Luke Greenwood   •   2016

BELIEVE IT OR NOT
WHEN TROUBLE THREATENS. AND WAR IS NIGH
GOD. AND THE SOLDIER IS THE CRY
WHEN WAR IS OVER. AND THE TROUBLE RIGHTED
GOD. IS FORGOTTEN. THE SOLDIER SLIGHTED.
(This poem was among the belongings of my Great Grandpa, Leonard Shannon, that were passed down to me)

The crate was heavy for its small size. Its thick wood was covered with a dense layer of dust that coated my fingers as I ran them along its surface. Prying it open, I began to peer inside. Perched atop a pile of old papers and smaller boxes sat a dull brass tin, the contour of a thin, elegant looking woman’s face set into its lid.
“Princess Mary,” my grandmother said, addressing the curiosity in my eyes.
***

It was December 25th, 1914 and the frigid air of northern France was unshakable. My great-grandfather, Leonard Shannon of the Royal Field Artillery, 181st Brigade, watched his commanding officer as he made his way down the swampy aisle of their trench, handing out shiny tins to his men from a large box.

“Merry Christmas,” the officer said quietly, offering Leonard a tin from the pile. Leonard took his gift and reluctantly began to unpack its contents. He then looked at the men around him and began to cry. Rain-soaked, freezing, injured, dying, and what were they given? Twenty cigarettes, a printed Christmas card, and a picture of the righteous Princess Mary herself, sitting dry and unburdened, decorated in her finest white dress. “With best wishes for a happy Christmas and a victorious New Year,” the card read, “from the Princess Mary and friends at home.” This must be some kind of sick joke, Leonard thought. What good were twenty cigarettes when his comrades were starving? Twenty cigarettes couldn’t save his friend John Abraham’s legs when they were sawed off to prevent the infection from spreading to the rest of his body, nor could twenty cigarettes have silenced the horrible screaming that accompanied, which still rung in Leonard’s ears while he slept. Twenty cigarettes couldn’t stop the constant barrages of artillery that screamed and fell from the sky, turning men into piles of flesh, waiting to be eaten by the rats that flooded their trenches each night. Twenty cigarettes couldn’t change whose turn it was to charge enemy lines, not knowing whether it would be a landmine or an enemy’s bullet which would kill them first. All of the time and the resources that went into sending these tins, and Princess Mary couldn’t think to supply new boots or socks or medical supplies so that Private Abraham could return to his family walking.

These men fought and died with “death before dishonor” tattooed on their arms. They laid down their lives for their country, and there was nothing sweet or honorable to claim as a reward, except for another day of living. These men came looking for adventure and glory, only to be met with more painful realities: the suffocating cold of a mud-soaked uniform, the terrible deafening noise of warfare that persisted in both daylight and nightmare, the terror that one felt as they awoke, scrambling to find their gas masks in order to avoid being drowned in an onrushing cloud of mustard gas…

Once a polished symbol of his national pride, Leonard’s RFA Cap Badge now felt heavy and cumbersome in his hands. How could he be the same man that just months earlier had lied about his age in order to enlist? He had wanted so badly to serve his country, to feel the thrill of battle, to see the smiling faces of his neighborhood friends as he returned home, and to make his family proud. But what did he know about war? About death?

Despite the hard lessons he had learned, he carried his men, and his men carried him. Not for glory or love of country or any of the other lies that he had believed in his youth and naivety; but for survival, for compassion. Never was this devotion tested more than on May 26th, 1918.

It was early morning when the first mortars descended upon the 181st Brigade. Within seconds screams and yells became drowned out by the deafening combustion of black powder. A thick fog hung above the men as they struggled to find shelter, bits of light and soil and shrapnel and outlines of their compatriots flying past them through clouds of murky gray. Leonard began to advance towards cover, boots slapping the thick, heavy soup beneath him as he picked up in pace. Abruptly, his momentum was reversed, and he was thrown backward off of his feet and onto the slick ground. He lay there stunned and bleeding amidst the chaos, the brown water creeping up around his mouth when he felt himself lifted off of the ground and onto a stretcher. Slowly he regained his senses enough to discern pieces of shrapnel protruding from his chest. On his cheek, he felt the smooth touch of his right eyeball hanging loosely from its socket. Moving his head over past the side of the stretcher, he saw the walls of the trench move past him where two soldiers lay bent against each other. Without thinking, Leonard threw himself off of the stretcher, much to the dismay of the medics who had been carrying him. “We need to get them out of here!” he shouted above the cacophony. The medics put the first man on the stretcher while Leonard lifted the other onto his shoulders, and together they struggled through long minutes towards safety.

Leonard, as well as the two men, were in critical condition, but thanks to his selfless act were able to survive. After a long recovery, Leonard, with eleven gunshot wounds and a glass eye, was discharged from the British Army. He returned home not as a hero, but as a humble boy who had seen too much for his young age.

* * *

My grandmother sat there, clasping the worn piece of metal between her hands, her eyes growing moist with the memories of her father. A tear fell and washed over Princess Mary’s face, and my grandmother smiled faintly, mourning the time that had passed, but joyous because of its passing. She handed me the tin, making sure I had a firm grasp. This was no longer her story to tell, but mine.