Lest We Forget

Morose grey clouds clustered above them, suffocating any sunlight that could've reached the flea-ridden trenches, droplets of rain pattered pitifully against the soldiers' tin helmets and tension hung in the air like a repulsing odour. The smell of death. Frost adorned the rough surface of the sandbags and perpetual rivers of mud squelched against their ankles, painting bitter scowls on their faces as they savoured rations of canned beef and crackers, attempting to enjoy what could be their final meal. The sweet smell of tobacco drifted wearily from the pipes of Generals and the smoke lingered on their pale lips as the biting chill threatened to freeze their hearts. Mumbling softly to one another, they examined smudged photos of sweethearts and families, some tried to choke a laugh or offer a playful joke but the harsh winter had drained the troop's energy, leaving in its wake only sad smiles and homesick tears. Acceptingly, they allowed the crystal gems to trickle down their cheeks, the overwhelming fear increasing with each minute, uncertainty squeezing at their vulnerable hearts. Never knowing, always anticipating. Withdrawing into a sullen silence, some clutched onto their telegrams, reading the words over and over as if engraving them to memory, whilst others clasped their hands in desperate prayer. Exhaustion had robbed them of goodbyes. All they knew was their orders, instructions don't need questioning, and hesitation meant death; it was too late to turn back.

Deafening silence plummeted against their ears: it was the quiet before the storm...

Daggers of rain thundered against the earth, coils of barbed-wire quivered in the howling wind as no-mans land prepared itself for battle and the soldiers were forced to face their fate. Orders were orders. They had run out of time. Suddenly, the harsh cacophony of commands brought a deathly life to the front as soldiers began fixing their bayonets with trembling hands, some daring recklessly to peer into the dark void of no-mans land.

Sweat beaded upon the forehead of the boy, only 16 years old, his sapphire blue eyes had eroded to ice from the torturous nature of war constantly gnawing away at his once youthful soul. The promise of 'home by Christmas' had been long abolished, hope was dead and war reigned like a despicable tyrant. Tears pricked at the boy's eyes, like the other 250,000 young men, he had lied about his age, in the foolish dream of living as a hero for eternity.

The dreaded whistle splintered the chaos and all that was left was to go over the top, with a battle cry fuelled with determined despair and running next to their comrades they entered the heart of the storm, a tornado of destruction. Artillery pounded against the muddy earth, the rapid fire of bullets engulfing the land which had been in desolate silence not long before. As the rain blurred their vision and shrapnel slashed at their flesh, they sprinted towards freedom. Our freedom. But for a seedling of hope to grow, there must be rain and the young boy was slammed to the ground, lost in the lightning of explosions as the skeletal hands of death carried him to safety, away from the turmoil of our world.

He died a hero, arm in arm with millions of others. Brave and fiercely courageous, they sacrificed everything for the distant mirage of peace, bearing the weight of their country and the guilt of every best friend they couldn't save. Before they were soldiers, they were men. Good men. Where they fought, they fell, and where they fell, poppies grew. From the blood of no-man's land, the fields of Flanders flourished with an abundance of crimson life healing the scars of war and demanding recognition for the people who died for us.

They vowed 'Never again.' But the bitter irony reminds us of our failure.

We remember them, and we always will in our endless strive for peace.

Lest we forget.