Indestructible Soldiers

'I pray that this is not the last letter that I will ever send to you my darling, I love you with all my heart' -Mary

Staring into the darkest part of hell, clutching onto a small reminder of home, the lingering pungency of blood, sweat and reeking human waste consumed the air, even after God's mourning tears from last night.

A faint voice in the distant called out to me. "Soldier?"

My face felt warm from past memories of my love that brought prickling tears to my blood-shot eyes. My throat was strung tighter than the threads of my sister's prized violin and the well trodden mud squelched beneath my boots, as I sank deeper under the weight of my pack. The trench wall provided little shelter against the winter gusts or the agonised screams of soldiers' ghosts roaming the lands in search of their unburied remains. Chilled to my very core I looked up from the wrinkled note only to see my sergeant's face staring back at me with a mixed expression of bewilderment and sorrow. It was he who had just called me.

"Yes?" I answered in a faint, quivering voice, his greeneyes reminding me of a similar pair of emerald eyes that instilled my soul with hope and love.

He put his frozen, grimy hand on my dusty shoulder. "We're moving out."

As I watched him leave to inform the other soldiers, I reminisced about the days of old; the quaint town that radiated happiness and warmth to every new generation that entered it; the enjoyment that I once associated with working on the farm, going to school or simply the exciting sensation of reciprocal love. The town community's only downfall perhaps, was that, at times it was too generous and welcoming. Yet, give me that option over the present situation and you would not see a man flee this hellhole faster than myself, though this was not even remotely possible. I was to remain trapped here indefinitely and continue to represent the facade of the 'indestructible soldier' being propagandised by the tabloids to the unsuspecting public. The romanticised representation that the ANZAC soldiers aren't swayed by the terrors faced by war and are the proud bearers of their forefathers' military conservativeness, undeniable excellence and courage, contradicted the truth. I needed to fight for our country, our freedom and our people or wear the shame.

Like myself, most of the soldiers in the platoon had enlisted at the age of seventeen. We all left home on the brink of summertime and, although underaged, most of my peers wanted to demonstrate to the Huns "What us good Australian men were made of". Like our childhood sword fights and tussles, it would be light fun with proclamations of victories. We believed that our ANZAC spirit would vanquish the Huns in one fell swoop, thus leaving the remainder of our lives to be sculptured around retelling the stories of our fascinating battles; stepping stones to success and demonstrations of bravery.

It's nearly two years ago since our vision was shattered at the point where we were thrown into hell and spat back out because the devil himself thought hell was too good for men like us. We had to suffer through the loud shrieks of our buddies' anguished cries, while the shrapnel burned through our penetrable skin we believed indestructible. Yes, hell would have been a better place than this nightmare that we were living through.

Living on a farm was my kingdom; where horses ran free, geese wobbled around the yard, pigs rolled in mud and roosters crowed before dawn. Before the war, families were complete and mine was perfect. My father was a soldier serving in the British Army during the Boer War. Now he is a farmer, working the lands that he inherited from his father and his father before him. My mother was a nurse, waiting for her man to return to her. Now she is a mother, taking care of me whenever I stray from the right path.

When I was old enough to know wrong from right, my parents had scraped enough money together to send me to a decent school, providing me with an opportunity that was never extended to them. Located a few towns away from ours, I had to wake in the early hours of the morning just to arrive on time, not arriving home until the late hours of the evening with blistered feet. However a complaint never escaped my lips, neither about the unorthodox teaching methods of my teachers with their beloved canes and unique punishments, nor the practical jokes inflicted upon me by my peers because of my low status as a farmer's boy. My lack of acceptance from the school and below par presentation was irrelevant to me reaching my final year and aiming for the dream held by my parents and myself; to become a respectable businessman. That was, until the war broke out on my final year in 1914. For the other school boys, they didn't need to question whether to go or stay because they believed it was their duty to fight. For me I had a choice; to leave my education and my family's dream for honour and glory, or stay and wait to be called a coward for deserting my fellow brothers.

"John!" The call of my name made me abruptly look up to the source. In front of me I saw a man's bloody face staring back at me. It was Charlie. We had been friends since we were kids, growing up on the farm, chasing girls at school and now we are chasing men across foreign lands. His dream was to become a famous writer and it wouldn't surprise me if I saw him writing in his sleep. He was constantly scribbling down lines and creating amazing fantasies full of romance and innocent adventure that always, always ended happily. Every morning the boys would ask him what new novels he had produced overnight and Charlie would be compelled to delve into the mystic wonders of his latest concoctions.

Yes, he had always been the overly optimistic one in our friendship and it was that characteristic that still prevailed...or so it seemed. There are few who remain genuinely cheerful and in these times they become increasingly difficult to come across. Charlie was one of them. Another indestructible soldier. He was an ever burning candle that symbolised hope for the future, who persevered for the sake of the cause. However candles are only needed at night and it was my suspicion that during the day when a candle is at its optimum translucency, it has actually gone out all together. A thought that was unknown to me, before I discovered his latest writing.

'Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love again, Nor taste the summertime.'

Embarrassed, he tried to dismiss it as "mere melancholy", negative thoughts that he would triumph over. He is yet to accomplish this task.

"You need to put your belongings in the post now John", he reminded me as he sat down beside me on the moist, muddy floor.

"Oh yeah, I was about to," every word I spoke was low and hoarse as my mind reluctantly brought itself back to reality. My eyes focused on the letter that I grasped in my hands, "but I got distracted".

"Is that from Mary?" A saddened silence grew between us, interrupted momentarily by the familiar explosive smashes, crashes and pounding of the deadly fireworks that erupted every few minutes.

"Yes" I softly whispered. The words were still etched into my mind. They very well could be the last sweet words I would ever read from my beloved.

Mary is a girl I had known during my school years. She was the type of girl that you'd dream about and hope that you would get the chance to spend the rest of your life with. I craved her attention and yet rarely acted upon it. I loved her green eyes with flicks of yellow scattered throughout; her soft, pale skin that perfectly complimented her brunette curls - she was my reason to go on living. Admiring her from a distance I had hoped, despite her attached circle of suitors, she would notice me. Every time I saw her or spoke to her my heart would skip a beat and I would act like a stupid, blubbering idiot, as boys do when they speak to a beautiful girl like Mary. Nevertheless she would stay and continue to converse with me, giggling all the while at my feeble attempts to string together a coherent sentence and in turn making me laugh along with her.

When the war came to England all hopes of happiness and warmth, or dreams of wanting a simple life were gone. Having a career, supporting a family, experiencing the joys of life and having the closeness of someone beside you were snatched away from each boy. When the army called for volunteers I had made my decision to go, not for honour or glory, but for the hope that one day young boys like me, could have the future that I couldn't have. When I signed my name on the dotted line I had signed away the pleasures of falling in love, the enjoyments of life, the success of earning wealth and the warmth and love of a woman.

When the time came to say goodbye to my mother and father, I tried to hold back the tears of the dawning realisation that I may never see them again.

I marched forward to join the other boys and I searched for her, scanning the crowd of mothers crying for their sons, but she wasn't there. As I reached the rest of my platoon I heard someone call my name and pivoted to see her running towards me. Mary leaned forward to give me a kiss, slipping a small envelope into my hand and whispered her goodbyes into my ear.

As I held onto that perfect image, a loud voice rang over the air, "The balloons have gone up!" and Big Bertha began her enterprise. Looking at me with a weary grin Charlie stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet. "You Sir will not go West on me you hear. We have a war to win."

He released my hand, pivoted and ran to fetch his gun, his figure disappearing in Big Bertha's billowing smoke. I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand and read the last line, filling my heart with hope and love, as I closed it for the final time.