See It Through

• Josie Haupt, Grade 8, Kenmore State High School
• Short Story
• 2019

Finalist in the 'Inspired 2019' competition

32nd April, 1916.
Koondoola, 6064
Western Australia, Australia.
Dearest Wallace,
Sometimes, I wonder whether this is the war to end all wars, or the war to end all.
Over 57,450 casualties in this battle, they say; with no chance of the list slowing either. I am still as proud as the morning rooster with your efforts to defend and fight for our country; but do be safe, Wallace. Men are said to come back as damaged, lifeless souls; but I promise you this, son, no matter your condition; I am still here.
Waiting. Hoping. Loving.
Even hope, though, may seem futile; I promise you, it still exists. The roses have shown me just that with their full blooms, despite the darkened sky. They believed they could be beautiful, Wally, and they were more astounding than the whole garden. Believe, son, and you too, will beat the odds of winning this war and coming home.
You are a star, dearest Wally, shining bright amongst the darkness of war. No matter how far I travel, how hard I try, you and I shall still be kilometres away. However, there is no limited distance for hope nor love, my son. You may be far, but not forgotten.
Edgar Guest, a jolly good poet, once wrote:
“If the worst is bound to happen,
Spite of all that you can do,
Running from it will not save you,
See it through.”
See it through my darling son, I am waiting here with the roses, just for you.
Your forever loving mother,
Mrs Audrey Stanley
The letter, folded once more, was placed in his left chest-pocket; closest to his heart.
His mind; reflecting the words of the letter; wanted to believe in survival.
Tears progressed down his cheeks; revealing his tanned skin beneath the dirt.
He thought of his mother awaiting his return. Oblivious to the fact he could be killed in battle. His heart longed for her soft, loving arms embracing him as he returned home.
His eyes shifted to his rifle; a murderer of many men, yet his only way to survive the war. His bloodied fingers slid over the dirtied barrel of the rifle, hesitantly drifting to the trigger.
He would see the war through.
He must.
“Remember you are facing, just what other men have met."
He sullenly recited the war-song; his voice a quiver. The melodic tremble almost undetectable against the constant rain of bullets.
He knelt against the rubble.
“You may fail, but fall still fighting."
The barrel of the gun sought out the indecipherable enemy solider atop the plateau.
"Don't give up, whatever it may be."
Eyes squinted, his index finger at the trigger.
"Eyes front, head high to the finish."
A cacophony of wails burst from the barrel of the gun; the noise oscillating in his skull. His eardrums ruptured from the dissonance, but his heart thudded.
He stared with pride as a khaki-green clump fell from the plateau.
Blood cascading from the torso.
“See it through."