Peace on Earth

by
G R Parker

 

 

 

 

All we are saying is give peace a chance

John Lennon.

 

Chapter one.

‘Ev’rybody’s talkin’ ‘bout Bagism, Shagism, Dragism, Madism, Tagism, This-ism, that-ism, ism ism ism,’ sang the camo-wearing man as he un-packed his belongings, dancing about as the swags and eskies were duly unloaded.
‘Revolution, Evolution, Masturbation, Flagellation, Regulation, Integrations, mediations, United Nations, congratulations, All we are saying is give peace a chance, all we are saying is gi...’
‘Okay, okay Blue, change the tune, what about something you can actually sing!’ Shouted one of his companions from outside.
Blue quickly increased his volume and continued to mangle John Lennon’s song as he just loved to annoy his good mates and waited for their inevitable reply...which was to turn up the football commentary on the car radio and drown him out.
Once every year, regardless of the weather of circumstances, they would gather at the old farm. Staying at the property owner’s pleasure, they were always welcome, as he had crops to think about and the fewer animals there were trampling across them, the better.
The house was an old one, built in the nineteen twenties, and falling apart with a shambling splendour that only endeared it to the present inhabitants, after all- the mess kept their wives away and that was really the point of the whole exercise.
Not that they did not love the wives and children, it was just that... men needed a place to go and be men, where they could drink beer, behave badly and shoot animals...
lots of animals.
Packing everything (and a bit more) that they needed for five days, they would set off early in the morning to arrive just before dusk and the first hunt. Rifles unpacked and food stowed in cold boxes, they watched as the day began to end.
The veranda was worn with holes in the wooden floor that you could look through to the dirt below, these were convenient for bottle caps, and the shiny metal middens below each hole betrayed the previous existence of many a bottle of beer. No-one of course would ever clear away the rubbish, as crawling under the house was a suicide mission, everybody knew that...there were snakes and spiders, even scorpions under there, and it was an unwritten rule that sent none of them to investigate whether there actually were any nasties lying in wait.
All four of them had experienced some kind of run in with a snake, from a shiny glimpse as the serpent made a hasty retreat, to a full on attack from an angry one that was not happy to be woken up or just defending its territory.
Even though they were protected, out here it was man vs. snake, and man with a cane knife or a shotgun usually won.
Snakes were the topic of conversation at that moment, as the four men often found a large python lodging in the house feeding itself up on mice and the occasional rat. Pythons they could handle and the resident snake usually beat a hasty retreat across the paddock and down a rabbit hole when the men showed up.
There was a mutual respect for pest controlling that kept them from hassling the large reptile, as long as he did not return whilst they were in residence that was alright.
The men considered themselves to be pest controllers and took great pride in telling anyone who turned their noses up at the fact that they were shooters.
These people should expect to pay more for a loaf of bread in the future, as wild animals eating farmer’s crops would cause this to happen and they were the regulators that did a valuable job.
Or... so they thought as a good way to justify killing small furry creatures at will... even if they had to search for them at length.

As the afternoon drifted into early evening, the distinctive smell of cigar smoke hung in the air whilst the hunters started to prepare for the evening’s work. Only one of them remained in his camp chair puffing away on a Cuban and enjoying another beverage as the others checked ammunition, spotlights and unnecessary army clothing.
He was the chosen driver and would not be handling any weapons that night, not such a boring job, as the football broadcast on the crackly radio and a grandstand view of whatever was being shot provided ample entertainment, also he had a cold box with beer right next to him on the passenger seat...what more would he need?
In a moment of rare contemplation, he looked closely at the surroundings and wondered how many other people had sat just where he was now, and how many of them were at peace as much as he was. It seemed that everything in his life was good, no matter what the usual work related problems were, they could all be dealt with, and along with his never ending money worries... well they would not kill me, so why worry, he thought.
Yes, this was the place where he could re-set his mind and come to terms with everything in the universe...everything was just fine,
Just fine.
Broken from his meditation by unruly shouts from the vehicle parked next to the house, he guessed they had finished fannying around and were ready to hunt, good
but not so good for a reason he could not quite put his finger on,
What was that?

Mike felt the vibration creep up through his boots as David started the Ute’s motor. This was one of his favourite moments of any trip, when they set off on the first hunt.
There was no moon and the first keen stars poked through the pink and orange sky to summon the dark night, it was always a dark night out here when there was no moon, or a slithered crescent one as tonight’s was expected to be.
As they pulled out onto the track, he looked back at the silhouette of the old shearer’s quarters and took in a deep breath, it was one of his most favourite sights, the crooked roof and leaning washing line, black against the orange late sunset, a show put on every night, but tonight it was all for him.
Blue switched on the spotlight and swept it across the paddock as the startled cows stared straight back into the beam. It was good that they were penned up in the house paddock, well away from the action.
Smithy commented on the fact that cows were stupid and probably would still be wondering what that light was when the shooting party returned some hours later.
As they turned the corner onto the main farm road that would take them to the other side of the property, Dave turned up the music, the traditional blasting out of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Whole lotta love’ that would serenade them along the dusty track. As they drove to the two kilometres of gravel road, Mike held his gun to his chest, felt the warm wind on his face and took in the familiar smells...Cow manure and exhaust fumes,
perfect.
They stopped at the first gate and switched off the motor and all of the lights. The silence was total and complete, not a creature made a sound, and the only slight noise came from the creak of springs in the back as Smithy turned around to relieve himself over the side.
Mike took in the immenseness of the uninterrupted view of outer space that he now had. He tried to contemplate the fact that each pinpoint of light was a star, and it made him feel very small and insignificant, a tiny speck with no real rationale...or did he have an important thing to do?
He felt a change come across his mind, something strange just happened, but he could not put his finger on it.
Something was different.
Something good perhaps?
He stood still and thought about that until Smithy broke the mood with a loud fart that caused everyone to get back to the business at hand.
Blue pointed the thin but intense spotlight beam at the tangled paddock whilst Smithy breathed into his Fox caller. A mournful yet quiet wail crept out into the night.
Almost instantly a set of eyes blinked in the spotlight’s beam and started to move closer. Smithy put down the caller and picked up his rifle, as did Mike, almost simultaneously chambering rounds and adjusting their eyes to the rifle’s scopes.
‘Me first,’ Mike whispered as both men took aim.
The Fox strode out from behind a clump of Spinifex grass, curious of the light and wary, but driven by the sound of a wounded rabbit that it could not resist. Mike held his 30-30 rifle steady as he slipped his finger onto the trigger and pressed off the safety button.
The cross-hairs sat on the animal’s shoulder bisecting the top of its leg and rig cage, the bronze-red fur seemed to shine in the reflected light as Mike started to think again.
He thought about his right to take the life of this magnificent creature and why he should or should not pull the trigger. He felt an ambivalence that was impossible to ignore and slowly removed his finger from the trigger.
The Fox stood perfectly still as if it knew it was safe from harm whilst Mike waited for the inevitable shot that would come from Smithy’s weapon, if you did not take a shot within a certain time, it was fair game for the next man.
Mike waited and felt a knot in his stomach, as he really did not want the animal to die now, so much so, he turned to the other man and reached out to stop the shot.
But there was no need.
The other man was looking back at him and smiling.
No protest came from him or any of the others in that moment, and when they looked around the Fox was gone. This caused them to laugh out loud, and they spent the rest of the evening listening to the football and deciding to photograph animals instead of killing them in the future.

At the same time half a world away, a group of Sudanese men were being herded into a village by a pack of loyalist militia who earlier caught them trying to escape to the Libyan border.
The leader ordered his men to empty the village and march everyone out to a dried up riverbed nearby.
Nearly forty men, women and children stood weeping and shaking as the militia leader ordered his men to make sure they had full magazines on the AK-47 rifles that they carried.
Walking along the lines of assembled people he repeatedly shouted that anyone who tried to leave the country would be shot and left to rot, traitors were not going to escape with their lives and it was indeed his job to find anyone who chose to become one and swiftly end their lives.
As he marched backwards and forwards, his voice seemed to waiver and he lost his train of thought for a moment. Shaking his head, he stepped behind his men and told them to raise their weapons ready to fire.
The men waited for the order, but it never came as the leader turned his back and walked away in the direction of his land cruiser.
All of the soldiers lowered their weapons as one and backed away.
The people stood for a second and then ran as if their lives depended on it in every direction.

Meanwhile, at an abattoir just outside Boise, Idaho, several sheep were being herded into a narrow chute. They were nervous as they instinctively knew exactly where they were headed.
Headed to their deaths.
The strangled cries of their predecessors told them enough about what was going to happen.
They knew.
As the first animal reached the opening at the end of the chute, a man in a blood-stained apron grabbed it and it started to struggle backwards, but it could not move as its fellow sheep blocked the way, causing it to writhe about with the smell of fresh blood in its nostrils.
The man clamped something metal on its head and blackness took it, before he dragged the lifeless body across to another man who strung it up and began to cut the unfortunate animal’s throat.
As the blood cascaded onto the metal grid below, the man stared in horror, dropping his knife and backing away toward his companion who had also stopped restraining the next sheep and was allowing it to run unheeded around whilst he gazed at the electric stunner that he held in his hand.