The Last Visit

I don’t know why I went back there. Oh, I’d been meaning to go back for as long as I can remember but just never got round to it. Sure, over the years, I’d been very close many times when I’ve visited the Cemetery. Gone past it and passed by it but just never seemed to have the time, or the inclination, or more likely the courage. So why did I go today? I don’t know. I suppose I had the time – a couple of hours to kill before catching the ’plane home. Or perhaps it was curiosity – but isn’t that what killed the cat? But I suppose for the first time I had the inclination and the courage. People said I was courageous many years ago but you can only be brave when you don’t have the time to think about consequences, or perhaps bravery then was the foolishness of youth. Perhaps now, at my age, it was my last chance to go back. In the cab driving through the peaceful, lush French countryside, looking for something to kill time before my flight, I just sort of found myself getting nearer, and on a whim, or perhaps even curiosity, I first thought I’d take a brief look from the distance to see how much it had changed and asked the driver to make a detour. To see if I could still recognise the place.

At first, as we approached the village, I thought I had come to the wrong place. I always thought my memories were crystal clear but there was nothing at all I could recognise. Had it changed that much or was my memory deceiving me? I asked the driver to stop and wait at the outskirts of the village, got out and began to walk. I may be ancient, but I can still walk a bit, albeit slowly! All the buildings looked so different. A few were old, perhaps hundreds of years old, so they must have been standing there back then. Why didn’t I remember them? They looked much older and they looked far bigger than I remembered. Or am I getting smaller? And the trees. So many trees now. Huge trees. Were they there before, but small so I didn’t notice them, or had they been planted since and prospered over the years? The village certainly has; most of the buildings looked like they’d been put up in the years since I was last there. But then they would have to have been, we blew away much of the village. And our enemies blasted away even more.

As I walked on I was struck by the quiet. The breath of the breeze in the leaves of the trees, the muffled hum of traffic on the far-off autoroute, distant happy cries of children at play, but around me all was still. Perhaps it was the time of the day or the day of the week, but so different to the time we were here, me and my mates. Then we were being deafened by the chaos of war; the cacophony of jeeps and tanks on the ground, fighters and bombers in the air, small-arms, shells and bombs. And the screams of the wounded and the dying.

So many brightly coloured flowers now. I don’t remember seeing any then. All I remember is grey and brown. Dust and mud. I don’t remember any bright colour then, except the red of the blood. But would a young soldier have noticed flowers? And I was one of the youngest. Most of the time we were keeping our heads down just trying to stay alive. As I walked on past a beautiful garden I could smell its fragrance, but coming back to me was the stench of battle; the acrid, choking smells of cordite, gunpowder and diesel from so many years ago. And the smell of blood and of death.

At last, I saw a few people about, busy on their business. Young kids, most of them. Too young to remember the likes of me and my mates. They barely cast a glance at me shuffling down the street then quickly walk on. To them I’m just another sad old man. What do they know? But then I suppose they’d be right; I’m old, and I’m sad.

Scarcely enough breeze now to move the leaves on the trees as I spy the old church in the centre of the village, still standing proud and like me, still bearing the scars of that battle so long ago. They had weathered better on the church, few would notice them now, and those who did could never imagine the hell over those few days. After the battle we used the church as an improvised field hospital and makeshift mortuary. It had plenty of customers then, I’ll tell you. I saw another old building I recognised. We spent a few nights there after the village was secured and cracked a few bottles. It was a lively bistro in those days, full of life and energy, but now it’s dark, dirty and derelict, doors locked and windows broken; waiting for demolition I guess. God knows what they’ll put in its place. The old buildings, well those that were left, had style and character. Now it’s just concrete, steel and glass.

They told us afterwards it was a great victory. An important victory that shortened the War. Congratulated us and called us heroes. Pinned medals on our chests. Most of the gongs went posthumously though. But how could it have been a victory when so many good mates were left dead or hopelessly mangled. So many killed, so many maimed. How many of my platoon got back to their families, to their mothers and sweethearts? Just a handful. And who of my unit is around now, so many years later? Just me. And where are all the others now? I’ll tell you where most of my old buddies are now, they’re lying in neat rows in the military cemetery I just left, their graves still carefully tended, thank God. I kept in touch with the few that survived but it was difficult; we were split up all over. Now I’m the last one left to mourn, the bones and ashes of the other survivors are scattered all over the world. Some of them had dreadful injuries and even those whose bodies were untouched had their scars. Scars in their minds that couldn’t ever be seen or healed, but could still be felt. I feel my scars every day.

We were the best. A close-knit unit. A family of brothers and I was the baby, the youngest in the unit as I’d lied about my age to enlist. Some had been evacuated from Dunkirk and seen action with Monty in North Africa then gone on to Italy before being dragged out for this battle. We were ready to lay down our lives for our mates and many did. Why? I always ask myself. Months of training. Endless training and practice day and night, honing our skills until we were something terrible. Something formidable and unstoppable. The best. We were proud. We were fit and felt good and we looked good too, but where’s it all now? As I shuffle down the street the kids see the sad old man, but all those years ago it was oh, so different. I felt important. Admired and respected, feared and feted. The girls certainly liked me. So different now.

What do the kids know now as they play in the street? I suppose they learn about the War in their history lessons, but that’s all it is for them now, ancient history. We suffered and died for them to have their freedom but do they care now? I doubt it. Was it worth it I wonder? I’d like to think so but sometimes I’m not so sure. In spite of the lost mates we had some good times, but now I’m feeling cold and tired and there’s an empty feeling inside of loneliness. These may be the same streets I walked on all those years before but they are not the same to me any more. I don’t know why I came back, it was a mistake. All it brings is pain. But then if I hadn’t come back how would I ever have known? One thing I do know: I won’t be coming back again.