Rearranging Deck Chairs

The sun shines bright through the trees, and filters into a small study.  Andi Gorman rises from his seat, approaches the window, and snaps the blinds shut before returning to his desk.  The desk itself was littered with papers, screwed up photos, shorthand notes and charts.  The historian sighs exasperatedly, and scribbles a note on a piece of paper titled “WWI - A Personal Look,” the title of his forthcoming book, before turning to read a torn piece of a letter sent by a soldier in the trenches.

“…And now I come to the great news.  I reported at battalion headquarters, and the colonel looked in a little book and said, “You report to C Company - Captain Stanhope.”  Can’t you imagine what I felt?  I was taken along some trenches and shown to a dugout.  There was an awfully nice officer there, quite old, with grey hair and then later Dennis came in.  He looked tired, but that’s because he works so frightfully hard, and because of the responsibility.  Then I went on duty on the front line, and a sergeant told me all about Dennis.  He said that Dennis is the finest officer in the battalion, and the men simply love him.  He hardly ever sleeps in the dugout; he’s always up in the front line with the men, cheering them on with jokes, and making them keen about things, like he did the kids at school.  I’m awfully proud to think he’s my friend.

With Love!
Jimmy.”

He ponders over the possible meanings of this letter for a while, before deciding to make a coffee.  He gets up, and leaves the room.
Upon returning with his coffee, he picks up and considers the letter signed “Jimmy.”  He opens a draw, and takes out a battered old diary.  Inside the diary days are written with varying degrees of poor grammar and handwriting, but on the whole quite legible.

“Tuesday March 19th 1918
“I can’t believe I did that.  I harassed the poor boy for his letter, and pretty much verbally abused the poor fellow, Because of an irrational and illogical fear that he might say something about my drinking.  Did he?  No!  He didn’t!!  He did talk about me, however, it seems he felt that I was a frightfully hard worker, and he was proud to be my friend.  Well, I am bloody-well sure that his opinion of me is not this high now!
“This war is getting to me.  I can’t do anything without doping myself up with whiskey first.  That in itself makes me do something stupid, and now I have done this.
“I guess I shall have to do something about it.

“The Sergeant-Major turned up at the dugout, ranting about the attack which is apparently coming on Thursday, dawn.  I gave the SM instructions for platoon movements and exposed flanks, and he seemed happy with it all, and I bloody-well hope he is, because we cannot afford to mess this up.  He did keep babbling on about falling back, and whatnot, but I told him I would make no such plans.  I would not be so pathetic as to plan to retreat before I have even set foot in no-man’s-land!

“Simple enough, if the Krauts get behind us, we advance.
“All is well, except not.  “Best laid plans…” and all that.  It seems we are to perform a raid under a smoke screen tomorrow afternoon.  The Colonel wants Uncle to lead the raid, and he actually suggested Raleigh to make the dash.  I do hope he can handle it.  He’s awfully new to all this, but the colonel wouldn’t listen.  He was adamant the chap should go.  He says his “nerves are sound” because he is new.  I’m not so sure myself, but I guess I have to do what I’m told, and I think he might be the best option we have, since the Colonel doesn’t want me going.
“Another thing I have to talk to Raleigh about.

“Stanhope”

The letters and diary extracts themselves he received from his late grandmother, whose friend had been married to a WWI veteran.  Gorman had been in possession of them for quite some time, before passing away.  Over the years they had found their way to Gorman, who decided to use them to offer a more personal insight into the First World War.  He had felt that there was very little in the way of true life.  Sure, there were books devoted to the war itself, the horror and disease of the trenches, but very little factual work on the effect these things had on people.
The subject had always interested him, and he felt that even if he has no success with the book, at the very least he enjoyed reading all the letters and writing it.  The passion for war stories gripped him when he was very young, when he saw an old version of "All Quiet On the Western Front."  Since then he has watched so many films and rifled through so many books, he could tell the story of WWI and II from start to finish, and back.
Despite this fascination with war, Gorman never had the desire to join the military.  He never felt any sense of joy over the large powerful equipment.  If anything, he is the opposite.  It is not that he is opposed to confrontation, as such, but so far as he is concerned, war is futile, and a last ditch attempt at salvaging a desperate situation, or enforcing your views upon others.  Either way, good rarely comes of it.
He does marvel at the planning and expertise that goes into creating some of the most brilliant tactical manoeuvres possible to think of, but it is hard to shake off that feeling that such brilliance would be better employed somewhere else.

Gorman ponders the diary extract, and draws links to the letter at the start.   The position of Raleigh was something Gorman couldn’t help but find slightly unfair.  The public schoolboys were always given the pick of the places, although many people believe that they had already been trained for war before it even begun.  This is probably why working class men always ended up as cooks, serving the officers three course meals in their dugout in a most ironic fashion.  
Having shrugged this though off for a while, and deciding that particular topic might be better off in a later chapter, Gorman re-reads the extract.  Stanhope’s diary, however, is not the only diary Gorman is in possession of.  When he re-read Stanhope’s diary, he picks another small (and slightly more legible book) from his draw, and turns to a page marked with the same date.

“Tuesday March 19th 1918
“I have been found out.  I have been going on about this neuralgia for so long now, but Stanhope knew I was faking it to get away from the trenches.  I thought the man was going to shoot me.  He does, after all, have a mean temper on him.  I was terribly surprised when he put his revolver away and actually spoke to me.  It seems we both feel exactly the same.
“He however has not attempted to leave.  I guess he is the stronger man than I.  He has continued to stick with it, even if he does need a drink or four to do so.  Not like me.  I am a coward.
“He was most decent though.  He offered to go on duty with me.  Even made me laugh.  It’s easy to see why he is the commander.

“Hibbert”

Gorman’s mother explained to him (as her mother has explained to her) that the documents from the dugout were gathered by Stanhope after the war.  From what he could remember, Stanhope had been incredibly lucky to survive.  His dugout was shelled, just as he had left.  He was horribly wounded.  Lost a leg, and broke many bones, but was dug out of the mud and rubble, and somehow managed to pull through.  The war had finished by the time he was discharged from hospital. From what Gorman had been told, he had struggled after the war, but he was educated.  He spent some time resting because there were not many jobs around for a "cripple," but when war hit Europe again, eager to do his bit, he managed to use some friends to get a job in the Army.  After much deliberation and arguing, he was given a job in communications; quite suitable for him.  He was doing an essential job, but it didn't involve much in the way of physical activity.  Gorman didn't like to think what would have become of Stanhope if he hadn't been able to help out.  He was an Army man at heart.
After WWII, Stanhope spent the next 5 years doing a minor desk job at an army base in the south of England, before complications relating to his war wounds forced him to give up work and retire early.  He passed away in the late 80’s.
Some would say an indirect casualty of war.  Military was all Stanhope knew.  He was educated in such a way, and lived his life in a similar way.  Many would consider that to be a waste.
Stanhope’s romantic life was a bit fraught too.  After WWI, Stanhope had returned home to his sweetheart, Raleigh’s sister, Madge.  His drinking had settled down, but he was still prone to becoming aggressive and confrontational when he did drink, although he never struck her.  Madge had struggled to deal with the changes apparent in Stanhope, and their relationship was patchy at first, but as the First World War began to move from the front of Stanhope’s mind, he began to settle down.  Madge had repeatedly forgiven his outbursts, and had guided him through.  Her biggest fear was that Stanhope felt guilt over Raleigh because of her, and her relation to him.  This has nearly ended their relationship many times.  Despite all of this, however, the pair married in the spring of 1929

He was ever so proud though.  Andi’s grandmother used to take him to visit when he was younger.  Stanhope used to talk about the war for ages.  He seemed to have so many tales to tell, and so little time to tell it.  Onion in the tea, some “foul stench of bacon” or “Uncle” (Osborne) reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.  He viewed it all with some affection, considering the graveness of it all.  I suppose, you have to find a way to bring your spirits up.  He’d have been left in a very bad way if he had viewed the war with retrospective sorrow.  Gorman couldn't help but admire the man for that.  Despite such horror, and such terrible injuries, Stanhope still cast a positive light on his experience.

Having reminisced to himself for quite some time now, Gorman snaps himself out of it, and returns to poring over diaries.

“Wednesday March 20th 1918
“Uncle dead, Kraut caught, Raleigh fine.  He didn’t eat with us tonight.  Worm.

“Stanhope”

Andi had been informed of the context of the diary extract by his mother long ago.  Apparently Stanhope didn’t like to talk about it.  As a result of this warning, he never thought it appropriate to ask.  From what he had been told the evening was somewhat restless, with changing moods and arguments breaking out.  Of course, you would expect this to happen if a close friend has just passed away.  Gorman couldn’t help but feel sorry for the boys.  Losing their friends, but having to go on with their job as if nothing ever happened.  While being cooped up in such close quarters.  
It is not as if they even had time to recuperate.  The attack was due to arrive the next morning, and if any repulsion was to be achieved the officers had to snap themselves out of it, push any sorrow they had right down and try their utmost to put it off until they are finally free, if ever they are free.

In anticipation of the attack, Stanhope had joined many people in moving any personal writings, and certain precious items back from the front line.  Sending them via passing messengers or even military police.  Every man in the military wanted their voice heard.  Everyone was proud, and so they all wanted everyone to know what part they played in this Great War.  If they were to die in battle, a trace of their effort will remain.  Word would still get out.  No man wanted to join the millions of statistics that have already been created.
Gorman could not help but think that it was far beyond fortunate that Stanhope did move things back.  It would have been unlikely that any documents would have survived the shelling of the dugout.  These echoes of once powerful voices would never have been heard.  At least 20 million voices were silenced during the Great War.  So many millions of machine-gun rounds fired, and millions of shells dropped.  Hundreds of aeroplanes shot down.  Tanks destroyed.  Dugouts caved-in.  Innumerable towns and villages reduced to wasteland, whereas they were once people’s homes.  Bustling communities.  Hives of information.  Destroyed.
The very thought of the suffering disgusted Gorman.  The lack of respect for life was something he felt physically nauseating.  Almost everyone in the world at the time knew at least one person killed because of the war.  Gorman hated the thought of the families torn apart and the amount of people left homeless, jobless and hungry.  It filled him with such rage and anger toward those responsible.
The war was, by all accounts, an inevitability.  Different threats in and around Europe, brought about by a need for a greater economic standpoint and military supremacy, led to various (and increasingly precarious) criss-crossing treaties, such that when Germany decided to use force to answer the “Serbian Question” after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, a chain reaction began, and Europe began to collapse into war.  By all logic, surely Britain should have stayed out of the conflict all together.  Gorman certainly though so.  He did not feel there was anything to be gained from joining the war.  Britain had little interests in the outcome of it, and had no military alliances with any of the countries involved, until Belgium’s neutrality was violated.  Britain had previously pledged to come to their aid, and for reasons best known to themselves, the British government decided to honour that pledge.  This madness lead to a surge of conscientious objectors, which Gorman could not help but side with, who simply refused to fight.  To him, and many others, the War was like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.  He felt it was a waste of time, money and most of all, life.

With this in mind, Gorman sets up his computer, adjusts his chair, checks the temperature of his coffee and starts to write.