The Savages Below

April 22nd, 2016

Awake Goy

Though justice is a constant, the forms of punishment are innumerable. Case in point: While living in Greece, waiting months for a manuscript to arrive from the U.S., I spent several days watching ants at work. Curious little communists. They came spilling out of a crack on our veranda about dawn, set for a day of looting and plundering. Although their “run” was along a wall, scouts would fan out over the marble floor, seeking anything edible, animal or vegetable, living or dead. And after one of my many fly sorties during the day, the spoils were never wanting.

Probably only one fly in ten escaped my swatter after I drew down on it. And of those who were hit, maybe one in twenty tumbled to the deck just wounded. Better for them to have been slain outright or never spawned in the first place for the odds were slim indeed down below. Ants were waiting and there is no pity in the heart of an ant.

When an ant scout bumps into a wounded fly, he does one of two things: 1) He accelerates, runs in a crazy jigsaw pattern and leaves, or 2) he moves to the attack. Actually, this attack is nothing more than a suicide attempt to chomp onto the prey’s leg, hang on tight, then hope for reinforcements. The wounded fly, meanwhile, seems terrorized by the sudden assault. A violent shudder jolts its body. If the wings are still in order, it buzzes furiously. If the legs work, the fly runs, limps or crawls. Should the victim escape this first lunge, the tiny ant runs in a feverish, blind pattern trying to relocate the leg. Usually he does.

At first, it was amusing to watch the lopsided affair for the size ratio of the fly to the ant was about ten to one. And the little brutes don’t seem to be aware of the disparity, but attack with the mindless determination of a terrier to a bull. If the ant latches on, sometimes the fly will run off with his assailant bouncing and banging at leg’s end. Often, a startled fly can fling an ant three or four inches away with a blur of leg flicks. But usually the little ant hangs on like a vise, though he takes one terrible pounding in the process.

At length, maybe in a minute, maybe in an hour, a second scout stumbles upon the scene. At this point the fly really becomes panic-stricken. He goes through the same efforts as before but he is tiring and the odds of escape diminish. Latching on to an opposite leg or even the head, the second aids the first and together the little hyenas begin jerking and tugging the giant beast to earth. It seems to go quicker from here on out for invariably, as if guided by blood scent, a third comrade enters the fray. Then comes a fourth and fifth. After the sixth ant, the fly is as good as got. There never seems to be more than ten ants to a fly; as though they instinctively know that any more than this would just get in the way. Although the struggling continues mightily, and occasionally, in a burst of fear and desperation, the fly gallops away with three or four ants dangling from his limbs, the issue is settled.

Finally, as the trembling fly is slowly but surely held down, a “mechanic” makes his appearance. This ant is normal in body size, but its head is a rusty color and much larger than the others. He also has a tremendous set of jaws. Patiently, and with cool deliberation, the mechanic goes to work, first on one side, then the other, casually working under, over and around the holders, trying to locate the choice cutting zones. In fifteen or twenty minutes he has dismembered the prey until only a black trunk with stubs remain. At this point, the ants begin lugging their prize back to the cave.

Staring down the length of an ant caravan from floor level looks like of a tiny Egyptian procession, for waving a fraction above the surface is a piece of wing, a leg, a wing, a foreleg, and so on. Occasionally, an ant carried a bit of body or eye that was accidentally whacked off. Following the cavalcade comes four or five bearers dragging the living corpse. Killing the fly outright never seemed to be in the program. Just immobilization. My theory is that the little fiends intentionally keep the fly alive so that the flesh doesn’t rot or harden on the journey home. And thus, back at the ranch, the murderous horde can dine on fresh game at their leisure.

Of course, by now the exhausted fly is insane with pain and fear–shudders, spasms, leg stubs twitching in frantic, impotent bursts. It doesn’t take much imagination or a microscope to see the hundreds of rolling white eyes of the victim; nor does it take a tiny microphone to pick up the agonizing screams for mercy and a quick death. But the pitiless ants could care less. Such a hideous end—eaten alive one mouthful at a time!

Ants are really like tiny wolves, bringing down anything they set their collective mind to. Even wolves have feelings, however, and are careful lest pain and injury should occur. Ants seem afraid of nothing and never back off. I’m also sure that could we see their faces, we’d never see an ant pant. Like robots-–-fearless, tireless and utterly, utterly ruthless.

Postscript: Since Greece seems to be the matrix from which all the flies of the world are spawned, then sent flying out into the world to plague every living thing that walks, creeps, and crawls over the face of the earth, I found this graffiti fitting inside a toilet stall at the fly-infested Athens airport: