Wild Horses

For three days we have been entrenched in this wet and filthy hollow, the rain is relentless and claws at our skin as we ready ourselves, staring skywards with empty eyes in silent contemplation of the scene we will face once the order is given and the whistle blows.

At times the silence is deafening. As you sit waiting, your thoughts, induced by an unfathomable fear, charge thunderously through your mind like a stampede of wild horses, and then they are gone, like the clouds in the sky.

Twice during these last few days we have been expecting the order. Twice we have prepared ourselves mentally for this moment, standing at the foot of the abyss, assuring ourselves that our artillery will do its worst, striking at the heart of our enemy’s defences, clearing the way as we advance in our quest for territorial gain.

And now twice the order has been rescinded.

We stand down, I step back and gasp for air, my heart is racing, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins tempered by the fear of an undeniable truth. As we wait for confirmation of our next order to advance we are accepting that the odds are not great, as the reaper’s scythe hangs ominously above our heads it is likely only one in four of us will survive our offensive foray.

It’s unnervingly quiet; an inky darkness besets us as dusk turns to night. I trudge wearily through the ankle deep and rat infested mud to check on my men, some standing, some sitting, rifles in hand ready to do their duty for king and country.

Sorry, did I say men? Some are nothing but boys, ashen faced and hollow eyed, a long, long way from home. God only knows what must be going through their minds right now. God only knows what must be going through the minds of their mothers, for to them they are but babes.

I feel immense pride in their bravery, in their very being, but this is tinged with guilt, a guilt forged by the knowledge that I will be the one who leads them into the smoke filled and barren fires of hell.

I take a minute to think of home, their home, our home, I should write a letter, but I fear I am unable to express myself the way I should like to. For if I could I would tell of the intolerable nightmares, the screams of men drowning in the swampy pools of no mans land as they try desperately to avoid their inevitable death. And drown they do, one by one, my boys lying prostate in their watery graves.

But not tonight, for tonight we are spared. The upturned collar of my trench coat offers scant protection from the rain as I sit back and close my eyes, alone again with my thoughts, inviting wild horses to do their worst.

In tribute to those those who put their lives on the line in the name of liberty.