|The Fields of War
Author: InfamousDaydream PM
A troop of British soldiers are left wandering in the fields of France. Hope is gone, they're close to death, and it seems like the Germans may win. This tale tells us about the simple joy of friendship and how it can keep death and fear at bay. Comments are much appreciated. Reviews will be returned!Rated: Fiction K - English - Words: 637 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Published: 07-27-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3045441
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The sunlight filtered its way over the wheat fields, its golden rays bouncing off the feathery heads of wheat; sparkling brightly and throwing a gold hue over the ground. The sky, once dark and grey, swollen with angry clouds, was clear as water and full of white delicate clouds that swam lazily across the blue sea.
I closed my eyes, the warm sun on my mud streaked face, and inhaled deeply. I wanted to fill my lungs to the brim, let the air rush into my veins and mix with my blood; I wanted to feel alive.
Exhaling I stood shakily, I was still numb, looking around me all my buddies: sitting or lying their eyes awake or closed, but all were in some feverish dream, a nightmare no one could wake from.
I moved over to Harrison, God he was too young to be in war. His blue eyes were greyed through the pain and torment we suffered, what man in this world could cause such pain to so many? Such a man was not truly a man, but a demon sent from Hell, to spite those of God's creation.
I ruffled his brown hair, caked in mud, we all were, and he looked at me and gave me a smile that was too sad to be a smile any more. I sat down next to him, and threw my arm over his shoulder; he leaned his head on me and closed his eyes. I knew what he was thinking, we were all thinking it.
None of us were sure we'd make it out of this war; no one could tell if Hitler would win. I swear to you, as I sat next to Harrison, a boy of eighteen, all I could think was how the world may truly end, and I'd never get to see my darling again.
I sighed, the numbness was creeping its way back inside. Harrison fidgeted on my shoulder and mumbled quietly, I lifted my head from his.
"What was that?" I asked, my voice didn't even sound like mine; it was old and dry like a forgotten book.
He looked up at me, a tear falling down his face. He smiled bitterly and shook his head as though he finally understood something that had been pressing on his mind.
He shut his eyes, and he began to sing:
"Drop Thy still dews of quietness,
Till all our strivings cease," even though his voice was hoarse and he struggled with the notes, voice echoing across the vast field.
"Take from our souls the strain and stress,"
Take from our souls the strain and stress,
And let our ordered lives confess," I felt the beauty of the hymn wash over me and I too began to sing. Harrison smiled at me, his blue eyes lighting up with happiness that no one had felt for months.
"The beauty of Thy peace.
Breathe through the heats of our desire,
Thy coolness and Thy balm;
Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm!"
We sang louder, our voices echoing through the empty field. I nodded smiled at the tired miserable faces of my friends and motioned for them to join in, and slowly our voices were joined by other, and the sound began to fill and grow, burst from our lungs, our tired, strained, useless, lungs, but we were still able to sing!
It echoed and bounded, with loud British voices, singing, chanting, with the last ounces of hope we had left. We sang until the sun reached high in the air, and began to burn down on us.
I'll never forget that day, were for just one moment there was no war, no fear.
We were home.