Army Of Angels (A Glanny Fan Fiction)

Chapter Three

Army Of Angels.

Chapter Three.

Army Of Angels:

June 1990

"What was training like? Do you remember?" He asked tapping his pencil against his notepad.

I leant forward.

"You act like you think I don't remember anything of this war or the war that followed. But I do. I remember every bullet that I fired. Every face of every man and child that I murdered. There were children out there too. Young ones. Fourteen and fifteen year olds fighting adult men. Their cheeks were rosy and not a single trace of a hair on their chins.

I found a pair of them at one point. I had no choice. Out there it was every man for himself. I left them there with a bullet in each of their hearts. A pain in my heart that never ceased over time. In fact if I focus really hard I can still remember the pattern of blood that was painted on the young pair's uniforms. A trail of tears that coursed down their faces where hairs should be.

War did that to people. Took away what could have been theirs and shoves what shouldn't into their hands and expects them to be able to carry it. Live with it. It's practically impossible," I shivered and looked down at my feet.

"I was only saying its okay if you don't remember," he said.

My brow furrowed at that point.

"You'd have to have amnesia to forget experiences like the ones I had. I've had my ups and downs since the war but I've been in mainly good health. Sometimes I think that that is God's payment. I served my country and so He is serving me in return as well.

To some extent He cast his love onto those fatalities of the war too. Bringing them out of suffering and a world of violence, pain and lunacy and into a much better place. Wherever that may be. I may be ninety four but I remember ... Everything," I said.

* * *

September 1914:

I had packed my valise full of the necessary items. Socks. Pants. Jumpers. Shirts. Trousers. Of course we'd be given military items to wear but you never know when these items will come in handy do you? I emptied my entire closet into my small valise. Mother came up and gave me a hand packing the items I so needed.

There was a small space in the upper right hand corner which both my mother and I clocked at the same time. She rushed out of the room and was gone for a few minutes. I poked my head out of the door and looked around the hall to see where she had gone.

Soon she came rushing back something small enclosed in her fist. She told me to close my eyes and so I did. I expected to feel something in the palm of my hand or something along those lines but no. I was enveloped in darkness.

I soon felt something in my arms and I opened my eyes to see that I was holding my valise. Mother stood with a smile on her face.

"You're not to open that until you're at that training area ok?" Mother asked.

I looked at her in a confused manner. What could possibly be so important that she'd want me to take it with me and have no questions asked about it?

"Do you understand me?" Mother asked.

I could only nod; words failed me.

The train station was shoddy. A sign that looked like it hadn't been painted in a century stood lonely at the end of the station. There were weeds poking out the slabs and ivy snaking its way up the sides of the small hut. The paint on the hut was flaking off so much so that when I ran my hand across the hut it would come away smeared with paint flakes.

No one came with me to see me off. Mother had to go off to work. She works part time at the textile factory. Stereotypical woman jobs. Nearly all the women worked part time in culinary or textiles. It was deemed all they were competent in. I don't exactly understand why though because I've seen my mother lift heavy items all by herself when I was young. The lack of a father in the house had had a dramatic effect on our lives. For example my mother had to get strong. Not just physically but mentally and emotionally. It made her cold towards any other people that weren't her family. So when people say how cold she is then I tell them straight. 'You haven't had to live what my mother has had to live through.'

1901 was when my father died. I was five. Those railway tracks that my father was working on finally got the better of him. Brunel would probably have been proud of him. I'd like to think he was. Saving that other worker like that.

Something I will never forget is the sight of the Training Camp. Fields that could cover a good four football pitches. Something else that I will never forget either... The look on my instructor's face when he first saw me. First saw us.

It was the look of determined hate.

June 1990:

"Hate you say? Why would an instructor hate you before he's even met you?" He asked.

I sighed deeply.

"I said determined hate. Not hate. He was determined to hate us because what's the use in being soft with us? Hmm answer me that? The war wasn't soft on anyone. Those who survived got lucky. I was one of the lucky ones,"

"Who was your instructor?" He asked, chewing the side of his pencil.

"General O'Donoghue,"

"But wasn't he the one who-" he started but I cut across him.

"Don't. Don't say it right now. Just let me carry on from where I left off and then you can ask all the questions you want. That is if I'm strong enough to continue. Seventy two years and I have not told a single soul about my experiences. You will excuse me if I take my time. I didn't rehearse what I wanted to say and what I wanted to leave out so for now you will know it all. Forgive me if this becomes a little long winded," I said.

"Carry on," he said and leant forward to hear my slightly raspy voice.

I cleared my throat and started once more.

"As I was saying. It was determined hate. The first time he said my name was right there as then... 'Power.' He had shouted. I promise you at that moment I'd never felt more scared in my life. That was a shimmer of what was to come. He ordered me to give me thirty press ups on the spot. I took this as a quick test to see how much I could do. I tell you I could only do twenty at the time. 'Weak' that was the second name he had called me. He then went on towards the next recruit. Down and down the line until the final recruit, too, had not reached the thirty stage mark. So he told us to sleep outside tonight. No one dared to argue. He went off his quiff bouncing with his walk into the fog. I saw that image again. It was later. On the front line. Once when I was an inch from death and the other when he was in mortal peril," I said.

A/N: sorry for the short wait. Tell me what you think. Vote and comment. Do as you please.