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The Hauberk Trilogy
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TITLE (EDIT)
The Hauberk Trilogy |
DESCRIPTION
A collation of human sentiments derived from the inevitable despondency of conflict -
It Hadn't always been like this
The Soilder
Did They Even Care
[902 words] |
AUTHOR
J A Melody |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
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[December 1999] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (3)
Escape To Samsun (Short Stories) A tale of three comrades, chartering their epic path to freedom, and to escape the horror that was WWII Russia. [2,450 words]
Reversion (Poetry) The power of human memory. [34 words]
Tunsenesya (Poetry) The irrepressibility of the human spirit. [87 words]
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The Hauberk Trilogy
J A Melody
It hadn’t always been like this
The cigarette fell. He stared, not bothering to retrieve it. Trembling he reached for his rifle. He attempted to clean it, then stopped; he stared again. He could not stop; he could not stop thinking, then rethinking. What had happened? What would happen? He stroked his unshaven jaw. The streets were tarnished, encrested with crimson, inscripted with blood. Slumping, his nostrils flared. The resounding smell of ash sickened him. He turned away.
His comrades were dead, all dead. Clutching his beret he wiped the blood clean and placed it on his brother’s head. Plump pearl-white larvae collated at his waist. His blackened flesh reclined to resist. He started to smell.
It hadn’t always been like this. There were good times once, when he would laugh with his comrades at training school and in the evening fish for the glistening, shrimps, that dappled the cyanic lagoon.
A widow clamored around the corpse of her dead husband. She had aged. In the past few days, she had aged. She murmured and sobbed persistently. Skin hung loose from her fingers. Her blackened, brittle nails cracked, as she scraped reminisces of flesh from the frosted concrete. Everyone was dead; everything was dead. A wretched dog bounded from some dark place, disappeared down an alleyway to die.
It hadn’t always been like this, they were happy once. Once she washed her husband’s clothes in warm soapy water, soap crystals rasping her skin.
A child sniffled, rocking to and fro, her eyes flickered. She closed her eyes; she opened them again. Her fair hair moist with dew. She shuddered, occasionally clasping her ears, refusing to listen. Her eyes were bleary; they broadened yet remained opaque. They stared.
It hadn’t always been like this. She had a father once and a mother. She had eaten warm, soft, buttery potato on a spring day, and laughed. It hadn’t always been like this; no it hadn’t always been like this.
The Soilder
It rained, slow at first, then gathering pace. The continual cascading seeped, then settled. The persistent dripping infatuated clusters of powdered clay. There was mud, everywhere there was mud, the liquid soil guttered and flowed thick into the duckboards.
It always rained like this. Yes and the boot-tracks always looked like this, the dead always rotted, their charred, marrowless bones dissipated. The barbed wire always ripped, the officers always shouted, the, he stopped. For a moment he stopped, stopped fighting, stopped questioning, stopped thinking. He squinted. There was a tooth, pale pearl, tarnished and splintered.
Reminisces of blackened flesh embroided its root. He fumbled, picked it up, then wiped it. His eyes drooped, yet he couldn't cry. He pressed his rasping thumb into the earth; the clay, wet and rife with maggots, bulged. With resigned acceptance; he placed the tooth in its watery grave.
His expression conjured an image of faded conviction, of envenoming fear, eternally obsessing with overriding malignance, a motionless corpse pending certain death. His mind, a mire of chaotic hysteria, his eyes flickered, then closed. He had to revert to himself, to stifle the screams, to soften images of death and decay. This was an image that time could never forget.
He had to escape this bloody madness, yet there was no escape, no soothing of latent resentment, no easing of painful contemplation, no sweet memories, nothing. His mind was hollow, a turbulent vacuum, absent of recollection, void of happiness.
Now he could only sense fear; he could only hear screams; he could only see death. Opening his eyes; he looked up, beyond the muddy parapet. The occasional flash from enemy lines, the craters, the rusted wire. This was the war; an inevitable peril that time would never forget but would undoubtedly repeat.
Did They Even Care
He screamed; I turned; he was grounded, wrenched to the dusty undergrowth, arteries punctured. His bulging spleen, blood spumed with relentless vigor, sprayed and seeped, embellishing his arid grave.
His sprawling epitomized his pain. He wanted to die, but couldn't. His bloody corpse; his drowning dignity, lay as one, a sodden mass. A reminder, an eternal stain.
His eyeballs bleary white, puffed, watered and rolled in incessant agony.
His head, body, hands and feet shuddered and shook. Pounding compressed clay, the mutilated many, affirming an eternal stain of crimson, evoking momentary reflection, but would anyone ever reflect?
Blood, dark and dense spluttered and indiscreetly plummeted from his gaping mouth. His quivering arid lips, twitching in momentary spasms, chokingly persisting to scream, amid coughs of muted acceptance and soundless pleadings that no one paused to hear.
His screams grew more inept more probing, continuously evolving amid frenzied pleas for help, for salvation. For someone, anyone.
To solely stand aloft, presiding, or to acknowledge that this sprawling bloody mass was once a soldier, a human being.
To ease his pain, to tilt his head, to wipe the adverse grit from his charred tunic.
To haul him from this bloody mire of degradation, to die at least in peace. To ponder a moment at his pending death, appreciating his presence, his passing.
No sweet - hearted girl to cry a while, to touch his cheek with satin. No flinching comrade clutching at his side, paining for his pains.
No, nothing, was there anyone there, or did they even care.
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READER'S REVIEWS (2)
DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"An excellent trilogy of war stories, very sentimental, very thought provoking, my favorite was The soilder. Keep up the ggod work " -- Jonathan S Mac Namara, Ireland.
"A well written collection of work, it combines human insight with despondancy, very good source for fans of War stories, and others who just want to read a piece of very good writing, keep up the good work, long may you continue to delight me with your stories and poetry. " -- Juan Morrientes, Vitoria, Basque, Spain.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2000 J A Melody |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
March 2000 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2207
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