[dearest]

Synopsis: A grandfather recounts his experiences in the war to his granddaughter, highlighting the horror and hopelessness of war.

The shell came too fast, out of the flying dirt and gore like an avenging ghost. We had no time to think, to react. The explosion rattled our bones, sending some of us flying out into the midst of the battle. Others just lay silent and still, as if they were simply dreaming of home. We checked our limbs to make sure that all were accounted for, almost afraid of what we would find. One head, one heart. Two arms, two legs. Two hands, eight fingers. Some of us cried and some of us screamed, the injured and the uninjured. We screamed in pain, in loss, and in hopelessness.

As lives drew to a close, slowing down like an unwound clock and blurring around the edges, the shuddering boom of artillery continued to rattle hearts against ribcages. The sky seemed low hanging, sagging towards the earth as all the angels craned their necks over the edge of heaven to get a better look. Fog rolled over the battlefield, obscuring the artillery cannons of the opposite side. It seemed the only sign that they existed at all was a hollow thud, a reverberating echo, and orange fire blooming through the fog.

I remember that the air was full of black powder from those horrible blasts; it stifled us like black velvet, hanging heavy and wet against our straining lungs. The liquid rubber smell of gunpowder and the all-penetrating taint of nearby death turned our stomachs. And even though our bodies were leaden with revulsion and pain, we had a job to do. We loaded shell after shell into a weary artillery cannon that wheezed louder with each explosion; it creaked and groaned as if it were bone tired and couldn’t lift its dull gray head one more time. We all felt that way as we piled the limp bodies of our fallen friends to the side, then loaded another round. It was an exhaustion that swept through us—a grim, slate gray wave—that threw us off balance and ripped at our faltering feet. We all felt as if we were gradually sinking into that cloudy pool, going numb from the feet up.

And then came the shout, that famous shout. It was the only thing that history remembered about us. One of us was lying on the ground, sticky with his own black blood, wailing loudly. “I’ve lost my leg!” We glanced quickly, and saw that it was true. One head, two hands. One leg.

“No you haven’t!” Shouted another of us, hysteria licking at the edges of his nervous laugh, “It’s over there!”

I can see now that it wasn’t funny, not at all. But at the time, adrenalin-fueled as we were, we couldn’t stop laughing. “How funny,” we said, “how ironic and cruel.” How bitter and callous, how unkind and unclean. What a great joke it was, to dress us up in uniforms and put us on a field to blow pieces from one another. How very amusing it was, to die prematurely with love letters in our pockets and stripes on our sleeves. How hilarious it was, to know that we could never be whole again. Two arms, one leg. No head, no heart. It was so funny that we rolled over on our sides in the red-brown mud and laughed until tears ran down our grime-striped faces.

You wanted to know what war is like, little granddaughter? Well, you may write down all that I’ve said in that little pink notebook and take it to your teacher. But more than that, I want you to lock it away in your heart and remember what I’ve told you about war and peace. And remember most of all, dear granddaughter, that I love you; remember that I came all the way home, from a thousand miles away, with two hands and one heart just for you.