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V is for – Valhalla, where the souls of those who died bravely in battle go

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For some, death comes when you least expect it.

I was not a soldier.  I was never meant to be on a battlefield.  I had no interest in slaying the enemy, whoever that enemy might be.

And yet there I was, trying to figure out how it came to be.

Six hours earlier, I was asleep on a cot in a tent, one of about a hundred scattered back from the river in a valley that belied the fact that it was near a contentious border being fought over.

Two facts I learned before crawling exhausted into that cot, religion, and disputed borders were in the top three reasons to start a war against your neighbour.

It started out with two men, one on either side of the river, stating the river belonged to them and the other paid ‘rent’.  Then shots were fired.

In three months, it escalated, turning the river and valley surrounding it into a killing field and two previously friendly countries into bitter enemies.

I had been sent over by my media company to report first-hand on the effect it was having on the people, international relations, and responses by the rest of the world.

The latest report, not by me but one of my brethren, was that we were heading inevitably towards World War three.  Given the rhetoric I had just heard, I was almost convinced he was right.

I managed to get three hours before being woken by my army liaison officer, the leader of a small group of soldiers who were charged with surveillance.  I had been attached to them, mainly because they did not approach the front line.

They were simply there to observe enemy locations and report back.  Their position gave me a very good view of the battlefield, the destruction of mortars, cannons, air force strafing, bomb runs, and snipers.

To a layman, it was terrifying and horrifying.  To the hawks of war, it was a proving ground for their new weapons.

“Were up.  Sorry about the short notice.  There’s going to be an offensive in a few hours.  Want to join us?”

My first instinct was to say no, but being embedded with this group afforded me an excellent view of the war and the uselessness of it all.

The two men could have sat down and worked it out.  But no, they had to settle their differences with guns.  Both were dead, as were their families, and most of the valley’s inhabitants.  Now, it was extending beyond the valley and into the bigger cities and infrastructure like power stations and refineries.  Bullets had gone to mortar bombs to cannons to drones to missiles.

Thousands had been killed, and negotiations for peace had failed.  The only people winning in this war were the arms manufacturers.

How could I say no?  “Of course.  When?”

“Fifteen minutes.  Outside the mess tent.”

The two trucks carrying the men slowly crawled over the rough ground that led up to our lookout.  The road was constantly bombed to stop troops’ movements in and out, and was pockmarked with bomb craters.

The trip was a mile, but in the time it took, three mortar shells exploded in front and behind us, the last showering us in dirt and rubble.  Missiles passed overhead and exploded some distance on the enemy side.  A prelude to the new offensive. War didn’t stop at night or at weekends.

We made it in one piece and offloaded, the last shift climbing into the truck.  They looked exhausted.  There were three sets of men who manned the lookout 24 hours a day.  Invariably, at least one man died each shift.  This had two, stretched out and put in the truck.

The leaders exchanged paperwork, and he saluted and left with his men.

The replacements had taken up their positions.  We had two anti-aircraft guns and three snipers who tried to take out the drones.  Every change of shift, a surveillance drone would come and check us out.

I wore my neutrality vest, but that wouldn’t necessarily save me.  I would not be the first media representative to be killed in battle.

As I went into the bunker, I heard a loud crump of a bomb exploding and turned.  At first, I thought it had missed the truck because I couldn’t see it behind the wall of rubble.

Then it cleared, and there was nothing, no wreckage, no people, nothing.  It was as if it had just disappeared.

I shrugged.  There was nothing we could do.

I just shut the door when there was another loud crump, so close and so loud it was deafening.  The bunker could withstand several direct hits, and this one had hit the roof.

Eight feet of concrete on top of six-inch steel plating.

The bunker was filled with dust and grit, and men were on the ground.  It’s not the best way to start a shift.

The morning was given over to watching the missile attack, one that involved more missiles than ever before, targeted strikes on allegedly military targets on the other side, and the observers charting the hits and misses

Most notably, the gun that targeted the truck and our bunker had fallen silent, and it was written down as a possible success.

Everything had fallen silent on the other side of the river, and we were relaxing in that euphoria of not waiting for the next bomb to fall.  Anticipation was a terrible thing.

I went up the ladder to the lookout, temporarily unmanned due to the silence, for the first time in a year.

There was nothing but desolation, bomb craters, little vegetation, and once or twice the scene also had the bodies of men who had charged at the enemy and mown down.

Worse than any scene from World War One in France.  We had learned very little from that or any other war.

I then saw movement, like a rabbit in the thicket, and then a bang.

Then nothing.

Last thought: you do hear the bullet that has your name on it. You just don’t see it coming.

I was standing in a hall, well not so much a hall but a huge building that had statues on either side evely spaced and which armour, weapons and heraldry.

High up windows allowed the daylight to shine in such a way that it illuminated the statues.

They were not all men, but those there were of strong, muscled, tall, and bearded who would have no trouble holding the swords that were next to them lying across the statue base.

I don’t think I could lift one, let alone use it.

I turned slightly, and the man beside me was almost an exact relica of that on the statue.

“Welcome to Valhalla, sir.”

“Where?”

“It is where hero’s stand for eternity.”

“I am no hero.”

“Not in the sense these people might be but a hero none the less.  Words and actions, there are many forms heroism can take.  You will write a document that will bring peace to an unsettled land when men have temporarily forgotten what it is to be men.”

Was her speaking in riddles?  Was I dead, and just dreaming about a place my mind had taken me because it couldn’t deal with the reality of my death?

I doubted any of my work here would stop anything other than a draught under the door.  My grandmother used newspapers in many novel and interesting ways.  She never cared much for the news that was in them.

“Am I dead?”

“That depends on you.  If you don’t fight, then it will be the end, but you will not be coming here.  As I said, you have a job to do, and when you do, here I will be to welcome you.”

“These are all genuine heroes if this is Valhalla.”

“Semantics, but your time is up.  You must go back.”

I opened my eyes and saw three men standing at the end of the bed.

The platoon leader, the camp commandant, and my editor.

The room was in a hospital.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You were shot by a sniper from the other side.  Near killed you.”  My editor, with an undertone of outrage in his tone.

I took a moment to take in what he said, then to realise I was lucky to be alive.  It had been a shot to the head.

“I should not be here.”

“No, but you were lucky.  The bullet missed everything useful, though you might suffer a little amnesia and inbalance from time to time.  We’re glad you survived.  Quite a few didn’t.”

The platoon leader came over and shook my hand, and did the commandant.  Then they left, leaving me with my editor.

It seemed odd that he came all this way out to see me, injured or not.  He sat beside the bed.

“Damn fine piece you wrote.”

“When?”

“After you were shot.  You insisted that they get what you had to say down.  They reckon you being mad as hell was what kept you alive.”

“I don’t remember…”

“Possibly not.  But it’s there down in black and white, and it was enough to precipitate a ceasefire, and you being shot, well, that wasn’t taken lightly.  Stupid men who could have sat down over a glass of wine and simply agreed to share the bounty Mother Earth had granted them all.  It was the clarity that all of them had lost.  The pen truly is mightier than the sword.”

I shook my head.  Where had I heard similar words said?  Somewhere lost in my imagination I guess.

“The war over?

“Yes.  The one person who could stop the madness read your piece and decided to stop supplying weapons if the other side agreed.  Perhaps they might not have listened had you not been shot, but there it is.  You are now in the history books, like it or not.  I just thank God you were working for us.”

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©  Charles Heath  2025