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Wings Over the Battlefield
Feb. 22nd, 2021 02:31 pmA friend of mine recently posted a link to a fascinating article about the Angel(s) of Mons, and the way the legend spread. Looked at in the cold light of day, it seems likely to have been the First World War equivalent of an urban myth, but it's still a wonderful story and has always had me spellbound.
And it reminded me that many years ago now I wrote a flash fiction on exactly that subject, so I thought I'd dig it out, dust it off, change the ending slightly, and post it here. Whether or not you believe in the original, I hope you enjoy my story.
***
Wings Over the Battlefield
He trudges through the mud, his fellow soldiers at his side. His rifle is propped on one shoulder and a tin helmet balances on his head, flattening his hair. Rain mists his waterproof cape; cold wet fingers seep through the seams and down his neck.
Shells fall all around, their smoke drifting into the curtain of rain. Their dull thump echoes in his skull, counterpointing the rattle of small arms fire from both sides of the line. The everyday sounds of life have vanished in the din - feet squelch soundlessly, birds open their beaks but he can't hear their song.
"Vorwärts!" his sergeant mouths, forcing the men onwards with sheer strength of will.
He has no idea what their mission is, or when they'll return to their trench. He only knows that the enemy is over there, in the rain and smoke, and he'll march until he reaches them. What happens after that, he hasn't thought - his mind jitters away from it, too awful to contemplate.
He senses hesitation in the line ahead, and treads on the back of another soldier's heels. Looking up, he sees a man on horseback - a beautiful man with golden hair on a pure white horse. It's so unlikely a sight, here on the battlefield, that he blinks, but the vision remains.
Around him the line wavers and breaks: the sea dashing against an inhospitable shore. Men begin to cast their weapons aside, to turn, to run.
"You shall not pass," says the man on the horse, holding aloft a fiery sword. The voice is audible even over the shells; suddenly all is quiet, and the birds sing again.
He hurls his own weapons into the mud and helps with a stretcher instead. For the rest of his life as a nurse, he'll never forget the day he saw the Angel of Mons.
And it reminded me that many years ago now I wrote a flash fiction on exactly that subject, so I thought I'd dig it out, dust it off, change the ending slightly, and post it here. Whether or not you believe in the original, I hope you enjoy my story.
***
Wings Over the Battlefield
He trudges through the mud, his fellow soldiers at his side. His rifle is propped on one shoulder and a tin helmet balances on his head, flattening his hair. Rain mists his waterproof cape; cold wet fingers seep through the seams and down his neck.
Shells fall all around, their smoke drifting into the curtain of rain. Their dull thump echoes in his skull, counterpointing the rattle of small arms fire from both sides of the line. The everyday sounds of life have vanished in the din - feet squelch soundlessly, birds open their beaks but he can't hear their song.
"Vorwärts!" his sergeant mouths, forcing the men onwards with sheer strength of will.
He has no idea what their mission is, or when they'll return to their trench. He only knows that the enemy is over there, in the rain and smoke, and he'll march until he reaches them. What happens after that, he hasn't thought - his mind jitters away from it, too awful to contemplate.
He senses hesitation in the line ahead, and treads on the back of another soldier's heels. Looking up, he sees a man on horseback - a beautiful man with golden hair on a pure white horse. It's so unlikely a sight, here on the battlefield, that he blinks, but the vision remains.
Around him the line wavers and breaks: the sea dashing against an inhospitable shore. Men begin to cast their weapons aside, to turn, to run.
"You shall not pass," says the man on the horse, holding aloft a fiery sword. The voice is audible even over the shells; suddenly all is quiet, and the birds sing again.
He hurls his own weapons into the mud and helps with a stretcher instead. For the rest of his life as a nurse, he'll never forget the day he saw the Angel of Mons.
