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It was 6 am. The ascension of the sun, colouring the skies and clouds in a rainbow of amber, deep orange and devil red complimented the blood sodden fields of the Somme in a haunting vision, reminiscent of a scene from Dante’s Inferno. No more then six feet to the left of me laid the body of one of my comrades. 17 year old private Stanley Price from Liverpool, you had triumphantly told me less the twenty four hours ago of how he had lied to the authorities, when signing up, about his age so that he could join his mates on what would be Britain’s great adventure. An adventure which left him with only his torso, right leg and half a face. Two members of my unit and me prepared, as best we could, the remains of twelve men for transport back to HQ, that cold, bitter morning in September 1917. Or was it thirteen men, or possibly fourteen, it was hard to tell. It was about 10.30am that same day visibility was lower then usual, four maybe five yards before you would come up against an endless wall of gun and cannon smoke, which had now come to settle on the countryside for what seemed like forever. Isolated from humanity we were God's accidental heroes, that were if such a being existed, a question that I had asked myself a thousand times over. Each and every one of us remained at our respective post in the blood and water flooded trenches that we had long since called home for the rest of that day. The silence only to be broken occasionally by the strike of a match as men in zombie like fashion exchanged cigarettes to the periodic accompanying sounds of snapping bone and tiring flesh as daytime trench vermin became night time food rations for us all. Conversation was extinct. We would talk to each other with our eyes, the windows to the soul, now cages in which we kept our feelings, thoughts and emotions locked away. Empty minds were hopes and dreams of the future no longer lived, evicted by despair and disillusionment. All that remained were memories, clouded memories dark and distance, twisted and distorted memories of someone else which we thought was once us. Colour had gone from our lives; we were living in a world of black and white. Trees no longer grew, flowers no longer bloomed and birds no longer sang. Looking around me I was now confident and content in the fact that if I was to die today I would, without a doubt be going to heaven. Hell would not be an option as I was already there. Hell was here now, here on earth. So many good men, fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands, lying dead or dying around me. So much life so much love in a matter of seconds destroyed and crushed forever in a flash of flame and fire. In time their bodies would become no more the dust to be blown away by the winds of time. To finally come to rest and settle on the fields of Europe and France, and who knows maybe in time some of those specks of dust, with good headway, might possibly find there way back to England itself. To eventually come to rest in the places from whence they came.
Many years have since past, and now Remembrance Day of World War One, along with World War Two, and like all wars, past, present and those yet to come, did then, and still now, hold bitter sweet memories for those fathers, sons, brothers, and husbands who survived their own personal hell on earth. The same would also be said for the mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives of those left behind. Poppies and medals, ribbons and plaques for all the men, women and child of war. Deaths cruel and bitter trade, for Gods priceless gift. They all fought for, as will generations to follow do the same, for what they were told to believe in by those higher and supposedly wiser then themselves. Brainwashed by the suits with their false smiles and their sugar glass manifestos of the future. Statesmen, politicians, dictators, presidents and generals can talk a good fight and tell a great tale, but few rarely have, and most never will, tell the tale how it really is, or more so, of the truth and of how compromising and peaceful it could have been, and should have been.
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