Rememberance

Written by Kevin ( me )

\" In Flanders field the poppies blow \"

Ray leaned back against a tree trunk, sighing as he watched the little boy recite the poem that bought death to all his loved ones. The poem he hated and yet it was all the dead souls lost in the war had left. He never wanted to come here, it bought too much pain, such pain he hoped he could run away from, hide it, forget about it. Part of him was saying to leave and never come back. The other part was telling him to stay, to say his last good-byes, to put his grieving, his mourning and his sorrow behind him. That was the part that drove him here, hoping to find a place of redemption.

The cool autumn breeze blew around him, causing him to shiver as he looked across the endless rows of crosses which now mark the graves of his fellow soliders. He remembered the first day, how he and his friends were so excited about applying to join the Great War. He remembered his two best buddies, both are dead now, buried along in the dense rows of crosses which are sprouting with poppies.

\" How stupid we were then......\" His voice was a whisper, trailing off. Even then it was full of disgust.

Ray forced himself to look back at the boy, looking at the graves only bought back unplesent memories. He remembered how both of his best buddies, Christopher and Robert died, remembering how Robert died for him. The burden of guilt still lay on his shoulders even now, remembering his own stubborness that killed his best friend. Sometimes he wished he could of died with them, wondering where the souls of the dead went, gazing fondly at the sky. Did such a place as heaven exist? A place where angels walked on clouds in a peaceful harmony, with not a worry at all? He never believed in that, he\'d seen too much to believe in such a thing. He watched the boy carefully, preparing himself as the boy said the next verse of the poem which was now so famous and well known.

\"Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, \"

The boy\'s voice was clear, loud, and above all, without emotion. That was what happend to people during wars, they become hard, tough, thats what makes them strong, the ablity to fight back tears which threatened to surface. Ray never cried, he was too proud to cry, not even when both his buddies died. He stood there, his face full of sorrow, yet he never let out a tear. Not even one.

\" Our place.......\" Looking back at the fields of crosses, he frown deepened \" Where are the places of those who survived? Where are the places of those who have to carry such horrid memories? \" Even then, he knew the answer. They all gathered around here, to listen to a boy read a poem. The poem that was used to remember those who sacrificed their lives in the Great War.

\"... and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly \"

Ray looked back up at the sky again. It was hard to believe they were so peaceful, a light blue background with small white clouds. It was never like that in the war, he remembered they were a dreaded shade of grey, the dreaded grey sky that watched soliders die in the lands below. The blood-stained lands of decaying bodies. He shuddred at that thought. The trenches was full of dead bodies. He remember his fellow soliders had close friends who died in the trenches, some argued that they should be thrown in the battle field, into \' no mans land \'. The land that occupied that space in the middle between the two trenches as the two countries, each in different trenches shot at each other. In the end, the dead bodys stayed in the a section of the trench, as the soliders tried to take the bodies to their families.

He couldn\'t stand the smell as the dead started to decay, but the smell was everywhere. He remember a few days later a solider who kept his friend\'s body was shot in the head, and killed. Both he and his dead friend was put into a section of dead bodies.

\" Scarce heard amid the guns below. \"

The boy couldn\'t have been more then thirteen, yet he continued to read out the poem of war that probably killed one of his loved ones also. Ray almost admired the boy, such a young age but was so strong to carry out his reading without his voice cracking once. His voice remained the same, the same clear, loud voice without emotion.
The word \' gun \' hurt his ears. Every word in the poem hurt his ears, each word caused a stabbing pain inside him. But it was the guns that killed everyone, the mighty guns capable of talking lives away with the pull of a trigger.
\" And it was us who pulled the trigger. \" He looked down, feeling ashamed of what he had done. \" How many lives have we taken? How many have I taken? \"
Ray looked around him, there were countless people, all standing around sliently, waiting for the boy to finish reading the poem.

\" We are the Dead. Short days ago. We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, \"

Not long ago, he gotten used of the idea of seeing a solider one day, and never seeing him again the next. Many lives were lost, but some of the dead were never recovered. Some of the graves never contained anything, just the name of the person who should be buried there, but never was. Some never even had names, hundreds of unknown bodies buried upon the fields of poppies with unmarked graves.

\" Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. \"

Many of the men who died had famlies, children are now left fatherless, wifes left to be widows. Ray thought back to the plesent memories, the memories before the break of the Great War. Christopher had a family, a beautiful wife and a baby girl. He had forgotten both their names.

\" Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high \"

Both Christopher and Robert were not soliders, unlike Ray, they were medics. Both of them had a future, spend years in medical school.

\" They shouldn\'t of died. \" Ray looked down on the ground, aroused by anger. \" They never deserved to die, they weren\'t the ones shooting, weren\'t the ones killing, only helping. \" With clenched fists he punched the ground, his frustration finally surfacing. \" Why! Why them? They never deserved to.... \" His voice trailed off as he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

\" They died fighting for what they believed in. \" A soft voice of a women spoke up behind him.

Ray turned his head to see a face he remembered, but couldn\'t quite place.

\" Chistopher died for his country, he died to help others. As did Robert. \"

Grief fell upon Rays face. It was Christophers wife. He studied her face, the way she looked across the rows of crosses with pride. He never saw her after he left for the war and when it was over, he moved away from his regular life of farming . That was two years ago. He forgot her name.

\" He was a good man, Chistopher. \"

She looked at him and nodded. \" Yes, he was \"

They both turned back to the boy, who continued to read.

\" If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. \"

The boy had finished. Looking back upon the graves, surrouned by poppies. The boy smiled proudly as he said his last words before he walked down from the stage.

\" Lest we forget. \"

The boy walked off the small stage, toward what Ray susposed was his family. Ray never saw a man in the family, just a women who put both hands on the boy\'s shoulders as silent tears fell from her face. There was also a little girl standing beside the boy, holding his hand.

Ray turned back to look at Christopher\'s wife again and saw a little girl holding her hand. He was chestfallen.

\" This is Grace. \" She paused to look at Ray who closed his eyes for a minute and opened them again, letting out a sad, deep breath. \" My daughter. \"

Grace looked just like her mother, except she has Christopher\'s eyes. The same light blue eyes which seemed to understand everything, just like her father did.Christopher had a power of empathy over almost everyone. It was he who helped comfort Ray when Robert died.

They walked around for a while, searching for the graves of Christopher and Robert. Others walked about too, searching for the graves of their loved ones or friends. Some had flowers, some don\'t, Ray never bought any flowers, but Grace and her mother did. Chistopher\'s and Robert\'s graves were beside each other, bearing the canadian maple leaf with pride. They were Canadians, after all, the ones who help end the Great War in November. After they paid their respects Grace and her mother departed but Ray stayed where he was. He stood by his buddies graves and bowed his head, whispering a slient prayer to the lord above. Although he did not believe in god, his buddies did and his prayer was for his buddies sake, as it was for his. He walked away, hands in his pockets and head faced down.

Maybe there is such a place as heaven after all....

Ray smiled as he thought of Robert and Christoper looking down on him. His smile widened as he thought maybe one day he would see them waiting for him above. As the cool breeze started blowing around him again, he looked up upon the clear blue sky.






Authors Note

The poem in there is called \" In Flanders Fields \" by Lieut. Col. John McCrae who was a young medic that enjoyed to write poems while soldiers died around him. Also, if you guys didn\'t figure out already, the story is based upon World War One.

Thank you phyllo_pastry (I forgot her real name, and I\'ve only been away for a couple months, I\'m getting old) for spending her \" oh so valuable time \" reading and editing....not to mention criticizing =P I\'d also like to thank Ke telling me how to conclude the ending. Thanks guys (or rather gals =P ).

Although I love the arts of literature, this is the first short story I\'ve ever written on my own free-will. So yeah, I\'m quite happy.