The Art Of Sacrifice

• James Biddle
• Short Story
• 2018

14 Nov, 1918

Lillian produced a clean pair of clothes for her husband, folding them out on their bed. It had kept her warm many a night, but she longed for the warmth they would produce alongside one another. She knew that her husband would want to remove his dirty, bloodstained uniform to try leaving the war behind him.

All of Australia had been celebrating the end of the atrocious Great War. The women, who had been praying for their husbands by candlelight each night, sang in the streets with voices as strong as an angel choir. Surviving servicemen were welcomed home, each kissing his wife and mother, something that many others were devoid of experiencing.

Lillian began to read the freshly-printed paper as she waited, where the word ‘Peace’ dominated the front page, as well as a list of the ANZACs that were reported Killed in Action in the two weeks passed. As Lillian read through the paper, her forehead creased with anxiety since her husband was still yet to return home. However, her fears subsided when she realised that his name was not present. As she lifted the paper off the table, sunlight penetrated through the curtains, shining onto it with a brilliant light.

Looking down at the paper one last time, Lillian noticed a faint name on the other side of the page, very similar to that of her husband’s. Speaking with a faint heart, "Oh, please God, no," she turned over the page and her fragile mind became numb from shock. Time slowed its pace as the paper fell out of her hands and drifted to the floor. There, on the next page, was a continuation of the names of perished soldiers, her husband’s name leading the charge.

Struggling to comprehend how she would be able to support her family, a knock at the door shook her from her thoughts. With a trembling hand, she opened the door to see a striking young man anxiously standing at her doorstep, his left hand clenched at his side. She heard a distinct gulp as the man asked, “Excuse me, are you Mrs Crayton.”

“Yes.”

The man, looking very troubled, stumbled upon his words, “My sincerest apologies, miss. I’m Private Andrew Kite. Your husband, my sergeant, saved my life and the life of a comrade in the final hours of the war. He shielded us with his body as the enemy advanced for a final assault, sacrificing his life in exchange for ours.”

Lillian, full of grief, replied with a sigh, “Yes, that sounds like him.”

“Well, as he lay dying, he called me over and placed this in my hand to give this to you, his wife. Before he succumbed, he told where I would find you.”

Private Kite opened his clenched fist and Lillian broke down with tears. There, in the stranger’s outstretched hand, was her husband’s wedding ring. Now it was not only a ring, but a living memory of her beloved husband and hero.