Part I
The Shadow's Sun Casts
The Fate of Europe endured on a fine thread for the last coming decades as unwanted, and unneeded pressure strained the great continent like the powder kegs that felt a great compulsion themselves to tear across the land. Finally when the thread was snipped by golden scissors and the deprived kegs blew up grander and more devastatingly than anyone had anticipated, it left people to wonder when this was all to end. And, when it was to end—if it was to end—what misfortunate shadow would be cast over the lives of the millions of people that lay claim to the great country of Earth?
In the great maw of bloodshed were necessities, and comfort, and everything that made life for the many fragile creatures normal, but as the aggression propagated and swallowed up Europe the commodity hardest to find was family. Stripped of their husbands, their children, their brothers, their lovers, too many were forced to start anew with their hearts so badly broken. In the years that followed the war, there were some who received the pleasure of saying their hero returned home. For most others, the company of ghosts lingered in their cold living rooms and parlors, unseen and unheard, but not unwanted.
Arthur sat in a worn armchair in the dimmed light of his small London apartment, thinking about the ghosts that lingered in his cold heart. In the empty chairs and quiet air was the present memory of a charming young American who lived in these walls not so long ago. The only vestige Arthur held the youth was a distressed photograph that only grew increasingly worn, and the scarce stack of letters Arthur wished had been larger. The tired man sighed wistfully and out of sheer force of habit, he began reading the letter dated September 1914.
Dear Arthur,
The army isnt as bad as you made it out to be. You really do worry for nothing, you know? The drills ain't bad and I think the only thing I could really complain about is the food. We've been doing a lot of marching and rifle drills. Who knew I'd be a good shot? And you'd said I'd shoot an eye out in a week. Well, Art, I'm sorry to inform you I still have both my eyes.
I'm sitting in my tent right now with a few new buddies of mine. Though, their a loud sort and I don't think you'd like them much. But you don't like anybody much, do you? I'm honestly surprised you tolerated me staying at your place as long as you did. You know how while we were still in university you said that you wanted to travel around the world? Maybe I'll live long enough to take you with me through Europe after this is all over.
It's been raining for the past day which is the only reason I'm able to write you at the moment. It's too muddy to go out for drills and we've been stuck in our tents for hours. I can't imagine the poor blokes fighting out there in this weather. I suppose that's something I'm not looking forward to, frankly.
Have you ever been to France? It's a nice change in pace, I'd say. Nothing like the dirty streets of London. Everything's so spread out and the land is so green. The locals are nice, and the girls are pretty. You'd like it here, I think.
Au Bientot,
Alfred.
P.S. I've been working on my French.
Arthur let a sad smile play his lips before he gently folded the paper. Placing it neatly on his end table, he picked up another letter. The date read April 1915.
Dear Arthur,
We have settled in a small town in the north of France. It's interesting how few people live here. The town seems to have far fewer men than women, and most of the males are elderly or adolescent. I suppose this war has dwindled the population of men in all of Europe. The locals are rather disturbed by the presence of soldiers in town, but I've been looking past that. It's nice to get a break from all the fighting, and if that means disrupting a few, I'll gladly take it. On a side note, if you ever do go to France the natives do not appreciate being talked at in english. One young lady had the honors of hitting me with her purse. It seems the months of hardship have stripped away all my charm . Matthew and I hit the pub yesterday. What I call beer and what the French call beer are disappointingly different. It's watery, flavourless, and weak. And I can't say the wine is much better.
I suppose I have to take what I have. A break is more than most get in this war. Though, in a few weeks time I'll be back in the trenches killing germans. As the locals say, "Quand on a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a"
Yours truly,
Alfred F. Jones
A shadow consumed the confinement of the room at the sight of a particularly doleful letter. Arthur's hand brushed over the worn parchment warily and he could not be certain if he had the will to read this one. "Oh Alfred." He sighed, lowering in thought. "You were so innocent in a time less straining than now. I wish you could have remained that way."
Dear Arthur,
I think I'm going to hell. I didn't think it'd be so hard their the enemy but dammit I can't do this anymore. Their people just like you and I and their dead because of me. I killed a man. He didn't do nothing just think about his family oh god their gonna miss him and I can't do nothing about it. He was so young and handsome theres probably some girl back home waiting for him. They make you hate them. They make you want to kill them but dammit their just people too. I'm going to go home when so many others lost their lives to meaningless war.
Alfred.
November 1914
Dear Arthur,
I'm writing to let you know all is well. Today there wasn't much enemy fire so instead we spent our hours shoveling out water and mud and refortifying fallen trenches. Let me tell you, it's much more exhausting than you'd think. The mud is almost impossible to walk through and I fell down more times than I'd like to admit. Matthew was there right beside me to make sure I didn't fall down too much. It was actually quite a funny endeavor and I pulled him down with me a few times. Our commander wasn't impressed with the mess we made, but I couldn't care less. We need to cherish laughter, because you don't know what day's going to be your last.
Right now I'm sitting around a makeshift fire sharing letters with some soldiers. We just got in our Christmas mail today and I'm smiling from ear to ear. Thank you for the chocolate. It really means the world to me! How's London doing these days? I honestly can't wait to get back and see you. Please do tell me about everything when you write me next. I want to know how your Christmas went. Did you get to see your family?
Merry Christmas, Art. Matt says Hi.
Jusqu'à notre prochaine reunion,
Alfred.
(December 1915)
Alfred had become impermeable to normal emotion as the decades of each battle passed. On one occasion, he witnessed the gruesome sight of a thousand casualties being carried off in stretchers from the front lines and fell in a fit of depression, not for the men who gave their lives, but for himself, for he would have to go into the hell in which they had come. It was impossible to stay human in the company of combat and it was impossible not to strip the given title of human from the men who fought on the other side. But every soul knew, and refused to admit, that they were all simply human. Alfred did not have the will to think of that now, but perhaps it would haunt him in the years to come.
My dearest Arthur,
How much longer will these poor young men have to lay down their lives for reasons unknown? I've been stuck knee-deep in this muddy hell hole and I still have not a clue when the fighting will end. It seems as if the only time of peace is in the early hours of the morning when the larks have not yet started to sing, and the sun has not yet risen over the trenches. Though, behind the hellish wall of smoke and artillery, the sun is barely recognizable. They told us we'd rotate- a few months of fighting and one on leave. But I have been stuck fighting for… oh god, how long has it been now? I believe 7 months. Four of the men I've started with still live, but I can't say for how much longer we'll hold up. I hope to get Matthew out of here alive. He's the friend I told you about. I miss seeing your face and I
Alfred put his pen down and stared into the distance.
Through the dust and dirt of yesterday advanced a force with more bravado than any other. Every morning it came without fear to the trenches, through the land of no one unchallenged, and remained upon these men until the late hours when another more pernicious force would march and take its place. With the Great Red General (given the name 'le soleil' by the locals) came the army band to get the men on their feet. Every morning these larks would shout the orders to commence the fighting once more.
The band's bloody cry rang through the hills, the valleys, the thistled black bushes and it rung through the sleeping corpses and the living skeletons who stood in attention, answering the cry and ready to die on both sides.
Dug seven feet under in the grave that would soon claim the lives and identities of these skeletons, not a sound escaped a spectre or the dying dead men with lacerations and mutilations too useless to be bothered with. Deep in the veins of the once thriving country, small creatures held their breath along with the breathless battlefield and waited, and wanted and wielded the fear and anger and sadness and shadows on their slumped shoulders alongside their weapons.
Skeletons sprung to their feet and ran. There was shooting and then shouting. Screams and smoke penetrated the air. It used to be so quiet. All of the skeletons were shot down and forgotten. From the graves there were plenty to take the fallen's place. They were all dead. More shouts. The earth lurched and people fell and more dead. Whistles dropped from above, explosions rattled on both sides and there was the deafening clapping of thunder. Still more dead.
It was Alfred's turn to die. He ran and dove and ducked and dared not look back. He still ran and ran and one more jump. He was in another's grave and none but Matthew joined him. One jerk from a shaking finger and the enemy was dead but his face was still screaming. The screaming wouldn't stop. Make it stop. Alfred covered his ears but he was the one screaming.