A Note from the Author: I wrote this piece years ago and rediscovered it recently. At the time I wrote it, I had been considering how suffering can so often feel meaningless (in that, it does not somehow pay for some greater good and it often cannot be understood), specifically within the madness of war.
This piece is relevant today because, like so many other times in our lives, we are sharing, as a species, a grief that often feels meaningless and insurmountable. And yet (and here is the most important part), in the midst of even the worst suffering, humanity, simple and tender, can be a beacon of love and life. It does not take a heroic act, in the sense that we may think; even the honest facing of grief can be a wellspring of love. This is a message that will never be irrelevant.
WILLIAM’S SCREAM
Mud covered William’s face, where he pressed it down with all his strength, willing the earth to swallow him whole. And yet it was the horrible desperation and fear, a tidal swell of terror and passion, which pressed him hardest, crushing him into what he hoped would be oblivion. But there was no relief, no death, and the pressure was unending.
Men died on either side of him, grotesquely ripped open or cut down by endless swarms of bullets. Their faces contorted as they fell back into the trench, splashing into the mud; and yet he envied them.
Gravity mounted upon him until he could no longer breathe, and still his life did not end and he did not lose consciousness. Blood rushed in his ears. His chest tightened around him like a fist. It was in this moment, at the very end of himself, when William’s life exploded from him, releasing every aspect of his deepest being in an unearthly scream. His body leaped from the trench and stood at its lip; his head thrown back and his voice tearing through his throat. Bullets zipped and clipped by him, popped in his clothes, burned his cheeks, but not one hit him. His scream grew in volume, even as the last of his breath was forced out through his mouth. Soldiers behind and below him, stared in dumb shock. One man yanked at William’s clothes to pull him down. He was immovable.
The soldiers nearest to William were invaded first. Their mouths and arms began to go slack. Their guns dropped by their sides, as they stared in disbelief, disarmed by the raw and naked anguish. Slowly all gun fire died down across the battle field, on all sides, and nothing more could be heard of the battle. William’s voice rasped its remains.
The enemy began to stumble out from behind rocks and trees, unselfconsciously scrabbling up the banks of their trenches to behold the awful, unworldly vision. William remained standing, mouth agape, head back, and he sucked in the smoky air, filing his final breath with all the acrid hatred and fear that surrounded him.
As the soldiers watched, his final cry was a raw scream from the depths of the world itself—as if the rocks themselves cried out with him—and they were sore afraid. There was no breathing in this time, the scream and the man would die together.
From far behind the enemy line, a man sited William through his scope and fired his rifle without hesitation. The crack reported itself shortly after the bullet sliced William’s throat open in the front and ripped it wide in the back. William’s body was flung backwards, head first, into his own trench. And his voice was set free from his body, and it echoed in men’s minds.
There remained a silence thereafter, louder still than the gun battle before; louder even than the scream of William’s entire life; louder than anything yet that the soldiers had encountered. It was as full as all of life, and yet an insurmountable void. It buffeted the men’s minds. One-by-one, soldiers dropped themselves where they stood, neglecting anything they held, falling to the ground, overwhelmed by terrifying, yet relieving grief; overcome by the abruptness of the freedom of their minds. Those men who fought to stand against the inevitable decay of their resolve, who wrestled with the tide-flow within themselves, showed the strain on their faces. These too were overcome, but they did not all drop, undone where they stood. One man turned his firearm on himself, and with a noiseless sob, shot himself in the eye. Another, unable to take his own life, shot his leg and fell, impaling himself on an upthrust, rusted piece of iron. Others, who would not let go with their bodies or minds, began to lose touch with their senses. Their ears rang with an echo that grew louder and louder. They clenched their own heads, stumbling across sobbing and dead men. Eventually, each of these men was undone in one manner or another: those having the will left to take their own lives, did so; some who did not have the will, died by circumstance; there were those whose sanity left them completely- wide-eyed and vacant-headed, sitting slumped or sprawled on the ground; and there were some who let go completely, weeping, sobbing, given over to the great passion of death, but not dying.
After a time, a brave man on the front line stood slowly and faced the enemy’s territory, across the imaginary lines. They are so close by. He was an old man, hardened by countless wars, subdued by numberless (pointless) deaths. But now his spirit soared above him, beckoning him onward, imbuing his limbs with the strength of a young man. Tears and sweat streaked the blood and dirt on his face. He clambered laboriously across razor wire and makeshift barriers, and treaded lightly between fallen comrades and enemies alike. He was called Gabriel- the strength of God. He did not feel the deep wounds that were cut in his arms and legs as he scrambled across the dividing lines; his face was set on glory. He tumbled into the first trench that he encountered and sank to his knees by a fallen enemy. This man, he realized, is my brother. He is my father. He is my lover. He is my son. He leaned into the man, encircling him with strong arms and holding his sagging head to a dirty shoulder. He is only a boy.
“What’s your name son?”, Gabriel asked in a voice like a warm sea breeze. The young man looked up at him in awe.
“I am called Newman Sir.”
Newman squinted at the sunlight haloing Gabriel’s face through the clearing smoke. “Wha- what are you, father?” he stammered.
“Are you injured, Newman? Can you walk?”
“I think so. Where am I?”
“You are on Earth, sweet boy,” Gabriel laughed. He gazed at the wreckage around him and breathed deep the smell of death and despair, and of earth and life. “Come,” he said, “I need your help. Spread the word to our comrades, the war is over.”
Helping Newman to stand, Gabriel moved off.
Newman watched with shock as Gabriel walked away, losing sight of him in the drifting smoke. He looked up, squinting into the sunlight, feeling its soft warmth, as if for the first time. He shaded his eyes and looked around. To his right, Bruce had fallen in the trench. Dead? Gone, my friend? He bent to stroke the fallen man’s cheek and laughed with joy as his eyes fluttered open.
“Wake up beautiful, it’s a new day. Welcome to earth.”
David Crowther is an attorney for Children in Buffalo, New York, and a writer of science fiction and poetry. He is a dad to two beautiful boys, and says that they "as young teens are already taller than me (madness I say!), and I am hungry to heal.”