I had not been away very long, and yet my body trembled with
a great sense of loss. The trenches have
that effect, or so I am told, and after all that I have observed in a short
period of time, so I believe. Each shell
landing with immense power, each whistle that sounds the charge, each bullet
whizzing by your helpless frame reminds you exactly how mortal you are. Death is an ever present shadow; every stone
you left unturned before arriving in the battle torn wasteland and every dream
you yet hope to fulfill becomes an obsession in the trenches.
This
maelstrom of anxiety has prompted me to record my ruminations about the past,
the present, and the future. I hope,
perhaps in vain, that words can bring peace to my soul; a peace that is absent
in a world of wanton violence and destruction.
My soul…what
is that? I once thought it to be a thing of great importance, central to the
progression of all life. I once
believed that God had great things in store for me, that his mighty hands had
placed me in this exact place and this exact time for an exact purpose. But that now seemed the distant past, and
eternity even, when the naïve hopes of a boy collided with the stark reality of
manhood. They tell you that more years
bring more wisdom…I do not know whether this is true, but they do not bring
more optimism. Any wisdom I have gained
has taught me that life is cruel, an illusion without end, a bleak,
manipulative, horrifying prospect.
A slight
drizzle brings me away from these incessant and forlorn contemplations. It seems that rain is invariably connected to
the trench…even when moisture does not fall on us from above, the dreariness
that precludes and exists within a storm is ever present. The drizzle bangs against my helmet like a battle
drum, constantly reminding my comrades and I of our desperate and gloomy
circumstances.
The rain
itself is not the worst part of a storm, at least in a soldier’s eyes. It is the pool of mud it creates. Mud is one of the most dogged foes of those
who dwell in the trench. It drowns us,
consumes us, and leaves its stains to scar us.
When the charge sounds, it is mud that hampers our movement, and with
one ill move, brings us to the ground never to escape its grimy confines. There were no tombs here to inter the noble
souls who died doing this woesome work, mud was our only grave, our shroud
between this world and the next.
This was not
my hope for a journal, what a pathetic attempt this is? I hoped that by writing
down my feelings I could find some source of illumination in the darkness…some
enduring kernel of truth. Instead, I
fill these pages with the complaints of a wounded soul…the whining of a weak
wanderer. What use does this have to me
or anyone else?
I sit
straight up, hoping that by adjusting my position I can also shift my frame of
mind. But sitting straight up is a
dismal process in a rain soaked trench, the slosh of the mud quickly brings you
back down to your previous position. Perhaps
the most frequent battle a soldier wages is to ever find a comfortable niche in
his drab surroundings.
Come to
think of it, had I ever been in a comfortable position before. I remember months ago, it seems like years,
waking up in to the cool, crisp morning air in a feathered bed with satin
sheets. Surely that was comfortable? But
I remember my psyche during this period and all physical peace seems to be
dwarfed by the feelings of anxiety that engulfed me. I look at the previous morning’s paper, the
overbearing headline “WAR FINDS EUROPE” readily visible at its top. The frantic thoughts that raced across my
mind come back to me in a flood, like guilt rushes over its victim before
confession. More than anything, I
remember the vague sense of horror this headline produced. War had found Europe, would it find me?
It should not have come as that great of a shock, world events had pointed to a cataclysmic
outbreak of some kind, but that morning’s headline caught me much like the
sound of an exploding shell in the trenches, though I knew it was coming I
could not prepare for the sonorous sound of its arrival.
If this
dribble is ever in fact perused, please understand one thing from the
beginning. I am a coward. My response to any uncomfortable thought is
to run away from it, to escape, to find solace in some distant fantasy. Upon
reading this headline, a deep wave of patriotism did not fall over me. I did not take action and run to the nearest enlistment
station to declare my unwavering support.
I did not, in fact, do anything except retreat back into the comfort of
my satin sheets. You may wonder how I
ended up in a trench, 200 yards from an enemy prepared to bring about my
death. I often wonder that myself. Like most cowards, running away from what I
dreaded brought me right where I didn’t want to be. I chose not to control events in my life, and
by doing so, I let them control me. Like
Jonah, I tried to escape from any sense of duty, but found myself whale deep in
it.
I come from
a distinguished family, one that had a propensity to stand up against injustice
and fight for what they had believed in over centuries. My mother often told me the story of one of
our distant ancestors of valor who stoically awaited his death on the shores of
England at the hands of the Spanish Armada, and as his reward, found salvation
in the Provident Wind. I never really
found out about the validity of this story, but the moral my mother sought to
leave me with has been ingrained in my mind ever since, my own personal scarlet
letter. “Even in times of hopelessness,
God rewards the brave and faithful.”
I adore my
parents. Many of my thoughts are
directed towards them during these desperate times. But perhaps my unbinding love for them is the
base of my never ending guilt for being an ugly duckling, the son who could
never live up to their well-founded but misguided expectations. If I did not love or respect them, that means
I would not love and respect all that they stood for, which in my mind, was
everything beautiful. If I did not love
them, I could say that my not being courageous or penitent in the face of
danger was simply a product of a rebellion against two trite figures. But I do love them, and thus must be
confronted with everlasting shame that I did not embrace the values they sought
to distill upon me.
I remember
the shouts of my brothers after retreating back under the covers, pulling me
back into reality. I was only 16, my
brothers were all older, like the rest of the country, were eager to be
consumed by the fire of patriotism. I
loved my country as well, or at least thought I did, but unlike them, I
remained unfettered by the passion that had seemingly consumed the nation like
a tsunami. I would like to say it was
because I was a pacifist; that my lack of jingoistic joy was principle founded;
that I was taking a stand against violence.
My lack of enthusiasm for war, however, was more a product of my lack of
enthusiasm for taking a stand in general.
Here was my chance to measure up, to put behind me the adolescent years
marked by indifference and apathy, but I responded by not responding.
Eventually,
I muddled my way out of bed and towards the breakfast table. As with all large families, especially those
with a wealth of testosterone, meals seemed to be a battle in themselves—although
the use of that term makes me cringe knowing what I do now. Because I had arrived late, I had lost this
battle before it had even started…the prospects for a filling breakfast
vanished almost as quickly as my hopes that my entrance would go unnoticed.
“Have you
heard the news yet?” My father asked with a pinch of pride and excitement in
his voice.
“How could I
not?” was my quick response “trying to sleep in this morning was like trying to
take a nap at the Exchange.”
“Ah, come
off it, sleeping can be done anytime! Now is the time for celebration!”
Remarked my eldest brother jubilantly.
“Yes, and I
wanted to celebrate with breakfast”
“Well, leave
it to you to spoil the excitement with your doom and gloom,” was his matter of
fact retort.
Looking
back, these mornings all seemed to pass in the same perfunctory haze. The only thing that changed was the raucous
crowd that welcomed me into the world, or at times, patronized me into
participating in it. One by one, my
elder brothers were called off to war crops in a field being picked for
harvest. This once great nation had
indeed been harvested, my eldest brother has sense passed performing a duty
that he had once entreated me to celebrate.
How many more brothers, sons, husbands had passed during the course of
this “great” war. Yes, the men of this
country had been harvested…and for what purpose?
Eight months
after I awoke to find the world embroiled in conflict, it was my turn to offer
service to my country, an opportunity I sought every opportunity to avoid. “You will make such a great soldier,” my
mother would often remark, “you look like one even now.” Perhaps I did, but I did not feel like
one. I was a scholar. My family and friends encouraged me
incessantly to volunteer like my friends and brothers had before. The reality of war may have begun to hit the
mainland, but my country was still possessed by a jingoist fever. “Dulce et decorum est. Tis sweet and meet to die for one’s country.”
There was
nothing sweet about these trenches. I
looked around at my compatriots trapped in the tunnels like I. One was reading in his bible. I often admired this man. He was brave in the face of combat, and I had
once seen him risk his life to carry a fellow soldier to safety. He seemed to be able to look death in the eye
and mark him as his equal. The pages of
his bible had been folded and refolded to mark what I assumed to be passages of
import and its outside was caked in mud like almost all of a soldiers
possessions. He flipped frantically
through the pages, I almost asked him what he was searching for, but decided
not to disturb his study. I wonder how
he can even read in what had now become a downpour? Maybe he can’t, maybe the
mere idea of examining words of solace was enough to calm an anguished
soul.
Other
soldiers were engaged in traditional downtime activities. Often the recruitment posters make a soldiers
life out as exciting and glamorous, but what they don’t tell you is that you
spend more time combating boredom than the enemy on the other side of the
trench. The important caveat being that
boredom could not kill you of course, or at least we all hoped not.
My life
before the war was not an exciting one of incessant activity either. Preoccupied with my studies, I did not
participate in many of the enterprises of my peers. Honestly, the thought of interacting with a
group of unknown people at a social gathering terrified me almost as much as
the prospect of death. I had a few close
friends and that was enough. I wonder
where they are now?
Invariably,
thoughts of my friends brought my mind exactly to a point I wanted to
avoid. Or did I? I realized I still had
her letter in the front pocket of my coat, why hadn’t I thrown it away? Perhaps
having this paltry possession from her made me oblivious to the fact that it
was over, that I would never embrace her again like I had hoped.
I met her at
a dance; what our French allies would call a soirée. How I arrived there remains a mystery to me,
much like how I have arrived here in the trench. A hermit lives a complicated life, one much
more difficult than most realize. He
constantly avoids attention and interaction, and yet in his deepest part of his
soul, these two things are what he craves the most. It is the inability, or the fear of achieving
these comforts that prompt him to retreat from the world.
I often
wonder why they still held dances while men were fighting and dying across the
Channel. It is remarkable to me that the
times when humanity tries hardest to pretend that life can continue on its
regular pace are the exact points at which it has been irrevocably
altered. Regardless, there I stood,
anxiously looking around for an opportunity of escape. I found it, and quickly retreated from the
terrace to a bench just outside. I sat
there for many minutes, perhaps hours, when a figure approached and sat to my
right.
“Well this
is a strange place to spend a party? Peaceful though, I’ll give you that!” She
exclaimed boldy.
“Ha, peace
is the only thing I crave at the moment.”
“You came to
the wrong place then”
“I live in
the wrong place at the wrong time,” I thought to myself.
Clearly, she
expected me to make some attempt at conversation like many of her admirers
would have. She was beautiful to be
sure, but that made the prospect of carrying on a conversation with her all the
more difficult. I quickly looked away
from her and turned my gaze pensively to the distance.
A few
moments passed before—to my horror—she began talking again. Rather, I should say to my awe, because I
soon discovered her words to be of such a crystalline character and her entire
persona of such a radiance, that I started to consider myself Adam gazing upon
Eve, realizing his full human potential for the first time. Realizing it but not able to see it fulfilled. I just listened, I did not say a word—not because
I did not want to, but because like Prufrock, I did not dare. Ironically, perhaps it was this trait of
silence that differentiated me from the other fish in the proverbial sea. Soon we began swimming through life together,
and for perhaps the first time, I felt truly at peaceful—truly
blissful—truly hopeful.
In her I
found my constant. Often unable to
confide in those closest to me about the most trivial of matters, I found that
I could pour out the entirety of my soul and this most beautiful of vessels
would receive it with care. I could
trust her. I even told her about my
fears of serving in the war, to which she often said with a sly smile, “you
getting shot, mangled, or gassed does not suit me very well either.” And so I passed a few months oblivious to the
chaos of the outside world. Too short.
As I
previously mentioned in this account, my brother passed in the service of his
country. Rather than feeling disdain
towards an event that had taken their firstborn away from them, my parents
increased their recruitment efforts tenfold.
There was something to be admired in this. In the face of such terror and overwhelming
grief they responded with hope and courage.
Why was I not more like them? This
guilt, mingled with the misguided idea of avenging my brother’s death, prompted
me to enlist shortly thereafter.
Misguided, I say, because I would never confront his true killer. How can you confront an idea?
I met with
my beloved the night before I was to embark.
It remains the greatest night of my life. Amidst the sorrow, the worry, the sense of
the unknown, I gazed into her eyes and saw an immovable beacon, my Ruth, and as
I brought her letter out of my pocket, my Guinevere. It had only been 5 short months from that
night, that glorious twilight eve, when made promises that two young
souls—destined to be separated—should never solemnize. Perhaps I always knew that she would not, or
could not, wait for me, but words cannot describe the unbearable pain that
coursed through my soul to open up a much anticipated letter and find it
commencing with the words, “I am to be married.” I know not what the rest of the post said,
perhaps some angelic words entreating my forgiveness. I had forgiven her—immediately in fact—but I
could not forgive myself for being in a place that left me buried in mud rather
than in her loving embrace.
A shell
announced its arrival with a shrill shriek, like a Banshee announcing her
arrival to its involuntary victim, and I was immediately brought back to my
current circumstances. Usually artillery
fire preceded or coincided with an enemy’s charge, was this the case now or was
the enemy simply testing our defenses?
My question
was answered almost immediately as it was conceived, it was indeed preparation
for an attack—one that should be easily repelled. I say easily with some trepidation because
this will, no doubt, engender confidence in our commanders and perhaps prompt
them to sound a counter attack. I only
have a few minutes left as the charge was just repelled. As the enemy began its charge, I moved to my
position at our trenches precipice and prepared, like my compatriots, to bring
about the work of death. I began firing
frantically at the enemy. The scene was
a cacophonous symphony of fatality.
Gunfire, artillery, bold shouts of those seeking to fend off their end,
painful screams of those being carried into death’s arms. Amidst this chaos, I had a moment of
clarity. I saw my enemy…I saw a man slip
in the mud as he charged our position.
Rather than stay down and perhaps wait out the attack, or crawl into a
retreat, he fought against the mud and rose to his feet, at which point he was
struck and fell limply to the ground.
Why? Why did he continue to fight? What hope did he have? From where did
he take courage?
He made a
decision. He decided to keep going. He refused to become entombed within the mud;
it is time I cease to be paralyzed by fear.
When our charge is sounded, I will make a charge of my own. I will charge home.
****Like an
old, wizened man weary of visiting the sins of his youth, I have been fearful
of recounting my experiences in the trench again. Yet years later, here I am, writing an
addendum to these words. As the horn
sounded signaling the counter attack, and my fellow soldiers climbed out of the
trench and began rushing towards the enemy and their doom, I went to the opposite
side of the trench, climbed out, and began charging in the polar direction. After rushing, or I should say, sloshing a
few feet, a bullet struck me in the back and I fell. I struggled to fight to my feet, to resist
being buried in the mud, but my strength failed me and I collapsed. I know not how long I waited there in the
mud, an eternity it seemed, until I sensed, even in my pain and weariness,
shadows crouching besides me.
“What is the
bloke doing out here?” A voice exclaimed emphatically.
“Isn’t it
obvious? The coward was running away!”
“Running
away? Where did he think he was going?”
“Away from
here? What doesn’t matter, he’s a coward all the same.”
“Do you
think he’ll live?”
“His
breathing is shallow. I guess that’s up
to God.”
The other
soldier, I imagine scanning the desolate field of battle, remarked, “No, it’s
up to him.” He was right. With the Grace of God, I chose life.
