The Leader, in spite of never having been a soldier, wears the battle fatigues of a Brigadier General as he stands in an enormous, darkened control room. He glances at a bank of video screens with live feeds depicting the maiming and death of thousands of innocent men, women and children. His full attention, however, is held by an enormous screen showing the ever-increasing rolling total of civilian deaths in the cities, towns and villages where he claims thousands of insurgents hide.

Fucking BBC, he thinks. Calling this place a charnel house. Stupidly, I fell right into it. I said you can’t call it a charnel house because there are no bodies. I didn’t appreciate being told they may be numbers to you and your government but they’re real enough for the dead and dying. Then the impertinence of asking me if I’d ever seen a playground full of children’s corpses after a bombardment. I had him thrown out. God, I’m weary of the do-gooders beating their chests whilst shedding monsoons of crocodile tears. Surely everyone knows that in war collateral damage means death. There may be regrettable mistakes but that’s inevitable in aerial bombing campaigns. The reality is that civilian deaths are necessary to show the terrorists that we seek total victory; if they don’t surrender their land and their weapons, more deaths are inevitable. We mean business. Disarm and fuck off. The enemy must realise that the civilian population will come to blame those who claim they are freedom fighters on the side of the oppressed. Bullshit! Who are the oppressed? It’s our land not theirs. Might is might and that’s all there is to it. The accusation that dead children are a blessing because they can’t grow into freedom fighters is a despicable assertion, and it most certainly isn’t ethnic cleansing, nor genocide. Fucking do-gooders. I’d fucking bomb them given half the chance.

As the Leader arrives at the ‘Peace Academy’ he’s met by an honour guard of cadets with automatic rifles at their shoulders. Inside the Academy he basks in the hurrahs of the uniformed ‘Free Youth’ surrounding him as he enters the Great Hall where celebratory Settler flags adorn the walls. Two young, female and male, recruits walk onto the stage and stand next to a grand piano where a pianist waits and say, In honour of your leadership all will now sing our anthem, ‘Might’.

Roar our song of vengeance
As a thousand terrorists, like rats
From their tunnels flee
As God’s bombs fall 
Killing evil from the sky
The world chants its whining call
Innocent civilians must not die
While we reserve our right to fight
For freedom from terror’s hate
Roar our song of vengeance 
Enforcing peace in our state.

In a small village, in a school playground, children no longer play: the few surviving parents from the decimation of the village and its ancient olive groves continue to mourn their children, the loss of hope, and the absence of a future. 

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More
© Phil Cosker 2025
Phil Cosker has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved; no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted by any mean, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.