Disillusionment

The dark splodges of ink sprawled across the pages of the journal arrest my attention. Pitch black, their meaning engulfs me and I marvel at their dazzling intensity and depiction of the horrors and triumphs of war, exuding sorrow, hardship, loss and suffering. As my eyes hungrily devour each syllable on the page, I am swept away by the depths of its message, transformed by its profundity. Inexplicable darkness pervades it, yet it is laced with hope, the simple musings of a young man caught in the throes of war.

As I read, I am transported to a different time, a place where by day, scorching heat scalds my skin and my heart aches, tinged with doubt, while by night, ice cold winds, wintry and strong, send shivers cascading up and down my spine and goosebumps prickling my skin. Where gaunt, disheveled men congregate with dull, lifeless expressions, death and sorrow looms and the shuddering scent of fear is pervasive and all-encompassing.

Where amongst the crowds, a man clutches a pen and writes, despondently, emptily, brokenly, yet also forcefully and powerfully, with a passion exuding both pleasure and pain, triumph and heartache. The rumbling succession of words he writes tumble rapidly onto the page, a steady stream cascading, conveying the unity of the human experience that ties us all together.

The man dreams of a woman, his love, picturing running his hands through her deep auburn hair, tousled in the wind. He imagines her clutching a small, black notebook in her fingertips, tinged with dirt, tears, dust, smoke into which she has poured out her struggles and emotions. Butterflies twist and dance in the breeze, kookaburras sing, their tune carrying with it a fateful, melancholic echo. He imagines her face, stained with tears from grieving his absence and longs to be there to comfort her, to reassure her, to put his arms around her.

While back at the war base, he contemplates the arduous journey ahead, the bullets, the blood, the barbarism of war, the necessity of remaining tough and unfeeling and finally, somewhat resolutely, he envisages his death.

One page towards the end of the diary captures my gaze, and with intrigue, I begin to read.

April 23rd, 1917

Disillusionment: a reflective meditation on serving in World War I.

On the frontier of a bane existence

A lust for adventure, a desire for bravery and heroism.

The relentless call to fight

Once held significance.

Young men, their complacent, gratified, buoyant expressions

A vision of success, of triumph and victory.

Little were we to know that the dreams and aspirations we had

Would be shrouded in blood and darkness

And reduced to ashes.

World War One. The Great War. The war to end all wars.

A polarisation of perspective:

A heroic proving of a nation or reprehensible, manipulated submission to

the demands of the British Empire, resulting in the sacrifice of idealistic

young men?

The nature of war is is habitually controversial.

Staunch combatants, stoic amidst adversity, embroiled in war

An onslaught of artillery and grenade

We battled, we fought, we scrimmaged.

Laudation of military prowess

Admonishment of any form of weakness

Physical, mental or psychological.

What is it to be strong? Is it to be belligerent, militant, combative?

To be ruled by instinct, governed by passion?

Fortification against attack, arsenal, artillery, assassin,

The line between good and evil blurred by the reality of war.

A longing for victory and triumph

Yet too often, an abyss of sorrow.

A desire to die, a will to live.

A victorious conquering, a brutal annihilation

A vanquished adversary, the ruthless destruction of human life.

A child of 18, yet a solider

A mere boy, yet a man

I went, I fought, I endured.

Letters of love to my family

Never to be written

But to be thought and imagined

A desire to divulge my deepest feelings

A journal of unwritten thoughts

Passionate yearnings unfulfilled.

A soldier is to remain stoic, to endure trial, to persevere.

The warmth of human experience and simple act of love

I no longer understand.

Who am I? What have I become?

Shocked and appalled at the barbarism of warfare

Mankind’s capacity for evil

Repulsed by my own actions

The blood on my hands stained eternally.

Yet, amidst a cloud of grey

It is not the gruesomeness and horror of war that brings the most anguish and torment

But the lack of emotion and endearment.

A rising crescendo, terror commencing

Alarming accuracy, ribbons of blood.

The death knell sounds, the sun sets

The clock strikes 12, a final breath.

But those whom are close to my heart remain

My last thoughts are of them.

Where events cease, memories linger

The stories will be imprinted in the minds of those who seek to understand

To cherish, to honour and to love.

They are never to be forgotten or consigned to oblivion

But will be remembered forevermore.

As I finish reading, I place down the journal, taking in the immensity of his words, exhaling softly a sigh of sadness while marvelling at their sweet, lyrical expression, imagining, with breathtaking, passionate longing how it must have felt to have possessed both the innocence of a child and the maturity of a man. A man whose soul ached so longingly to live, who experienced a deep yearning to survive, to endure, to love, to write. Yet a man who also knew he must suppress his innermost emotions. A boulevard of broken dreams, knitted together into something worth living for, vestiges, remnants of a world previously left behind. An untethered soul sharing his musings and contemplations on life and the future.

I envision an alternative, happier reality, one in which he grew old and married the love of his life, creating a home, having children and a thriving career. A reality in which he didn’t have to suppress or mask his emotions, but could actively express them. Where his strength and courage weren’t limited to meditations in a journal but were palpably expressed to those around him. Yet maybe, had he survived, he would have ended up like his friend, returning a stranger, eternally trapped inside the body of a wheelchair-bound man, capable only of rambling incoherent thoughts.

I would never have encountered his story or his writing had it not been for an unexpected phone call I received a week before, informing me I was the recipient of a $20,000 university scholarship, established in honour of the young man by his parents, who wished to continue their son’s legacy by supporting future aspiring writers to attend university.


While such an opportunity was previously unfathomable to me, more than the money, being gifted with his old journal and the opportunity to read his story was the most transformative and life-changing experience for me, reminding me not to take my life, situation or the time period I was born into for granted.

Quietly, I rehearse my scholarship acceptance speech, picturing how I wish to honour him. The man who gave his life, his inheritance, who lives on through this legacy, enabling me, as a disadvantaged student, to attend university. To honour the boy who died a war hero, his bravery, courage and persistence.

Heart pounding, palms sweating, I approach the stage. As I embark upon the next new chapter and adventure of my life, on my first day of university, I will open up the first page of my black Moleskine diary, so clearly resembling the one he possessed, ready to divulge my innermost thoughts and narrate my experience.

I adjust the microphone, clear my throat, take a deep breath and begin. “I am privileged to be here today to help honour the legacy of Jonathan Reid.”