Little Soldier Boy

By Joshua Wyly

To all the World War II soldiers, from all nations, who risked their lives for their country

Leaves from the vine

Falling so slow

Like fragile tiny shells

Drifting in the foam

Little soldier boy

Come marching home

-Unknown

Chapter I

15 November 1927:

It was a calm, chilly day in November when I went out to the cemetery to visit my father. The layer of snow, really thick this day, was beautiful and freezing. I passed the metal gates and strolled through the walkway in mourn between the stone markers, each of them recognising a name of a soldier from the First World War. I finally made it to the back of the cemetery, where my father lay to rest. His marker was marble, still standing after three years of his death.

I stood there, staring at the grave that read his name, George Clarke.

He was gone. There was nothing else I could do about it but stare. And salute in respect for the brave man I knew, who helped raise his family, and then go out to war, to risk his life for this beautiful country the United Kingdom.

I felt my right hand raise up to my forehead, my thumb tuck into its palm, my pointer finger touching my forehead that was ever so slowly becoming warmer.

And then, I stood there like that, in that respective position, for five whole minutes.

I swear. I even counted.

And then, I lowered my arm, whispered, “I love you, and God bless” to my father, resting in peace, and walked away towards my mum, who was waiting for me at the entry.

19 Old Road Llandudno LL30 2NB UK; 23 April 1941:

That was me at age four.

I remember that moment vividly in my mind.

Now, I have changed. I have grown up to become a more mature man, understanding the wonders and beauties of the world. But I have also begun to understand the dangers.

I am 18 now, old enough to vote, old enough to drink, old enough to finally understand reality. However, I never knew that my adult life would change ever so soon as the Second World War came in through the fog of the United Kingdom’s history.

It all started on a day any normal than the one before it, and the one after it (I initially thought) when I was coming home from delivering Mum’s freshly-baked sugar cookies to the Binghams. She had made the cookies as a thank-you gift for giving us a spare tablecloth for my sister’s birthday party, as our old one caught on fire when something else did, and then…well, let’s not go into the rest.

Anyway, when I entered the house, I calmly hung up my brown coat and my old brown hat (that used to belong to my grandfather) and walked into the kitchen.

Mum, who had clearly heard me when I first came in, rushed up to me, the edge of her kitchen apron flapping upwards towards her chest. She had brown, half-curled hair that went down to the tips of her head (that was ever so slowly grating), blue eyes that held the definition of heaven, and a worried, wrinkled face that held the mixed expression of horror, insecurity and worries.

‘Oh, Charlie!” she gasped, then hugged me around my waist. That’s how tall I was.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked her.

‘I don’t know how, but you can’t go to college. They enlisted you in the Marines, just like your father,’ she responded with the bad news, then hugged me even tighter.

And yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s how grief came to be.

My sister, Eilidh, came into the room. She asked what had happened, and my mother delivered the news.

Chapter II

13 March 1943:

I hid in my position for attack, ready for my first battle of World War II, my camouflaged clothes protecting and camouflaging me in the green grass, the barrel of the machine gun open and ready to fire. I sat there for about ten minutes, waiting for the enemy to come; come marching down the grass, crushing it, leaving their footprints in it for others to follow eventually.

Oh, when the saints come marching in.

During that ten lonely minutes, I reviewed what the commander told everyone. ‘Now remember this, what I’m bound to say. Glue it to your mind; I don’t care. “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” And I mean it.”

I reviewed that a good, solid ten, fifteen times before they started to come. Come marching down the grass, oh when the saints come marching in to win the glory for their country.

My gun was up. And then I began to fire. Each blast was so frightening and loud that it made me want to be in bed, under the arm of my mother, my guardian, the one who would protect me. I felt a tear fall my face, then another one.

“Mum! Where are you! Help me! Guard me! Protect me! Love me once more! Mum! Mum! Mum!!” I continued to yell out for her. Where was she? Right, she was at home, crying for me, wishing I was four again so that way she could cuddle me and play games with my father, who died for his country, who sacrificed his life.

Oh, when the saints come marching in, oh when those angels of war come walking in. To murder for the glory.

They came. They apparently heard me. I felt being picked up. They were seizing me! I was being taken, prisoner. They put something to my lips.

‘Drink,’ one of them commanded in a harsh voice, ‘and you’ll be home.’

“Who are you?” I asked in a tired, confused voice that apparently wanted to go home, be with Mum, start all over again in a world with nonviolence.

So I drank.

To be home.

And then black surrounded me, into heaven.