(900 words)

“Covered in shit, not in glory, that was the reality. The trenches … well, you can’t imagine the stench of them, and wet – water everywhere. They never seemed to dry out, even in summer. Then they’d stink even worse, like a toilet with piss all over the floor.
“Our boots would be soaked and the socks our mums had insisted on giving us – in bagfuls – would be wet through too. We’d laughed at them – ‘Why are you giving me all these bloody socks? I do know how to wash socks, you know!’ – but you know what? When push came to shove, dry socks were like bloody gold dust out there.
“And then Fritz would start shelling us. We’d be huddled down in the mud whilst the sky lit up, just like fireworks. Every now and then you’d hear a scream and you knew some poor sod had just bought it.
“One time, I was with Charlie Fellowes, my best mate there. It was all quiet, no shelling for hours. Suddenly there was a stupendous bang, as if a gas boiler had just exploded in a room next door, and there was Chas with half his face missing. He didn’t die but he’d never know another woman. Had to wear a special mask they moulded from an old photo of his face ….”
Suzanne turned to me, “Christ, what’s the point of going over something that happened so long ago?”
I looked at the old soldier, holding forth to a dwindling audience in a corner of the Coach and Horses. “I suppose it’s hard to forget about something like that.”
“Well, he couldn’t even have been alive in the First World War, it finished a hundred years ago, for God’s sake!”
I took a mouthful of Samuel Smith’s Organic Chocolate Stout, savouring the gently roasted chocolate malt and cocoa, closing my eyes and letting it roll around my tongue. The First World War seemed a million years ago and, to be honest, I just wasn’t interested. Things had moved on. It was fifty megaton nuclear bombs now, that would wipe out a city and kill and maim millions. Having half your face blown off would be a luxury.
I was in a field with a bunch of red poppies at my feet. Bending down, I caressed the velvety redness of the petals, feeling the texture, like soft crêpe paper, and stroking the fur-like stems.
I became aware I wasn’t alone and stood up, looking around at a circle of men, surrounding me. They were dressed in uniform. Rough brown cloth and olive knapsacks, modern camouflage fatigues, dark blue air force jackets and trousers. There were some stripes here and there, a few medals, but mainly non-commissioned ranks, as far as I could see. The ‘grunts,’ in modern parlance.
More came in, and more, until I was surrounded by hundreds of them, then more than I could count, stretching to the horizon in all directions. Their faces were mainly young – eager, bright-eyed, happy and smiling. Some were smoking cigarettes whilst others held pipes in their mouths.
“Who are you?” I asked.
A young man, perhaps twenty-five, with brown hair and a large moustache, answered. He was dressed in the blue of the Royal Air Force. He had a couple of stripes. I didn’t know what that meant, maybe a captain or whatever?
“Who do you think we are?”
“I dunno, people who died in the war?”
He smiled. “Got it in one!”
“Why are you here?”
“It’s Remembrance Sunday. It’s what we do on Remembrance Sunday. Put our uniforms on and come back, to remind you. We don’t want to, but you … you expect it.”
“You make a big deal out of it.”
“Shouldn’t we?”
“What we went through wasn’t so bad. For those of us who died, I mean. For those left behind, our families, and friends, they were the ones who went through hell. We’d visit, try to console them, send healing, but sometimes their grief put up a barrier.”
“But aren’t you proud of what you did, fighting for our country?”
“We weren’t fighting for our country, we were fighting for politicians, those safely ensconced in nice warm houses, back in Blighty.”
“But ….”
“Look, we didn’t want to fight. We had no choice, we were told to fight. We weren’t heroes or anything like that.” He gave a wry smile. “We were mugs, more like.”
I felt deflated. Surely war heroes were just that, heroes?
“Look, when you’re … up here, if you like, you realise you were just fighting yourself. We’re all brothers … in spirit.”
“Will there ever be an end to war?” I asked, intrigued.
He gave a wistful smile. “In a word, no. It’s the nature of mankind to fight. If there were no men, only women, then yes, but then there’d be no human race left to fight.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He shook my hand. It was dry and warm and his eyes shone with friendship. “It’s Arthur, Arthur Hinchcliffe.”
I awoke and found my eyes were wet. I looked at the clock. It was half past six in the morning. I got up and made some tea and a decision. I was going to go and listen to the old chap in the pub. I’d give him ten minutes, anyway, and, if he wanted, I’d even buy him a bottle of Samuel Smith’s Organic Chocolate Stout.

Featured in the book, The Window Crack’d and Other Stories: 40 Little Tales of Horror and the Supranatural

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4 thoughts on “Remembrance

  1. A fresh viewpoint about soldiers and war. Rarely do we consider their own opinions when we praise them as heroes. Quite thought-provoking. I especially liked the line ‘…you realise you were just fighting yourself. We’re all brothers … in spirit.’ True words.

    1. Hi, and thank you very much for your perceptive comment. In fact, the story had an interesting genesis. The soldier came ‘through’ a medium in trance on Remembrance Day, at a ‘development group’ I go to, and told his story. Most of the rest of the monologue came from a subsequent meditation.

      I wasn’t able to authenticate him – Arthur Hinchcliffe – but the regional accent the medium used when Arthur spoke through her was authenticated by someone there with detailed knowledge of the region he said he came from – Huddersfield, in England.

        1. Ah, thank you! I hadn’t really thought of that before, but I guess you are right!

          Don’t know if you ever read If Two Witches Were Watching … on here. That is a completely true story except I went with my mother and it wasn’t to buy a saddle. At the time I was just writing 200 word stories but I would probably write ten times that if it happened now!

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