A Comrade at Arms

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Walking through these grounds, with the scent of death permeating the air on a cloudy night, it felt as though the battle had never truly ended. It’d been a hell of a day for me, and for everyone around me. Many good men had died, and among them were some friends of mine.

I knelt down on the ground, the grass a bit wet from the rain earlier in the day, and saw one of the bodies. To society, this body would be one of any number of soldiers brought down low by war. To me, however, it was a friend. A young man, just like me, whose hopes and dreams were brought to die upon this battlefield.

I saw his face. His eyes were shut. Nonetheless, his close-cropped hair fluttered lightly in the wind. I looked on down and saw the bullet wound, and I thought to myself of just how lucky I was that I managed not to get hit. He also had a canteen with him, full of water he’d never get to drink.

I dug through him and found a folded-up picture, slightly stained, of what looked like a young woman. Before his death, he’d told me he proposed to his girlfriend, and that she’d say yes. He was planning on marrying her when he got back from the war. Now, she’ll never have him again.

I remembered that conversation vividly:

“Listen, man” he said, before continuing, “if I don’t make it from here, I want you to give this picture to my girlfriend. Let her know that she was right.”

He laughed, then continued “Her name’s Cheryl, and here’s her address. Write it down and keep it somewhere safe.”

At that moment, he looked at me, a slight smile gradually giving way to a resigned sigh.

I grabbed my notebook and wrote her address down. Stowing it away, I’d hoped that I’d never have to need it. And yet, that seemed exactly what was going to happen.

I took the picture with me. Saying a little prayer for him, I grabbed a flask of whiskey and took a swig.

Hell of a way to die, that’s for sure, I thought. Here’s to hoping that doesn’t happen to me too.

At that point, there wasn’t much else to do. I walked away slowly back to camp. Martial music faintly echoed, increasing in volume as I got closer and closer, til I finally reached that camp.

Heading in my tent, I pulled out my notebook once more, and wrote

Yet another child of war
Has entered death’s clutches
His hopes, aims, ambitions, and dreams
Have become little more
Than fodder for the carrion birds on high

I took a deep exhale. Even though military men aren’t supposed to cry, I let out tears of sorrow for the life lost, only to steel my resolve.

War is hell, it is said.

And I am living it.