Firing Squad

The punishment for love in a world at war

SHORT STORYUNWAVERING FAITH

Coren McGirr

2/12/20266 min read

Based on a true story.

“Seven bullets and one blank,” I remember hearing once, “Those are the regulations for an eight-man firing squad.”

Seven of the executioners are given live rounds; one receives a blank.

And so, the burden of being killers is lifted from their shoulders by a one in eight chance … sufficient odds for a man to lie to himself.

I close my eyes, and I am surprised.

What did I expect, that extinguishing the light would impede my vision?

A foolish thought.

It was never my eyes that saw.

Now, having closed them, the decaying prison wall is replaced by the horizon.

For a lifetime, I watched the sun rise and set upon this horizon. I always wondered what it would be like to reach it; to stand there at the edge of the earth. Despite my best efforts, the only progress I ever made was in my eyes, deceiving me into thinking I got closer.

I can see better now that they are closed.

What a curious occurrence.

I see myself – standing here.

I see the eight men who stand across from me. They hate me.

I see the two Belgian men behind me slumped over on the ground, motionless.

I see the wall at my back, tattered and torn by bullets that had punched through the condemned who had once stood where I now stand.

Beyond this enclosure, I see a world tattered and torn just like that wall.

I see a war – the Great War, the one to end all wars – that has been raging for over a year now.

I see wounded soldiers bleeding out, British, French, German – my patients.

I open my eyes, and my vision is again reduced to this prison courtyard.

The eight men opposite me have not moved.

Their coats are long.

One of them is just a boy. His right shoulder sinks beneath the weight of his rifle. His left hand is wounded and bound improperly.

Another is old, perhaps my father’s age. I wonder if he has children, if he has lost a son to the war – most have.

The eight men whisper to each other and throw scornful glances at me. If looks could kill, they would save themselves seven bullets and a blank.

One blank because hatred does not guarantee courage, and even cruelty cannot contend with guilt. They call it justice, but do not wish to be the one to carry it out.

One blank for the conscience, seven bullets because their twisted form of justice must be seen through regardless of their hesitation.

Another man enters the grounds.

The metal gate groans as it swings shut behind him.

He holds a ragged strip of cloth in his hand and wears a uniform of high rank.

He marches toward me and asks in a heavy German accent, “You are the nurse Edith Cavell, yes? You stand here at the will of the Deutsches Kaiserreich. For your actions, you have been sentenced to death by…” he pauses, “…by Erschießungskommando.”

A puzzled look passes over his face as he turns to his eight comrades.

“Erschießungskommando, was ist das auf Englisch?”

The old soldier strokes his beard.

My father would do that, too, whenever Mother had a question – especially ones about the Bible. She had a way of asking questions that could stun even a vicar. Father would stroke his beard and then hurriedly disappear into his study. Minutes would pass, sometimes even hours, before he would re-emerge excitedly, clutching several books in his arms.

“Louisa, darling,” he would sing, “you won’t believe the answer I just discovered. It was tricky, but I think I’ve got it.”

Mother would smile as Father flipped through pages, adjusted his eyeglasses, and they both leaned over the Bible.

“Shooting commando?” the bearded soldier wonders questioningly.

Then he looks at me and says, “It is shooting commando, yes? We will bring you death by the shooting commando?”

“Firing squad, yes,” I respond, “And yes, my name is Edith.”

The man beside me nods his head, “Firing squad, this word it is.”

He folds the strip of cloth several times.

I catch a glimpse of the intricate pattern woven on the fabric before the officer walks behind me.

Again, I close my eyes.

I feel the cloth drape over my face and tighten as he knots it behind my head. It smells of pastries and a grandmother’s kitchen.

Once again, my vision improves, and I see far beyond these confines.

I see the perplexed expressions of injured German soldiers as I knelt beside them on the battlefield.

“Why you help me?” they would all stammer once they realized I was British.

I see the gratitude in their faces as I cleaned their wounds.

I see the letters I received from the many British soldiers whom I had helped escape to safety in England.

Some notes were brief, very matter-of-fact. Others told of their mother’s joy and their sister’s laughter, of the comfort of biscuits and warm tea.

I would do it all again. I would do it again and again and again - not for my country, it is not enough to be a patriot. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone … that is the command of my Lord, and that is what I live by and would live by again. A thousand lives I would pledge myself to Him if they all ended with seven bullets lodged in my body.

I see myself again.

The man who bound my blindfold steps away.

I hear his footsteps fade as he mumbles under his breath, “Firing squad, firing squad. This I must remember.”

Again, the metal gate groans.

Silence.

Then the ritual begins. And it cannot be halted. It is executed with military precision and a cruel disdain for the enemy.

Once the first command is given, it is seen through to the end.

Every.

Single.

Time.

“Anlegen!”

If my eyes were not bound, tears would blur my vision. But as it is, I see the soldiers raise their rifles to their shoulders.

“Zielen!”

I feel the heat of eight barrels aimed at my chest.

These tears are neither tears of sorrow nor of fear. I do not fear death.

I would do it all again. I would love my fellow man again and again.

… “Feuer!”

Seven bullets, one blank.

I would do it all again.

This story commemorates the final moments of Edith Cavell.

She served as a nurse in the First World War. She cared for wounded soldiers of her own country as well as those of the enemy forces. She risked her life helping some 200 Allied soldiers escape German-occupied Belgium. She was caught and condemned to death by Imperial Germany. She was executed by firing squad in Brussels on October 12th, 1915.

There are no precise accounts of Edith Cavell’s death. This story is a fictional imagining of the event, based on Edith’s life and values, and the historical circumstances. It is meant to honor her unwavering courage and commitment to loving her neighbor, regardless of the banner beneath which he fought.

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