March From Broodseinde

I heard the whispers of superiors, saying how prepared we were walking into battle, flashes of the combined destruction witness, tell my young, bruised mind differently, maybe I am too immature to understand, someday it may make sense to me, with every foot step, that day is not today. Without proper rest because of impending rain, our division was ordered into attack, alongside our brave New Zealand warriors, two days earlier than the organized plan. On orders, we advanced on our objective, to capture the Blue Line, not far beyond the crestline, legs trembled with every silent step, mind hoping for an easy travel to our destination. Dreams crumbled into dark reality, with the first heard gunfire from afar, defences up and prepared for our arrival, as we were ready to encounter them. Moving forward, a few hours played like hectic minutes, every movement was at an advanced speed of chaos, each step forward had less than the step before, as I watched mine and their countrymen fall, each passing bullet always took a life away, whether the intent was for the enemy, or considered from the friendly. The allies of the British Empire said it was a victory, one more step in the Passchendaele Campaign, but I was unsure of what constitutes victory, we took what we were ordered too, with thousands never waking from their eternal sleep, countless more never moving or being the same, lost limbs never recovered, shrapnel that will always be there. Images play in my mind, in this slow walk home to Australia, carried by a band of unknown brothers, trying not to trip over new, torn open bodies, that are blending with old ones. My missing foot feels every stumble, of the steps of boys holding my cloth stretcher, trying to be men marching home from Broodseinde. August 25, 2011 © Andrew Scott – Just a Maritime Boy