Flanders Fields

(I wrote this article a few years ago, and though I'm posting it prior to the observance of that day this year, I thought you might like to read it).

Armistice Day commemorates the infamous 11th month, 11th day and 11th hour. For WWI ended on that day and time on November 11th, 1918, exactly 94 years ago, today.

Over time, however, Armistice Day has been referred to by a new name; Veterans Day. Veterans Day commemorates the efforts of American soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines, living and dead, of each and every war in which America was and is engaged over the past 236 years of this nation’s history.

In honor of this day I have written a small script which is based on similar stories I have researched from the numerous wars in the history of our country. The following story characterizes the range of emotions which often play themselves out during the course of a battle, and the paradoxical and sometimes ironic nature of the task that our young men and women are called to perform.

American artillery had been dropping hot jagged pieces of steel on the Kaiser’s troops throughout the day, and the battlefield resounded with the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, of the flight of those terrible projectiles as they fell like rain on hapless souls below, and lives were bought as cheap as the cost of what in essence were oversize bullets.

Captain Jamison had given the order to soften up the enemy, a phrase that belied the true nature of the exercise. And so the pillage continued, ‘til dawn gave way to dusk, and the last rays of the sun lit that ghastly field with what seemed a paradoxically golden glow.

To be sure, the enemy had reciprocated, and had given almost as good as they had gotten. But their artillery shells seemed to fall short, or long, and rarely where intended. And rifle fire rarely landed on target since these brave and bonny boys, friend and foe, alike, were well-entrenched, and hid out behind massive lumber walls, dug down deep into Mother Earth, that same rich loom from which they sprang.

And then the shout, unmistakable in volume and ferocity, and taken up by officers and enlisted men alike, and their captain’s words echoed through the trenches.

“Let’s Go Boys!”

And they did. No defensive strategy for such brave men as these. Not by a long shot. They clawed their way out of filthy, lice-infested trenches, and flung themselves headlong towards their unseen foe.

While in high school Private Skip Hinson held the Nebraska State Record for the mile run. Now he found himself running across an impossibly different landscape, and there were no records to be measured or set here. And as he ran, men of every conceivable size, shape, age and origin paralleled his advance.

Now his gait slowed and his breathing grew labored, as he navigated a sharp incline before him. Private Hinson was nearing the enemy compound now, and he shouldered his carbine. But then his feet dropped out beneath him, and gravity claimed its prize. And like a bird in flight, a shot rang out, and then momentary blackness enveloped him.

In the darkness of the trench, the young lad scrambled to recover his weapon, and a stabbing, wet pain accompanied his effort. He grabbed his shoulder, and liquid life stained his fingertips.

And as his hands found and grasped his carbine, and lifted it towards the unseen foe, he dimly made out the size and shape of someone not so very different than himself. Lieutenant Hans Gruber fired his luger a second time, and missed. But the American’s aim was tried and true, and the German officer clutched his chest, and fell.

Our little hero had never killed a man, and pangs of remorse suddenly overwhelmed him. Private Hinson crawled towards the German officer, and realized he was still breathing, and his eyes were open. And then he opened his mouth and spoke.

“Young man. You are a Private, are you not? I do believe you will be the death of me.” And a sad grin graced his face, and he emitted a soft chuckle.

Unbeknownst to Private Hinson, Lieutenant Gruber was a graduate of the University of Heidelberg, and he had majored in English. He spoke with the slightest trace of an accent.

The American was surprised to hear the wounded German speaking such fluid English, and he struggled to respond. “I’m sorry. I’m truly…” The young Private failed to finish his last sentence, as an unforeseen sob shook his slender frame, and he cried aloud.

“My boy. You only did your duty, as did I. We’re soldiers. We each love our own country, and we each obey orders. Do we not?”

The young Private propped the Lieutenant’s head against his leg, and pulling his canteen from his belt, he dripped water into his enemy’s sunburned lips.

“My American friend. (May I call you friend?) Will you pray with me?” And a tear rolled down the Lieutenant’s cheek.

Private Hinson was a man of faith, but having mortally wounded a fellow soldier, at a time like this, he thought prayer must surely be a contradiction in terms.

And the German officer spoke again. “Come now. I once knew and served the God who made us all, and I somehow sense you are a man of faith. Help me make my final journey.”

And true to his dying friend’s final request, the young soldier whispered a few heartfelt words.  And with a slight gasp, and with the slightest smile, his former enemy slipped quietly from this life, to one far better, and more abiding than this.

By William McDonald, PhD.

 

IN FLANDERS FIELD

                                                                                      By Lt. Col. John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
between the crosses, row on row,
that mark our place;

And in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch;

Be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.