War time memories

It is so tempting to imagine that when the guns, tanks, shells, planes, torpedoes and bombs all stopped at 11am on November the 11, 1918 the soldiers, sailors, airmen and all other combatants of World War 1 threw their hats in the air and whooped for joy. This is the imagery so many of us have and so many of us celebrate every Remembrance day.

However it was not the reality for many of them. To attempt to understand it, I try to put myself in their shoes:

I imagine I've been in the army and in and out of combat for years. During this time, I've watched good friends die, I've spent days at a time listening to never ending noise, my body has been shuddered by constant tremors of the earth, I have been exposed to smells no person should ever have to be and I've felt creepy and unnerved by the crawling of insects under wet clothes I can't change for days.

I've spent weeks at a time freezing cold 24 hours a day, suffering unrelentless pain in my feet that are so wet and infected it's difficult to walk and so tired, always tired. Inbetween these times, I've spent days or weeks sitting around behind the lines, bored out of my wits

I make friends; because I no longer have the mental strength to watch more friends disappear. For all of this war I've been scared, terrified and frightened. I used to scold myself for feeling like a coward but I can't be bothered anymore.

Then suddenly the noise and the earth tremors stop. Lots of voices are shouting words like “It's over. The war's over! We're going home! We made it!". But its not my reaction. At first I just feel stunned. Then numb. Then annoyed, irritable, wishing the others would shut up. I sit down somewhere dry and begin to process what's just happened.

Eventually I'm able to think properly and I realise I should be feeling happy but that's the last thing I feel. Relieved - yes. A little disbelieving - certainly. But happy? No. For I look around me and all I can see is a desert where trees and farms used to be, huge holes in the ground, water, dead horses, boxes and guns and timber and lots of other refuse from building a war and overturned broken equipment. Worst of all I see dead people.

After this, the worst thought of all - now I have to go home. Home to the family and the neighbours. What if someone asks me what it was like here? What'll I say? Nobody will understand. In fact, I won't have anyone to talk to about it at all because the other blokes from my town are dead. It's about this time that I realise that home might be even lonelier than here. Kay Vanos, Neerim South