explain this well enough. I want to cry for that poor Jerry sod over there because maybe, just maybe, nobody else will. But war is no place for such humanity. War is fought for humanity, not with it. I suppose I just want to remember what I'm fighting for out there, you know?”
He sighs again, “The saddest part about all of this is that it doesn't matter. For all the times I wrote down names in my notebook, or said prayers on my rosary for myself, my company, my family, and my enemies, it still doesn't matter. I remember how it happened, but I try so hard to forget. I had just reloaded my Enfield and popped out to take a shot. I heard the sergeant shouting something or another and men dying and screaming shells and guns roaring over it all. I remember looking down my sights and taking a bit longer than I should have. I remember crimson splattering everywhere before me and then I couldn't see anymore. I couldn't feel anything. There wasn't pain. I couldn't feel. Everything faded away. They told me that there's a light, but it's only dark. It's only dark and it's cold; so cold. I fell back into the water with Wolsey.
“I died that day. October 12 th , 1917, the Battle of Passchendaele. I took a rifle round straight to the head. The bullet went right under my helmet and killed me near-instant.”
Remorse fills the tears he cries. “Now I'm here. I'm forever here on the plains of Passchendaele. We wound up winning that battle but I can't help but feeling that I died in vain. You know when you look at it, every last man who has ever died in any war dies in vain. I'm not saying they aren't heroes or whatnot, but I am saying that their lives were wasted. Look at me. I could have lived past nineteen and led some kind of life, but instead I died for a war that we still can't understand exactly what it was about. War is an atrocity. It shouldn't happen. It shouldn't happen at all, but it does, and men like me die over it. Some of us die horrible, agonizing deaths with mustard gas or a bleed, some of us are lucky like me and die fast. But we're dead. We're proud to be dead because we died for our countries.
“The question that bothers me though, 'did we have to?' Wars happen and none of them are ever for the right reason. The good guys fight to stop the bad guys, but the bad guys always think they're the good guys. I don't know. It's irritating to think about that, but the point is that war is inevitable, but in good theory, we could have prevented it and nobody would have to die. I could be alive and probably have a wife and some kids by now.
“But some politicians out there decided it was time for young people to die. If there was any justice in the world, the politicians who damn us would take up rifles and fight with us, but there isn't justice. There are only dead men lying in flooded foxholes.”
He puts out his cigarette and stands again. He looks out onto the horizon and takes a deep breath. His is time is short, so he finishes, “Don't let people forget what happened here. Don't let the world forget places likes Passchendaele. Maybe one day people will learn the hell that happens. I know they won't. It's like this war, 'the war to end all wars,' which is the biggest load of shit I've heard all my life. There will always be another war. It's a battle that's always going to be fought and never won. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try though, because I'd like to believe that my life is worth trying for.”
The Ghost of Passchendaele sighs one last breath before fading back into forgotten memory.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Nay, tis sweeter to die not at all.
“The Ghost of Passchendale” is dedicated to the memory of the late Harry Patch, whose life spanned greater than a century before telling his story of what happened at that harrowed field. He passed away in July of 2009. True memory of the battle dies with him. Harry Patch was the last survivor of Passchendaele. God rest his soul. God rest
He sighs again, “The saddest part about all of this is that it doesn't matter. For all the times I wrote down names in my notebook, or said prayers on my rosary for myself, my company, my family, and my enemies, it still doesn't matter. I remember how it happened, but I try so hard to forget. I had just reloaded my Enfield and popped out to take a shot. I heard the sergeant shouting something or another and men dying and screaming shells and guns roaring over it all. I remember looking down my sights and taking a bit longer than I should have. I remember crimson splattering everywhere before me and then I couldn't see anymore. I couldn't feel anything. There wasn't pain. I couldn't feel. Everything faded away. They told me that there's a light, but it's only dark. It's only dark and it's cold; so cold. I fell back into the water with Wolsey.
“I died that day. October 12 th , 1917, the Battle of Passchendaele. I took a rifle round straight to the head. The bullet went right under my helmet and killed me near-instant.”
Remorse fills the tears he cries. “Now I'm here. I'm forever here on the plains of Passchendaele. We wound up winning that battle but I can't help but feeling that I died in vain. You know when you look at it, every last man who has ever died in any war dies in vain. I'm not saying they aren't heroes or whatnot, but I am saying that their lives were wasted. Look at me. I could have lived past nineteen and led some kind of life, but instead I died for a war that we still can't understand exactly what it was about. War is an atrocity. It shouldn't happen. It shouldn't happen at all, but it does, and men like me die over it. Some of us die horrible, agonizing deaths with mustard gas or a bleed, some of us are lucky like me and die fast. But we're dead. We're proud to be dead because we died for our countries.
“The question that bothers me though, 'did we have to?' Wars happen and none of them are ever for the right reason. The good guys fight to stop the bad guys, but the bad guys always think they're the good guys. I don't know. It's irritating to think about that, but the point is that war is inevitable, but in good theory, we could have prevented it and nobody would have to die. I could be alive and probably have a wife and some kids by now.
“But some politicians out there decided it was time for young people to die. If there was any justice in the world, the politicians who damn us would take up rifles and fight with us, but there isn't justice. There are only dead men lying in flooded foxholes.”
He puts out his cigarette and stands again. He looks out onto the horizon and takes a deep breath. His is time is short, so he finishes, “Don't let people forget what happened here. Don't let the world forget places likes Passchendaele. Maybe one day people will learn the hell that happens. I know they won't. It's like this war, 'the war to end all wars,' which is the biggest load of shit I've heard all my life. There will always be another war. It's a battle that's always going to be fought and never won. That doesn't mean we shouldn't try though, because I'd like to believe that my life is worth trying for.”
The Ghost of Passchendaele sighs one last breath before fading back into forgotten memory.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Nay, tis sweeter to die not at all.
“The Ghost of Passchendale” is dedicated to the memory of the late Harry Patch, whose life spanned greater than a century before telling his story of what happened at that harrowed field. He passed away in July of 2009. True memory of the battle dies with him. Harry Patch was the last survivor of Passchendaele. God rest his soul. God rest
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