Fields of Glory

World War 1, because that's written about less.

Cannon fire broke the silence of the night. The flash generated by explosions lit up the sky as if it were day. The all too familiar stench of gunpowder filled the trench. Standing among the frantic, moving soldiers was a lone youth, aged nineteen. He knew he would die here in this trench. He longed for a means of escape from dreadful war. He wished he were home again, where all was perfect and rosy.  His wish was granted, in a manner of speaking, for from the depths of his mind came thoughts of the good times he had as a child.

He was dreaming of home, of Ireland, in fine summer weather. He was but a young child, no older than nine. School was out, and work in the field was done for the day. He and his friends played soccer in a clearing outside town. He played the goalie. His friend, Ian O’Brien, who was two full years older than the boy, had dodged past the defenders and was now charging at him with the ball. The older boy launched the ball forward with the ferocity of a raging river. Lesser children may have run away, but the young boy stood steadfast. It hit the boy in the stomach. He fell down, barely able to breathe. The whole world seemed to stop for a moment. In his arms was the ball. His pain was drowned with elation. He slowly returned to his feet, filled with a dangerous mixture of adrenaline and passion. He kicked that ball with all his might, sending it flying downfield. It bounced once, twice, then into the opposing goal. His team erupted in cheers. Ian was dumbstruck. The young boy had done the impossible and earned his place on the playing field.

His mind returned to the trenches surrounding him. He stood tall and determined, for he knew he could weather the storms of life. The invaders were like Ian; he needed only to resist them. His reflection was interrupted by a fellow soldier rushing into him. The youth shifted his weight, ducked his head, and took the hit. While looking down, he noticed the man’s shoe was in disrepair.

The man apologized, saying, “Sorry, Willie. I didn’t see you there!”

“No worries, John. Want me to look at that shoe?”

“Aye. I’ve been meaning to ask you to fix it, but now doesn’t seem like a good time.”

“Then find me tomorrow after lunch. I’ll take a look at it then.”

“Trust me. I’ll be looking for you. Cheers!”

Willie waved in return. Comforting memories returned to his mind.

When he was fourteen, his parents sent him away from his placid rural life to the bustling city of Belfast. He still remembered the fear he felt, being alone in a city with no contact save a name. He was told to search for the old cobbler, Gregor O’Donnell. After hours of searching and asking, he found the dilapidated old cobbler’s shop at the edge of town. He was greeted by a kindly old man with a kettle of tea. His stature was short, his back was bent, but his eyes were bright and cheery with the light of youth. In him, Willie found not only a mentor, but also a friend. When the shop closed, the two would often stay and talk for hours on end. Usually, the talks were lighthearted and inconsequential. Occasionally, though, conversations drifted to a more serious matter. A vivid memory rose up from Willie’s subconscious.

The shop had just closed. Gregor was sitting in his usual chair, reading the paper. He motioned for Willie to come near.

“Listen here, lad. Europe is a box of matches right now. One spark and a hundred years of peace will go up in smoke. Peace will never last until the good Lord brings it. Be ready to fight in a great and terrible war. Fight with honor and dignity, and do your duty for King and country. Just remember: wars don’t last forever.”

He, being an optimistic and naïve youth, argued against Gregor’s warnings. He shook his fist at his own stupidity. If only he had listened! Then he might have fled to America or Canada and escaped the terrible fate that awaited him above the trenches. One thought entered his mind, which made him lose all regret. He would have missed Mary.

On January 7, 1913, the snowstorm of the century hit Belfast. Snowdrifts piled up taller than a grown man. The wind howled and shook the house, but Willie and Gregor stayed warm inside by the fire. Around noon, a frantic knock came at their door. Willie sprung up to get the door. When he opened it, a young woman, no older than sixteen, fell in through the doorway. Willie panicked. Her breathing was shallow. Her fingers, lips, and nose were blue. Willie dragged her limp frame to the fireplace. Gregor brought a blanket and put on a kettle of tea and some stew. After thirty of the longest minutes of Willie’s life, her eyes fluttered open. Initially, she panicked, but was too exhausted to stand. Willie did his best to explain what had transpired, and she calmed down. Gregor brought a bowl of stew and introduced himself. She eagerly grabbed the bowl, but had a tough time eating. Her fingers had not yet warmed up enough to handle a spoon. She said her name was Mary, from Galway. Gregor asked for her story, but she refused to tell. Willie was stunned at how she could come from the opposite coast of the island just to end up at his doorstep. Some might call it fate or chance, but he called it providence. Gregor promised her he would bring her back to health.

Over the course of a week, she regained her strength. Her fingers never did regain their full movement, but other than that, she was perfectly healthy. She asked to stay, to repay her debt. Gregor insisted there was no debt to repay, and that he did what any good Christian would do. Nonetheless, she stayed and began to learn the trade. In a month, she could cobble well enough to lighten the load on Gregor and Willie. In two months, Gregor could sleep in and let Willie and Mary handle the morning’s work. One of these mornings, Mary told her story.

Her father was an abusive drunkard, and her mother was powerless to stop him. Her family was poor and would often go days without food so her father could buy a drink. As a child, she saw the riches of others, and the poverty and desperation of her own life. She sought out jobs everywhere she could, but no one would hire a little girl. After exhausting all other options, Mary began picking pockets. She began by taking only what she needed to buy food. Her mother knew, but her father did not. At night, when her father was passed out from alcohol, she would sneak out and buy food. Slowly, though, she began to take more. She gave some to friends in similar circumstances, and saved for a one-way boat to America for her and her mother. One day, a policeman saw her. She began to run. She left Galway penniless, without spare clothes, a traveling blessing, or even a mother’s embrace. She feared for her mother’s well-being, but return would mean prison for her. She traveled across the country, running from her past. She sneaked rides in wagons whenever she could. Quite often, she had only her two feet to carry her away. She talked with no one, paranoid her father might find her. After quite a rocky, lonely road, she ended up in Belfast. She felt at home in the little old shop at the edge of town, and it was the only home she had ever known.

Willie promised to keep her secret safe. The two of them never told a soul, not even Gregor. Over the next year, they grew closer in their relationship. The two were madly in love and nearly inseparable. They spent nearly every waking moment together, but went their own ways to sleep. Exactly one year after the blizzard, Willie proposed to her, and she said yes. Around this time, Gregor announced he would be retiring at the end of the year and planned to give the business to Willie and Mary. They had plans for the future, bright hopes and dreams. Halfway through the year, Gregor’s prediction from years past came true, and Willie reluctantly joined the fight. He was sent across the Channel to France, farther away from the land of his birth than he ever expected to stray.

Willie reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a photograph. In the faint light of artillery fire, he saw Mary’s face. Even without color, her eyes shone like diamonds. Her golden hair hung over her shoulder, held together by a black band. To him, she was the Queen of all Ireland. After two years apart, connected only by letters, he was ready to be home with her. Everyone was saying that this war would end wars. If they were right, and Willie sure hoped they were, then he could spend the rest of his life in peace with his beloved. This thought started a fire in his soul. He wanted to win the war. If he secured victory, Mary would be safe forever.

He stood up, eyes burning with passion, mind flooded with adrenaline. He shouted above the artillery fire to anyone who would listen.

“Men! They say this war is gonna end all wars, and I pray to God they’re right. Think of your wives, your lovers, your mothers and sisters! If we win, then they’ll be safe for the rest of their long and happy lives. But think of what will happen if we lose! The Central Powers will invade our towns, our homes, and take them as spoils! See them now, and remember why you fight. We can never give up! We must never give up! I call for a charge on the enemy, those villains! Who’s with me?”

The trench around Willie erupted in cheers and agreement. During a lull in the gunfire, fifty young men charged forth, lead by Private Willie McBride. The commanding officer yelled for them to come back, but was ignored. The men were focused in the way only impassioned rage can accomplish. Shots rang out. Some of the company fell, but the rest continued on, unfazed. Faces flashed before his eyes. Mary, Gregor, his mother and father, and the people of Belfast were urging him to victory. Another round of bullets came, but failed to stop his maniacal charge. The opposing soldiers watched with shock and terror as the men stormed into the trench and began hand-to-hand combat.

Gunfire was replaced by shouts as men landed blows. Willie began to grapple with an Austrian. As the two twisted and writhed, Willie looked around. Allied soldiers began pouring into the trench, spurred to action by his boldness. His heart rose, filled with a pleasant warmth. He realized this wasn’t about him. This was for the safety of life as he knew it, and the people who shared it with him. Gregor, Mary, the shop, the nation, and the King all required him to fight harder, to be victorious. He was now a part of something much greater than himself. Somehow, he gained more strength and passion than he already had. As he began to get the upper hand, he felt a blow on the back of his head. The world slowly faded to black.

He awoke in a medical tent, hurting everywhere. The nurse said he had been trampled and had major internal bleeding. He had but a few minutes to live. He shifted his head to see his old friend Ian O’Brien on the bed to his left, missing his right leg. He called out with what little air he could muster. Ian slowly turned, and his eyes lit up.

“Willie! I knew I heard you! That was your speech, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, Ian. I wish we could’ve met somewhere else,” Willie responded, “She says I’ve a short time to live, but I say I’ve not started. Life is with the Lord, in his fields of glory.”

“Hey, stay here a little while longer. You’ve always been tough, Willie! We won the battle because of you!”

At this, Willie’s heart soared. In his mind, he saved not only Ireland, but also, more importantly, Mary and Gregor. He had transformed from the timid youth to the man he always dreamed he could be. He could die content.

Willie began to speak, “Listen. Nurse, can you write this down?”

The nurse grabbed a pen and paper.

“Ian, go to Belfast for me. There’s a little old cobbler’s shop at the edge of town, run by a friend of mine, Gregor. A young woman lives there, Mary. Tell her I love her. Take care of her for me, if she lets you. She might not. She’s stubborn sometimes.”

Willie chuckled, which sent pain all through his body.

“Tell her my story. Make sure she knows I died for her.”

Willie felt his mind begin to slip into oblivion.

“And Ian, goodnight and joy be to you. You too, nurse. This entire regiment, goodnight, and joy be to you all!”

With that final cry, he gave in. For a few moments, silence filled the tent. Many soldiers came to his burial the following morning. His friend John went barefoot, since his shoes remained in disrepair. Drums and pipes played Private McBride’s lament, like a proper Irish funeral. Ian delivered a tearful eulogy, followed by many comrades expressing their sorrow at his demise. In years to come, those comrades would return to their homeland, whether Britain, Ireland, America, or Canada, and tell his tale to their children. His legacy of strength and audacious courage remained alive in those stories. To this day, a white cross still stands as a witness over his gravesite, engraved with the words, “Here lies Willie McBride, an average youth who became more than a man here on the green fields of France.”

Author's Note

I'm submitting this for a competition on January 20, so feel free to be very honest. Also, this was loosely based on the songs Green Fields of France and Black Velvet Band by the High Kings. I like them, obviously.

Reviews

[Luther Calvin]

This was a great story, and very well written. You effectively portrayed the protagonist as a human, with his own faults and story. The tale was believable. However, the flashbacks decreased in quality as the story progressed. The first was more of a memory, while the last seemed to be simply stating facts. Also, I went ahead and listened to those songs. Green Fields of France almost had me in tears. I can see why you like it. Best of luck in your competition! Well done, and keep writing.

[Wren Christie]

That was very good. You should make it more clear what time period it is in the beginning.

[aSimpleBard]

Thanks for your review! I'm glad you liked it!

[Author Gus]

There are a few grammatical errors here and there through out the piece. The freshest in my mind being at an unnecessary 'were' towards the end.

Setting grammar aside, I do like the premise of the story, and I think you chose a good tone for the narration, but if you took out the quotation marks I honestly don't think I could tell the dialog apart from the narrator. Willie is supposed to die a hero's death, if I can't connect with him then the story has no power. I strongly recommend going back over his speech and all of the dialog really, to give each character a definitive voice. Something that makes them stand out.

[aSimpleBard]

Thanks for the feedback, Gus. I've revised the dialogue to sound more familiar, and I've posted the updated version.

[julius]

When I first started reading this story, the sheer number of Irish songs you worked into it was overwhelming, but towards the end I realized how impressive it was. You included virtually every single High Kings song I know. Bravo.

[aSimpleBard]

Thank you. I think I hinted at or referenced 7. I haven't actually ever talked to anyone else who knew about the High Kings.

[J.M.Fields]

I really liked this. I think it could do with better transitions into his old memories, but I found a very human aspect in this. It was quite touching.