I remember you often…
Those were the words that repeated themselves over and over again in his mind, like an old vintage record stuck on a note.
He stood on a hill, the tallest he could find. The wind blew, gently, softly, as if to assure him that life carried on; regardless of the past.
He would never forget; nor would his provinces; the animals, the terrain, the humans that suffered for far too long to ever simply forget.
He remembers the first Great War; his enthusiasm! His heroism! To be part of an allied victory!
It didn't last.
Enthusiasm turned to great depression; the hundreds, thousands, millions of casualties that fell before him; was this war even worth the risk?
He remembers his wars.
Vimy Ridge.
Ypres.
Somme.
Passchendaele.
His list could go on, if not; forever.
It was then that his eyes opened. This was not a "European Vacation".
This was war.
He looks upon the fallen heroes. The true heroes of our world. Those who fought for our security, our safety, our Earth.
He remembers briefly, his independence. His peaceful independence. Looking out, he realized; not all conflicts can be solved in such a way.
Of course, he only gained autonomy shortly after the first Great War.
His father looking out for him; supporting him.
When the other nations put themselves in temporary isolation, it was only them defending Europe.
After all, what was a young man called by conscription to do?
Forced. Military. Service.
What could he do?
When he was only a child himself?
When he was caught between a man and an adolescent?
He watched from the trenches, never mind the harsh weather conditions – as his enemies charged towards him – into no man's land.
He felt no hate for this soldier.
This man must have a family in his country that he loves and adores as well.
But he was the enemy.
What was he supposed to do?
He watched. The man running as fast as he can into an allied bomb crater.
Running out, the man darted forward. He hands caught – almost in prayer – into the sharp barbed wire in front of him.
He heard the screams as the "enemy" pleaded for help, blood gushing and dripping on the metal as he tediously attempted to untangle himself, the wire's barbs pushing deeper into his already wounded flesh. It was a failed execution.
That was when he realized, for the second time that day.
His "enemies".
Those "monsters"
Were only "human" in the end.
Soldiers as one; with different coloured uniforms.
And, if they were really "enemies", why did he feel such compassion for him, in the end?
He was known as one of the world's most peaceful nations. Some even called him "The Peace Capital of the World".
Though people never remembered.
"Peace…" He laughed, "It's our world's ideal. But what does it really mean?"
He even became angry at one point in time.
The war was supposed to last only a few years.
Not, until a good chunk of the world's entire population was wiped out.
He looked to his right, a rookie soldier. Shivering; quivering in fear as he covered his face with a damp cloth.
He would have to prepare for the worst.
What they had learned previously; as Canadians were among the first to be hit with mustard gas.
And his friends!
The ones he held so dear; taken captive, abused. He felt the need to rescue them.
Some battles he won.
Some he did not.
When he did however liberate some smaller nations; pushing the opposing force away from these neutral territories; it really wasn't enough.
It was like a snake.
The only way this war would end.
The only way the "snake" would die.
They would have to aim for the head.
He was recognized.
He ensured that when they banded together, they would put an end to it all.
Those kinds of things, one would never forget.
Looking out, he speculates the graves.
His periods of silence paid; but not close to enough.
The debt these heroic warriors slaved for; was a large one.
The red sea of poppies, he stood amidst, like waves they gently pushed against the headstones of the departed. Thanking them for their services.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and shocked, he turned around, "O-oh, Hello."
"Matthew…"His brother started, worriedly, "It's time to go."
"I know." He sighed, "…I can't believe we lost all this for a price that was way too high a cost."
In Flander's Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flander's fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, tho poppies grow
In Flander's fields.
Liet. -Col. John McCrae Of Canada