The Ghost of Passchendaele
Darkness passes
All darkness passes, does it not?
Is there not light
that ends all night?
May this darkness fade
Pray this darkness fades.
Nearly a century ago, harrowed night filled this field. Luminescence burst from the guessing blasts of four million terrorizing shells. Death rained from the sky; death blasted from the furious guns. Piercing eyes gazed from the trenches, longing for hope, but meeting only calamity. Both sides prayed: May God relieve this scathing horror. Desire found them not, for to do this was sin; unforgivable, bloody sin. This night brought the cursed, sleepless nightmare. To wake is to die, for on the morrow, they would either harbinge death or they would meet her.
Death move onward.
Death I am not ready.
Death move onward.
The field is plain now. The ignorant might set foot here and never know the fates decided. A lone man stands on the field, searching for something-- not an object, but a place. He compares aging landmarks until finally he knows. With outstretched arms, he closes his eyes and knows precisely where he stands. His face bears gain, but not triumph; this is not a place he wishes to be. Not again. He looks back at you, the pain in his eyes transparent. This is a tale that must be told, for we cannot forget.
He begins, “This is it. This is where my foxhole was. I remember it was here because of that tree over there. It's so much bigger now. You didn't see many trees. Most of them got hit by artillery or were shot, but this one got through alright. I mean, it got shot and all, but it stood. And it's green now. Everything was so brown then, so colourless. Nothing grew at all. War isn't a time for sowing; it's a time for reaping. It's not a time for life; it's a time for death. It's a time to kill.”
Swallowing, he continues, “It was on October the 12 th , 1917 when our commanders finally blew the whistle. The war dragged onward slowly. Neither side made progress because trench warfare is built on waiting. You build and dig as deep as you can because sometime or another the other side has to try to come and kill you. But there you are with your riflemen, and your snipers, and your barbed wire, and your landmines, and your machine guns, and you- and your--” he draws a flask containing whiskey and drinks from it. “There's so much. It's hard to keep it all in perspective. Back then, though, we had to know it all because any which part of it could kill you whenever it pleased. Death mocked us by all her means.”
The soldier puts his whiskey away and with a trembling hand, wipes his mouth. “You know, there's a time when you sit down and forget what you are. You know you're scared and you know you want out of there, but then comes the part when you stop asking why. You stop looking for purpose in the nightmare and soon, even you refer to yourself as 'private.' Sometimes the officers threw in our last names, but that was only if they knew it. When I figured this out, I remember pretty clearly that I had this notebook; very small, I don't remember exactly why I brought it. Maybe to draw. But I started writing my name and I did it every day. I wrote down my name with all that I could remember:
Private Thomas Shane Holdsworth, 7 th Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, from the Upper East Side of London. Father is William Thomas Holdsworth and mother is Bridgett Shane Holdsworth. His sister is Lillian Holdsworth. Private Thomas Shane Holdsworth: dead man.
“Sometimes I'd put down more than that, like the name of my dog or my address. I held onto something though. Everybody had something. Some guys had some stupid good luck charm or a picture of their girlfriend. I just had my goddamned notebook.” He shrugs and reaches into his jacket for a cigarette. He lights it and takes a few uneasy puffs.
His smoke break and his tangent end. “Our trench is over there. I thought they were crazy when they told
Darkness passes
All darkness passes, does it not?
Is there not light
that ends all night?
May this darkness fade
Pray this darkness fades.
Nearly a century ago, harrowed night filled this field. Luminescence burst from the guessing blasts of four million terrorizing shells. Death rained from the sky; death blasted from the furious guns. Piercing eyes gazed from the trenches, longing for hope, but meeting only calamity. Both sides prayed: May God relieve this scathing horror. Desire found them not, for to do this was sin; unforgivable, bloody sin. This night brought the cursed, sleepless nightmare. To wake is to die, for on the morrow, they would either harbinge death or they would meet her.
Death move onward.
Death I am not ready.
Death move onward.
The field is plain now. The ignorant might set foot here and never know the fates decided. A lone man stands on the field, searching for something-- not an object, but a place. He compares aging landmarks until finally he knows. With outstretched arms, he closes his eyes and knows precisely where he stands. His face bears gain, but not triumph; this is not a place he wishes to be. Not again. He looks back at you, the pain in his eyes transparent. This is a tale that must be told, for we cannot forget.
He begins, “This is it. This is where my foxhole was. I remember it was here because of that tree over there. It's so much bigger now. You didn't see many trees. Most of them got hit by artillery or were shot, but this one got through alright. I mean, it got shot and all, but it stood. And it's green now. Everything was so brown then, so colourless. Nothing grew at all. War isn't a time for sowing; it's a time for reaping. It's not a time for life; it's a time for death. It's a time to kill.”
Swallowing, he continues, “It was on October the 12 th , 1917 when our commanders finally blew the whistle. The war dragged onward slowly. Neither side made progress because trench warfare is built on waiting. You build and dig as deep as you can because sometime or another the other side has to try to come and kill you. But there you are with your riflemen, and your snipers, and your barbed wire, and your landmines, and your machine guns, and you- and your--” he draws a flask containing whiskey and drinks from it. “There's so much. It's hard to keep it all in perspective. Back then, though, we had to know it all because any which part of it could kill you whenever it pleased. Death mocked us by all her means.”
The soldier puts his whiskey away and with a trembling hand, wipes his mouth. “You know, there's a time when you sit down and forget what you are. You know you're scared and you know you want out of there, but then comes the part when you stop asking why. You stop looking for purpose in the nightmare and soon, even you refer to yourself as 'private.' Sometimes the officers threw in our last names, but that was only if they knew it. When I figured this out, I remember pretty clearly that I had this notebook; very small, I don't remember exactly why I brought it. Maybe to draw. But I started writing my name and I did it every day. I wrote down my name with all that I could remember:
Private Thomas Shane Holdsworth, 7 th Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, from the Upper East Side of London. Father is William Thomas Holdsworth and mother is Bridgett Shane Holdsworth. His sister is Lillian Holdsworth. Private Thomas Shane Holdsworth: dead man.
“Sometimes I'd put down more than that, like the name of my dog or my address. I held onto something though. Everybody had something. Some guys had some stupid good luck charm or a picture of their girlfriend. I just had my goddamned notebook.” He shrugs and reaches into his jacket for a cigarette. He lights it and takes a few uneasy puffs.
His smoke break and his tangent end. “Our trench is over there. I thought they were crazy when they told
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