The Price of a Nations Glory

                                                           The Price of a Nations Glory

The sun was warm on my face, there was a slight breeze, and the leaves on the trees were gently swaying. The grass was green and the flowers were in full bloom with spring colours. I was lying down on a blanket in a park, with my sweetheart asleep at my side in the warm spring air. We had spent the afternoon drinking lemonade and eating cheese, crackers, and ham sandwiches. I closed my eyes to rest in the warmth of the sun with my sweetheart.

Then the cold returned; and it was all gone.

When I had opened my eyes again, the sun had been replaced by darkness. The smell of flowers and springtime was replaced by the smell of death and decay. The world had grown dark. I was back in the line, far from home. It was all a dream, or some would call it a dream. I would call it torture, a cruel trick of the mind, a reminder of a place and time I may never see again.

It was dawn, the sun just beginning to crack the dark sky. The morning mist hanging heavy on the ground, possibly concealing a possible enemy advance. As I stood on the fire step gazing down the barrel of my weapon, I was praying they would not come. I stared intently at the soggy waist deep mud that stretched out in the crater scared landscape that was no-man’s-land. The mist obscured the bodies of the dead caught in the wire entanglements.

The sounds of the dying could still be heard, one calls out for his mother, and another curses, as his life drifts away like smoke on the wind. Men lie in the dirt, missed by comrades returning from another futile attempt to move the line. When the shelling starts again, their bodies will join the thousands of others lost in the Belgian mud.

We stay at the morning “stand to” for almost two hours. I stand in the mud and water that is just below my knee. We are always cold and damp, what I would not give just to be dry.

The sun has come up but the sky is still gray, the mist has lifted, I see no movement on the horizon. Maybe there will be no fight this morning? Small relief, this only means that there will be a fight this evening. That is when the attacks come, in the morning or in the evening.

The sergeant passes down the “the all clear” and we return to our stations. I return to the dugout that I call home, and sit for a moment. I open a tin of cigarettes that came in yesterday’s mail call, and in the dimness of my dugout, place the end of one between my cracked and parched lips. When the match is lit, my eyes are drawn to the small burst of light. My hands soak in the warmth as they cup the flame to protect it as if it were a precious jewel. The flame, drawn towards my face, it ignites the indulgence that hangs loosely from my lips. I inhale and savor the taste, a guilty pleasure, a moment stolen from hell.

This is how we live; moment to moment, stealing every second we can to preserve every bit of sanity left to us in this Kingdom of rats.

My assignment for the day; I will assist the work parties that drain the trenches of water and repair the boardwalks that are laid across the muddy fields. However, before I go I will have my Rum ration and a breakfast of stale bread and crackers and a small piece of cheese.

Most days are spent repairing the trenches; other days are spent burying the dead. The countless dead, the lines of bodies seem to stretch on for miles. In many cases friend or foe are no longer discernable. A shallow hole is dug; the corps put in; in some cases more then one. The Padre recites a prayer, the hole is filled, and we move on to the next. Another pair of men follows behind and erects the crosses.

There is endless fear, endless mud, endless death, the minds of men crumble like dried sand crushed in an enormous fist. Arms and legs smashed beyond use and repair, the carnage of battle forever seared into the souls of men; such is the price of a nation’s glory.