Leaving home Memory

It is early morning. It is dark outside, but there is a little light coming in the window. I'm sitting at the kitchen table in a very melancholy mood. I have a glass of water in front of me and my mother is ironing my uniform for the front.

She tells me I must look good for the front in a nicely pressed uniform. She keeps talking to me, but I'm not listening to it. I watch as she moves the iron over the shirt and presses down on it. I notice that the wooden handle seems to be a bit loose and the heavy iron swings as she pulls it off the hot stove again.

I look around looking for the holder for the iron, but it is no where to be seen. I remember how as a child the iron provided entertainment for me. I would hold it by the wooden handle and swing it back and forth like a swing. For some reason the handle spun around the metal part of the iron and for some reason it fascinated me. I would place stones and such on the iron and swing it back and forth seeing how hard I could swing it without the rocks falling off. How I missed those care free days.

My mother hands me the freshly pressed shirt and warns me that it is hot. I put on the shirt and marvel at it's warmth and I think if only up in the trenches if I could hat a hot shirt I would be in heaven.

I give my mother a hug. I place the heavy burden of my pack onto my back, sling my rifle over my shoulder and walk out to the train station without saying a word.

As I walk to the station my emotions are tearing me apart. How I wish I could stay home in a warm bed, with fresh cooked meals and mud free clothes. All of these things seem like a rare luxury to me now. I know later that day I will be covered with mud, the French and Englishmen firing at me trying to kill me and my friends. All I can do is to shoot back and try to live another hour before they get me. That is really all we could do in war. Kill as many of them before they kill us and hope that the English will surrender and once that happens the French will run and hide since they would not have England to fight the wars that they started.

How I would love to sleep in and not be awaken by the bombardment. To lay in the sun by the river with a good woman. To eat good food and drink fine wine and not worrying about getting shot. Not worrying about lice, rats, gangrene, stomach wounds and gas. Imagine the sheer luxury of running a good business in town, perhaps being a banker. Being somebody in the community, such as father dreamed of when he was my age.

I feel these thoughts do not belong to me and they seem foreign and strange. My job is to kill. To save My beloved land from English Imperialism. I can't change things so all I can do is take the train to the front and hope that I see my family again before I get killed.