Post by Heretic on Nov 10, 2006 16:33:35 GMT -5
"Wish I could join ye, son. 'Tis a pity about mah legs." Father pointed down to his stumps, where he had lost both his legs in the Boer War. They had always fascinated me, even in childhood. I loved hearing about how he lost him as he talked on in his Highland burl, ebony pipe thrust like a smoking lamp from his grizzled mouth.
I smiled at him and fixed my eyes on the kitchen table. The checker pattern there seemed to swirl before my eyes. I took off my hat and fiddled a little with it. I was in truth excited; to fight for the British Empire against the Hun! Harry, William, Wilbur and his twin brother Jacob had already gone over. "I'll do ye proud, Dad," I assured him, and only a less observant man would have missed the flicker of worry that passed through his eyes.
"War isnae pretty, lad. Ne'r lose yer faith in God, and aye he'll pull ye through." He coughed then, and added, "That's what me own father told me as a young lad waiting tae go tae war. I learned soon enough that a man's faith is broken or forged wi' the bullets that fly at ye. I'm right proud o' ye, Madoc. Now go an' make Scotland proud." He pointed out the window at the bus. "Ye make me proud."
The first thing of which I was aware was the pain. It grew in increments, even though I wasn't fully aware yet. It sent its crooked, ripping fingers north along my chest from my leg and gut. The second thing I knew was that it was raining. The rain fell upon the side of my face, softly as the sighing of the wind.
With great effort I raised my head up out of the mud and looked down at where the pain came from. In that moment I knew I would die. One leg had been shot through and through, and my belly was little more than a bloody mess of flesh, blood and cloth. I settled my head back again and closed my eyes against the rain.
Slowly I rolled over, knowing without truly knowing that my end was near. I had thought once that dying would be a thing of fear. I was surprised that I felt a remarkable indifference to what had been done to me. I dimly remembered Harry beside me being shredded by machine gun bullets. With a wave of grief I forced the thought from my head and tried to focus on Father.
I don't know how long I lay there in the churned up mud, the rain pattering on my broken face like the fingers of small children. I must have rolled down a small hill, for I was suddenly at the bottom of a low mound in a pool of icy water.
I opened my eyes.
Private Isaac O'Feefe stared back at me with his dead grey eyes. His red hair was plastered by rain and blood. I slid my gaze down his body and discovered the source of his death. His chest had been opened by a hail of gunfire, and there was little left of it now. His lower half was nowhere to be seen. His right arm was gone, but his left lay extended out towards me like a plea with fist clenched.
I looked at his left hand. "Well, Isaac," I managed to say, though I don't know if any words came out at all. I coughed up blood. It dribbled down my cheek and mixed with the mud. Reaching out with one hand I opened his. It was stiff, and in my failing strength I almost didn't manage it. But I finally pried the fingers open and saw what he was holding onto.
It was a rosary, and below it something crinkled. We had all known the Irishman was a Catholic. Oftentimes we'd find him praying before a battle, saying his rosary with calm, measured words. I pulled the rosary off the crinkled thing and turned it over. It was a picture of a girl, smiling, pretty, before the gates of a cathedral.
I coughed again, and I knew that I would join him soon. Darkness was beginning to swim before my eyes and I was cold, ever so cold. I gently replaced the rosary and the picture to his hand and closed his stiff, cold fingers over them again. "Hope I meet yer lassie in heaven, mah friend. She's a pretty lass tae be sure," I whispered.
Then I turned over on my back and watched the rain fall down until I slipped into a dark, dark sleep.
I smiled at him and fixed my eyes on the kitchen table. The checker pattern there seemed to swirl before my eyes. I took off my hat and fiddled a little with it. I was in truth excited; to fight for the British Empire against the Hun! Harry, William, Wilbur and his twin brother Jacob had already gone over. "I'll do ye proud, Dad," I assured him, and only a less observant man would have missed the flicker of worry that passed through his eyes.
"War isnae pretty, lad. Ne'r lose yer faith in God, and aye he'll pull ye through." He coughed then, and added, "That's what me own father told me as a young lad waiting tae go tae war. I learned soon enough that a man's faith is broken or forged wi' the bullets that fly at ye. I'm right proud o' ye, Madoc. Now go an' make Scotland proud." He pointed out the window at the bus. "Ye make me proud."
***
The first thing of which I was aware was the pain. It grew in increments, even though I wasn't fully aware yet. It sent its crooked, ripping fingers north along my chest from my leg and gut. The second thing I knew was that it was raining. The rain fell upon the side of my face, softly as the sighing of the wind.
With great effort I raised my head up out of the mud and looked down at where the pain came from. In that moment I knew I would die. One leg had been shot through and through, and my belly was little more than a bloody mess of flesh, blood and cloth. I settled my head back again and closed my eyes against the rain.
Slowly I rolled over, knowing without truly knowing that my end was near. I had thought once that dying would be a thing of fear. I was surprised that I felt a remarkable indifference to what had been done to me. I dimly remembered Harry beside me being shredded by machine gun bullets. With a wave of grief I forced the thought from my head and tried to focus on Father.
I don't know how long I lay there in the churned up mud, the rain pattering on my broken face like the fingers of small children. I must have rolled down a small hill, for I was suddenly at the bottom of a low mound in a pool of icy water.
I opened my eyes.
Private Isaac O'Feefe stared back at me with his dead grey eyes. His red hair was plastered by rain and blood. I slid my gaze down his body and discovered the source of his death. His chest had been opened by a hail of gunfire, and there was little left of it now. His lower half was nowhere to be seen. His right arm was gone, but his left lay extended out towards me like a plea with fist clenched.
I looked at his left hand. "Well, Isaac," I managed to say, though I don't know if any words came out at all. I coughed up blood. It dribbled down my cheek and mixed with the mud. Reaching out with one hand I opened his. It was stiff, and in my failing strength I almost didn't manage it. But I finally pried the fingers open and saw what he was holding onto.
It was a rosary, and below it something crinkled. We had all known the Irishman was a Catholic. Oftentimes we'd find him praying before a battle, saying his rosary with calm, measured words. I pulled the rosary off the crinkled thing and turned it over. It was a picture of a girl, smiling, pretty, before the gates of a cathedral.
I coughed again, and I knew that I would join him soon. Darkness was beginning to swim before my eyes and I was cold, ever so cold. I gently replaced the rosary and the picture to his hand and closed his stiff, cold fingers over them again. "Hope I meet yer lassie in heaven, mah friend. She's a pretty lass tae be sure," I whispered.
Then I turned over on my back and watched the rain fall down until I slipped into a dark, dark sleep.