Where are you, Marcus Aurelius?

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