0015 Aftermath Of War

Within themselves, they hold more than any man or woman should be asked to hold; they are the unsung heroes of the peace which clutches at the coat-tails of a war; and we can never truly know them; only offer them love, support, respect… My first school had been an officers’ recuperation hospital or final hospice for the wounded – in their body or their mind - in the 1914-18 war; now the dignified head doctor of few words and his beautifully-mannered, voluptuous ex-head-nurse wife had made of it an ideal, loving school for the new children of a new era after ‘the war to end all wars’… The last resting place of warriors with screaming silent minds who could not recuperate or who found death so much more peaceful than their life became, first the art room, then the chapel: death, art, God and life all together in one room. My second school had as its teaching staff several ex-officers who had chosen to shroud their memories in teaching that new generation; but ironically, were asked to run the cadet force which was intended to preserve that lovely peace.. the sergeant-major who taught us PT and defensive war had a face that was a repulsive souvenir – like camouflage – brown, red, livid white, almost the yellow-green of mustard gas that had painted war upon him; though he saved his lungs… fine, stern, stiff-upper-lip teachers shrouding their memories, until some pupil tested them too far – then their anger spilled, their canes and swagger-sticks fiercely wielded, were memories for those (not us) who knew, of discipline that might shoot at dawn for the sake of lives then saved at dusk… today, they’d be hauled into court for passing on 'abuse'; we were taught by heroes. My third school gave me a housemaster, another unsung, unsinging hero, a confirmed bachelor so we thought, who likewise buried unknown memories in devoted teaching; few clues except the same occasional, devastating temper when aroused; in his modest study, a few small muzzy photos in silver frames, of comrades – dead or alive? or did it matter? In his late fifties or even early sixties, some inner torment of his memories transcended, he surprised us all by marrying happily and producing a large family. And once again, we had little clue about the war he fought; or whether the nights brought him tormented dreams… We were taught by heroes who were asked to hold more than any man or woman should be asked to hold: do we wish – or should we wish – that we knew then what we guess now? They, teaching us from all their memories of hideous war, how to grow up in peace; only to see a generation of those same boys and girls demanded by another war.. Autumn again; brown leaves fall like green lives; soon, November mists and poppies red as blood, red as children’s blood from a terrible union, of heroism and futility called war.