Macbeth was the soldier’s nickname; he got it from his corporal, a stagehand in civilian life. Ever under heavy fire in skirmishes and long battles, Macbeth would always come out unscathed. “No man born of a woman can harm you,” the corporal would tell him. “You really are Macbeth.”
Later that morning the lieutenant sent them out in the forest. Last thing to do, round up the scattered losers. Those poor bastards, they don’t even know the war’s over.
First, Macbeth found a rusty gun in the mud and then a torn knapsack. Finally he saw the enemy soldier, sitting at the stream apparently washing his feet. Macbeth pointed his carbine at him. “The war is over, you’re my prisoner now!”
The POW nodded. “Congratulations. Please hand me the towel. You’re standing on it.”
Macbeth screamed, “Quit the monkey business! Get it in your thick head, it’s over. The armistice was signed a couple days ago. The peace conference is underway. They predict it’s gonna take but a few days. Again, the war is over. We won, you lost.”
The POW shrugged. “No, brother man. They won. Me and you lost. We always do. Get it into your thick head, it’s gonna take us at least two decades to rebuild the world. Toil and trouble, as usual. And then they’ll get busy thinking up a new hurly-burly.”
Macbeth lowered his carbine. He handed the POW the towel, walked back on the hill and pulled the gun out of the mud. He threw it in the stream. “You ain’t gonna need this anymore. Put on your boots, let’s go.”
He took the bullets out of his own rifle, and they began trudging toward peace.