Azurus
Can't get enough of FH
- Joined
- Mar 21, 2005
- Messages
- 1,263
Not looking for opinions on it really as i've already handed it in, just thought some of you may enjoy reading it.
A soldier’s journey
John Locke sat leaning against his bedroom wall, looking out East towards the setting sun. The last light left in the day spilled over the city, casting a blood red tinge over all that it touched. In his hand he clutched the small bag of morphine he had bought earlier in day, gripping it like it was the only thing in the world that could save him. Before plunging once more into nothingness he let the memories he had been trying to hold back for so long wash over him.
***
16th August
Shells screamed overhead landing somewhere to the company’s right. It was futile to stay up top with the men. There was a time I would have taken it on myself to make an example, bear the worst of it with them, naively thinking it would comfort them in some way, I realise looking around me this is folly. Most of the company have their head buried in their hands almost willing this all to go away.
‘Locke, come down to the dugout, there is nothing you can do here.’
The words of Officer Watson would have once been greeted with disgust by John Locke. When he had arrived at the front, the war was already two years old. Watson had been here from the first show, and it showed. He had at first seemed uncaring to me, cold and detached. On my first night I had promised to be close to my men, never to become like him. I now realise, his, is the only way. The deaths of each of my men felt like losing a child, wearing me down, draining my humanity.
The sharp whistle of an incoming shell hurried my descent into the dugout, and I was glad to finally be inside. Reaching for the supply crate I used as a chair, I pulled it up to the table. A bottle of whiskey with two teacups stood over a map of the western front, all but covering it up. A good thing I thought, it always depressed me to look down at it, the human suffering reflected so coldly in dots on the map representing battles that had been fought.
Reaching for the bottle, Watson filled both cups up almost to the top. We were in for the long haul, the shelling would most likely not be over for a good few hours. After a few gulps, the conversation started flowing, meandering back and forth between home life and happenings on the front.
As always the conversation came back to how the war would end.
‘Will we survive this war Watson? I’ve seen men stronger and braver than me go insane or worse out here, what will be my fate….’
‘Oh I think we’ll live through it’ Watson said with a wry smile, ‘But I don’t think we will survive it.’
***
3rd February
Watson’s death hit me hard. I had grown to rely on him out here. In truth I thought him crazy, and somehow this comforted me, having him out here almost made me feel normal. He met his end at the hands of a cricket ball sized piece of shrapnel. It damn near tore him in half, hitting him squarely in the chest. I’m told it was a quick death, which is more than most get out here.
I’ve heard trench warfare described as long periods of boredom punctuated by short periods of terror. I’m in my second year here, and now both seem to blend into one. I stopped writing home months ago; it depressed me too much to think of my previous life. I wouldn’t want to inflict my company on them now anyway. I have now accepted I’ve replaced Watson as a shining example of what this war can do to you.
Ideals such as truth and love have been lost to me. What is truth out here, where I have been told the war will be over in a matter of months since I arrived? What is love when we are in the business of death? After inspecting rifles in the morning I head back into the dugout and drink, and when there’s no drink left I sleep. Sleep out here is not true rest. The cries of faces lost to me haunt my dreams, but I can deal with that. Dreams of home and happier times hit me the hardest. The sharp irregular sleep, waking to the sound of shellfire or smallarms brings me back to the harsh reality, smashing those leering dreams that offer me false comfort, leaving me feeling empty and alone.
Today has been particularly hard. A young man, Billy Jones, arrived fresh from boot camp. They seem to get younger and younger every time. I don’t know what was more worrying, the fact the lad was sixteen, or the fact this didn’t shock me in the slightest- this was close to the average age now in my company. His excitement and hope was a godsend to the men. He soon gathered a small crowd around him, as he regaled us with stories of home, of the streets on London, of a simpler time. Even I couldn’t help but smile as he talked of his childhood sweetheart, whom he planned to marry on his return to England.
The gas attack came, without warning at 10am. Even so all the men managed to get their masks on in time; we should have all been ok. We weren’t. Billy’s mask was damaged, the poisonous mustard gas diffused through the gaps in it, falling down into his lungs and causing untold damage. His vision left him on day 2, the fresh faced Billy now covered in blisters and spending his time back in a medical station. On day 3 I visited him spending the night by his bedside talking him, trying to comfort him. After he dropped into an uneasy sleep I looked out of the window, the night sky was lit by a thousand points of light, the stars seemingly impervious to the carnage unfolding beneath them. I spent the night in a chair by Billy’s bed. In the morning the stars had gone, taking Billy with them.
***
August 4th
The Great war, great only in it’s sheer scale of human suffering officially ended in 1918. It was consigned to the history books as men returned home to their families, and people moved on with their lives. The war would never be over for me. It had robbed me of all the things which made me human. I would not be returning home. I wrote a letter to my family, telling them I had met a girl here in France and was settling down, there was no need to worry them. In truth I would head South East, to Italy. I had always been a good linguist, and was close to fluent in Italian. I arrived in Venice in early 1919, renting a small apartment close to the waterfront. I need to be away from everything I once knew if I have any chance of ever really returning to it. The nightmares have gotten worse, I dreamt of Watson for the first time in months. His eyes always scared me. The eyes of a man who has seen all the nightmares most men could not even dream of. The eyes of a man who has looked into the void and is changed forever, they were my eyes.
Most of my days are now spent gazing out over the city. I’m sure it would be considered beautiful by all who lay their eyes upon it, but I am left untouched. Any true chance I could be happy drifting out the window that cool summers day I signed up for the war, I was now living a half life. Morphine is available here on the black market, and I take it most days. It’s either that or I remember. I never want to remember.
***
John Locke wrestled his mind back to the present. He now realised he could never escape his past. After thinking of it he felt cold and empty, like life had conned him and he was now left without anything of value. Perhaps some day the wounds would heal over, he would be able to recapture what he was always known for, his love of life. For the meantime there was no way forward, there was only living. John Locke raised the syringe to his arm. The cold needle punctured his vein. He closed his eyes and felt it flowing into him, draining his anxieties and replacing them with nothing at all. Reaching for the pistol he kept beside him at all times he pressed it to his temples, pale as a spectre, the blood seemingly drained from his body as if it knew what was to come. Truth and Love were dead. The catch released on the gun, the bullet flew with unstoppable force, and then everything was darkness.
A soldier’s journey
John Locke sat leaning against his bedroom wall, looking out East towards the setting sun. The last light left in the day spilled over the city, casting a blood red tinge over all that it touched. In his hand he clutched the small bag of morphine he had bought earlier in day, gripping it like it was the only thing in the world that could save him. Before plunging once more into nothingness he let the memories he had been trying to hold back for so long wash over him.
***
16th August
Shells screamed overhead landing somewhere to the company’s right. It was futile to stay up top with the men. There was a time I would have taken it on myself to make an example, bear the worst of it with them, naively thinking it would comfort them in some way, I realise looking around me this is folly. Most of the company have their head buried in their hands almost willing this all to go away.
‘Locke, come down to the dugout, there is nothing you can do here.’
The words of Officer Watson would have once been greeted with disgust by John Locke. When he had arrived at the front, the war was already two years old. Watson had been here from the first show, and it showed. He had at first seemed uncaring to me, cold and detached. On my first night I had promised to be close to my men, never to become like him. I now realise, his, is the only way. The deaths of each of my men felt like losing a child, wearing me down, draining my humanity.
The sharp whistle of an incoming shell hurried my descent into the dugout, and I was glad to finally be inside. Reaching for the supply crate I used as a chair, I pulled it up to the table. A bottle of whiskey with two teacups stood over a map of the western front, all but covering it up. A good thing I thought, it always depressed me to look down at it, the human suffering reflected so coldly in dots on the map representing battles that had been fought.
Reaching for the bottle, Watson filled both cups up almost to the top. We were in for the long haul, the shelling would most likely not be over for a good few hours. After a few gulps, the conversation started flowing, meandering back and forth between home life and happenings on the front.
As always the conversation came back to how the war would end.
‘Will we survive this war Watson? I’ve seen men stronger and braver than me go insane or worse out here, what will be my fate….’
‘Oh I think we’ll live through it’ Watson said with a wry smile, ‘But I don’t think we will survive it.’
***
3rd February
Watson’s death hit me hard. I had grown to rely on him out here. In truth I thought him crazy, and somehow this comforted me, having him out here almost made me feel normal. He met his end at the hands of a cricket ball sized piece of shrapnel. It damn near tore him in half, hitting him squarely in the chest. I’m told it was a quick death, which is more than most get out here.
I’ve heard trench warfare described as long periods of boredom punctuated by short periods of terror. I’m in my second year here, and now both seem to blend into one. I stopped writing home months ago; it depressed me too much to think of my previous life. I wouldn’t want to inflict my company on them now anyway. I have now accepted I’ve replaced Watson as a shining example of what this war can do to you.
Ideals such as truth and love have been lost to me. What is truth out here, where I have been told the war will be over in a matter of months since I arrived? What is love when we are in the business of death? After inspecting rifles in the morning I head back into the dugout and drink, and when there’s no drink left I sleep. Sleep out here is not true rest. The cries of faces lost to me haunt my dreams, but I can deal with that. Dreams of home and happier times hit me the hardest. The sharp irregular sleep, waking to the sound of shellfire or smallarms brings me back to the harsh reality, smashing those leering dreams that offer me false comfort, leaving me feeling empty and alone.
Today has been particularly hard. A young man, Billy Jones, arrived fresh from boot camp. They seem to get younger and younger every time. I don’t know what was more worrying, the fact the lad was sixteen, or the fact this didn’t shock me in the slightest- this was close to the average age now in my company. His excitement and hope was a godsend to the men. He soon gathered a small crowd around him, as he regaled us with stories of home, of the streets on London, of a simpler time. Even I couldn’t help but smile as he talked of his childhood sweetheart, whom he planned to marry on his return to England.
The gas attack came, without warning at 10am. Even so all the men managed to get their masks on in time; we should have all been ok. We weren’t. Billy’s mask was damaged, the poisonous mustard gas diffused through the gaps in it, falling down into his lungs and causing untold damage. His vision left him on day 2, the fresh faced Billy now covered in blisters and spending his time back in a medical station. On day 3 I visited him spending the night by his bedside talking him, trying to comfort him. After he dropped into an uneasy sleep I looked out of the window, the night sky was lit by a thousand points of light, the stars seemingly impervious to the carnage unfolding beneath them. I spent the night in a chair by Billy’s bed. In the morning the stars had gone, taking Billy with them.
***
August 4th
The Great war, great only in it’s sheer scale of human suffering officially ended in 1918. It was consigned to the history books as men returned home to their families, and people moved on with their lives. The war would never be over for me. It had robbed me of all the things which made me human. I would not be returning home. I wrote a letter to my family, telling them I had met a girl here in France and was settling down, there was no need to worry them. In truth I would head South East, to Italy. I had always been a good linguist, and was close to fluent in Italian. I arrived in Venice in early 1919, renting a small apartment close to the waterfront. I need to be away from everything I once knew if I have any chance of ever really returning to it. The nightmares have gotten worse, I dreamt of Watson for the first time in months. His eyes always scared me. The eyes of a man who has seen all the nightmares most men could not even dream of. The eyes of a man who has looked into the void and is changed forever, they were my eyes.
Most of my days are now spent gazing out over the city. I’m sure it would be considered beautiful by all who lay their eyes upon it, but I am left untouched. Any true chance I could be happy drifting out the window that cool summers day I signed up for the war, I was now living a half life. Morphine is available here on the black market, and I take it most days. It’s either that or I remember. I never want to remember.
***
John Locke wrestled his mind back to the present. He now realised he could never escape his past. After thinking of it he felt cold and empty, like life had conned him and he was now left without anything of value. Perhaps some day the wounds would heal over, he would be able to recapture what he was always known for, his love of life. For the meantime there was no way forward, there was only living. John Locke raised the syringe to his arm. The cold needle punctured his vein. He closed his eyes and felt it flowing into him, draining his anxieties and replacing them with nothing at all. Reaching for the pistol he kept beside him at all times he pressed it to his temples, pale as a spectre, the blood seemingly drained from his body as if it knew what was to come. Truth and Love were dead. The catch released on the gun, the bullet flew with unstoppable force, and then everything was darkness.
