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Sassoon was gazing out at the patterns left by the curling trails of smoke from the nearby conflict against the purple of the evening sky. He sat with his khaki-bound legs stretched out in front of him, one crossed over the other, leaning back on his hands.
Next to him, Graves glanced across at his face.
“Last night before the Big Push, then.”
“I suppose it is.”
The was a moment of quiet between them, punctuated only by the conversations of the other men around them and the distant sounds of the guns further up the line.
“What do you suppose you’ll do when it’s all over?”
Sassoon looked at him as if he’d gone completely dotty.
“Robert, we are about to walk into a hell from which neither one of us is certain to return, on behalf of a government which will not even consider peace negotiations, and you want me to tell you whether or not I intend to continue fox hunting when – if – I return home?”
“You still haven’t overcome this bitterness about the war, I see.”“No. I don’t see how you can justify just carrying on in silence like this, either, when good men are being sent to their deaths for no damn reason.”
Graves sighed, turning slightly to rest a hand on Sassoon’s shoulder.
“It wasn’t so long ago that you seemed to take pleasure in putting your life at risk, Mad Jack.”
“You know that was different. I may have taken a few unnecessary risks, but I was... upset. It certainly doesn’t equate to the mass murder that Haig and the others have committed.”
“Either way, Sass. There’s nothing you can possibly do now. You took the job, you wear the uniform; you’re an officer in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, with men to look after. Besides,” he let his hand drop back down to the ground, “what difference could one man speaking out against the war make, anyway? Even if he is a Published Poet.”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”
He was glaring out ahead, seeming to be directing his anger at a small cluster of bare trees in the distance. They lapsed into silence again until Sassoon, swallowing, looked across at his friend.
“I’ve been thinking about making a stand, you know. More than just the poems. If I were to write a declaration, denouncing the war, and send it to the major papers back in London, I’d be sure to get it printed. When the generals read it, I’d be court marshalled, bringing more attention to the cause. If people realised the pointlessness of what we’re doing out here, they’d be sure to back me.”
Graves stared back at him, almost lost for words.
“I can’t believe you’ve even considered this. Think about your men. What will they think when they read this declaration? It won’t be ‘Good old Siegfried, trying to save us all.” It’ll be ‘What makes him so different from us that he can’t fight for his King and Country?’ The others don’t think about what they’re fighting for; they just know that they’re here and that they have a job to do. How can they relate to someone who won’t do that job because he personally doesn’t see the point? You’ll be thought of as a coward or a conchie, not a hero.”
“I assure you, Robert, I have no aspirations of heroism here.”
He continued, as if Sassoon hadn’t spoken.
“...and that’s another thing – think of the men’s families back at home. Are they really going to want to hear that their husbands and sons and brothers die out here for no good reason? They won’t back your cause because they won’t want to believe the truth in it.”
Sassoon looked down to pick at some of the splashes of mud on the felt of his tunic. His MC reflected the last glimmers of the sunset. It was a pointless endeavour – the mud would be replaced tenfold before the end of the next day.
“Look, Sass, it’s not that I don’t feel the same way about this as you. I do. It’s just that I think you owe it to your men, and to yourself, not to throw away your career on something so utterly futile as trying to single-handedly stop the war.”
Perhaps Robert was right about this. He was right about things frustratingly often, actually, for one so vague and absent-minded.
“What else do, I do, then? Sit here and carry on writing angry poems until we are all shot or gassed or shelled or blown up or we drown in the mud? Live out the rest of my days in Hell, fighting for a cause I can’t identify because some puffy, petulant-faced old man behind a desk tells me to? I don’t know how much longer I can continue with this, Robert.”
“But what’s the alternative? Protest, be sent home, and even if you get sent to prison you’ll be living out the rest of your days in comparative safety and comfort, all the while knowing that the men you left behind are dying without you. I know you, Sass. I don’t think you could live with yourself if that happened.”
Darkness had fallen by now. The Very lights were strangely beautiful, illuminating the trenches where ten thousand men were preparing themselves for what could be their last night on Earth. He thought about his men, and the day facing them; blowing the whistle as the second hand of his watch ticked past the 12, watching them scramble over the top, grey and sweating and walking into the guns together.
“...I think, if I do survive the war, I’d like to go travelling.”
Graves smiled slightly, seemingly content that, for now at least, Sassoon’s protest was pushed to the back of his mind.
“Travelling? Anywhere in particular?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe Africa.”
“Africa sounds pleasant. Warmer than France, at least.”
“I think that’s partly why I want to go. To convince myself that there’s still beauty left in the world.” Sassoon looked back to his friend. “You could come with me, if you wanted.”
Robert smiled.
“I like that plan. So, whenever this blasted war is over, we’ll travel.”
He held out his hand, which Sassoon shook, then held for a moment, before they both turned back to watch the lights again. Watching and waiting for the dawn, and the Push.