Bell Mice

The spindrift of the sandy waves rolled across the sun-kissed plain and billowed high into the bright sky. A metal beast opened up, spilling forth hurried soldiers, fresh and hungry for action. Shouts, the grinding of tracks and the clicking of guns made up the melody of war to which the Private trotted to, his boots too small for him and his camouflage jacket too big. He joined his huddled peers and saw that their faces mirrored how he felt; a strange mixture of apprehension with the unmistakable tingle of excitement. The Private fumbled with his rifle and looked around. The rapid thump in his chest jumped up a notch yet the corners of his mouth curled. The tall and burly Sergeant stood ahead of him, a powerful figure that dominated the view of every young soldier present.1

“I can’t believe he’s coming with us,” one of the Private’s comrades muttered after realising that every gaze was fixed on the looming statue.2

“Maybe we will see him in action… what are we going to tell the guys back at camp?” The Private responded.3

“You’ve heard the stories, right?” One soldier asked in hushed tones, breaking his stare and drawing their heads closer together, “You must have. They say he saved two children from a burning building and ran three miles through enemy lines, the kids on his back, just to get them to safety. And that’s only one of the stories.”4

“I don’t know… well, I mean, look at him, he’s obviously a battle-hardened machine, but… three miles?” Another soldier reasoned.5

“He did it, I bet he did,” The Private found himself saying, and then felt his cheeks burn.6

“Oh yeah? Ok, then, prove it - go and ask him if the stories are true.”7

There was a ruckus of approval before the Sergeant’s harsh tones cut across the noise, yelling for the troop to move out. The Private picked his way through the groups of marching soldiers until he was near the solitary figure. Through the haze he could see the shimmering image of a village growing nearer. Ever since the Private had joined the army he had been in awe of the Sergeant. The man was a legend in the ranks; an idol whose mention lit up the evenings in the barracks with tales of heroism. He had never spoken to him, there were many times when he tried to but backed out at the last moment, but now he had the quiet jeers of his peers whispering from behind. He swallowed hard, shouldered his rifle, and stepped up along side of him.8

“Sergeant?” His voice came out in a mousy whimper.9

“Yes, Private?” The booming voice responded. Steel grey eyes swallowed him in an unblinking gaze. The Private tried to speak but felt like his throat was knotted. Eventually the uncomfortable silence forced him to speak.10

“It is an honour to serve with you, sir,” he mumbled.11

“Why is that, son?”12

“Well… the stories, sir. People talk about you all the time. Some of the things they say are incredible, I mean, I don’t know if they are true, but maybe there is some truth in them, right?” He blurted.13

“Stories are just stories, kid,” his voice had a surprising soft side.14

“Oh.”15

“When you have been around as long as I have, they come out of the woodwork. They keep the troops inspired. Tell me, son, don’t you secretly wish people were passing words about your bravery over a bottle of whiskey?” The Sergeant asked. The private shook his head.16

“I just want to do what you do, sir. I am going to do my duty – I am going to serve until the job is done,” he declared. He felt like he was six again, standing up in front of the class talking about what he wanted to do when he grew up. The Sergeant surprised him with a brief laugh.17

“Wrong, son. As soon as my tour is over, I am out of here for good. I am going to get myself a quiet corner of the country and settle down. I don’t suppose you thought you would hear that, did you?”18

The Private felt a wave of disappointment flood his stomach. He had expected a compliment for his patriotic promise of self-sacrifice or a lengthy lecture detailing the importance of commitment. Instead, the Sergeant, a living legend, was planning to leave the forces forever. Even the boys back at military school had more grit than that. His mind wandered, he was confused, and for a moment he lost track of where he was. The crackle of gun-fire snapped him back to the plains, and he saw the village directly ahead of him. It was close now, if he wanted questions answered, he may not get another chance.19

“Why, sir? Why would you want to leave the army after everything you’ve done?” He asked. A smile fractured the seemingly impenetrable harshness of the Sergeant’s face. 20

“Kid, have you ever heard the fable ‘The Mice in Council’?”21

“No, Sergeant,” The Private said, shaking his head. He was unsure how a fairy tale had any importance in a war-stricken desert.22

“I’ll tell you it. Long ago, all the mice had a meeting to discuss their common enemy; the cat. They wished to outwit the cunning creature, once and for all. Many hours were spent arguing about the best way to do it until finally one young mouse had the courage to speak up. He said, ‘I think we can agree that our main problem is the sneaky manner by which our enemy approaches us. If it was possible for us to hear the cat when it is near, we would have the time to escape to safety. I propose that a bell should be attached to the cat’s neck, so that we will always know when our predator is nearby’,” the Sergeant explained. The Private listened intently as the troops skirted the dusty village. Gun-fire was loud and frightening, and the soldiers quickly organised themselves, designated men taking the front and behind, leaving the storyteller and his listener sandwiched in the middle.23

“The proposal was met by so much approval that every mouse applauded. All except one. When the ruckus died down, this old mouse stood up. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘That is all very well, but who will be the one to bell the cat?’ None of the mice knew quite what to say. Then the old mouse simply said; ‘It is too easy to propose an impossible remedy when he who gives the solution is the furthest from danger’. There is my reason, Private.”24

The Private glanced up at the Sergeant in expectation, but realised he was not going to receive an explanation. He wondered what it meant, but before he could ask his heart nearly leapt into his mouth. The crash of explosives and rattle of bullets exploded into the air, and the Private threw himself down to the ground alongside the Sergeant. Enemy soldiers crawled over the buildings ahead like locusts, muzzles flashing and commands roaring. The private was frozen, his wavering rifle pressed into his cheek, naïve dreams of heroism draining away. Desperate, he cried out to his superior.25

“What do I do!” The Sergeant turned to him; his face was calm even though golden streaks hissed over his head.26

“Bell the cat, son. You’ve got to bell the cat,” he said. Then he was up in a flash, flinging himself into the fiery face of danger, leaving the bewildered Private behind to consider the monstrous task of war. As shaking hands gripped his rifle and understanding washed over him, he wondered how many of these mice would ever get to hear the bell.27