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I come from an old military family. For generations we have given of our flesh and blood, and in return the country has given us land and titles. When I was small I took to arms with a wooden rifle, and I would often stop to look at the old portraits and more modern daguerreotypes that lined the grand staircase. From a cracked and peeling oil painting of a crusty, mutton-chopped major on Wellington's staff, to a blue-eyed lieutenant of the Royal Sussex, they were all there, in uniform; egging me on from beyond the grave to become what they'd once been: heroes.

My school inculcated me with the ethos, too. That, and ever faster world events, sped us towards our hearts' desire: war. It all seemed like a jolly jape. It was what was expected of us, and nothing, nothing would stop England's children from doing their duty.

Then, on a balmy summer's day when I was seventeen, I discovered a flaw in the plan. I found the horror, and realised I was a coward. The familiar portraits took on a different meaning then, haunting my sleep and every waking hour with whispers.

*****

"Get your fucking arses over that palisade now! You little toffee-nosed shits!"

"Yes, Sarn't Major!" we all sang out. Brant, giggling at the back as always, got a hefty belt from the Captain's swagger stick as the second platoon of the school's OTC scrambled to the top of the wooden construction and stood there like fools.

"Get down ya fucking idiots! If this was real combat y'd all be fucking dead!"

"Why does the tosser swear so much?" Paine piped up, and I couldn't disagree, though we all knew why: to instil blind obedience. Nobody in their right minds would want to ….

I gasped.

The sunny Sussex countryside had changed in a blink of an eye to a scene straight out of Dante's Inferno. Distant lowering crimson clouds spoke of fires vast and grievous. Barbed wired in huge, curly streamers stretched from horizon to horizon, glinting in the westerly light. The putrescent smell of bloated corpses -- some hung over the wire like maturing cattle -- assailed me. But worst of all, the noise! God-awful screams of pain and terror underlay the rapid zing-zing-zing of bullets flying past my head. Shattering booms of guns and shells, the crump of explosions, the spattering rain of displaced soil and mud falling back to earth.

Rooted to the spot, I started screaming: a thin wail that begged for mercy and pleaded for god's good grace, whilst my mind slid ever faster into an embracing pall of darkness.

*****

"There, there, there." The softness of the voice, and the coolness of the flannel on my forehead, made me think that opening my eyes might not be such a bad thing. But open or closed, I knew I would still see the afterimage of the battleground. Bodies: endless bodies, lying mutilated in front of me. So I kept my eyes shut and started to weep.

"What's wrong with him, Matron?" a familiar voice asked.

"Nothing, as far as I can see, Mister McAlister." The flannel was taken away, and I heard her sigh. "It was hot out there."

"Bah," McAlister -- my housemaster and our platoon's Captain -- said, "not that hot. The boy just stood there, started screaming, and then collapsed." He sounded upset, so I opened my eyes. I liked McAlister, and didn't want to disappoint him.

I was lying under crisp white sheets in the school sanatorium. Sister Jenny, the school's nurse -- an elderly Irish woman of whom we were all fond -- stood next to McAlister, holding a basin and flannel in her hand. Behind them both, between where they were standing and the open French windows that led out onto a patio, stood a tall figure dressed in uniform. I blinked, a peculiar feeling of warmth mixed with dread spreading over me, as the figure walked towards my bed. He seemed to pass through McAlister, and without a by-your-leave took my hand …

… and it was pitch dark. I knew I was standing, and I could feel my hand being held: it was odd, but I wasn't the least bit afraid.

"Hullo?"

"Choices, Clive. We all have choices," he said.

"I don't understand."

"Neither did I." He chuckled, and I felt myself smiling in response.

"Why is it dark?"

"Because you haven't yet wished for light." As he finished speaking, an electric standard lamp appeared beside us. It was identical to the one I had in my bedroom at home, and bathed us both in a circle of light, though we were still ringed by darkness.

I looked at the man who was holding my hand. He was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of the Royal Sussex; his face nondescript in the shadow cast by his hat. He looked at me, his eyes a pale sea blue. He seemed somehow familiar.

"Interesting. You could have thought of the sun." He let go of my hand, took a pace backwards, and shrugged.

"The sun?" He nodded. I blinked. "Strange."

*****

"What happened to you?" Kind Henry Brant was waiting for me when I left the san on the morrow. We walked up the Turkey Run, the path leading us back to our house. Henry. My best friend, confidante, and class clown; I'd hardly ever seen him wear the serious expression he was sporting, except for post-thrashings. "And your uniform, Clive!" I'd taken off the flannel nightgown Sister Jenny had given me, and without paying a lot of attention, had put on the uniform I'd been wearing the day before. On hearing Henry's tone, I looked down at it. It was filthy, but not only filthy: the jacket had a series of ragged holes across the chest, whilst my beret had a gash across the front, the regimental insignia buckled. We stopped to let a couple of laughing fourth formers past, and with trepidation examined the jacket and beret. They were stained red and sticky to the touch.

Wide-eyed, Henry and I looked at each other.

"What does it mean, Clive?" Henry asked.

"I don't know, Henry. I just don't know," I said, and there, on the Turkey Run, he put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me, as we both started to shake.

"You need a bath, Clive," said pragmatic Henry, once we arrived back at the house. Still in a state of shock I nodded, and Henry helped me to our study and out of the cursed uniform.

I was lying in the bath, deep in thought, when I heard Henry's scream. By the time I'd fought my way through the gawking sprogs who were nosing around the study door, Henry, who was sitting white-faced in his chair, was being tended to by Rawlins, a stick insect of a prefect whom nobody liked. Thanking him, I ushered him out, closed the door, and turned to see Henry pointing, with a trembling finger, at my uniform. It was folded in a neat pile, but I could see both the beret and jacket were unstained and immaculate. With foreboding, I picked them up. Neither had been washed or cleaned in any way, and they were mine, not some comic substitution; the jacket having my name tag and smell about it.

Henry looked more than shocked, and I was glad our friendship was solid, since I had the feeling that otherwise he might have abandoned me.

The next few weeks had an urgency about them that I still, all these years later, can't define. If it hadn't been for Henry, I'd have gone mad. As it was, we spent a lot of time together, and it became apparent our friends thought we had a pash going on. We let them think just that. We were stupid.

Even then, if it hadn't been for Rawlins, all would have been well. He caught us hugging -- I swear that's all we were doing -- and dragged us to the housemaster's study by our collars. "I caught them being beastly, Housemaster," he said, sneering. I had been too ashamed to look at McAlister, but at this remark I did.

"That is a downright lie!" I said, taking Henry's hand in mine to reassure him, and realising too late it was the last thing I should have done; Henry's pale blue eyes cursing me for a fool, without their usual twinkle.

We both took the flogging stoically. It could have been worse.

On the twenty-seventh of June, I dreamt I was in a meadow by a brook, the sun shining through the canopy of trees, dappling Henry in light as he lay beside me, his eyes asking questions for which I had no answers.

I pulled up a long stem of grass and answered his questions without words, enjoying the sounds he made as he giggled. It was a halcyon dream until the day turned cloudy, the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.

"What will you do when the war starts?"

Henry and I turned to see a man in uniform standing under the bower of an ancient oak. I nudged him with my elbow.

"It's him, Henry. The man I told you about from the san."

"Henry knows, don't you, Henry?" I looked at my friend, my eyes now asking questions.

"Answer him, Henry, for you both have choices to make."

"I … I … I cannot." Henry spoke as if through treacle, as the dream left me and I woke up.

On the twenty-eighth of June the world began spiralling into madness. It was my birthday.

"Happy birthday, Clive," Henry said, pushing the study door closed with his foot. "Close your eyes." I blinked, watching him and remembering my dream. His eyes seemed to be asking the same questions, though we weren't in a meadow by a brook. He was everything forbidden I'd ever wanted, though I'd never told him so. With a leap of faith, I did as he asked.

I could tell he'd just eaten a lemon drop before I felt his lips brush mine. I'd imagined their touch as I watched his mouth over countless meals, imagined his tongue flicking out, befriending mine. Now I found my imagination was as nothing to the reality. I groaned and sank to the floor, amazed that our mouths never for a second parted. I was in heaven and I was ashamed, the blood rushing to my cheeks hotter than the fires of the hell that would without doubt consume me. And as soon as I had that thought, his lips were gone.

I opened my eyes, but the study was empty. I struggled to get back to my feet.

"Choices, Clive," echoed the voice of the lieutenant of the Royal Sussex with the twinkling blue eyes, as I cried myself to sleep after reading his farewell letter for the umpteenth time.

Dearest Clive,
We both have demons, and we both have choices. I've made mine.
Yours in eternal friendship,
Henry

 

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