Written by Leyton Green from Haringey Sixth Form College - London - UK

Le guerrier inconnu    (The unknown warrior)

          “The Unknown Warrior represented the mass of vanished lives” 

“We’ve found a journal general Wyatt!” the soldiers sang in unison, buoyed by the idea something had survived in the wake of the war. To them it was a treasure buried amongst the war-ravaged land of Arras which had itself become a mass graveyard of their comrades and enemies. One they aimlessly searched for survivors of war. ”Give it here!…so I may inspect it’s contents ”. His command clenched its forcefulness in a vice-like grip. Yet, it was still an ill attempt to veil his elation to be able to soon share the glorious words of his great nations fallen heroes. The General was a man of a rugged countenance, never lighted by a smile. But to witness the corners of his lips turn upwards, reversing the scowl cemented by the calamities of war, was a sight to behold as he hastily opened the journal. 

10th April 1917

The 9th marked the first day going over top onto the battlefield. And now, back in the trenches, under my dim Hindenburg light, warmed by the bodies of the injured and those who barely dodged the grasp of death, the only thing I can do to endure the present is to pick up this pen to tell you my past. As I fear I may not get the chance to do so myself.

It began on the outskirts of Yorkshire, a young man consumed by the glee of adulthood cut short by conscription laws coiling themselves around my freedom like tendrils. Before I could grasp the magnitude of my dire situation, I was wrenched from my home. The sapphire sky which kissed the emerald grasslands on the horizon, was now becoming a view more befitting of a distant memory. My train journey was one of subconscious turmoil; my only escape was losing myself in the beauty of various pigments belonging to the blurred flowers which danced in the gust of wind from the train. 

For the first time I had found myself returning to reality, I realized three or four hours had passed and like me and many others situated in the train our journey was coming to an end. However, unlike my own their faces were marked with excitement as they all huddled together lost in their ramblings of becoming a ‘war hero’, disregarding the magnitude of the acts they would later commit. My ears itched to hear more, fooling myself into believing the propaganda in order to dampen the dread every stop had amplified. Edging closer to the coast of Dover, where we would make the boat ride to Dunkirk. 

Calm, Tranquil, motionless; adjectives befitting the English Channel which glistens in the Suns rays, and which now carries me to Dunkirk. The ebbing tides are languorous, pulsating against the ships shell. The wind’s currents usher the scent of sea salt and marine life, filling my nostrils whilst running chills through my khaki drill uniform. The euphoria it leaves me is reminiscent of the grasslands of home. A perpetual cloud of black smoke driving all life away hangs over head in the distance of Dunkirk, splitting the sky as if it is the entrance to Hell. 

The tranquil seas are slowly becoming turbulent. A tyrant to the hull of the ship. Edging closer to Dunkirk, my erratic heartbeat is in tune with the uproar of Poseidon’s waves, colliding against the rocky coast lines of France. I can write no more while in these violent seas.

12th April 1917 

My past is carved by the signature of death, these very hands which write this journal today are the weapons which forged it. Just yesterday, I watched as two soldiers peeked over top to inspect the commotion. “GERMANS!” they bellowed. Soldiers who sat motionless sprang from the depths of the trenches; sounds of gun fire and the cries of men in the barrage of bullets with the wet thud their bodies would make as they landed in the mud caressed my ears. In the air death moaned and sang as I stood as it’s auditor, while fear clenched my bowels.

I headed over the ladder that had since lead so many men to their deaths, reciting the Lord’s Prayer whilst clutching my silver crucifix as I locked eyes with a soldier from the German opposition, seeing not an ounce of fear but sheer blood lust and rage that filled his eyes. My ears were then diverted by the sound of artillery salvos which thundered across the lines of battle throwing any soldier in its wake. An explosion which carved the mud seamlessly followed by a poignant scent of horseradish and garlic which creeped in the field.

A mustard yellow cloud covered us, enemies and comrades alike. Instinctively I held my breath, the flashes of gun fire was the only indication of life within the pall. It was an ecstasy of fumbling, which to Gods mercy I had somehow escaped to witness those who weren’t as fortunate. Chests heaving, faces an ugly beetroot purple with lips speechless with agony, some even coughing up green froth from their lungs. Was this really the ‘glorious war hero’s death’? If yes, it was a reality was far from that. Lost in my realization, the army green and hints of red belonging to a German soldiers uniform escaped the cloud. He raised his Mauser rifle my eyes were aligned with its barrel and I came face to face with imminent death. Before my brain could catch up I had risen my gun firing a barrage of silver instruments. As I stood over his body staring at the hands which had taken this life, his eyes finally rolled back into his head. Bile filled my throat.

I looked to the sky’s for Gods forgiveness, yet all I see is black smoke poisoning the blue sky’s which once left me in euphoria. This is war that sweeps in like a tempest, leaving not even ravens to scavenge from the ravaged earth and not an ounce of purity left in those who fight in it. Just the hollowed out shell of a murderer.       

In an amalgamation of mud, shrapnel and interspersed body parts. Grasping the silver crucifix around my neck I recited bible scriptures so rapidly my prayers became a religious garble that God himself couldn’t decipher. While reciting these lines the Stygian skies are given colour by the distinct mustard yellow and black markings of the German Albatross D.III  and the speckled orange hues belonging to an Austrian Aviatik D.I. plummeting to the earth. Its trajectory steered my eyes to the disfigured body of the German soldier with whom I had previously locked eyes, which slowly sank into the muds saturated abyss.

13th April 1917

An eerie silence has now fallen onto the trenches, broken occasionally by the distant murmuring of German soldiers in enemy territory. These mummers are no longer lost in the wind but now stand defiant in it as war chants. Everyone has taken to grappling their guns in an instant.

I am not living life; life is living me.

To you I am merely an Unknown Warrior, a sacrificial pawn necessary “for the greater good”. But to my loved ones I was once a son.

War is one of the greatest professors and to you I stand as one of its graduates in the knowledge in which provides. Knowledge of sin, knowledge of anguish and knowledge of death. 

The general closed the journal slowly, the slight embers of a smile had been snuffed out like one would out a candle and his scowl had returned. His eyes were strangely fixed on the body of an English soldier in the mud near to where the journal had been found with a silver chain wrapped around his neck and the cross firmly in his grasp even in death. “Take this unknown warriors body back to base”. In his words a sense of familiarity was blatant, as if he had known the warrior personally. 

”Destroy this and ensure it never meets the eyes of another other than my own as the contents of this journal can shatter our great nation‘s view on war and morale of the soldiers if it was to see the light of day.” I FEEL THIS ENDING COULD BE MORE SUBTLE – LET’S TALK ABOUT IT TOGETHER.