In Memoriam

by Alice Winn

He recognised that bravery could only exist where there was fear, and so of all of them, only Gaunt was truly capable of heroism.

Four years later, in a dugout on the front line, Maitland caught his eye and smiled.

Ellwood had written them in pencil on the wall above Gaunt’s bed, and Gaunt had hoped they meant something.

In all seriousness, it … it was a hard afternoon and I missed you more than ever.

It was a careful thing, affectionate in that sexless, Tennyson way.

Now I wonder whether one of those silent boys who did not speak up for me waited till you were gone to sneak into my room and burn my poems. This is a rubbish letter. I’m sorry.

a fact that Gaunt knew Ellwood found depressing.

Murder. What a quaint idea.

men too old to go to war, and boys too young.

You never act as if it does. But perhaps you are too polite.

probably accounts for why Pritchard is so bad at sums,

Mr Hammick made me a nice cup of tea and we talked about cricket.

(How could I? Call him Sidney, as his wife will one day: I’d rather die.)

It’s maddening that all this—that he—can still have my attention, even at the front.

sometimes feels as if the only words that still have meaning are place names: Ypres, Mons, Artois. Nothing else expresses.

I have lost more than I can say, and what remains of me is not worth much. Stephen and I had a few happy weeks before we were expelled, but nothing could be worth what I now feel.

You’re squandering your years as if they’re limitless.

There goes the man I might have spoken to, had I only been able to open my mouth.

What a waste Sandys’ last days had been, thought Gaunt. Pathetically attempting to overcome a grief that would never have time to heal.

but Maitland tells told me

We had reached a point in history where we believed it was possible to make war humane.

Some were only choking, but others were coughing up scrambled bits of lung, their lungs were melting inside them and drowning them.

like maniacal laughter.

I stood on the most God-forsaken patch of earth I hope ever exists and I thought: I wonder how Elly is.

Henry sends the most wooden little letters, and my imagination fills in the horror.

Tired. A new word ought to be invented, if this was tired.

Ellwood wanted to punch him. He wanted to make him bleed, and then tend to the wounds.

It was reassuring to know that there was some connection still between the two Gaunts.

He thought perhaps all the pain would sour the love, but instead it drew him further in, as if he were Marc Antony, falling on his own sword.

And it was a magical thing, to love someone so much; it was a feeling so strange and slippery, like a sheath of fabric cut from the sky.

In the hypermasculine atmosphere of war, they were not overly concerned with manliness.

Ellwood fell asleep, and Gaunt pretended to do the same, but he couldn’t think beyond the parts of them that were touching.

He was 1912; a world where savagery had been purged from the human spirit, for ever and ever.

Their lips met, and things became simple.

Elly, is that how we judge men now?”

He spent a long time on the letter, but he omitted that Billy’s last words had been “It hurts.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have looked twice at me, if it weren’t for the War.” “Probably not,” said Gaunt. “My loss.”

It was only because he knew he would die that he could be so reckless with it.

“I wish I could tell you in my own words,” he said. “But I can’t. And you don’t want me to.

It had been hopeless to love Ellwood because Ellwood did not love him back, and now it was hopeless even though he did.

It was usually silent, but tonight, the thousands of wounded groaned like a ship in a storm.

Finch started to laugh but it turned into a little cry of pain. Ellwood kissed him on the forehead and crawled back to his men, leaving Finch to die alone.

But I have an active mind, and you gave it something to grasp. I am grateful.

We were linked, the three of us, from the moment he met you.

I’d feel for the squeaky buggers if they’d stop snacking on my rations, after they’ve snacked on my friends.

I’ll make an appointment with you by the pearly gates, how’s that?

He had decided at fifteen to marry Maud because she was clever, and a nice sort of girl, and it would mean Gaunt would be there every Christmas for the rest of his life. It was only occurring to him now how stupid a plan it had been.

“All this has taught me the limits of my hatred,” he said. “I always thought I loathed Burgoyne, but apparently not enough to be glad he’s dead.”

And then they were both quiet, as they tried not to think of what inconceivable horror waited for them, when the shelling stopped and the men were sent in.

He had become used to the idea that he would die. There wasn’t anything else to think. He only wished he wouldn’t have to see any more of his friends killed before it happened.