Playing Soldier

A short story assignment based on war poetry

A couple months ago, I was given an assignment, asking for a short story written using the themes and ideas of a piece of war poetry. I chose the poem, The Call to Arms in our Streets by Winifred Mary Letts, with a focus on the family the soldiers left behind. My story centers around a teenage boy - whose father left for the war when he was younger - and his mother.

The Call to Arms in our Streets

By Winifred Mary Letts

There’s a woman sobs her heart out,
With her head against the door,
For the man that’s called to leave her,
    — God have pity on the poor!
    But its beat, drums, beat
    While the lads march down the street,
    And its blow, trumpets blow,
    Keep your tears until they go.
 
There’s a crowd of little children
That march along and shout,
For it’s fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
    So its beat, drums, beat;
    But who’ll find them food to eat?
    And its blow, trumpets, blow,
    Oh, its little children know.
 
There’s a mother who stands watching
For the last look of her son,
A worn poor widow woman,
And he her only one,
    But its beat, drums, beat,
    Though God knows when we shall meet:
    And its blow trumpets, blow
    We must smile and cheer them so.
 
There’s a young girl who stands laughing
For she thinks a war is grand
And it’s fine to see the lads pass,
And it’s fine to hear the band,
    So its beat, drums, beat,
    To the fall of many feet:
    And its blow, trumpets, blow,
    God go with you where you go.

Playing Soldier

By bea

Lifeless eyes locked with his. The teenage boy stared up at the grubby poster in awe, its accusing finger pointing straight into his soul. Challenging him - calling him. We want you.

Would he live up to the call? Would he enlist?

He knew in his heart, the answer had to be yes.

He broke the trance and turned away - beginning to sprint back home – past the crowds milling about in the festivities. Ignoring the smell of fresh baked food and the cheers for the soldiers that marched stoically along, he continued on his mission. They took little notice of a scrappy teen, tearing through the cobbled paths like his life depended on it.

He darted through main street, then back into the side alleys, navigating the sprawling mess of the city with ease. Dirt clung heavy to the buildings, a sign of neglect and poverty. The city was already crumbling, but the war only made it worse. He paid no mind to this - so accustomed to this reality – preoccupied by his newfound purpose.

As he ran, he passed groups of children playing solider, mimicking the reality of their fathers with fake bullets and guns, none of the gore and bloodshed. Normally, he’d stop to talk, to play along with their youthful hope, but today was different.

Today, he had a mission.

Skidding around the corner,  he raced through the archway that marked the entrance of the apartment block and up the lengthy flight of stairs. Taking two at a time, being careful not to trip. He took off onto the 4th floor, slowing down suddenly until he came to halt, outside his faded front door. He hesitated for a moment, before turning the knob, calling out as he did so.

“Ma? Ma, are you there?” He called out, his voice small.

He knew better than to come running in, merry with his youth. His mother was not well, her heart had been broken with the loss of her husband to the enlistment. He left, filled with such a giddy sense of pride and honour for his country – leaving behind the poor boy and his mother. Never writing, never sending anything. No clue if he was still alive or not. For weeks on end, she had retreated into the shell of her grief, leaving her only son to fend for himself.

Today was no exception, with her frail form bent over itself, bottle held loosely in hand, surrounded in mountains of paper – bills that still needed paying. She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused, her words harsh.

“What do you want. Can’t you see I’m busy?” She gestured loosely, waving the bottle around.

He lowered his head, shying away from her drunken gaze. “I’m sorry Ma.” He whispered, wary of her temper.

“I just- I wanted to tell you I figured out how to pay the rent. You see…” He paused, knowing what his next words would do to her already fragile mind.

“If- if I enlist-”

Her focus snapped back onto him, his words bringing her back to the cruel reality. “Don’t speak of that to me. The war has stolen enough from us.” She rose from her rickety chair, standing shakily over him.

“First, your father. Now you’re telling me that you – my only child – want to leave me too?” Her face twisted from anger to grief, as she collapsed to her knees, beginning to sob.

“What did I do to deserve this?” Her tears had been held back for so long know, a desperate grasp at maintaining control. Now, she bawled like a newborn. He rushed over to her, holding her shoulders as she hid her hands in her face. Her sobs shaking her feeble form. Holding her like a lifebuoy in a viscous sea, he kept her stable.

A gentle breeze snuck through the shattered window, dislodging several papers from the cluttered table. A small letter danced in the lazy breeze, before landing gracefully on the splintering floorboards beside him. Turning his attention away from his mother, he moved to pick up the tattered paper.

“Ma? This letter, it’s addressed to you.” He spoke gently to her, her face still in her hands. No response. He carefully ripped open the yellowed paper, pulling the envelope from its clutches.

He read it quietly, the words burrowing deep into his brain. It couldn’t be.

“Ma, he’s… Dad… He’s dead. He's gone, Ma.”

In that moment, he felt himself shatter, his words spoken from a mouth so foreign. He watched as his mother fell to the ground, howling like a wounded animal. He watched, so distant from the turmoil, his mother's heart so broken beyond repair. In that moment, he understood her pain. In that moment, he no longer thought about signing his soul away.

We want you.

No, you want my body he thought, his heart hardening.

You want to use me.

No more.

Authors Note

I’d like to imagine his mother finds help after this, or at least tries to be there for her son. I’d like to imagine that after the war ends, he goes back to school, following in his father’s footsteps. I’d like to imagine he’d become a teacher, to help kids who are going through similar issues.

I’d like to imagine he’d be at a cafe one day, and notice a woman scrawling frantically at the table beside him. I’d like to imagine he’d pick up her fallen papers, and give them to her. I’d like to imagine that he askes her out, and they eventually get engaged, travelling the world for their honeymoon.

I’d like to imagine he’d have three kids. Two boys, and a girl. He’d teach them how to be good people, just like his father was. That he’d take them to visit his mother before she passes. That he gets promoted to principal, and allows for the school to flourish. I’d like to imagine his kids grow up to become lawyers, veterinarians, and teachers. I’d like to imagine that he and his wife retire together, and move to a small cottage in the countryside, and that when he leaves his school, they name a building in his honour, for all the lives he changed.

I imagine that one day, he’d get sick. The doctors say that he doesn’t have much more than a year. I imagine that when he passes, his wife, kids, friends, past coworkers and past students all mourn him. Most of all, I’d like to imagine that despite all the pain he went through at my hand, he lived a happy life, and left a mark on all the people he met.