Red Hawk of Ancre Heights

A Hawk Takes Flight

Date: October 29, 1916

To: My dearest mother,

I know it has been many years since I last spoke to you, as I deeply apologize for not keeping in touch with your mother, I am terribly sorry. Unlike many of my fellow soldiers, I have been able to track the time since my first deployment to the battlefield. It has been four years since the war started, since I was taken into conscription, and three years after I completed my training. I am writing this to you during my last battle, I am currently in the trenches during an enemy attack. I've been stuck in these defensive hells for three weeks. This is not the first time that I have been in a single, fear not, I am fully capable of defending myself.

Although I cannot say the same for the others. Staying in those narrow mole holes is nothing short of living hell, to put it bluntly. Every day has been the same, in every other damn trench I've been in.

Every morning, every dreary morning that the remnants of us left from any confrontation are surprised by the crack of the day before the sun floats on the horizon and the birds sing their soporific songs we hold on to arms in the event of an attack enemy; as the sun lifts its head above the dreary, dark horizon, we consume our scraps of misery called rations to at least have enough willpower to get through the day; as the morning mist fills the air and covers the green leaves of the nearby forest, we stop half an hour after daylight; as the sun rises over the sky and the birds chirp as a reminder of the life I have left behind, we consume the first pieces of garbage to fill us up until noon; as the sun rises in the sky and makes us shine a light that we see, the heat that we feel but to never really know (it must be nice to be a bird) we have time; with the sun high in the sky and the breeze gently caressing us, we consume our last supper of the day; insects that fly by those who are long gone and fallen, like rats with wings, they feast greedily until their stomachs burst with muscle and lymph, foul warty toads croak mockingly at us men, fate must be a prankster as we stretch out on the soggy, fleshy brown fields trying not to feast on the loathsome vermin; as the sun sets from the west, we fill our sweaty vessels and depleted bowels with liquids, but I am aware that no matter what liquid gold I consume, it will slip through my pores and cracks again. imperfect; the sun has now rushed further west, we stand like terracotta statues for half an hour until the crickets and maggots prick their heads through the cracks and nooks; as the sun sets sheltered from the horizon of the incoming explosives, with a forecast of heavy lead shells, we no longer rest as for the fallen and under the shock of the shells we rush like ants in the cloak of darkness and plow the earth until our hand splits in half or twists out of their tendons only until the worms holding our backs and lambs feet give us room for the inevitable fall.

Living in the anthills were harder than all of grandfather's blows on my crown. The anthills were long, muddy, and ultimately lacked the warmth and comfort that were provided to us. Before the war struck us, when you held me as a little boy in your loving arms. The toilets ran around the edges of their boundaries and were filth-ridden like a street dog rolling around in a pile of dung. I saw many of my comrades come and go, I saw many not having the will to stand on their two bony feet, I fear that the mud foot has reached and infected their crane legs.

I'm afraid there is nothing left of what will happen as the seconds pass, I leave with you all my undying love, my shattered soul and my fading warmth. As my lowered breaths join you in this mother prayer: "O Lord, your grieving Mother has stood by your cross; help us in our sorrows to share your sufferings. Like the seed buried in the ground, you have brought forth the harvest of eternal life for us, making us always dead to sin and alive for God. In your role as the new Adam, you have descended among the dead to free all the righteous from the beginning; make sure that all who died in sin hear your voice and are resurrected. Son of the living God, you have enabled us by baptism to be buried with you; grant that we may also be resurrected with you in baptism and walk in the newness of life. Amen. "

It must be pleasant to be a bird, to fly free from the chains that an automated two-legged mammal that walks must follow, to feel the wind whispering through the feathers which take in a maternal heat, to have the soothing breeze that whisper bittersweet expressions in your ears, and to have the alluring sapphire sky kiss with surging heat. He must really feel kind and caring, like you. Isn't that great mother? It must truly sound like the gifts of life that you hold hand in hand with your warm hands, your tender words that soothe my soul, and your undying love that goes beyond the stars that bathe the night sky.

There is no need to worry, mother. In fact, there is no more to worry about. Don't worry, I'll make sure to greet father. I love you, mom.

Sincerely, your son,
Nathan Rhodes