War in Two Perspectives

I gave perspective writing a try this time. Don't know whether it's any good, but I was pretty pleased with it. I feel like the world is pretty unexplored, so I could probably write a few more perspectives about this to try and flesh it out a bit more. But let's see whether I actually come up with any ideas for this (maybe the king? haha)

---

I. A Bloody Battle

Desmond stood under the glaring heat of the midday sun. Sweat soaked the cotton tunic under his chain mail and dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He shuffled with a discordant clank of metal and rolled his cramped shoulders. His armour, shield, and sword were so heavy that he wondered whether he would even be able to run, let alone attack. All around him, soldiers muttered to each other, shifting uneasily, waiting for an assault that seemed like it would never arrive.

A young boy beside Desmond shouted out, pointing toward the horizon. A dark line gathered at the hill in front of them as if a dust storm were rolling in. As it got nearer, Desmond’s knees began to quiver. Scores of enemy soldiers crested the nearby hill, clanging their swords and shields together. They were large, muscled, and bloodthirsty. As wave after wave of the enemy began to coalesce on the hill, Desmond knew it was over. His people were outnumbered seven to one, and most were just like him, young farm boys pulled into the army out of sheer desperation. They had been trained half-heartedly in a few basic sword moves, patted on the back, and sent off to the battle field.

For a moment, there was utter silence. Both armies stood on opposing hills, waiting. Desmond saw his commander standing in the saddle of his horse, peering. The commander’s posture was steady and confident, but Desmond saw his pale, drawn face and pinched lips, the confident face meant as a facade to keep his army from panicking. He knew, just like the rest of them, that there was no chance of success.

Desmond’s fingers scrambled in his pocket, fishing for the piece of paper he had carried these last few weeks. The creases were set deep into the paper, its ink faded from the many times he had brushed his fingers over the words in the fading lantern light before bed. He mouthed the words to himself one more time.

Dear Desmond,

The house is so quiet nowadays. With you gone too, all I have for

company are the silly chickens and cows. Jes misses you, too- he whines

through the night and hardly wags his tail or chases mice anymore.

Your father has yet to return, and I fear that misfortune must have befallen

him. Surely he would have written otherwise. But, I will not lose faith.

I know he will return safe and sound, and so will you. Soon, we will all be

together again. Do not give up hope, son.

Come home safe and sound.

Love, Ma

In the distance, the enemy howled an unearthly battle cry and stormed down the hill. A tear trickled down Desmond’s cheek. He bit his lip hard, the pain clearing his head. He crumpled the note, feeling the inked love within his fist.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he whispered. Then, he drew his sword, yelled hoarsely among his other companions, and charged.

II. Corpsework

Earnest trudged through the muddy field, pulling a heavy wooden cart behind him. The sky was overcast, thunder booming from the heavy storm clouds and threatening a downpour of rain. Vultures and crows circled overhead, drawn to the battlefield by the scent of spilled blood. The cart’s wheels, streaked with mud, rattled on the uneven ground. Within the cart, Ernest could feel each body shifting and jostling when the cart dipped into the occasional pothole. He huffed and gritted his teeth. He could feel the strain of the cart in his muscles and joints. Corpsework was a sore, sweaty, smelly job. A man his age should be relaxing under his roof with a mug of tea, not toiling in the summer fields. But no one could enjoy such liberties in wartime.

The morning’s battle had been brief and bloody. The king’s forces, untrained and inexperienced, were crushed beneath the might of the enemy. Any day now, Ernest knew the kingdom would fall to its knees at the plight of its conquerors. But the king, proud and stubborn in his castle, had ordered workers to continue their wartime preparations, out of sheer desperation or wilful denial. And so here Ernest was, lugging corpses off of the battlefield before the scavengers descended to feast upon the rotting bodies.

As he approached the next pile of corpses, Ernest let go of the cart’s handles and placed both hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He surveyed the scene before him. Bodies splattered with mud and gore lay piled upon each other, limbs twisted at unnatural angles and eyes open in a lifeless stare. The salvagers had already completed their rounds, looting equipment from each corpse and carting them back into the city for use in the next skirmish. Ernest shuddered. Complain as he may, he did not envy the salvagers their cruel and bloody work. His skin crawled at the thought of yanking armour off of broken bodies. Every common soldier in the kingdom wore Salvaged armour stolen from a fresh battlefield, the stench of death growing stronger with each fight. Ernest was thankful that he merely had to hold the bodies for a few seconds, lifting them from their final bloody scenes and placing them onto his corpse cart.

The ground below the pile of corpses was wet, the hard dirt churned to mud. Ernest took care not to kneel in the congealing red puddles and squatted down, sighing. The grass that had once flourished on these hills had been uprooted and destroyed under the trample of soldiers marching. Up close, he smelled not the scent of earth but the stench of sweat, blood, and decay.

The soldier before him was barely a boy, fresh faced with knobby knees and long, tousled hair. The Salvagers had already passed by, leaving the boy in a simple leather tunic and linen pants. His chest was a starburst of red, soaking his clothes. Sword wound, Ernest thought. A few pale, short hairs sprouted from his upper lip. Ernest sighed. His own youth felt like a memory from another lifetime, but he still remembered how he used to run up to the mirror every morning and squint at his face, waiting for the beginnings of a beard to welcome him to adulthood. Ernest closed his eyes and whispered a quick prayer, hoping that the boy’s death had been quick and painless.

As Ernest reached for the body, he noticed a yellowed scrap of paper clenched in his fist. He gently uncurled the stiff fingers and pulled out the paper. It was dotted with flecks of blood but the words were still legible. Ernest read the letter, lips pulled into a grimace. His heart felt heavy with melancholy. How many other boys lying on the battlefield had mothers waiting for them to return home? How many had left sons, daughters, and siblings behind, yearning for news of their safety? He swayed with grief. Hundreds-- no, thousands-- left forgotten to be burned in mass graves, all for the sake of an endless war.

Ernest folded up the letter and tucked it into the young man’s-- Desmond’s-- shirt. He dusted his hands, straightened up, and stretched. A simple commoner like him had no say about the war. He would leave that up to the king and his henchmen as they argued over their charts and maps. But the least he could do was remember the boy's last moments. Wherever their souls went when they passed through the veil of death, Ernest hoped they rest easy once their bodies were at rest.

Ernest took a deep breath and held it, careful not to smell the decay around the corpses. He gently picked up Demond and placed him into the cart. He loaded the remaining bodies into the cart until it was full. He could have fit more, packing them tight like sardines, but the thought made him grimace. The cart dragged through the mud, Ernest heaving with the effort, until he reached the deep burning pit. He lifted each corpse out of the cart and arranged them within the grave, arranging their limbs and closing their eyes. Where possible, he covered up their wounds by readjusting their arms and clothing. The other corpseworkers gave him sidelong glances as if wondering why he wasn’t just dumping the bodies in and leaving for the next load. Ernest ignored them. It wasn’t much, but carrying each body into the pit with a quick prayer and a few moments of care was the least he could do.

Throughout the day, Ernest and the other corpseworkers collected all the equipment, gathered each corpse into a mass grave, and cleaned away all remaining carnage. A large crowd had gathered around each grave. Surviving soldiers paid their respects and friends and family sobbed with grief. The corpseworkers stood half-concealed in the shadows, bearing silent witness to the burial. As the sun began to set, torch bearers poured barrels of gasoline into each grave and threw in their lit stakes. The fire burst upwards, catching on clothes and hair and oil. Acrid smoke billowed from the pit. Around Ernest, people began backing away, choking on the putrid smell. But Ernest stepped forward. He walked toward the fire until its heat singed his eyelashes.

“Rest well, Desmond,” Ernest whispered. He bowed his head and clasped his fingers together, praying for the boy who he had only known for a few moments in death.