He thought it
would be glorious—an audition of his courage, patriotism and strength. For
isn’t this what every man desires—to test one’s might or resolve through the
crucible to struggle? To prove he is capable and resilient enough to endure
life’s hardships? To not cower in the face of danger, but to meet it head-on, and
eventually triumph in spite of all odds? To sacrifice his life and limbs, yet
emerge triumphant for the noble cause of King and Country?
He could still feel
it, the shiver that went up his spine when he saw that image of Lord Kitchener.
It was as if the general was pointing directly at him, singling him out with
call to defend the homeland from the barbarians who wished to decimate it. It
was as if for the first time in his short life, he felt needed. He would no
longer just be a working-class boy from the north, but a savior of a people, called
to arms when the enemy stood at the gates. The course of history had finally
presented him with a purpose, something worth fighting for and enduring all suffering.
How could he let such an opportunity pass him by, a chance to prove his worth
to his friends, family, and all those naysayers who saw him as nothing more
than the son of mere coal miner.
But as his frail
body endured the agony of the night air, stiff and throbbing as it was harassed
by the winter breeze, the young Britton could not help but question his decision.
That nationalistic fever which had once so splendidly infected his entire
being, had now morphed into an anguished longing for nothing more than mere
survival.
He was told it
would be a short war, intense, yet quick and decisive. And like all other of the
nation’s conflicts, it would serve as a reaffirmation of the steadfast
determination and rigor of the British people. But here he still was. It had
been well over a year, yet they were still where they had started. It was as if
they were trapped in some filth ridden purgatory, enhanced by the scent of
bodily waste and rotting corpses.
The young Britton
could not remember the last time he’d had a shower. His uniform was ragged, it’s
olive coloring now polluted with dried mud and blood, both of which gave his
outfit a harsh, bristling feel. His hands were filthy and rugged, his
fingernails entrenched with thick, dry dirt parcels. His face did not fare much
better, as it was actually grubbier than his father’s was when he’d return from
the mines.
He hadn’t had a
warm meal in months, and he forced to subsist off the meager, rancid rations of
a foot solider. Even the tea was putrid, which tasted like water infested with the
crumbs of decayed leaves. He was exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in years. The
last time the young man had actually felt the smoothness of a mattress was just
before he was shipped off to France.
But here he was, a
mere pawn thrust into a dystopian nightmare, a place of indescribable horrors,
a region where the chimes of nature were drowned out by the concussive and earth-shattering blasts
of artillery, not to mention the numerous friends he’d lost, witnessing them
cutdown like weeds by machine gun fire or fulminated by explosions, their
fragmented remains decorating the battlefield like butchered ornaments. And for
those lucky enough to escape such fortuity, they were often greeted with the
affliction of illnesses that spread across the trenches like ink through a
glass of water.
And amongst all
this discomfort and anguish, his only current source of joy was the cigarette
nestled between his lips, it’s spark being one of the few objects discernable
within his vicinity. The young solider could feel the smoke rise into the air,
offering his forehead only a temporary relief from the frost, as it gently
curled up against the brim of his steel helmet.
He sat, leaning
back into the wood and dirt embankment of the trench, his rifle close by his
side as if he was a small child and it was his comfort toy. And as the young
Britton remained perched there, wary yet vigilant, he thought back to all the
things in life he had not experienced that he wished to accomplish.
There was a time,
he remembered, when he believed himself invincible, impervious to the dangers that
plagued weaker men. But after seeing his comrades ravished and maimed before
his very eyes, many of whom were his age or younger, he knew now with certainty
that death did not play favorites. Everyone in these trenches, friend and foe
alike, were all the Grim Reaper’s potential prey. For he was a malicious
presence which stalked these youths, as this war offered him the prime occasion
to gratify his unquenchable appetite.
And so he sat, the
young warrior, a boy who existed on this Earth only nineteen years, whose chances
of departing this world too soon grew substantially greater with each passing
second. For he knew now that every breath he took could very well be his last;
and with that final gasp, all his hopes and ambitions would dissipate into
oblivion.
For
there was so much he desired: to move out of Manchester, to earn a decent
living, to purchase a home rather than being forced to rent a rundown apartment.
He wanted to explore, to grow old, experience all the fruits this world had to
offer. Moreover, he wished to achieve some notoriety, to be recognized for some
great achievement. But most of all, he wanted to settle down, to find someone
special and to start a family. Yet, here was, nothing more than a raw and
unexperienced lad, unremarkable and unaccomplished in terms of career,
distinction, love and self-fulfillment. Fighting a man’s war, yet ironically
still a child. But would he ever live to full maturity? Would he survive long
enough to reach life’s milestones: to move out, to achieve professional
success, to lose his virginity, to get married?
And
as he contemplated this, sadness overcame him, because he knew this was his
fate and there was nothing he could do about it, except to hope and pray. It
was a harsh realization, one that viciously besieged his morale and faith. And
as continued to puff on his cigarette, a tear stealthily descended down his
cheek, dragging along the small tracts of muck as it did.
And
as he moved his head to wipe the tear away, he saw it. It was lying there,
slightly hidden by a cover of dried mud. The young Brit picked it up and dusted
away the grime. The book had a dark maroon leather cover, which felt rough as
he slid his fingers down its jacket. He picked up his lamp and placed it near
the manuscript. Meditations by Marcus Aurelias, the faded gold lettering
read.
The
soldier opened the book, dusty residue escaping it as he did. The pages were an
off-white color, old and tarnished. Yet, its words were still decipherable. And
as he held the lamp on his knee with one hand, he began to read. In what felt
like a mere instance, the young man was immersed, digesting each and every
word, pausing to fully assimilate the text’s themes and messages.
It
was like nothing he’d ever read. He was never a big reader growing up, only
reading a few books when forced to by his teachers, which he never enjoyed. But
this was different. It was as if it was written for him, as if an author, a man
had who existed two-thousand years earlier, was somehow conversing directly
with him through the confines of space and time.
For
as he as scanned the text, the young Brit could imagine it: the grizzled
Emperor, sitting at his at his desk penning his thoughts, all the while trapped
by the cruel, cold confines of a Northern European military camp. Here was a sickly,
fatigued military officer, cloaked in the armor and imperial garb of the
princeps, contemplating his life, his mind always focused on his inevitable
demise. It may have been a different time, different people, a different war,
yet so much about them were alike. It was as if they had been fighting the same
conflict, only centuries removed.
This
is how he imagined the great Marcus. A man, who like him, was fighting hordes
of enemies from the Germanic frontier, at a time when many of the nations now
embroiled in this war were under the united rule of one governing order. The
young Brit pictured the battles he engaged in, the turmoil he suffered, the
chaos he endured. And though things had changed since that time, the solider
realized that man’s nature had not. For though technology had developed, the
human mind was still just as prone to the sins and animalistic behavior of its
ancestors.
And
so he continued his journey, reading day and night, whenever he had the chance.
His stiff, frost ridden fingers jostling through the tatty pages, absorbing
each word with swift and efficient deliberation. It became more than just a
distraction for him, it was a way to put himself at ease, to find comfort in the
most horrible of circumstances.
His fear of death, of never knowing what else
life had to offer, began to dissipate. For the young Britton came to accept
that death was not the end, but as Marcus put it, the changing of matter from
one form to another. Although we die, we are transformed into something else:
the earth, the soil, the grass. And though the young Brit knew his fate may be
sealed early, he adopted the view that all life is short. We are but a mere
speck in time, our lifespans existing only for a quick instant. In the grand
scheme of life, the universe’s perception of our existence was significantly
less than what we perceive the lifespan of a housefly is.
And so he realized
that with one’s demise came something else—freedom, liberation from impulse, pain,
and sensation. For when one ceased to exist, so would the memories, along with
urges, that control us like they’re puppeteers. Thereupon all would become a
blank slate, our bodies no longer in existence, yet our matter forever whole
and undamaged. And regardless of who we were in life, our class, career, fame,
monetary status, we would all eventually suffer the same outcome. For death
played the role of the great equalizer, it’s inevitable visit a consistent
reminder that no organism standards of a god; that no man, no matter their
status or self-aggrandizement, ever truly stands above his peers.
And
though the young man wished to achieve much, to gain praise and acclaim, he
realized that such things were trivial. As the sagacious Emperor told him, fame
is only temporary. For, like the sands that constantly drift over other sand,
so too does prominence over time. Though you may be remembered for a moment,
others will appear; and no matter how renown you may become, all will
eventually enter obscurity. For if all of humanity were to be exterminated in
this war, the memory of everyone would be extinguished, and there would be no
minds left to reminisce. Even the great empires of their days, The Roman, the
German, the French, the British; if humanity ceased, so too would the
chronicles of their rise and glorious achievements.
And
just when the young Brit finished the work, the order was given. The generals
had ordered a new assault. They were going to try once again to break through
the lines, to cross “No Man’s Land” and shatter the enemy defenses. Such
attacks had failed so many times before, resulting in such needless carnage.
Yet, it had become all too routine. For this was the reality of The Great War.
If disease or malnourishment didn’t finish you off, then surely bombs, bullets,
or bayonets would.
Despite
this awful truth, the soldier was ready. He was still scared, yet something
about him had changed. For in consuming the philosopher’s work, he was now
ready to accept his fate, no matter what it may be. And as he remained crouched
near the ladder, the ground rumbling beneath as the shells blasted off,
accompanied by the sound of the bullets as they zipped through the smoke
infested air, he remained poised, ready to go over the top and charge straight
towards the hostile barrage. For he now felt something he hadn’t experienced in
a while—calmness. The young Britton was at peace, fully prepared to accept the
whatever fait awaited him. And when the whistle finally blew, he flung himself
up the ladder, as if it was the last thing he’d ever do.
©
Copyright 2019 by R. M. S. Thornton
