Journey

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 19; the nineteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

"That 2,000 Yard Stare" painted by Tom Lea, World War Two, 1944

Three years was a long time. It was too long a time to spend outside the little town that he had always called home. Everyone could not remember him too well when he returned next. Some of his friends were still not back. The woman he was all set to marry had left him. War had taken its toll on Lionel. It was hard. Too hard.

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On a fine morning in the year 1940, Lionel, a man turned 18 not too long ago received a note that he was called out by his nation to war. He was being drafted. His older brother had been in Africa for nearly a year now. It was his turn. It was the hardest thing he'd had to do yet, bidding everyone farewell and assuring them that he'd return safely and soon enough, especially his fianceé, Margaret.

“Keep in touch, won't you. I won't be long. I'm sure about it. The war doesn't seem like it's going to go on for too long, anyway. Just write to me. Let me know you're alright. Keep me abreast of whats up here. I love you, Maggie.”

These were the last words he said to her before he left.

“Of course, darling.”, Margaret replied with a saddened smile.

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It was 1942. D-Day had been quite successful. The Nazis had been thrown back from the French coasts and the villages were taken back. It was a fateful morning that Lionel, part of the 102nd Airborne Unit, received a letter.


Dear Lionel,


You cannot imagine how difficult this is for me. Our letters take so long to reach each other. I go to bed each night thinking of you. I wonder where you might be. You never tell me, of course. The last time you wrote, you were somewhere in Germany. It's been a month since then. I would assume it would be even longer when this reaches you. It's been too long. When would you return? I keep thinking of you as dead in some gunfire or bombing or worse, captured by some Germans. I cannot bear the thought of you being tortured in some POW camp. I can't bear it. Not any longer.


I wanted to tell you that I can't take this any more. It's been two years, Lionel. We would have long been married now and might even have the little baby boy we had talked about for so long. I don't see that happening any time in the future. All hope has been snuffed out of me, Lionel. I don't know when this war would end. The lack of correspondence is more than I can handle. Hence, you should know that I've decided to move on. Everyone has been imploring me to do so for a long time. I'm not strong anymore as I used to be. Everything's changed. It's been far too long.


I'm in love with someone else. Maybe if you return, I would introduce you to him. He's a wonderful man and he keeps me happy. I'm getting married to him in the fall. I'm sorry I can't wait for you any longer. It kills me to write this to you. But I feel defeated. I hope sincerely that this letter finds you in the best of health. I worry for you. I always will until you return.


Your parents and Beckie are doing well. Please do write back. I'm sorry about everything.


                                                                                                                                Maggie

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The war had taken its toll on everyone. When Lionel finally returned in the summer of '43, Maggie wasn't there. She had gone off to New York with her new husband. He assumed she must have been happy. He had never written back to her. He could not. He was shattered when he had read that letter on a wintry October day of '42. She was what had always given him hope. She had always been the light he saw in the dark. He hadn't expected what had happened then. Not in his wildest dreams had he thought she would leave him for some businessman. His life had been too hard a journey. But he was strong.

It is said that all romances that end badly end up in the form of literature somehow. They get transformed into some of the greatest books to be told, direct from a broken heart, to be lost in the pages of time as they get dusty, not to be forgotten by all. He would not be as successful. No. He thought of writing a book; a book of poems. In it, he would cry out from the core of his heart. It had bled. It had bled badly. He just hoped she would somehow read everything he had to tell her. There was too much he wanted her to know; her love for her which pervaded, all the images of battle that he had seen and could never forget and that she was forgiven, somehow.

He hoped that someday, she would understand why he chose to forgive her; why even after having his heart ripped out by the only woman he had ever loved, he could learn t grow and live on. He hoped.

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Three years of blood I have seen.
Too long a time to be away from my beloved.
Away from my heart, she keeps it safe.
But she couldn't; said it was too long and hard.

Mortar fell somewhere nearby.
Jeremy died, and then did the captain.
From somewhere unseen, a bullet flew past me.
It all happened too fast; I know not how I did sustain.

My hope was kept alive; I read yellow pages with
The fragrance of my dear lady.
They spoke of love enduring and moments that would surely come.
As I sat with men in the grass, waiting to go home, to be freed.

Alas, my dreams and hopes were never to be my own.
I would not have imagined what awaited me back home.
No, she did not desert me but left for another.
I had been at war too long and she could wait no longer.

I have seen many dreams, many catastrophes and too many deaths.
I have been nearly consumed by the horrors of life and those of its end.
But I always kept something hidden inside, an image of her lying next to me,
Smiling peacefully, relaxed and contended, after we'd made love.

It gave me hope and kept me serene in the darkest of times.
It helped me walk the roads, grimy as they were, devoid of other life.
A vision of her, happy and tranquil was all the light in my mind.
As the paths of war tried but could not, devour me.

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