FOREVER YOURS

The Belgian farmer looked out across the remnants of his destroyed land through the shattered kitchen window. Like his father, grandfather, his great grandfather and so on before him, they had farmed this patch of land near the village of Passchendaele for centuries. In the beginning, the land had been more fertile and the farm much larger but back then, pesticides and other chemicals that poisoned the soil hadn’t existed. The farm had survived WWI and WWII, but he wasn’t too sure about the results of WWIII. So many nuclear bombs had been deployed the world over and as if that hadn’t been bad enough, global pandemics had also raged across the entire planet. Because of the deadly nuclear radiation and devastating diseases, he wasn’t sure what had caused his whole family to wither away and die, only knew he had one last son to bury. He didn’t know if any foreign armies had invaded other countries, but he hadn’t seen any here. His worst enemies had become his own countrymen as they scavenged food; the past winter, extremely harsh and lengthy, had most likely killed most of them off. It had been months since he had seen another living human being, other than his dying son.

Although the farmhouse had been blown apart, a large portion of the living room had been untouched by the explosion. He and his wife and two boys had survived the initial blast because they had been hiding in the small cellar beneath the kitchen. Afterwards, he had carefully disguised the cellar’s entrance and made it their home. Fortunately, the looming holocaust didn’t just happen overnight and realizing the possibility beforehand, he had stored a lot of provisions in the cellar, not only food but many other essential items for their survival. Later, he repaired the living room, which then became their main accommodation, the river rock fireplace, their salvation from winter’s icy storms.

As the farmer continued looking through the shattered window, he thought about his son lying on the couch and his eyes brimmed with tears. Like his mother and his brother, he seemed to have died from the same malady that had struck them down. At first, they complained of headaches and felt nauseous. But when they started vomiting, becoming weaker and weaker, almost skeletal, he knew the writing was on the wall. When he became sick, he remembered feeling almost euphoric; he couldn’t imagine living in this extremely ravaged apocalyptic world without his family and he was happy that they would all die together. But he had survived and as he stood in the destroyed kitchen, he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to bury his son.

The farmer had dug his son’s grave two days earlier, but somehow, when he looked at his first born lying peacefully covered by a blanket, his boy seemed like he was sleeping, and he didn’t have the heart to wake him. Tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his grizzled chin as he lifted his son into his arms and carried him outside. He stumbled and almost fell just before he reached the gravesite. The two other graves still looked fresh as he laid him on the ground. The grass was wet from the evening rain and the hole was partially filled with water as he climbed down and then gently placed his son in the grave. After rearranging the blanket, which had partially slipped from around his son’s head, he climbed back out of the gaping hole. He thought perhaps he should say a few words but like when he buried his wife and other son, no words came that he hadn’t already said before, while they were still alive. He thought his heart would break as he shoveled the dirt over his son’s body and began filling in the grave. When he had finished, he dropped to his knees and curled up alongside his wife’s mound of earth and began sobbing uncontrollably, his tears soon mingling with the first drops of rain.

The farmer was wet and shivering with cold when he arrived back in the living room. Not daring to look at the couch, he busied himself starting a fire, the flames soon eagerly devouring the kindling as he added some larger pieces of wood to it. The room was small and as it warmed, he changed into some dry clothing. He didn’t usually light the fire during the day because there was a possibility that the smoke might be seen. However, because of his overwhelming sadness and the realization that he was now totally alone, he didn’t really give a damn if someone came to investigate.

A bottle of wine and a glass were sitting on the small table under the only window in the living room. As he slouched on a wooden chair, the cushion his wife made under his skinny bum, he wondered if he should risk a sip of wine because the way he was feeling, he might keep on drinking and already feeling depressed, might not be a good idea. But having at least one glass of wine a day had been a ritual and he was behind schedule. He hadn’t had a drop to drink since he and his family had sat around this very table enjoying their last meal together. He shook his head as he filled a glass, then, noticing the three other glasses belonging to his family, he splashed a bit of wine in each of them as well. Raising his glass and then clinking it to each of the other glasses he toasted, “Here’s to you. The people I loved most in this world.”

As he continued sipping the wine, he wasn’t surprised that everything had come to a disastrous dead end. Not that many years had passed since Covid-19 had hit global populations, then hardier strains emerged, while unintelligent leaders like President Trump had brought the scum of the one of the most powerful nations to the forefront, over population continued and drastic irreversible climate changes occurred; the iceberg tipped. He had no idea concerning the final outcome because after the power ceased, so did transportation and all communication. He had no idea how many survivors remained around the world but didn’t think there were many and instead of multiplying, they were most likely declining.

When he finished drinking his glass of wine, he picked up his wife’s glass and said, “Here’s to you my beautiful woman. You have no idea what you meant to me—how much pleasure you brought into my life.”

Then, he drank the two remaining glasses of wine belonging to his sons, and after licking his lips said, “And here’s to you my two boys. A father should die before his sons and although you had short lives, each and every day you were with me, I was proud to call you my sons.”

Tears dribbled down his face as he gazed at the flames in the fireplace and then up to the mantle where a framed photo of him and his smiling family stood. On each side of his most prized possession were artifacts of WWI that he had dug up while ploughing the fields over the years, one of the bloodiest battles of that war having been fought at Passchendaele. Not wanting to think of his most recent disheartening personal events, he stood up, put his cap and coat on and headed out the door.

The rain had stopped, only a light drizzle persisting as he pulled down his cap and turned up his collar. He had meant to bring his 9mm luger but at the moment, his living any longer didn’t seem to be of utmost importance. He wasn’t sure where he was going when he left the house, just knew he had to get away for awhile. The fields that he had last harvested before it was blown apart, completely devastated, he knew the view wasn’t as ghastly as it had been in 1917, when the blood flowed like rivers through the trenches and soldiers were ensnared in barbwire. As he strolled along, careful of where he stepped, a ray of sunshine cut through the clouds and a glint of light up ahead on the ground caught his eye. It almost seemed like normal times when something on the ground had intrigued him and he had dug it up, which often revealed something pertaining to the first World War. However, this seemed too shiny to have been buried for that long of time.

Like being hypnotized, he kept staring at the shiny object while he walked over and then stood directly above it. Reaching down, he picked up a clump of dirt that it was stuck in and began breaking off and rubbing some of the wet soil away. Difficult to tell what the metal object was and still streaked with mud, he put it in his coat pocket to wash clean, when he returned home. Just another artifact that would join his collection on the fireplace mantel.

The sun felt warm on his back as he trudged to where his closest neighbor's used to live. The last time he had been there, he had discovered their corpses. He had buried the partially devoured bodies, hardly believing that people had stooped as low as dining on their fellow man. He remembered vowing then, that if he and his family had been discovered in the cellar, he was going to kill them all and then himself. Although there had been a couple of close calls, luckily, they had never come to anything as horrifying as what his neighbors must have endured.

When the farmer returned home, he washed off all the mud and discovered the small metal object was a silver heart-shaped locket. Some words were etched on the outside and the back of the locket had a small dent and some scratches. Because the lettering was so intricate and small, it was difficult to read. However, with the use of a magnifying glass he was able read, I Love You. With the help of his pocketknife’s sharp tip, he managed to pry it open. Inside was a colorized black and white faded photo of a young pretty woman and the remainder of the inscription, …Tommy Middleton…Forever yours, Peggy. A soldier, quite likely one who had been killed during the battle of Passchendaele, must have worn this locket around his neck.

In the morning, after arming himself with a rifle and the luger, he set out for Tyne Cot Cemetery, where many of the allied troops that had died at Passchendaele were buried. He didn’t anticipate any danger, but one could never be too careful these days. The cemetery wasn’t far away and after about an hour had gone by, he arrived at the military shrine honoring the dead soldiers. Portions of the stone walls containing countless names of fallen soldiers had been demolished and many of the tombstones were scattered about. Not to be discouraged, he walked along the remaining rows of tombstones, reading each one as he came to it. Lots of soldiers had died but no Tommy Middleton. About to give up and return home, he stopped in his tracks. Although a large chunk of the gravestone was missing and it was pocked with a few bullet holes he was able to read, 187219 T. W. Middleton Private - 78th Dn. Canadian Inf. - 31st October 1917.

Kneeling down, he dug a small hole in front of the tombstone. After reaching inside his coat pocket, he then placed the locket in the hole and covered it up. He considered saying a few words but instead, sat down, his back against the headstone and laughed uproariously as he thought, “The War to End All Wars”—what a joke—it was nothing compared to WWIII.