Ghosts of the Battlefield

I run around on the battlefield. It's a terrible sight, and I have to close my eyes in order to block out the views. I remember my father who came back from the war on November 18th, 1918, a week after World War I ended. His face was nothing as it had looked prior to the horrors of the battlefield. His face was ashen, scars running like beads of sweat down his cheeks, forehead, and practically everywhere else on his face, but what was even more disturbing were his eyes. They were not soft and full of kindness like they were before he left. No, they were both empty and both full of life at the same time. I had a feeling that the life in his eyes were only shadows and ghosts of lives lost.

The doctors had warned us about such a symptom, seeing as he had developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. With this condition, Father often woke up during the early hours of night screaming, or suddenly ducking and covering when a loud noise was heard outside of our barn. Because of this, he does not go to work, and Mother walks to work tired each day. Her eyes are heavy, and purple bags develop under her eyes as a side effect of coaxing her husband back to sleep each night. I know she is worried. I am worried as well. I had seen the other veterans out on the streets each day, carrying signs and a cap for money. Some just stand there, deep lines creasing their worn-out faces. Many had handicaps that, in the eyes of people hiring, made a person useless. Many had mental restraints, like my father and his PTSD, that also made them "useless". But I don't believe humans can be labeled like jars in a cupboard; nobody is useless, but instead, has his own strengths and weaknesses.

I revert my mind back to the task at hand. I pick up my skirts that fall just about my ankles. They will never do. Using only my hands, I tear the elegant fabric until the skirts fall to the top of my knees, and hope that Mother does not find about this. She would be so mad that we wouldn't need to gather kindling to build a fire in the woodstove, but flames would come jumping out of her eyes and nostrils!

I quickly saddle the nearest horse. It looks at me deep in the eyes and blows warm air out of its nose, as if sending out a plea for help. I wonder if horses can develop PTSD like humans.

"It's okay, girl. I'm right here. You're a pretty little thing..." I check her tag. "Rosie. An unusual name for a horse, but we unusuals can stick together. To tell the truth, I don't reckon that I'm like all the other girls my age." I hop on to her back, using the stirrup to hold my foot, but it's rusted and falls off. Just my luck. I manage to get on her back, and pull up my knapsack behind me. It's filled with all of the stuff I could have imagined needing, which means that I had only about half of the things I actually use. Unfortunately, I brought an extra dress, and I need pants. I packed makeup, but I really need a makeup remover. I thought to bring a corset, but I need a rope. Funny, I never would have guessed the mess I got myself into.

"Git! Let's go, Rosie! I've never rode a horse faster than a trot since I'm only sixteen, but I reckon faster than a trot is what we are gonna go at! Yah!" I push my upper body down on her neck, and she flies down the stretch of land between bodies bent in awkward places. I try not to think why they don't get up and rearrange themselves into more comfortable positions.

We ride for a while, I don't know how long, and I press my heels into Rosie's flank once we get to the stop I want. The clearing we come to is large and woody, but it's simple to tell that there had been a war. Bodies lay strewn around like pieces of damp hay, but none have apparent breathing. Broken branches and splintered wood litters the area, and some full trees lay in defeat upon the fallen soldiers. Guns stay an arm length's distance away from each person, ready for action when the enemy comes bounding in. Among everything that I can see, a terrible stench hangs in the air, a brew of rotting flesh and blistering heat. I hate to think about what each soldier's last words were amidst the anger and gunshots and odor; I know it must have been awful. I've only ever heard about the battlefield through stories told by surviving soldiers, but I never asked them to get into gruesome details. Now I know that the mere suggestion would be too painful to try and recreate into words. It's not really the scene; it's the feeling. The deep feeling I got in my gut, that spread all around me and made my heart ache and my brain go numb.