Dulce Et Decorum Pro Patria Mori
a short story set during the first world war
For context Dulce Et Decorum Pro Patria Mori is a Latin phrase that translates to “it is sweet and proper to die for one’s country”.
Christopher lunged, flattening himself beneath the barrage of fire, feeling the slick mud sloshing against his shirt, staining the khaki fabric an ugly shade of brown. Dirt seeped into his mouth as the taste of earth overwhelmed his tastebuds. In the dim light he peered over the scope of his gun, George’s faint silhouette in his peripheral and the solemn twinkle of distant stars overhead.
Gunshots continued to pierce the air, sending shocks of anxiety down his spine. As the artillery fire ceased, Christopher strained his neck upward, hoping for a glimpse of the rugged terrain in the dark of the night.
“Christopher,” George whispered, his voice laced with unhidden fear, “I can’t find the General.”
The hammer of his heart echoed in his ears, threatening to deafen him.
That couldn’t be possible. Weren’t they just with the General?
Christopher’s mind raced through the possible outcomes. It was imperative for them to complete their mission.
He recalled his first day on the frontline and the kindness that General Andersen had showed him. The leniency the General had given as he adjusted to the horrors of war.
Christopher and George would never be able to complete the mission themselves. They were mere new recruits.
He could vaguely see George propping himself on his elbows and followed suit.
“General!” he called, the words getting lost in the gush of the howling wind.
“General! General Andersen?” Christopher called, his brown eyes widening in realisation as he turned to his friend “George,”
They were completely alone in No Man’s Land.
Twelve-year-old Christopher would never have imagined he’d be on the front line at eighteen, with his only friend, George. Little timid George who used to worry over the thought of talking to a girl.
Little George now fighting for his life.
The moonlight illuminated the right half of George’s face, displaying the rawest form of terror etched across his features.
“Stay down,” he whispered, jumping to his knees, “General!” he shouted, they continued to yell, hands crusted in mud, cupped around his mouth.
He turned to look down at Christopher.
BANG! George collapsed to the ground.
Dread filled his bones, weighing him down as he clambered to his best friend, and grabbed his shoulders.
With panic shaking in his voice, he violently screamed his friends name. George’s eyelids fluttered in pain, as he took shaky breaths in. Blood seeped through the hole in his chest.
“Christopher,” he wheezed, his voice uneven.
“You’ll be okay George, you’ll be okay,” Christopher responded as he felt the horror in his chest.
“Christopher,” he said again, his voice only a faint whisper as the gentle rise and fall of his chest continued.
He brought his arm underneath George’s legs, and his other arm underneath his bag and hauled him up.
“I’m taking you home George,” he said to himself, like a mantra as he dragged his feet across the ground, George in his arms. Christopher felt like there were iron rings tied around his ankles, weighing him down as she sluggishly limped to the English front line.
“No Christopher…” George rasped.
He shook his head, feeling the familiar sting of tears.
BANG! A sharp pain in his back spread through his torso like a lake freezing in the winter. George tumbled from his grip as Christopher’s kneed buckled.
George gasped at he hit the ground, a rough and alien sound, unimaginable pain burned through the noise.
Christopher could feel the gritting mud on his cheek, cold and unforgiving. Panic set in his bones. Death loomed over him like a cloud on a rainy day, impending, certain, and angry.
His eighteenth birthday, just months before, came to mind. The smell of his mother cooking a Sunday roast, George by his side, and his echo of his father’s laughter. The image faded to an older memory. George and Christopher as children, chasing each other through the streets. Accidentally knocking over a box of apples as an elderly gentleman ran out, a string of scoldings trailing behind them.
Christopher inhaled shakily, feeling the blood in his lungs begin to trickle through his trachea and into his mouth, blood splattering the mud as he coughed.
Bracing his arm on the ground, Christopher pushed himself up. “George…” he whispered.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing air through his lungs.
“Christopher…” George whispered; his voice hoarse.
Christopher felt George’s hand grip his. His twitching fingers weakly grasping his own, both covered in mud. The motion bought a sense of peace upon him, and in this moment, he felt his regret float to the surface.
War wasn’t worth his life, he realised. War wasn’t worth George’s life. War wasn’t worth the lives of the young English men, tricked into selling their souls to barbarity.
Christopher was only eighteen. Did he not deserve a life too?
“For England,” George whispered as Christopher felt his grip on his hand slacken.
“Dulce et decorum, pro patria mori,” he said solemnly. That’s what they all had said. “For England.”
And as Christopher felt the air deflate from his lungs for the last time, only one thought clouded his head.
Where was the glory in his death?