Spring Flowers

LeBeau took a breath. The smell of spring flowers filled his nose. Above him, fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across the sky and, somewhere, he heard birds singing above the gentle burbling of the nearby stream. If only he had a checkered blanket, a bottle or wine, some bread and cheese, and some female companionship. But, alas, he had no such comforts. A shame, really, but not unexpected in wartime. And LeBeau felt fortunate nonetheless to be here now, outside the fences of Stalag 13 in the fresh air, away from the muddy compound and the crowded barracks. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was a free man, enjoying a lazy afternoon in the countryside.

Curse the war. Curse it for casting a shadow over this idyllic place. Curse the men who started the war instead of letting the world enjoy its peaceful and serene places.

When and how would it end? And would there be any pretty flowers left when the guns fell silent?

LeBeau closed his eyes and took another breath. When he opened his eyes again, the world had shifted. The spring flowers were gone and the green grass was taller and smelled sweeter. The air was heavy and warm and it took a moment to realize that spring had turned to summer in the blink of an eye.

The birds were still singing, the stream was still babbling, but above that, LeBeau heard the steady beat of marching men. The occasional squeak betrayed the presence of tanks. LeBeau's eyes turned to the sky, where he saw German planes flying westward. Men, tanks, and planes, all going westward. Had the Allies invaded? LeBeau's heart leapt at the thought. If that was true, then surely the war would end soon.

A summer breeze broke through the heaviness in the air and swept over LeBeau, causing him to close his eyes again. He took another breath and opened his eyes. He saw the green was bleeding out of the grass, leaving it brittle and brown. The air was crisp and LeBeau smelled smoke from wood-burning fires. Summer had been replaced by fall.

The birds still sang, and the stream still flowed. But now, instead of hearing the weapons of war, LeBeau heard the creaking of wagon wheels and the shuffling steps of tired people. LeBeau could see a long line of refugees, fleeing the carnage of battle. Fleeing the fall of an empire, each heavy footstep laden with defeat.

LeBeau's heart hardened. Invaders could not be considered refugees simply for being driven from the land they had once conquered. And if they were returning to Germany, it could only mean that his France was free. Free from the evils that had polluted her lands, and had corrupted her beautiful fields and cities. Her flowers could now bloom in the sunlight of peace.

A baby cried, piercing through his thoughts and LeBeau's heart softened just as quickly as it had hardened. France's children had not asked for war but he had to suppose that neither had Germany's. And only the most callous of men would wish to deny a child a life of peace and freedom. The peace LeBeau longed for was not just for France, but for Germany, too. And he hoped that, this time, the Germans would understand and appreciate it.

A flurry of Autumn leaves swirled above him on a cool wind. LeBeau closed his eyes and took a breath.

Cold air burned his lungs and his eyes snapped open. The grass was gone. The birds were silent. Ice had stopped the stream in its tracks. Gunfire, shouts and screams ripped through the air. LeBeau looked over and saw faceless shadows spread across the field, clashing violently against each other.

Scarlet spilled across the white snow, serving as a stark reminder that peace was a hard-won prize.

Winter winds scattered the shadows as LeBeau closed his eyes again. Another breath and spring returned. Flowers once again graced the field and LeBeau thought the red of the blooms were deeper.

Was this it? Was the war over?

LeBeau hoped it was true but a nearby sob dispelled the thought. LeBeau saw a group of haggard civilians combing through the field. Dressed in rags, they sought whatever they could use to rebuild their lives. A woman had an armful of sticks. A man picked up bits of metal. And a child, lean and worn, held a basket with a few scraggly roots.

It seemed that even when the fighting was over, war would linger, keeping any peace at bay for a long time to come.

A blink, a breath, and a roar overhead brought LeBeau into summer. A plane flew by, trailing blue, white and red. The colours of America, Britain and his beloved France. They had won. But how long until the flowers here could truly bloom in peace?

The cycle continued. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. Over and over until LeBeau lost count. Through it all, despite the flowers and birds and stream, the field seemed devoid of happiness and LeBeau began to despair. Maybe peace would never grace this field. Maybe there was no one left to enjoy it.

But another Spring came and this time it was accompanied by the sound of laughter. LeBeau saw a little girl, in her soft green dirndl, picking flowers. She looked over at him and smiled. To his surprise, she came up to him and gently placed a crown of flowers on his head. She didn't say anything, but LeBeau thought he saw a look of gratitude in her eyes. A dog barked and the girl looked towards the sound. She called out the dog's name and skipped off to play with it.

LeBeau smiled and closed his eyes with a little sigh. He could fall asleep to the sound of that little girl playing with her dog. Peace at last.

A dog barked and LeBeau opened his eyes again. He tried to take a breath, but it seemed to be stuck somewhere in his throat. The smell of flowers was now mixed with the coppery tinge of the blood that oozed through his fingers.

From his place on the ground where the bullet had felled him only moments ago, LeBeau could see the barrel of a gun appear. A German soldier looked down at him and LeBeau held his gaze. Then he smiled. Because, even though his fate was sealed, he knew his life was a small price to pay. Peace would come. He knew it. He had seen it. And one day flowers would bloom in the very spot where he lay.