#20 - Stanislav Petrov

Whenever Mr. Burger had the occasion to tell the story of The Two Islands at War, he always began by explaining how he had first overheard the tale, whispered, presumably as a bedtime story, by an unseen female passenger from behind the drawn curtain of a bunk in the sleeper cabin on an overnight train from Bangkok to one of Thailand’s unpronounceable northern mountain villages, just south of the Burmese border. The unseen whisperer had spoken in the measured tone used to lull children to sleep, and Mr. Burger had imagined a child, eyelids heavy, head resting on a small pillow provided by the cabin’s steward, listening intently as the train swayed and chugged. He, too, had listened; straining to hear from behind the curtain of his own bunk.

“Why were you in Thailand?” People sometimes asked, interrupting Mr. Burger just before he launched into his retelling of The Two Islands at War.

“It was an unplanned trip; spur-of-the-moment sort of thing.” Mr. Burger would answer.

“And the person telling the story, they were speaking English?” Someone else might ask.

“Yes, of course. Thailand is crawling with western tourists, you know.” Mr. Burger would respond. Then he would pause briefly before asking, “Are you certain you aren’t familiar with the story?”

Never once had anyone answered yes, and so, Mr. Burger would begin his telling.

“Once upon a time, there were two islands at war. These were two very small islands, and though they were aware of one another - each could be seen from the shore of the other - neither had knowledge of the outside world. For the story’s sake, we’ll refer to them as the East Island and the West Island.”

“The islands didn’t have names?” A listener would ask.

“Of course they did, but the names have been lost to history, along with the language in which the names were spoken. Besides, what does it matter?” Mr. Burger would say.

“The inhabitants of the islands only knew war. Though, no one living could remember the last time they had engaged in battle. History, as it always does, had mingled with myth, and their myths were fabricated from scraps of forgotten history. Stories of great battles were passed down from generation to generation; elders having heard the tales from their elders, and so on. But none of the inhabitants on either island had ever experienced violent conflict. Their war was cold; downright frigid. The standoff had lasted generations, centuries, possibly millennia. And during that time they had gone without any direct contact with their enemy.”

At this point, a listener would often ask, “There was no trade between the islands? No intermarrying? No shared festivals or religion?”

“No contact of any kind.” Mr. Burger would say. “They lived in absolute fear of one another. Even their fishing boats observed strict lines of demarcation in order to avoid encountering boats from the opposing island.”

“So, the conflict wasn’t rooted in a struggle over resources. They each had their own fishing waters.” A listener would observe.

“Correct. The East Islanders fished the waters to the east, and the West Islanders fished the waters to the west. As far as the inhabitants were concerned, each island owned half of all creation. Why would they need all of creation? They were sensible in that regard, at least.”

Mr. Burger would often smile politely at some point in the telling and remind the listeners that many of the questions they might have regarding The Two Islands at War could not be answered. Upon first overhearing the story, he also had questions, but had missed his opportunity. When he woke on the train the following morning, the bunk opposite his was empty. Somewhere in the night, the whisperer had disembarked. “You see,” He would say, “The only knowledge I hold regarding the two islands is what was communicated in the story. That knowledge, you will soon possess yourself.”  

“As you might imagine, having an enemy so close, even one that hadn’t attacked for a very long time, kept both islands on high alert. As a measure of defense, they kept watch around the clock, each posting sentries along the entire perimeter of their respective islands.

“One night, a young man from the East Island was keeping watch. It was a cloudless night, and the moon and stars were bright in both the sky and upon the surface of the water. This young man found a comfortable place to recline along the shore, and for a short time, watched the waves roll in. Before long, he fell asleep at his post. A few hours passed, and when he finally woke, he was horrified to find an unfamiliar boat approaching the shore near where he had slept.

“The young East Islander was frozen in fear. He knew at once that the approaching vessel was from the West Island. Never before had he been so close to the enemy. For a moment, all he could do was stare in wondrous terror. In the relatively bright moonlight, he was able to see the boat quite well, and gradually, he came to realize that the boat was unmanned. It appeared empty, and there were no oars in the water. It was indeed heading ashore, but in a meandering, unguided manner.”

“Perhaps it was a sort of Trojan Horse?” A listener might interject at this point in the story. Mr. Burger would smile politely and resume.

“When the boat finally drifted ashore, the East Islander approached very cautiously, his spear held high, ready to attack or defend. At his hip, he wore a large conch, tethered to his waist with a rope fashioned from wild grass. He knew he should have blown the conch the moment he saw the boat, alerting the other sentries nearby. For some reason, he chose not to. He investigated the boat alone.”

Mr. Burger would pause, as if the story had ended. He would wait for the listener(s) to fidget uncomfortably before he continued.

“And what do you think he found? An empty boat? No. In the bottom of the boat slept a young man not older than himself. A West Islander, snoring softly in the moonlight on a pile of fishing nets. The West Islander had also fallen asleep on that peaceful evening, and unbeknownst to him, his boat had drifted into East Island waters, and had come to rest on East Island shores.

“As the East Islander watched the West Islander sleep, he wrestled with what to do next. He could kill the young man while he slept, of course. That would be easy enough. Or, he could take the man captive, holding him at spear-point until help arrived. One blow on the conch would bring a swarm of sentries, as well as civilians from the row of huts lining the beachfront. For a long time, he watched the West Islander sleep, and then finally decided on a third option.

“It’s true the East Islander was very frightened by this close encounter with his West Island enemy. But a more powerful impulse controlled his actions in that moment. He was curious. He had never met anyone so foreign, so exotic. Every person he knew had been born and raised on East Island. Though his heart was pounding, and he could barely grip the spear in his hand, he chose not to kill the West Islander, but instead to wake him; to speak to him. He poked the sleeping man with the dull end of his spear.”

“What did he say?” A listener might ask.

“First, he said, ‘Wake up!’ And then he asked ‘Why did you come to our island?’ Of course, the West Islander was speechless for a moment. His mind was still clouded by sleep. Once he realized where he was, he was filled with dread, believing he would be killed. Shaking with fright, he told the truth. ‘I was out fishing. I fell asleep. My boat must have drifted here to your island.’”

“They spoke the same language?”

“I was not there to witness the conversation. I assume so.”

“And did the East Islander believe the young man’s story?”

“Would you have believed his story?” Mr. Burger would ask his audience. “If you suddenly encountered an enemy you had been taught to fear? Would you have believed that he was simply a sleeping fisherman, rather than a spy? Or a scout? Or the first member of an invading army?

“That’s the incredible turn in this story. The East Islander, though he had every reason to distrust the West Islander, chose to believe. Despite his training, his instincts, the myths he had heard, and the fear that he felt, he accepted the man’s word, and allowed him to return to his home on the West Island.

“For days, weeks, years following, the East Islander kept the encounter a secret. He knew that if the leaders of East Island knew he had allowed the West Islander to go free, he would be severely punished, possibly even put to death.”

Here, a listener would ask, “So, no one ever found out?”

“Of course they did. If not, how could I tell you the story today? Eventually, the young man shared his experience; but not until he had become a very old man, and the most respected leader on East Island. At that time, only a few years before his own death, he was able to lead the two islands in forming a treaty. The treaty led to peace and cooperation between the two islands. Eventually, the long war was remembered only in a new set of myths, shared between the inhabitants of both islands.”

When Mr. Burger had finished telling The Two Islands at War, he would laugh happily, and say, “Interesting, isn’t it?”

And then one listener would venture to ask, “But do you really think it’s true? Do you think all that really happened?”

To which Mr. Burger loved to reply, “I believe it’s true, and that it happens every day.” 

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To learn about the real Stanislav Petrov, read the original Wikipedia article HERE.