Died Honourably

By Claire Hines, Year 11

I watched the raindrops stream down the windows with an ever-mounting
anxiety. The green fields and the forests flew by, blurred by the speed and the
weather. I sat stock still and stiffly straight like all men of my profession. I had
gotten my uniform cleaned while on leave. What a fuss my mother had made
when I had come home with an unkept beard, caked from head to toe in mud
and filth smelling like a dog. It was better not to dwell on it. Leave had been a
painful experience for all concerned. I had felt distanced from the rest of them,
like a visitor from a faraway country who didn’t speak the same language.
The door of the carriage opened and a young man in a clean uniform stepped
in. When he saw me, his eyes filled with awe and he sat down quietly so as not
to disturb me. The new recruit was proud to finally be going to fight for his
country and looked upon me as a veteran. His fair hair and blue eyes
reminded me of someone.
How could I forget? The boche I had killed in my last assault before leaving. We
had charged, running low to avoid the enemy bullets, shells exploding
overhead with a crash to awaken the dead, to reach the enemy trench. Our
artillery had kept a constant fire on this spot the day before in an attempt to
destroy the infernal barbed wire that surrounded it, but the Huns had rebuilt it
overnight.
My comrades fell on either side, but Lady luck was with me. I reached the
objective and crouching low, with trembling hands I had cut the wire with my
pliers. A shell had exploded nearby, and shaken the ground under my feet. The
shock had thrown me through the breach I had just made into the trench
below. My ears ringing, I had stood up shaking, smeared in mud and filth. A
man had come running at me, bayonet raised and instinctively I had raised my
own. He had stopped short, the blade stuck in his insides, and had collapsed on
the ground in a pool of blood with an incredulous look on his face. It was only
then that I had realised that my enemy was not the monster my dazed and
scared mind had made him, but a boy younger than myself. I had felt sick at
the sight, sick with shame and anger. I felt the same now, remembering. It was
no longer war as I knew it. The boy had no clue what he was doing, it was
butchery.
I winced at the thought that in less than a few hours I would be back in that
living nightmare. A movement opposite me attracted my attention. The recruit

was lighting a cigarette. I started to turn away when a thought crawled into my
head: that’s the same brand Jean smoked.
I closed my eyes and attempted to dismiss it. But it was to late, the seed had
been planted and was growing rapidly. Jean, his smiles, his charm, his laughter,
his stories, his death. Almost a brother to me, we had shared all things
together: arguments, jokes, memories and pain. I could still recall the great
bloody wreckage he had become when that shell landed on him as he stood on
sentry duty. He had been telling me about his sister, and just as he started to
tell me her name, it happened. All I know is that it began with a J like his own.
Jeanne, Joanne, Jacqueline? I shall never know.
Tears came to my eyes at that painful recollection. He had only been 17 having
lied about his age to get in to the army. He hadn’t deserved the end he
received. The rain started to beat harder against the glass, and the noise got
louder. The water’s gunfire set my hair on edge, and instinctively I started to
sweat in anticipation of what was to come.
The train stopped. Not long now. I shivered and realised I was afraid. Afraid of
returning to the fear, the hunger, the cold, the pain, the smell of decaying
bodies, the rats, the death, the screaming and shouting, the living hell. If I
could have given my arm to not go back I would of. But I could not. I could not
get off the train, I could not go back home, I could not hide, but I was equally
sure that I could not return. The terror was gaining ground, and I trembled as
tears started to steam down my cheeks. The sky continued to cry with me. I
turned to the window so the boy wouldn’t see my shame.
The explosion of distant thunder made me jump and the searing flare of
lightning that followed blinded me. I could not take any more, I could not bear
it. As the train rolled to a halt at the next station, a man drove across the tracks
in his automobile. The thin tires hit a sharp rut and one burst bringing the car
to a standstill.
I jumped again and clutched my musket. I was under attack! The shells were
screaming through my mind and exploding in my thoughts. I leapt to my feet
and raised my weapon to my head. There was only one way out of this battle…
Outside on the platform, a single gunshot was heard from within the train.
A few days later, a woman waiting for news from her son, found a letter on her
doorstep with the words:

“I regret to inform you of the death of Sergeant Geoffrey Legrand. He was
killed in action and died honourably.”