OUTSIDE MONS

A cold wind cut into us as we sought shelter in the shallow slit trench.  We dug it late last night as our unit approached the outskirts of Mons.  With the dawn of the day, we stared up at grey skies. The clouds cast their morose shadow down upon as we clung to the sides of mud holes scattered about the brown, dead fields.   Meager warmth was found with but a few mouthfuls of bully beef and biscuit. Morning rations. Instinct caused us to keep our heads low as the sun slowly rose, illuminating shadows of men that become clear targets for unseen guns.  And yet, across our positions, in hollows and in hastily dug entrenchments scores of men waited…for today was the day. 

Many months have since passed since we first descended from gangways and were shuttled into train cars only to be deposited at stations situated along the frontier that separated us from them. Many months…and for some hearty, lucky, tragic survivors, years have been spent in the mud living the horrors of modern warfare.  Ubiquitous, nameless bullets appeared to search out and target any movement that rose above the threshold of our earthen refuges.   The concussion and resulting shower of molten shards of iron purposely sought out flesh to satisfy its cruel appetite.  Cries. Thunder. Fear.  The tremor of death shook the foundations of what was once our cherished civilization.  And with a blast of bleak cold air that felt like a slap to our faces, we huddled men were supposed to just stop. 

From past lives as diverse as school teachers, miners, farmers, machinery workers or hotel bellhops we became professional killers manning the line that separated humanity from tyranny.  Citizen soldiers who found themselves holding friends, comforting them as their lives quickly slipped away.  Mere moments before, those same hands held in their intestines, desperately trying to stop them from bursting forth from the wound that bisecting their person. That was our horror.  We were men who spent weeks in carved dugouts deep underground surrounded by broken comrades, incoherent mumbling, minds lost, knowing that the unfortunate mess sitting across from us, our brothers, were our only protection when we responded to the whistle.  Men whose thoughts were bombarded by visions of having to collect the scattered remains of arms, legs, heads…slabs of flesh and place our friends in a pile so we could bury them…respectfully.  These nightmares consumed our minds as we peeked over the threshold, waiting for time to meet its’ predestined hour. 

The day had come.  Armistice day. The end of it.  Millions have died.  A generation of men, decimated. And after four long years of fruitless struggle over a few yards of soil, the war finally transitioned its’ character to one of movement, where the prospect of victory was finally in sight.  Day by day, the yards stretched to miles.  For a front that stretched all the way back to the sea, the line was finally bent back and was ready to snap.  We were trained soldiers.  Skilled in the art of war. Equipped. Coordinated.  Professional killers ready and wanting to exert our devastation on our foe.  We wanted…we needed to gain retribution for every man we buried, for every cry we consoled, for every horrible vision that inflicted our collective, scarred souls.  Yet, because the other side decided it could not win the war, at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day on a cold autumn November morning they want to just stop.  They just wanted to stop fighting and we were going to let them. 

Hence, we clustered ourselves together in the hollow and waited.  The minute-hand on my timepiece slowly marked the approach of the 11th hour.  And then it happened.  The ringing of bells in the distance brought us to attention, one by one.  One, two, three, four…keeping my head low, I peaked seeing the town in the distance, five, six, seven…I slowly rose and stood up…eight, nine, ten...Eleven.  Eleven bells ringing in the distance signalled to us that it was over.  The guns stayed silent. The War to End All Wars had ended. 

Later that day, bands will play.  Crowds will cheer the victors’ entry into the town that long provided recalcitrant safety and solace to the foe.  Some men were heard excitedly calling for return trips home.  Giddily chatting about the chance to raise pints in celebration, or to hug loved ones and children once again.  Yet, as the reverberation of the final dong emanating from the bell tower in the center of Mons, slowly crawled across the fields and dissipated beyond us…it left us wanting.  We had them cornered.  We had them on their back-feet.  They were retreating from our purposeful onslaught. The enemy whom we chased halfway across France, whom in turn devastated a country…many countries…whom destroyed the lives of millions of men, women and children just said ‘were done’, stood up, turned their back on us and started to walk home.  Just like that?

11,000 brethren combatants; Brits, French, Canadians, Australians, Yanks, Indians, New Zealanders…the list goes on were killed on the very last day, the final morning of the war.  Their blood was still wet, still soaking into the soil, when with the donging of one bell, it all ended.  And we let them walk home.  To be received in their untouched towns and villages as returning champions…as proud victors.  And as the cutting winds that carried the victorious sounds of the pipes up to and through us soldiers, as we stood there still protecting mud holes, the war just ended. 

-          Inspired from the memoir of Knut Werswick, CEF Soldier with the 2nd Canadian Engineering Battalion; From Man to Soldier (soon to be published in English and available for online purchase)