Athens 1964

Translated by Byron and Catherine Raizis