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c. 1943
He hated war – hated the death and destruction that always came in its wake. When he looked around and saw children charging into teeth of gunfire, ripped apart by bullets; he questioned the sanity of man. After all, what were they fighting for? A flag? An exalted person on a throne? A fallen member of the family? Despair or revenge?
And what were they fighting against? Demons? Monsters? Creatures begat of fey nightmares? No. They fought against men – against people like themselves; with families waiting in dread at home for the letter or call saying that they would never return. And for what? For the bidding of others.
He groaned, running his hands through his hair and looking around the empty medical tent he found himself in. The currently empty tent, at least – he knew that soon it would be filled again when the stretchers returned from the fields bearing back the remains of those who should never have been there in the first place.
Could this have been avoided? If the treaty had been drafted differently – if the punishment had not fallen squarely upon the shoulder of the one with the bad luck to fight the longest – could this have been avoided? Perhaps if the people had not been so desperate, then the tyrant would never have had a chance to be put in power.
He sank down on the edge of a cot, resting his head in his hands. It was silent now; but only hours before, the air had been filled with the screams of man and machine – with the tension of fear. Daily, he wondered at his motives for being here – at his thoughts for venturing into this world of pain and death and heartache – but the words of the Priest always answered him: "It's a blessing – use this life." Even now, the memory prompted a faint smile, always brought on by the recollection of his 'escape' from the cell.
But how far was far enough? Was it a thousand miles, or a thousand years?
He jerked his head up, refusing to follow the thought that this might never end for him. For all of the despair found in contemplating the boys that he found beneath his care during this war; that was by far the better subject of his thoughts.
His thoughts wandered to the doughboys he treated, both the ones that fell and the ones that survived. He had heard of the custom they had developed in America, how families hung banners in their windows with stars signifying the number of family away fighting. The blue stars were changed to gold when a relation was killed, and Henry winced to think of how many of the stars now gleamed gold.
And when the war was over? When one family's son comes home to the joy of everyone, and the neighbour must mourn the son that never will? When history and memory will forever be burdened with this time? What then? Oh, he knows that they will say that history shall never forget what happened; and that it will never happen again – but if he has learnt anything, it's that history will always repeat itself.
He sighed and stood up, methodically going through his instruments and making sure they are clean. There was no star hanging for him in a window – no family or friends awaiting his return. This life was newly started as he entered the war; there was no record of him elsewhere.
The instruments in his hand blurred; and he blinked hard, setting them down. Maybe someday there would be someone waiting for him at night, someone to pick him up from the water – someone he could implicitly trust. A wry smile lifted his lips as he considered just how many gold stars would have replaced his blue one by now – even a medic was subject to the dangers of a battlefield; thankfully, he suffered less ill effects from it though.
Walking to the door of the tent, he could see the orange glow in the distance as the sirens began again. He shook his head slowly, mentally preparing himself for receiving new patients soon. No matter what he might think of the utter uselessness of this war, there was naught he could do about it. Here, his secret didn't matter, his past didn't matter, his mistakes didn't matter – his future didn't even matter! - his only purpose was to send as much boys home and prevent as much gold stars as he could.
Not all that glittered was gold – but neither did all gold glitter. Some things that looked gold were better left in the ground from whence they first came.
AN: Firstly, I do not believe that people should never go to war - I just get tired of people lumping all of the opposing side into one stereotype and forgetting that they were living, breathing, people with souls. Short version, anyway... This was originally inspired by the Norman Rockwell painting of the soldier coming home, and how the neighbour's banner had only one gold star - no blue. Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. Gramercy, and God bless you!