THERE IS A BIG SPOILER FOR 1917. IF YOU HAVEN'T READ MY AUTHOR'S NOTE AND WANT TO WATCH THE FILM, DON'T READ IT.
THERE IS AN ATTEMPT AT SUICIDE IN THIS, SO IF ANYONE FINDS THIS TRIGGERING OR HARMFUL TO THEIR MIND IN ANY WAY, PLEASE REFRAIN FROM READING THIS.
March 20th 1919
I only looked up from the book when my two daughters stood in front of me with their gardening gear on, their shadows blocking the sunlight from view, just like the smog at Écou- no, stop. That had been two years ago. Stop.
"Dad, there's a weed in our garden bed and it won't come out. Can you help?" Ruth, the eldest, asked. I almost didn't hear her.
I nodded, setting the book aside and standing up, letting them lead me to their proud garden bed, the flowers they'd planted, joyously dancing in the easterly breeze with their yellow, pink and blue dresses. Helen, the youngest, pointed with her chubby children's fingers at the green ten-inch tall weed growing in their flower bed. The dying sunlight shone full on it, almost as if it was mocking the flowers and the girls. Look at this weed, it mocks you, it scorns you. "That's it. The weed. Get it out, Daddy!"
I bent down to take a closer look. The weed was nothing much to look at. A small woody stem and a crown of fresh new green leaves clustered at the top. It was a tree, a small but stout sapling. But a weed nonetheless. I could see where Ruth and Helen had tried to dig and scratch at it, its white bulbous roots open to the air, going deep below. Green sap bled from a small hole one of them had poked at it, as if trying to saw through it.
The cherry trees were full in bloom, their blossoms like a fair maiden's wedding gown, littering the grass. However they were marred. Their trunks had fallen to the ground beneath, hacked and sawed at like dead corpses. Well, that's what they were. Dead trees just hanging onto life.
"These are cherry trees. Dukes," Blake commented, striding through them, his eyes focused only on the trees.
"How do you know that?" I asked, watching him.
"My mum has an orchard back home," he explained, lifting a tendril of white to peer closer at it. "This time of year, it'd look like it'd be snowing," A soft smile crossed his face. "Joe and me used to pick 'em cherries at harvest time. It took all day."
There was a few moment's silence. I scanned our surroundings with a watchful eye, my grip tightening on the Lee Enfield. 303 rifle. I looked back at him, he'd started moving forward again, moving to the crumbled stone wall. "Are these goners?"
"Nah, they'll grow," he said. "Next year, little seeds will come from those blossoms and fruits. Give them a few more years and they'll be big trees again, just like these ones."
"I'll get the shovel," Ruth remarked, her voice bringing me out of my memories. She'd already started to walk towards the shed, nestled up against the back garden wall.
"No. Don't," I blurted out, my first words that week. My voice was hoarse from misuse but harsh as well. Ruth turned back and I could feel her quizzical gaze. I continued softer. "Let it be."
"But it's a weed," Helen whined from beside me.
And my last words that week were, "No, it's a tree. Your flowers will live." I then scooped up soil and filled the hole the girls had made, covering the roots with earth again.
Straightening, I looked down at it. The sunlight still shone on it, making the leaves shimmer in golden soft light. Maybe it hadn't been mocking them, maybe it was a symbol of some sort, a reminder of Bl- No, it was just a tree. Just a tree. Nothing important.
I then walked back to the house, washed my hands and sat by the crackling fire, getting lost in its flames. But I didn't feel its warmth, I didn't hear its joyful crackle. Its joyousness turned to evil, smoke choked my lungs and fear strangled them more, the pitch black of smoggy night, running with shouts in horrid German and bullets pelting after me like the hounds do after the fox. They felt so close, far too close. The zzst of passing bullets came nearer. My head hurt from where I'd hit it, blood beginning to trickle warmly, my hand a dull smart- I shook myself and stood rapidly, my head spinning with standing too quickly. Deep breaths racked through my body. Without knowing it, I'd touched the back of my neck, where I'd knocked myself out on the stairs that night. Of course, there was nothing. I wasn't back there. I was home... back home.
No, I wasn't back. I wasn't the same man. I was someone different.
"Will?" I turned and saw the girl from Écoust, but...she hadn't known my name. I blinked, once, twice and saw my wife, my Mary. She looked at me. "Are you alright? You...seem shocked."
I said nothing, nor did I nod, I just strode towards her and hugged her, my face burrowed in her shoulder. She didn't question, just sighed and wrapped her arms around me, a gentle embrace.
We stayed like that a long time.
July 18th 1921
"So, I'm sure you heard of Lloyd's ceasefire with Ireland?"
I hummed my reply, my back leaning against the house-wall and staring absent-mindedly into the garden before me. Mary had settled herself on a garden chair and her parents, two individuals I'd never liked much, were standing with us. Charles had taken his pipe and was smoking, his back also against the garden wall. Margaret was just watching from another garden chair, her prying eyes surveying everything. Of course she did. She always did. The both of them were nosy. Helen, Ruth and my parent-in-laws' dog scampered across the lawn, playing with each other, joyful, cheerful. To be honest, the dog was my favourite of the trio.
Charles took a good look at me, I could feel his gaze on me. "You're quieter than usual," he commented. "Not that you were talkative before but ever since you came back, you've been abnormally quiet. It's been, what, two years? Three?" I nodded again, taking another sip of the wine, not looking at him.
Please don't mention the War. God, don't let him.
The old man, somehow feeling, that he needed to fill my silence with talk, continued. "I've always wondered why you didn't join the RIC. I mean, they recruited ex-soldiers like you and I heard they paid them for it too," he leaned closer. "And we both know that money for you and your family is running tight now, what with your job," I grimaced. The man was drunk, I was sure of it. Or he just wanted to rub our dwindling money in our faces... well, my face. I should be working. They supplied us with most of our money now, it was one of the reasons I put up with them. The grip around my glass tightened. "So why didn't you? Wouldn't have been that hard for you, seeing as you were in the war. You would have made more money, that's for sure. Probably would have done a very similar thing, you know, fighting and bringing those Irish to order-"
The glass shattered, splintering and cracking. Red splashed among the broken shards of glass. At first, I'd thought it was wine but when I heard Helen gasp, I then noticed the pain. "Fuck!" I shouted out, my first word that week. My hand was a mess. Glass mixed with my blood, it seemed, numerous cuts pouring blood, some deep, others not. Crimson curdled my vision – the barbed wire, Blake's wound – I cradled my messed up hand to my chest and then stormed into the house, pushing the door open. I pulled the First Aid Kit from where it lay on the top of the cupboard. Mary came rushing in after me and got hot water going in a bowl. I'd already started picking out glass shards with a tweezer. Mary tried to help but I just waved her off, already falling back into my war-time process of nursing a wound. She fell away, retreating back to the garden, bringing a broom with her. Ruth came in to inquire after me, her eyes resting on the bloodied hand.
"You alright, Dad?" I nodded and washed my hand in the bowl of hot water, wincing as it stung. Taking a cotton bud, I dabbed at the injuries, cleansing any dirt or unseen glass shards from the mix. The water took on a slight tinged red, the two liquids mixing together. Ruth still stood next to me but she didn't say a word. That was one thing I loved about Ruth, after I'd returned, she'd seemed to understand that I'd changed even though it'd hurt her to realize that. She handed me a pair of scissors as I pulled out the bandages. Then she spoke again. "Grandpa mentioned the war, didn't he? Or...fighting at least," I nodded again, grimacing. She continued, her eyes wary. "Sometimes, I wish that I'd been there with you and helped you out during all of it. I've seen the haunted look in your eyes-"
I turned to her, almost dropping the bandage roll. "Get rid of that wish. Right now. You don't want to know the things I've seen, not even while being curled up next to a roaring fire and safe at home," I turned back to my injury. "You would have been worse off than I am right now."
As I closed the First Aid Kit, I heard her whisper. "I'm sorry." Turning towards her, I wrapped an arm around her and kissed her hair.
Charles came in. "You alright there, son?" All I did was nod, my words not reserved for him. Releasing myself from Ruth, I put the kit back. The bandage had been wrapped around my hand crudely but tightly, and it did the job OK. The cuts throbbed. He looked at it. "You seem to have wrapped that up well. Army teach you that?" I sighed and nodded again.
At least I didn't put it in someone's chest this time around. That's on you, Blake. No shut up, stop. Stop thinking about him.
A few minute's pause ensued, then Charles cleared his throat and said. "You never answered my question earlier. So why didn't you?"
"Why are you so pushy about it?" I said back. I hated how my voice sounded, all harsh and croaky from not using it much. A rusted tool.
"I'm not being pushy. I'm just curious, can't a man be curious?"
I sighed before speaking again. "I...I wanted some peace and quiet afterwards."
He barked out a harsh laugh. "Peace and quiet?" he chortled. "Well the bloody Irish won't give you either! Your country needed you too, even for the RIC. Plus couldn't you have given some consideration for your family? You needed the money-"
"Well then you should have joined for the money," I said bitterly. "Because that's all it is for you. Money. The RIC wasn't just money, Charles, it was beating and shooting people."
"Well the Irish needed, and still need, some discipline that only a good Englishman could give," he spat. "I bet they were troublesome in the army."
"The Irish were some of the best soldiers we had. My best friend was one, he- he was the best man and friend anyone could have wished for, much better than a bloody patriotic Englishman. He saved me. He even tried to save a fucking Boche and he got killed because I was the one who turned my back and then he fucking died in my arms. So, before you even try to say anything about that fucking, oh, so Great War or anything about the Irish, try get fighting in one and see how you fucking feel about fighting afterwards!" My voice had risen to a shout. I only realized that as soon as I stopped talking because of the sudden strangling silence. I fell short, mumbling an apology before escaping from the room.
After I'd left the room and shortly afterwards the house, I could hear her mother complaining about my use of language in front of the children and Charles' furious grumbling, telling Mary 'I told you so', 'shouldn't have married him', etc. All that complete and utter bullshit. When I left the house, I just walked aimlessly, letting my feet take me anywhere but that house. I didn't want to go back. Faces passed me, just like the soldiers' faces in the war, and unconsciously, I started scanning the faces for one like Blake's. It felt like I just marched through the whole city, my feet walking streets I didn't know but I was fine with that. My feet had walked many miles without me even knowing if I'd make it out the other end, on English soil, on French soil.
I only stopped my pursuit of London when I finally noticed the lengthening shadows. A nearby clock-tower boomed ten times. 10 pm? "Shit," I muttered, my feet turning for home. But then I realized...
I had no idea where I was. "Bloody hell." I looked around to see if there was anything I recognised. Nothing. Today was really not my day.
Then I heard it. Someone whistling one of the army songs, no, the song I'd heard in the forest on the morning of April 7th 1917. I still remembered that song as if it was yesterday, not four years ago. I turned in hunt of the man whistling it but the whistle petered out before I could find him. The city noises blared through my hearing again, the sound of cars, people talking and shouting. It'd probably been a trick on my mind. I let out a sigh and looked up at the sky, its blue fading to a deeper shade.
Planes crossed the sky- no, not again.
I shook my head and looked down at the ground. People still walked around me, and I wondered how many of these men had been in the war like me. Most of them, likely. I just sighed again and walked back the way I'd come, hoping I'd make it back home soon.
Well... if that's what I could call it...home.
Mary was at the front door when I came home, an annoyed look on her face. Understandable. By that time, it must have been close to 11pm, maybe even midnight. "I'm sorry," were the only words I could offer.
"Where were you? Do you know how late it is?" she kept her voice low, anger as prominent as a bullet in a human body. "I was worried sick and the kids too. Father's furious, Mother too, and so am I. What happened back there?"
"Charles pushed me into answering something I didn't want to answer."
"And you had to blow up in his face like that?"
"It was about the War, Mary, and the RIC. About how easy it should have been for me to be recruited and how easy the job should have been."
She stayed silent. There was the sound of footsteps running from the house and Helen came running forward, her arms wrapping around my frame. "Daddy!" she shouted out. "You're back!"
I hugged her with one arm and smiled softly. Looking back at Mary, I could see her struggling. Of course she'd be struggling. She had me to worry about, a raving ex-soldier without a job who refused to talk most of the time. Someone completely different from the man she'd married years ago. Letting myself in, I put Helen to bed, Mary close behind me. After tucking her in, I turned to my wife. She led me back to our bedroom, making me sit on the bed next to her.
I sighed. "I'm really sorry. I just..." I looked at her. "I need more time to get over it."
"It's been almost three years, William."
"I know but... it's not enough. There's too much to forget. I don't even know if I can forget. I- I see the War in everything. The blue of the sky turns into a vision of planes, a cloud blocking the sun turns into a memory of the smog filled sky. Loud noises become guns or bombs. A gentle crackling fire becomes the fires the Germans set to the French villages. A butter knife turns into the knife that killed my best friend," I held back a sob at that but I continued, not accustomed to my speaking for this long. "I killed people Mary. Our daughters' father killed people. Your husband is a murderer. So, for Charles to even say I should have joined the RIC to continue wielding a gun at Irish people, my best friend's nationality, and continue walking into their war... yes, it would have given us money...but any hurt from the Great War wouldn't have been resolved through continuing to hurt people."
She bit her lip. "Your friend... you never mentioned him... how come none of us knew?"
"It... it was my fault he died."
"What was his name?"
I shook my head. I looked out of the window into the garden, my eyes resting on the little tree that we'd let grow last year. Moonlight shone full on it, just like the sunlight did when the girls showed it to me. I still had no idea what kind of tree it was. All it'd given us were leaves, no blossoms or fruits. It had grown some more since the day Ruth and Helen had thought it a weed, now being about forty inches. Somehow though, it did remind me of him. But I didn't want to push it away. I didn't question it. "I don't want to say."
April 6th 1925
Even eight years later I wished Blake had a grave. That was my first thought on that morning and I couldn't stop thinking it but I didn't speak those words out loud. No one would have understood. On April 6th 1918, I had still been stuck in the trenches, fighting for my survival and I hadn't noticed what date it was. On April 6th 1919, I'd been home only a few months and I'd stayed in my room, trying to sleep the day away. 1920, I'd tried to spend the day by being as busy as I could be, anything to distract me from the day. 1921, I'd stared at the razor in front of me, wondering if I should have ended it in that bathroom because the War hadn't taken me. 1922, we'd gone out for the day out in the countryside. Unfortunately we'd been hindered by brambles. Their thorns had looked like barbed wire like in No Man's Land. 1923, I'd stared at the razor again and was close to drawing it across. 1924, I'd gotten the flu and lay in bed sick all day, similar to 1919.
Even eight years later, I'd never fully recovered. I still retained that soldier pose and sometimes I woke up with the weight of a rifle in my arms before I realized it was my wife. But I talked more, I could smile. I could laugh. I still missed Blake. A lot. Too much. I wondered how his family was, if his brother was OK.
Now, it was 1925... what would this April 6th bring?
Mary leaned her head against my shoulder as we sat on the sofa, drinking in the sunlight, our hands gently intertwined. It felt good to just be close to her, not doing anything, it was distracting. The living room window didn't provide much of a view from the sofa, we could only see a small patch of lawn, the shed and the back garden wall. I was glad there was no fire, it would have reminded me of Écoust even with Mary next to me.
"Will? You alright?"
"I'm fine."
She looked up at me, her soft brown eyes finding my blue ones. "You seem troubled."
And here I was, thinking that maybe I'd be OK today. I blinked. I almost replied too quickly. "I'm fine, Mary." I hoped I was. I mean, I hoped... I hoped that maybe I could forget.
Forget Blake? How can you forget him?
No, I needed to move on. He wasn't coming back. "I'm fine, love. No need to worry about me." I kissed her gently on her forehead and then her lips. She smiled softly and kissed me back, just as gently. I smiled back at her as I pulled away after a few minutes. Maybe I could return back to being William Schofield, the married man, the man with a family, not the traumatised man. Maybe that was still a possibility. Maybe I was already starting to. Maybe-
"Mom! Dad! Ruth!"
I looked up and saw Helen come running towards us. Her hair was half-braided, her school uniform unkempt. Mary moved from beside me. Ruth came in from the dining room table where she'd been making her lunch for school. "What's the commotion for?" Mary asked.
"The tree! It has flowers!"
"It's just a tree, Helen," Ruth said. "No need for the racket."
"But now, we'll know what kind of tree it is! It looks so beautiful! Come on! Come on!" she ran from the living room again.
"Looks like we have to follow," Ruth replied, sighing. That's what we did, the three of us following Helen. She pulled the back garden door open and once we were all outside, she pointed at the tree, her smile sparkling white.
When I noticed what kind of blossoms they were, my heart stopped and I broke.
"We're going to get up," I said, picking him up underneath the arms.
He let out a scream of pain. "Put me down! Put me down!" When I refused to, he hooked his arm behind my knee and pulled, sending me toppling, him on top of me.
"We need to keep moving," I said, desperate.
"Can we sit? Let me sit."
"We can't. We have to move, alright? We have to move. Come on." I tried pick him up again. He let out a scream that would probably wake the dead. He struggled against me. I dropped him back down, falling as well. Panting, I looked around for anything that might help him. God, there was nothing.
He looked around, blearily. "...Are we getting shot at?"
"The barn is on fire."
There was a few moment's silence, then he said, looking up at me, his eyes full of pain and realization. "Am I dying?"
I couldn't look him in the face. I looked down at the ground, tears choking me. "Yes."
He panted, his breathing becoming harder to come by. He tried grapple for his inside pocket, not making it. I reached for it, taking out a leather satchel. It was stained from his blood. "This?"
"Inside," he forced his voice out. I reached inside, my fingers finding a small piece of paper. Taking it out, I realized it was a photograph of his family. The bottom half was dripping red and I wanted to let out a sob. I handed it to him, and he took it from me with trembling fingers, looking at it briefly before holding it to his rapidly rising and falling chest. "Will you write to my mum for me?"
"I will," I replied. His free hand reached for mine but his fingers were now too weak to hold on much. I took his hand and gave him a hopefully comforting squeeze, just holding it. "Anything else?"
"Tell her I wasn't scared," his voice broke. I looked away from him and nodded, trying to remain calm for his sake. "Do you know the way?"
"I know the way. All the way to Croisilles Wood."
"It'll be dark by then..."
"Doesn't matter. I'll find your brother. He looks just like you... a little older."
He closed his eyes then and his breathing stopped. I found that I couldn't look at him and the tears threatened to fall again. Blake... he was dead. He...was dead...
It was a cherry tree. A cherry tree. I let out a sob, which was followed by more sobs. Turning away, I ran back to the house. While running, I knocked into things but I didn't care, I continued, only stopping when I reached the bathroom, in front of the mirror that I'd stared at like in 1921 and in 1923. Sobs still racked my body, forcing themselves out, choking me. I didn't dare look at myself in the glass, my eyes resting on the razor. Before even realizing what I was doing, I'd already rolled one of my sleeves up and picked up the razor, my finger on the on button. It was the furthest I'd ever come to actually doing it.
The War hadn't killed me, so I should just do it already. I didn't want to live like this, not any more, where every single fucking thing reminded me of it. Where almost anything innocent reminded me of him.
"Sco."
Sco. It came from behind me... and it was in his voice. I turned before I could stop myself and I saw the hallucination of him, it had to be one, he wasn't alive, he was dead. He looked so lifelike, like how he'd been a few minutes before he died. The uniform, his innocent eyes... though they were shrouded in pain and concern. I dropped to the ground and curled in on myself, like I'd done on that hateful morning on April 7th eight years ago.
"Put the razor down," he, no, it said. Whatever it was. The thing that wasn't real. I shook my head, my head touching the bathroom tiles. How cold they were. I curled in on myself, similar to how I'd done when I'd gotten past the dead bodies in that river eight years ago.
I wanted to be with Blake again.
I wanted to, I wanted to...
"Sco, put it down. Put it down. You can't live like this. Move on, move on."
I felt comforting hands on me. "William." I looked up and saw that Mary was standing over me, kneeling next to me. My hands were still shaking and sobs still escaped my lips. She rubbed my back soothingly, her face trying to hold back from contorting into an expression of worry or pain. Like what I did for Blake when he was dying. My eyes wandered back to where he'd been standing and it started anew again, my tears running stronger. It felt like a hole had opened in my chest, its teeth gaping at my insides like a tiger's maw or a black hole. I thought I was going to be eaten up alive by it. She then gathered me to her.
"It- it hurts," were the only words I could muster. "It hurts so bad." She prised the razor from my hands and then just held me. I looked towards where Blake stood, he was still there. I wanted to shout for him to go away, to get rid of this hallucination but then he spoke, the words the only ones I could hear.
"Sco, I'm OK. Just, please, move on from me. I'm OK... I'm happy. You need to be too."
You need to be too. I closed my eyes, holding onto Mary. When I opened my eyes again, he'd gone just as suddenly as he'd come. Looking up at Mary, I whispered. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry. I..."
Tears were in her eyes. I'd caused them... I'd caused them. She shook her head. "You should have told me," she said, her voice choked with tears. "You should have told me."
Ruth and Helen came scampering up, their faces worried. They came in, surrounding me from all sides. I was surrounded by family... I broke down even further, I'd been too close to leaving them. So close. If my vision of Blake hadn't stepped in, I would have been almost gone. My eyes wandered back to where he'd stood once more...
and a cherry tree blossom lay there.
Thank you, Blake.
May 6th 1926
I'm OK now. After what had happened, I moved on. It took a while but I've moved on. I've never managed to fully recover from the war... but I've moved on from him. I know he's OK.
So, all I can say is...
Thank you, Blake.
*****************
Thank you for reading this far, if you have. I know it's long. It's 4,754 words. I feel really invested in this story, and in the movie, I love it for how it's made me feel and to be honest, it's the first movie I've cried my all at in a while. I was inspired by a similar story I wrote for "Of Mice and Men" by John Steinbeck, though that was a school project. If you're interested in it too, I can also leave it here when I get it back from my teacher (most likely after quarantine). I decided to put a different twist to show you Will's 'recovery' after WWI and how he dealt with everything over a wide range of years from 1919 to 1926.
I will be writing a longer fanfiction for 1917 too so if you're interested in it, check it out when it's done!
Thank you for reading and vote and comment if you like :)
N.S.