Forgotten Days Past

“After all, if you have a chance of being shot or blown up any day, what threat is lung cancer?” Joe reasoned and dragged another puff on his Woodbine. He glanced up out of their hole; distant flashes of fire lit his eyes. Smoke that held the tang of scorched earth, burnt metal and hell, filled his nostrils.

Harry shook his head. “You know the rules: if there’s mortar fire, no fags! Now put the bleeder out.”

“You gonna make me lad?” Joe growled. But he took a final drag and ground the butt out under his boot. “Finished it anyway.”

A mortar landed close and the two men dived under a hail of mud and stones. Joe was up first, dusting the soil off and shaking his head. He pulled off his tin helmet and shook the dirt out of his hair. His ears rang from the blast. It took a moment or two for his eyesight to clear up and he turned to Harry, “Christ Almighty, that was close!”

Harry wheezed at him.

“Didja see that? What a big’un! Harry, didja see that?” Joe turned as Harry wheezed. The piece of shrapnel caught in Harry’s neck was as big as a saucer. The hole in his throat bubbled as Harry’s breath dragged in and out. Ragged skin flapped like washing on the line. Blood sprayed. It filled the hole in Harry’s neck, and his eyes widened as the blood poured into his lungs. Terror filled his face.

“Harry, me ol’ mucker. Don’t worry mate. You ain’t been hit bad. It didn’t get the artery, they’ll patch you up. Stay still.” Joe scrambled up the trench. “Medics!” he screamed. “Medics! Here! Hurry!” The panic in his voice belied the assurance he had tried to give. “Medics - fer crying out loud! Where are you, you buggers!”

In his mind, men came scurrying up with a litter. An orderly wrapped Harry’s neck with a field dressing. As they carried him off, Harry gave him a rueful thumbs-up. But there was no one.

Joe ran back and cradled Harry’s head. “You’ll be alright, mucker. They’re on their ways. You have a little rest, now. I’ll look after ya. Joe’ll stay here with ya, till they come.

Harry gurgled. And then he died.

* * *

Every year after the war, Joe marched with an ever-dwindling number of comrades. They drank beer afterwards and tried to talk about their grandchildren and complain about the pension, as each man held the door of memory wedged shut.

“Along Forgotten Days Past,” they toasted and raised their glasses.

With shaking hands, Joe lit another Woodbine and a tear ran down his face. He dragged on his fag while Harry died in his arms again and again. He remembered his scorn. What threat is lung cancer, when we could get shot or blown up any day?

The cancer would take about another six months, his doctor had said.

“They’re not forgotten days past,” Joe muttered and ground the butt under his heel. “They’re here and now and they always have been.”