Roy Exum: One Nameless Ghost

  • Monday, May 30, 2016
  • Roy Exum
Roy Exum
Roy Exum

One hundred years ago the United States was at war. The most intense fighting during World War I was on what was called The Western Front. The Germans wanted to invade France from the north and in order to do it, they had to push through Flanders province in Belgium. It has been described as a hell unequalled in raw hand-to-hand combat,

In just four months on Flanders fields, each side lost a half-million troops. Think of that: one million killed in just over 100 days – do the math. Germany would introduce tear gas and mustard gas to the Art of War at Flanders to add to the agony. And while my intent on this holiday is hardly to teach a history lesson, you need to get a feel for this before I share “a Memorial Day classic” that always captures this day perfectly for me.

The town of Ypres – squarely in the middle of the Western Front --- was quite literally demolished by artillery in the intense fighting. Earning and losing ground from one muddy trench to the next, the Allied forces gained only scant miles before the war ended and then the poppies began to grown.

Few people in this age remember much about World War I but I can remember as a small child that day in late spring every year when people wore a red-paper poppy as a symbol of Memorial Day.

As we celebrate our fallen – this in a custom started by African-Americans in Charleston, S.C. at the end of the Civil War – keep in mind that today we have a federal holiday where we remember those who didn’t come back. On Nov. 11 we honor all veterans, living and dead, with “Veteran’s Day” which coincides with Armistice Day, when the agreement to end World War I was signed on “the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month" of 1918.

Some years ago I read a story that embraces the huge sacrifice our nation not only has but continues to invest in freedom and, while I have no way of knowing its author, it was borne on Flanders fields:

* * *

“I KNEW YOU WOULD COME”

He was very old now, but could still hold himself stiffly at attention before the monument.  His war, the one to end all wars, now just a fading part of history. Very few could remember, first-hand, the savageness of the ordeal that had sent millions of young men to their deaths.

Cannon fodder, they'd called them, sent before the guns to be mown down -- blown apart by chunks of metal which had decimated their frail bodies.  The cream of a generation; almost wiped out.  He was haunted by the faces of the boys he'd had to order into battle, the ones who'd never come back. 

Yet one nameless ghost was able to bring a measure of comfort to his tormented mind.  At the sound of the gun signaling the eleventh hour he was mentally transported back to the fields of Flanders. 

The battle had raged for over two hours, with neither side gaining any advantage.  Wave after wave of soldiers had been dispatched from the muddy trenches and sent over the top.  So many had died already that day that he decided he could not afford to lose any more men before reinforcements arrived.  Perhaps they'd give the remnants a few more days of life.  There came a slight lull in the battle due to the sheer exhaustion of the men on both sides.

During this interval, a young soldier came up to him requesting that he be allowed to go over the top.  He looked at the boy who couldn't have been more than nineteen.  Was this extreme bravery in the face of the enemy or was the soldier so scared he just needed to get it over with? 

"Why would you want to throw your life away soldier?  It's almost certain death to go out there." 

"My best friend went out over an hour ago, Captain, and he hasn't come back.  I know my friend must be hurt and calling for me.  I must go to him, sir, I must." There were tears in the boy's eyes.  It was as if this were the most important thing in the world to him." 

"Soldier, I'm sorry, but your friend is probably dead.  What purpose would it serve to let you sacrifice your life too?" 

"At least I'd know I'd tried, sir, he'd do the same thing in my shoes.  I know he would." 

He was about to order the boy back to the ranks, but the impact of his words softened his heart.  He remembered the awful pain he'd felt himself when his brother had died.  He'd never had the chance to say goodbye. 

"All right soldier, you can go." Despite the horror all around them, he saw a radiant smile on the boy's face, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

"God bless you, sir," said the soldier. 

It was a long time before the guns fell silent for the last time and each side was allowed to gather their dead and wounded.  The captain remembered the young soldier.  He looked through the many piles of bodies.  Young men.  So many as to give an unreal quality to the scene before him. 

When he came to the makeshift hospital, he looked carefully through the casualties.  He soon found himself before the prone body of the soldier, alive, but severely wounded.  He knelt down beside the young man and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm so sorry, son.  I knew I was wrong to let you go." 

"Oh no, sir.  I'm glad you did and I'm glad you're here now so I can thank you.  You see sir, I found my friend.  He was badly wounded, but I was able to comfort him at the end.  As I held him dying in my arms, he looked me in the eyes and said: "I knew you'd come." 

The young soldier faded between consciousness and oblivion for some time before he finally slipped away.  The captain stayed by his side until the end, tears streaming quietly down his cheeks.  Only in war could the happy endings be so terribly sad.

As the bugle sounded "Taps", the old captain envisioned once again the young soldier's face.  Looking up, he could almost hear the stone monument calling out to him: "I knew you'd come."

--Author Unknown

* * *

Dear Madam (Bixby),

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.

I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.

I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,

A. Lincoln (Nov. 21, 1864)

royexum@aol.com

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