The Real Thing Strange
The sound of the truck’s engine was completely drowned out by the roar and scream of the three jets overhead. He poked his head out of the open back, his eyes widening. When he pulled it back in, he noticed that none of the men he was riding with had even blinked. They just carried on staring either blankly ahead of them or taking apart and reassembling their rifles without even looking at them. They said this country did things like that to you.
He didn’t have a rifle to dismantle. All he had was a standard issue helmet (he also noticed he was the only passenger in the truck who had done the strap up), a uniform with a ‘Civilian’ armband on, and a tired Leica M3. The camera was worn, and battered, just like everything else in the truck, including the vehicle itself. Someone shouted for everyone to get out – a Sergeant, he noted from the stripes on his arm and helmet. He awkwardly jumped out of the back of the slow moving truck, which was now coming to a stop. The jets were heading back toward them now, three eagle-like spots on the horizon, growing bigger and bigger.
He always swore he could make out the shapes dropping from the planes as they passed the small village and apparent enemy encampment he had been on his way to photograph. The lead jet in the formation dropped his a fraction earlier than the others, so they all hit the ground at the same time. Light travels faster than sound, so he saw the huge sheets of flame ignite before he heard the roar, not unlike that of the jets as they passed over once more a second later. The flames were like blankets, tearing through the flimsy huts and scorching their way down as they laid themselves on the ground. And all the while he stood, paralysed by awe and horror, his camera hanging loose and forgotten around his neck.
It was a good three or four minutes before he could begin to make out the screams of the townspeople. The noise of the aircraft and the napalm igniting had drowned them out, and many of them had been killed too quickly to scream. But now, drifting towards him from about four hundred metres away, he could hear them. Horrid, piercing screams, screams of pain, screams of terror, screams of anguish for lost friends. The men around him, most of whom still showed that same blankness from when the jets passed over, stood awkwardly, looking at the ground. He guessed it would be their sorry job to walk into the town after it stopped burning and claim it ‘captured’. He was reminded of the camera around his neck. He raised it halfway up to his eye, then stopped. What was there to photograph? Nothing could capture the horrors he had just witnessed, nothing short of photographing the events themselves – and he had simply stood, powerless to react, throughout them.
Then he saw them. There was a group of them, all running, some of them still screaming. He heard a shot, and saw one of them fall to the ground. He turned and saw one of the men around him, his rifle raised to his shoulder, taking aim at another.
‘Leave ’em alone, you bastard!’ someone shouted half-heartedly, ‘What’re they gonna do to you?’
He saw the solder reluctantly bring his weapon back down, then turned his head back to the remaining running figures. They were closer now, less than a hundred metres away. They were naked, their clothes and a lot of their skin burnt off. Among them were two little girls. One could not have been older than his daughter. His eyes widened, and his hands gripped the sides of his Leica. No. They were naked. To photograph them would be disgusting, degrading, robbing them of their dignity. But all this, the horror, the burning, the screams – the world needed to know.
Not knowing what else to do, he raised the camera to his eye, aimed it at the girls, and pressed the shutter.
He didn’t have a rifle to dismantle. All he had was a standard issue helmet (he also noticed he was the only passenger in the truck who had done the strap up), a uniform with a ‘Civilian’ armband on, and a tired Leica M3. The camera was worn, and battered, just like everything else in the truck, including the vehicle itself. Someone shouted for everyone to get out – a Sergeant, he noted from the stripes on his arm and helmet. He awkwardly jumped out of the back of the slow moving truck, which was now coming to a stop. The jets were heading back toward them now, three eagle-like spots on the horizon, growing bigger and bigger.
He always swore he could make out the shapes dropping from the planes as they passed the small village and apparent enemy encampment he had been on his way to photograph. The lead jet in the formation dropped his a fraction earlier than the others, so they all hit the ground at the same time. Light travels faster than sound, so he saw the huge sheets of flame ignite before he heard the roar, not unlike that of the jets as they passed over once more a second later. The flames were like blankets, tearing through the flimsy huts and scorching their way down as they laid themselves on the ground. And all the while he stood, paralysed by awe and horror, his camera hanging loose and forgotten around his neck.
It was a good three or four minutes before he could begin to make out the screams of the townspeople. The noise of the aircraft and the napalm igniting had drowned them out, and many of them had been killed too quickly to scream. But now, drifting towards him from about four hundred metres away, he could hear them. Horrid, piercing screams, screams of pain, screams of terror, screams of anguish for lost friends. The men around him, most of whom still showed that same blankness from when the jets passed over, stood awkwardly, looking at the ground. He guessed it would be their sorry job to walk into the town after it stopped burning and claim it ‘captured’. He was reminded of the camera around his neck. He raised it halfway up to his eye, then stopped. What was there to photograph? Nothing could capture the horrors he had just witnessed, nothing short of photographing the events themselves – and he had simply stood, powerless to react, throughout them.
Then he saw them. There was a group of them, all running, some of them still screaming. He heard a shot, and saw one of them fall to the ground. He turned and saw one of the men around him, his rifle raised to his shoulder, taking aim at another.
‘Leave ’em alone, you bastard!’ someone shouted half-heartedly, ‘What’re they gonna do to you?’
He saw the solder reluctantly bring his weapon back down, then turned his head back to the remaining running figures. They were closer now, less than a hundred metres away. They were naked, their clothes and a lot of their skin burnt off. Among them were two little girls. One could not have been older than his daughter. His eyes widened, and his hands gripped the sides of his Leica. No. They were naked. To photograph them would be disgusting, degrading, robbing them of their dignity. But all this, the horror, the burning, the screams – the world needed to know.
Not knowing what else to do, he raised the camera to his eye, aimed it at the girls, and pressed the shutter.
posted by Tom | 7:51 AM
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