The memoirs of a surviving solider

“I’ve had my share of luck- more than my share.”

I smile as I remember a statement I had made years ago. Indeed, I’ve had more than my
fair share of luck. It’s been twenty years since the world war, and here I am, still living. I
never thought this could happen, I was so sure at some point I wasn’t going to make it, I
was so prepared for my end and yet, I’m here, in this time- in this world.
I am truly lucky to have a second chance to live; I thank God everyday that I survived,
and that I didn’t even end up crippled like a lot of the others who lived. I guess I really
did have more luck than I thought. I could’ve easily been one of the others, to have been
killed.
My smile faded instantly, as my mind drifted towards them.
Behind my house, in the large back garden, I lie flat on my back on the fresh,
green grass - staring up into the vast sky. It’s my favourite place to think. I did a lot of
thinking since the war, and I still do.
My father had provided me with a cosy, warm and beautifully- designed house,
not too big and not too small either. It was a gift to express how proud he was with me,
and how happy he was to see me alive. I live with my wife- Maria, with my twelve year
old daughter, Elizabeth in the countryside, in England. I like the peace and tranquillity
that is held in the atmosphere and the people in the area are splendid.
After two years from the war, I did a lot of travelling, only when I had holidays that is.
I’m always up for a trip to places, exploring and meeting different people- in fact that’s
how I met Maria. We met in 1926, in Scotland, where I met her at a café. I accidentally
spilled coffee on her, and that’s where we were encountered.
My cheeks flush a deep red- I always get embarrassed whenever I remember the
way we met.
Back in the trenches, I had planned that once I become fit and healthy I would go
see Madge, Raleigh’s sister. Things did not go as I had planned, and it was not Madge’s
fault. It was not her, it was me. I had a hard time telling her that her brother was dead. We
both cried for a long time, I let her cry on my shoulder, and as I looked into her brown
chocolate iris, I had stumbled. There was so much resemblance of Raleigh in her, at that
moment I knew I couldn’t be with her. It was painful to see her face because she was a
constant reminder of her brother, and I could not live with myself to have Raleigh
haunting me every time I looked at her beautiful face.
Pain struck in my heart, as I saw Raleigh’s face smiling at me inside my head. I
scowled, I didn’t deserve his smile, and I should have been able to help him, to prevent
his death- it shouldn’t have happened to him. He didn’t deserve to die just like that; my
eyes began to water, but I forced them away blinking furiously, ignoring the ache inside
me. He was really starting to grow on me, especially once I had read his letter.
My eyes averted downwards immediately, full of disgrace when I had snatched
his letter. The memory came flooding to me. “You leave it open.” I said in a quiet voice.
“Open?” Raleigh said in a surprise voice.
“Yes I have to censor all letters.”
“Oh, I – I didn’t realize that. I- I think- I’ll just leave it, then.” Raleigh stammered.
 I remember him being all nervous on that day, and I had mistakenly thought he must’ve
written something about me, why else would he suddenly not want me to read his letter. I
am sorry to say I didn’t stop to think that maybe what he wrote about me was not bad,
and perhaps it was something good.
The things he had mentioned were certainly different from what I thought he had written
about me. He didn’t write that I drank, or smoked, instead he wrote how I accepted my
responsibility, how I worked hard –he praised me. I glowed inside, yet, as soon as I heard
Uncle read out the last part of Raleigh’s letter, I was gob-smacked. I remember that
feeling clear as crystal. My heart swelled with guilt, as I heard, “I’m awfully proud to
think he’s my friend.” My eyes shone with tears that night, I moved into the dark, so that
Uncle couldn’t see me cry. I felt so much shame, ashamed of thinking Raleigh might’ve
written horrible things about me, ashamed that I read his letter; ashamed of the way I
behaved with him that night, where as he had been utterly respectful towards me ever
since he had entered my company.
I realised that he still hero-worshipped me, and that he never gave up when he
saw me in the state that I was. Not only that, but in his letter, I was overwhelmed to find
that the other soldiers, officers, and sergeants all admired me as well. After the letter
incident, I had found a new respect for Raleigh, he wasn’t just a person who looked up to
me, and he knew me well enough to understand me. I was also happy to know that I was
at least encouraging men to stay on, by setting a good example, but the guilt was still
weighted heavily on my chest from what I had done, and I didn’t know how to bring
myself to face Raleigh the next day.
The streaks of red and orange seem to pierce the cotton clouds high above my
head, merging. “I never knew the sun could rise in so many ways till I came out here.
Extraordinary isn’t it?”
I close my eyes as I replay the familiar, warm voice. A tear rolls down my cheek at the
memory of my dear old uncle. There was no one like him who understood me the way he
did. He was one man I could trust, to talk from man to man, and he was my best friend. I
didn’t know how I would survive when I found out that Uncle was out there, dying. I felt
there was something ripping deep inside my chest, and my mouth went all dry. I felt as if
my heart had suddenly dropped ten feet, the world collapsing around me, with nothing
but a horrifying image of Uncle being hurt, wounded, and in anguish, placed in front of
my hollow eyes.
It had taken all my restraint to simply not go out there- to find him and bring him back.
Alas, I couldn’t do anything. He had made me go on, helped me bear the nasty
surroundings; tolerate the noise, the bombs, to suppress the amount of death I saw. He
would ground me whenever I was losing my senses and helped me go through my pain.
He was forever there for me and I remember how he used to put me in bed after I was so
drunk.
I shake my head softly as I recall the time where I was such a drunkard, although I
am proud to say that I don’t drink at all. You see, I had finally quit drinking eight months
after the war. It was very hard at first, there was this astonishing crave that crept up my
throat and I simply couldn’t let go. I’d always end up grabbing a bottle and gulping it
down. But the new surroundings that I thought I would never see helped me overcome
my addiction to alcohol. Coming back to England, I cherished the comfort, the sanitation
and most of all the freedom. It was fantastic to simply be in a warm environment, to have
proper furniture, and to be able to eat without wanting to puke, and I could finally sleep
peacefully for the first time. In the trenches you could hardly sleep, you were constantly
haunted with the bombardments of gas shells and gunshots- and comfort became a word
that didn’t exist; on the other hand, I wasn’t totally free from the staggering war, even if
it was over- nightmares had constantly occurred.
Even though I was far away from the trenches, away from the death and attacks,
the memories were still there, still imprinted in my head. I knew I was safe, snug and
secure- yet my mind was scarred for life. My head was not over the traumatic aspects of
life I had seen, unfortunately I couldn’t erase them. During the first couple of years after
the war, where I was still trying to begin a new life, I could sometimes hear the distant
reverberations of rifles, pistols, and grenades. The cries, and pleas of help from wounded
soldiers as they slowly, painfully died, blood would flood in front of my eyes, fire raging,
I would see bloodied bodies heaped in a pile- I would then wake up gasping for air, my
heart thumping hard against my heaving chest, my pulse racing and tiny droplets of sweat
would be trickling on my forehead.
As more years have passed by, they have calmed down, I don’t often have the
nightmares anymore- not as much as I used to, except whenever I do I always try to
ignore it, I try to forget.
There were many things to distract me such as, meeting new people, going out to
places- before I met Maria I loved to go away, explore different places and to experience
as much pleasures of the world as I can possibly can. I like to be acquainted with various
people; I get to know them, although I get rather tense when they begin to ask me about
the war. People cheer me, congratulate me and look up to me with respect. Occasionally I
look at people, and they simply don’t know what the men had gone through, they don’t
know the truth. They’re so innocent, so ignorant- not knowing that the world can be a
cruel, harsh and agonizing place. They carry on with their lives, in their own world, and I
watch them, knowing the truth. I feel like I have this superior knowledge that no one
understands, I cannot talk to the men who have survived, for either they have died in the
last several years, or are suffering from shell-shock. I couldn’t talk to anyone really. No
one would have understood.
However, when I met Maria, I don’t know why, I guess love does strange things
to you, but I told her everything and I was surprised at how well she handled it. She
talked to me, helped me overcome my guilt that I felt towards Raleigh, she would stay
with me when I had those terrible nightmares- she didn’t pretend she understood, she was
just there for me, holding me. To be with someone, you have to know about each other,
and I haven’t been able to tell any women that I had met before Maria about my past four
excruciating years that I have experienced in the war. Sometimes I wonder where I would
be without her.
I think the reason why that I travelled so much is because I wanted to make the
most of my life, and doing so many activities helped me forget my craving for alcohol
and to simply admire the country that I have fought for.
I don’t regret being a drunkard, as much as I am ashamed of it- I don’t regret it;
the alcohol helped me bear the torturous pain that was inflicted upon me in the trenches.
Shivers travel down my spine and goose bumps form on my arms. I rub them hard with
my hands, and frown.
The mere thought of the trenches make my face ghostly-white. The trenches are the worst
place you can possible imagine on earth, sometimes I felt like I could have just lied down
on my bed and pretend I was paralysed or something-and that I couldn’t move- I would
just lie there till I died-and was dragged away. Every sound up there made me all sick and
cold and so lonely. I was close to committing suicide but I remained strong, for the other
men. It wouldn’t be fair on them, and someone had to remain sound, and I wouldn’t have
put up a good example for the other soldiers and officers.
I remember how I would always bark at the men to keep his trenches clean. I
laugh silently; I had always known for a fact that no matter how much you cleaned your
trenches, it would permanently remain filthy, dirty, muddy and ghastly.
As my stomach growled in hunger, I slowly get up and head towards the house,
into the kitchen. I grabbed an apricot and dug my teeth into its flesh. A grin spreads
across my face as a flash occurred in my mind. “I ‘aven’t ‘ad my apricots yet! Trotter
had said.
“We’ll keep your apricots till you come back.” I had replied. Trotter was always the one
who had a great passion for food. He never stopped eating, which annoyed me back then,
and I always wondered how he managed to have the spirit to actually eat. It amazed me
sometimes and I had envied Trotter for that. He was always coming up with ridiculous
ideas. Like for instance, there was one time where he drew a hundred and forty four
circles on a piece of paper, where he would colour in one every time an hour passed. It
was rather a bizarre idea, but highly amusing. At that time, I had lost my sense of
humour, but come to think of it, Trotter always seemed to lighten the mood with his jokes
and sarcastic remarks. “I mean-after all- war’s bad enough with pepper-but war without
pepper-it’s bloody awful!” I laugh out loud; Trotter had made such a big deal out of that
pepper situation.
I sigh deeply; I sincerely miss my fellow officers. The war was pointless. All it
did was create misery, destruction, and a loss of many lives. It didn’t help, and so many
people, men and families suffered so much. It wasn’t worth it. I really had to grow up
fast, and I really feel like I wasted four years of my life. Experiencing this whole war, I
understand that life is too short. It can’t be wasted.