A Moment With You.

2

1915, the fall of Paris.

It was in the sunny year of 1915 that I believe we met. My comrades and I, that is. I met Harrolds, and Hannoc during the first world war. We were young men who had been enlisted alongside each other in the 48th infantry unit. Johnson and Quails came a month later after an accident.

Together, we made a brotherhood of solidly good men that wished nothing else but to cherish art, express our hearts and to change the world with what talents we had -- hope was a frail thing in the war.

Harrolds was a great, kind man. One of whom you could trust and adore for his wits. Johnson was a loyal, but stoic musician who adored his whiskey and a fruitful love for passing his time with reading. Although, he too did indulge in the lustrous affairs of sex. Then, there was Quails. Arthur Quails was a poet, a loving and beautifully kind poet. One that could paint worlds with a mere set of words. Less than a book, less than a journal even. Together, these men, and I, formed something of a bond. I suppose, in one way, it could be called a 'Deep Friendship', literature and the many arts combined, made us appreciate one another. Although we had our differences, God knows we did. I was as much a hypocrite as any other man, and so were they. What is one to do when you simply can not remain true to your promises, after all, we were men. Perhaps boys, but still men at heart. And when love came around, there was nigh a sight of truth to be had, for all of us wanted to love and be loved in return. Although the war was traumatic, vile, decrepit and forcefully dark -- we believed that upon returning home, freedom was to be found. That we too, men who had fought alongside one another and killed in the name of King and country, could be redeemed. Alas, the world wasn't as simple as that, and the heart was far too cruel a piece in our cog of a body to even allow the minor relinquishment of anything bad inside our minds.

So we carried on, working through the long-beaten path that was once called 'The American Dream' across every country. We believed, together, in a world that could be beautiful. In our souls, and our dreams, together, we seemed to make it work, even if for a moment. But oh, oh we were so young. Naive boys who thought to themselves that the world around us was all sunshine and glory. I don't believe it was for naught, no. But I still to this day see this world in the same light as when I was young.

I remember that I was sitting on the edge of a riverbank in Versailles as troops passed on by. Their rifles hung high on their shoulders, marked uniforms through medals that adorned them, and the heavy, ground-crushing metal tires of tanks that ran through the way. I thought to myself that maybe being enlisted in the army with a dear comrade was a wrong choice, and perhaps I was right in that. In the name of King and Country, we pointed our guns at men who fought bravely for a war that made no sense. They too, were human, and they too simply did what they thought was right. And then, there were those who enlisted as a last resort. Poor fellows, they put their lives on the line just to feed their families. I wish I could've done something, yet as a mere soldier, no man like me could just up and stop a global war. Royals, presidents ... It didn't matter who it was, so long as there was a conflict and there was power to be had, there was still yet a war to be fought . We all didn't wish to kill others, no man ever did. I saw my merry comrades-in-arms die for nothing. Some went mad with desperation, others couldn't resist temptation after being gone from their wives or lovely ladies back home, so they ravaged others. An unforgivable sin, I know. But what can a mere mortal do when you're surrounded by gunshots, artillery, death and destruction every hour of the day? You're bound to go insane, I'm lucky I didn't, but many did. It was truly a horrifying and sorry sight for one's eyes to see. Many such events were never listed. The abuse of women, the killings of innocent civilians. Children somehow got caught up in the mess of adult affairs of greed and chaos. Poor, poor souls. Never should a child be involved in such manners, not once. I felt sorry for those families I saw, unfed and without any work to be found. Their children, starving, or traumatised by the loss of their families. Mothers who lost sons and daughters to the cruel war, only receiving their medals and what little was found of them. Yet, there I sat on that riverbank, letter and pen in hand as I continued writing in a diary.