Lest We Forget

• Erin Lamb, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2013

The old cobblestone path scuffed and worn from many soles of shoes, felt hard and uneven under the well-worn boots of a man hardly older than 20. Black soot covered various stones giving them a dark metallic look, like the harsh grey silver of the bombs, cannons and weapons. The destruction of many before him, the destruction of him.
A loose stone rolled across the uneven path, disappearing behind the empty branches of a bush, its journey finishing so quickly, barely even beginning before its death, just like the bush it now took solace behind. The blackened leaves, branches and bark scattered across the sandstone pebbles, memories fleeting of bodies lying in the mud, their eyes glassy and unforgiving, men and boys barely older than him.
The soot covered the walls of the town that once stood proud and tall, cheerful and colourful, all that to be taken away by a single moment. One bomb. One sound, one explosion and it was all gone, destroyed along with the many people that had once lived and once laughed. The building now barely a shell of themselves, the metal structures bent and twisted as if screaming in horror.
His face covered by a dirty mass of blonde hair, his eyes downcast and hollow at the sights that he’d seen and the memories he’d returned to. Silver dog tags swung just below his heart, dusted, sooted and scattered with pieces of shrapnel just like the ones removed from his heart. A third tag lay just below the rest bearing a different name, a name of someone lost.
One footstep methodically after one another felt the crutching of glass and paper of vibrant shop signs, now destroyed and shrivelled under the harsh amber glare of fires. One footstep has a distinct sound, the sound of plastic scraping against the path. Lifting his foot slightly, the dust covered form of a doll lay broken and defeated. Her golden locks escaping from her ponytail, her once white apron covered in a dust cloud giving the illusion of it being a soft blue.
Bending down his calloused hands gently picked up the doll, a soft ringing sound came from a bell attached to her hand as it awoke from its deep slumber. But no sound was heard from this man.
Nor could he hear the sound of the bell chiming in the wind. The battle scars though not physically seen had left their mark on him; no longer could he hear the laughter of children that used to run down this street, or the sound of the men singing in the vineyards as they cut the New Year’s crop.
But none of that mattered now; there would be no wine produced here anymore, no children running and no new life. The war has sucked the life out of everything, out of mankind, there was nowhere to hide or find a new life.
Clutching the doll to his side, he dropped his heavy pack on the ground and looked around at the ruins of his once home. But, if you were an able man, your home was at the front line where you belonged. Fighting for your country. They’d made it glorified and an adventure, but in truth it was horror on Earth, there was no distinct line between blood and the mud that filled the area of no man’s land. There was no line between right or wrong, truth or lies, just the sounds of guns, cannons and the deep mourning for lost comrades.