Gulish first-place winner for second year
EDITOR’S NOTE: This story by Eugene Gulish was the first-place winner in the 2022 Writing Competition sponsored by the Paris-Henry County Arts Council.
The Sniper
BY EUGENE GULISH
The mid-afternoon summer sun bathed the Robert E. Lee School/Paris Academy for the Arts in its light, providing the building with an almost surrealistic image, as it stood its ground in Henry County, Tennessee. The building did, indeed, have a history. Its predecessor was initially built in 1848 and added to the National Register in 1988. It was constructed of brick with 18-inch outer walls. It was operated as a private school, Paris Male Academy, until 1881. In 1891 the school building burned. A movement to rebuild the school started in 1892 and it was reopened in 1893. The school became known as the Robert E. Lee School in 1910. In 2020, when Robert E. Lee became less of a hero, it became known as the Paris Academy for the Arts. Its titles, images and functions changed through the years.
Jake sat on the steps of the Robert E. Lee School. His scraggly, unkempt, graying hair hung over his ears. He had an unkempt beard. On his head was a faded United States Air Force cap. He was wearing a gray, tattered T-shirt and shorts. He appeared generally disheveled. His obese belly rested on his thighs as he leaned forward. His eyes darted from side to side. Under his left arm, being held tightly, was a small black dog, Mia. He was initially alone, and his conversation was only with the dog.
As his friend approached, he looked up and greeted him. "Hi, what’s up?” “Hey, man,” responded the friend. “What are you doing?” “Planning my day,” Jake answered. “And marveling at this place’s history. You know it was built in 1848 —before the Civil War? Do you know it was an all-boys school? I couldn’t have gotten in here. I am too much of a hillbilly. Got to get my truck fixed today. But I was a jock in high school. I was buff with a six-pack. Did you know that?”
And so, the topics of conversation jumped from one subject to another. “I joined the Air Force when I was 19. Did you know that? I was in the military for 13 years. And after basic training, I was sent to Afghanistan as a tail gunner. Did you know that?”
And then everything changed. He wasn’t just telling a story; he was living it.
“Do you know what tail gunners do? They take out terrorists.”
We watched him for a while as he shot holes in the military planes.
"'Okay, hillbilly, you’re on,’ my commanding officer said.
Jake climbed out of the airplane into the grass and crept toward his target. He could feel the gun in his hand. Although he could feel his heart pounding, for some reason, he felt remarkably calm. The terrorist crept toward him in a similar fashion not knowing Jake was there. They rose up together as if choreographed. Each facing the other. Each with a gun in his hand. His adversary was young, bearded, Muslim. Their eyes met. Thoughts flashed through Jake’s mind with lightning speed.
“He’s young. He is someone’s son. He may have a wife. He may have children.” And then Jake raised his gun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The missile appeared to move in slow motion as it entered the terrorist's neck under his chin and exited by blowing out the back of his head. Blood everywhere. The man fell. Jake had just killed a man! He turned with bullets flying over his head and ran back to the safety of his airplane. What was he thinking? What was he thinking? He was thinking of the quiet, green hills of Henry County Tennessee. He would deal with his actions later.
And, so, his time in the military passed. This would not be the last human life he would take. It never got easier and his reactions never changed. Sometimes he observed suffering before death. But always he put off the inevitable, by remembering the quiet solitude of his home. For some reason the ultimate organization of Robert E. Lee School often came into his head. He thought of the school named after a Civil War military leader. He thought of its organization as a private school and then city school. He thought of its renaming as Robert E. Lee became less of a hero. And, for some reason, in the midst of his chaotic life, this gave him solace. But somewhere in his head, what he had to do to his fellow man did not escape. And then, as if to add an exclamation point to the soliloquy, as he was running to the safety of his airplane he tripped over a helmet. He picked it up to find an open-eyed head lodged in it, appearing to stare back at him.
Often at bedtime, when he closed his eyes, he would see the young face of his first victim followed by the others and the helmeted head. And sometime when he opened his eyes they did not vanish, haunting his soul. And, in the dark, he would feel a tear running down his face. What had he done? What had he become?
“Why — how could you do that?” His friend asked. “I had to do it, because I love this country. I love the green hills of Tennessee. I love the organization and the history of this country. This, we must always protect. Have you ever killed a man?” Jake asked.
A rhetorical question. “No”, his friend answered. “I have never even shot a deer, a squirrel, a bird.” Silence. Jake reached into the holster on his hip and brought out his gun. He held it and gazed upon it as if it were a sacred object. He gazed into the eyes of his friend, blinking back tears. He then replaced the gun into its holster. Momentary silence.
“I guess I will never again be that 19-year-old boy who entered the military. I guess loud noises will always startle me. I guess I will always be untrusting. I guess I will always depend on Mia for solace. I guess this building, on whose steps I am sitting, and I are similar. We both progressed from a hard, no-nonsense structure to a softer structure with a more acceptable title. But I guess, in the end, I will simply be known as a serial killer.”
They rose together as if choreographed. Their eyes met. One awkward, Southern male hand reached for the other. And the handshake turned into an awkward male hug.
“You are not a serial killer, Jake. You are a hero! You have to always remember that. Do you hear me?” Indeed, heroes come in many sizes and shapes. They sometimes sit on the steps of historic buildings. They sometimes hold a dog on their lap and ramble on about many subjects. They often search their souls to understand what they had done and why they had done it. Jake was a hero!
