Remembrance Day

The first piece of prose is a story I wrote a while ago. I have been editing it this morning. The inspiration is from my uncle. He was seventeen when he signed up to join the army. In the first and second world war, all they wanted was soldiers. He survived, and his memories were clear.

My dad was a paratrooper in the second world war. I used to sit on the floor, listening to his stories. I remember asking him – did you kill a man, Dad? His answer was simple. We were shooting each other; it was war. My father-in-law was in the Green Howards. Both brave men, with no choice but to fight for their country.

When he was watching his friends march past the cenotaph, there was a quietness behind his eyes. Something like that never leaves you. My dad died when I was seventeen, my father-in-law when I was twenty-seven. It is why I watch the march past every year – in their honour.

War is senseless; it solves nothing. Those who continue to lose their lives, from both sides, have families, children and homes they want to go back to. There isn’t an easy way to stop it from happening.

A Moment in Time

I sit there and stare at the red sky, so many thoughts travelling around my head. It fills the surrounding air with a stench that is invading my tarnished uniform. Gas burns my skin. I fumble in my top pocket for my last cigarette, which I have saved for this auspicious occasion. The boy next to me stares back with haunted eyes mirroring my own. Young bloke. Reminds me of my little brother at home.

‘You okay, mate?’ I ask, a wry smile on my lips.

He points to his boots, caked with mud. ‘My feet won’t warm up.’

I nod; my feet are so cold and damp, my toes continually hurt. It’s the winter chill and the rain, nothing but bloody rain.

I carefully pull my match and strike. A tiny flame in the darkness.

‘Put that light out!’

The palm of my hand snuffs out the light just after the sparks hit my roll up.

‘Nothing like it.’ Inhaling the mind numbing smoke gives me hope. ‘I know I shouldn’t.’

The young soldier understands. We all do eventually.

He stares longingly at the stub and I hand him the rest to finish.

‘Thanks mate,’ he says, taking it in his trembling hands.

He gives a sigh of pure happiness and the last of it plops into the the infested water.

Taking a picture from his uniform pocket, he reveals it to me. Pretty young thing, she is. A mop of auburn hair, just like in the movies.

‘Your sweetheart?’

For the first time, I see a faint glimmer of a grin. Love in his haggard eyes. ‘Lily, like the beautiful flower she is. We’re going to get married next year.’

I share my wife’s picture. ‘This is Edna and my son, James. We’re going to have such a party at Christmas. Even with the rations, I will get my son an orange. He will love that.’

Not sure I believe it? Not sure he does? Makes us feel better, though.

A gunshot shatters the silence.

‘I want to go home,’ he says.

He looks so scared; this young boy, too young to vote, but old enough to fight; Old enough to die. 

I don’t talk about the men screaming in the mud, don’t want to think about it. Nothing I could say could help him. We both know the score. Even the revelry in the morning and there is less of us to care.

‘I’ll watch out for you, mate.’ I mean it. In that moment, I mean it.

He was trying not to cry as the captain is bellowing out his orders. Seconds now, I try not to contemplate what is laying in store for us. I give my new mate the thumbs up.

‘Good luck.’

It is impossible see through the peasouper of smog. The silence rips my soul. I grip on to the ladder, fixing my feet to the spot. If the wind is in the right direction death looms over all of us like the grim reaper.

‘Move it!’ the captain orders.

I’m not allowed to refuse. Whatever I do, it will end up with the same result and that dreaded telegram being given to my wife. 

As I take each step towards the top of the trench, I try to think of a happy memory. My little boy running towards me, arms outstretched, and it is him I can see as I go over the top. 

Crimson Fields

Like a blanket of love,

Protecting the fallen,

Sheltering the brave,

Tending the graves,

of the brave young men,

Who had no choice,

To where their lives led

Now under a bed,

Of Poppies.