Memories

The flames of the fire licked up the wood, dancing bright against the dark of the brick. Sometimes, when it was quiet like this, Harry could still hear the guns. A piece of wood cracked loudly and he flinched, aggravating the twinge that had vehemently taken grip on the lower half of his back. Gravity and time were taking their toll, the gradual wearing out process well underway. His shoulder, or rather its metal replacement, ached no longer just on sleeting winter mornings, but everyday. Nevertheless, as Harry always thought, better to have caught a bullet to the shoulder than the chest. There would have been a lot more than a slow, throbbing ache to deal with if that had been the case. He rubbed his withered hands together, enjoying the slow seeping heat coming from the ashen fireplace. His eyes flickered shut, and the flashes of red and orange that lit up the darkness behind his lids transported him to another place, another time. Dirt was being thrown toward the sky in every direction. The initial blasts lit the sky with lurid colours, followed by the pitter-patter of earth and shrapnel as it found its way back down to the earth. Harry refused to think about what else was also returning from flight under force of gravity. Mad-eye Marv, a fellow Aussie Harry had formed an instant bond with, turned back long enough to flash Harry the maniacal grin he’d become famous for among their unit. Harry allowed his mate a wink before they were scurrying on again. Harry followed blindly, no longer knowing where he was headed, but too scared to pause for even a moment – too scared to chance a look back. His heart beat in his throat while his stomach dropped toward his knees, but he kept moving. Barely unable to hear the planes soaring overhead anymore, let alone the shouts of the men behind him, Harry never heard the high pitched whistling until it was too late. It dropped from the sky like a weighted boulder, bringing with it the power of the sun. The blast sounded apocalyptic, and to brave hearted old Mad-eye, it was. The wind of it rushed over Harry. It itched at his skin like the pin pricks of a million needles. For Marv, several metres up, it picked him up like a child, carrying him on the light, before dumping his limp figure unceremoniously. The scream that tore from Harry was instantly drowned, the burn in his throat the only indication he’d ever made any noise at all. Never had he hated anyone more, at that moment. As Harry gripped the slowly staining shirt of his friend, the emotion filled him up inside like an ugly, black poison. He felt sick looking at the unseeing eyes that were set on the sky, the slackened mouth where a mischievous grin usually sat, yet he couldn’t drag himself away. Them, they did this. It was so strong the sensation, revulsion, disgust, and loathing. It was stronger than anything, and he felt sure that he would never get past it. How could he' They took him, a friend, a brother, a son, a father. The scene gave way to threadbare carpet, a rickety coffee table and dingy peeling wallpaper. The wheeling sirens and machine gun fire faded into the distance of memory, and reality set back in. Though whether reality was this place, or the rank trenches from the Second World War, Harry still wasn’t entirely sure. Did reality remain the present, even if the past was more important' Harry shook his head. Such questions were not for the mind of an old man. With the aid of his walking stick, Harry heaved his heavy frame to its feet. His joints popped and he imagined his muscles were groaning in protest. He shuffled over to the bare space of wall his niece had begged to decorate earlier in the day. She had wanted to hang his uniform there, display his medals in a frame like some kind of museum. He’d never meant to hurt her feelings, after all the young woman had simply been trying to help. But the nightmares that poached his sleep nightly were enough of a reminder of that period of his life. The uniform, medals and all, remained in the battered leather suitcase they had come home in. It sat, to his family’s disgust, gathering dust in the garage. With a heavy sigh, he ran his fingers along the plaster where the uniform would have hung and returned to the chair by the fire. Harry sipped his brandy, allowing it to warm his insides, and considered time and the way she changed things, the way she altered perceptions. Harry easily remembered how as a boy it seemed like the entire world towered over him. But while the shadows that crept along his bedroom walls as a boy still occasionally scared him, and he woke up in the night heart racing like the wind, drenched in his own sweat, the years that passed changed everything. He had left Australia a boy, naive and bursting with excitement. It was going to be the adventure of a lifetime. He’d see a new land, learn the art of warfare, and be home by Christmas. There was nothing to worry about, no fear, death was a far off experience that Harry never even thought he would even see. It was a fairytale. He left home an inexperienced and ambitious youth, and returned as something else entirely. How differently he saw the whole scenes now. What would have changed, had he known the truth' That hard years lay ahead, filled with darkness and blood and loss. Would he have signed up' Harry paused, chewing his lip in thought. Yes. Yes, he would. He had returned a monster, filled with hatred that poisoned him from the inside out, but he would serve his country again. That oozing hate, that Harry had returned with, that had once consumed him till he was merely a shell of his former self, had faded and dimmed until it remained a wisp among the other things that flowed through him. It had taken near decades for Harry to realise that it was the war itself that deserved to be hated, not the men on the other side of the trenches. The war had stolen his heart. It destroyed his soul and took from both him and Australia so many men, soldiers that may as well have been his own flesh and blood. But how many others had it claimed' How many other lives were snatched too soon, how many souls crushed in the palm of an iron fist, how many other families destroyed' Men had killed his best friend, they had even blown apart his shoulder, but Harry had been behind a rifle too. Had he not the blood of a father, a brother, an uncle, a friend on his hands' At the time, all he could think of was laying fault. Marv’s death was their fault. The deaths, the ruined lives were all because of them. But they were just men. Like he, like Marv. Men, simply following orders in the duty of war. Harry wasn’t sure what he felt now was forgiveness. In honesty he wasn’t sure he could ever truly forgive anything that had happened there. What he had now was clarity, it was understanding.