Unknown Soldier
Platform One
Praed Street,
Paddington Station
London
W2 1RH
29th April 2014
Dear Sir,
You do not know me, and up until very recently, I did not know of you. I was born and raised miles from where you’ve stood for decades, and I passed you on many occasions, sometimes even running, sandwich in hand, only a few feet between us. I was too busy attempting to catch my train to notice you were there. I apologise for that. That’s the thing about London; too fast, too busy to see the obvious, even someone like me, who lives to observe and take note. When I was told of your existence, I had to come and see you. To slow down, take time, think about what you did and what that means for me right now, in a time and place that perhaps wouldn’t even be, if it wasn’t for you and millions of others.
You are looming, huge, dark as a storm-filled sky, and yet glistening with daylight. You stand with your feet splayed, proud and strong. I take pictures from various angles, slightly self-conscious, slightly wary – these are still difficult times. I watch commuters and railway staff so I might reassure them if necessary. No one notices me.
The enormity of your actions, and your colleagues, is overwhelming. The things you must have seen are unimaginable. I look up and down the platform, hear the thundering rumble of the train, the blast of a whistle and slam of doors, and wonder how all it looked to you, back then. Did you ever see Paddington? If not, there must have been station like it when you left home. I close my eyes, try to conjure a sense of your emotions when you heard the sounds I hear now. Did you think of family and friends? Your destination? Did you think of the people you would stand beside, or the future generations of England, the world; many of us comfortable now, because of you.
We know so little about you. Whether you’re in good humour, or grieving. Where your scarf came from, and not even your name. Yet I sense victory in your eyes, because you hold humanity in your hands. I see neither machine, nor monster, but ourselves. And though your sacrifice hasn’t managed to banish all wars as you might have hoped, it makes it possible for us to continue to dream. To imagine a greater world, like the millions of men who received millions of letters during those cold, dark days of that long winter. And perhaps this one, apparently insignificant victory is in some way the greatest of all.
Go well, unknown soldier. If you still dream, may it be of blue skies, the whisper of grass in the wind, and the distant cry of birds above your head.
Yours in gratitude,
Courttia Newland
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