Way of the War

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It was the 11th of February, 1916.
Henry stared blankly at the hatchet in front of him. The late spring air whisked across his shoulders, sending chills down the length of his spine. Pulling up the collar a little tighter on his jacket, he shivered and reached out a white-knuckled hand to grip the hatchet’s handle. Light scatterings of leaves floated down from the tips of the tall oaks above him, coating the ground with an ankle-deep layer of foliage. Moisture from the log he was sat on was slowly soaking through his trousers, as insects shuffled through the dirt around his naked foot.
Blocking out the doubting voices racing around his mind was a difficult task for Henry. The more he hesitated, the harder they became to silence. Nagging questions whispered in the back of his mind, urging him one way or the other. Rational thoughts were locked in a fierce battle against primal instincts. He knew it would stay that way until he made a decision.
There was no one he had to convince other than himself.
Everything was already set out, just as he had planned. The aspirin had been swallowed. The tourniquet was knotted tightly around his leg. A small fire was burning by his side, a flat sheet of metal lying atop it. The hatchet was motionless on the ground in front of him, his hand still outstretched towards it. Biting gales nipped at his toes, turning them numb and pale. A distant animal screech rang out into the air, startling him slightly. Henry’s teeth chattered as he observed his surroundings one more time. Nothing. Just him and the trees.
He flinched as his fingertips came into contact with the surface of the hatchet’s blade. It was smooth, and well sharpened, a remnant from his teenage days as a lumberjack’s apprentice, and a capable tool for cutting and chopping. The time was 4:00am. It was scheduled to rain in just over an hour. He had to make up his mind quickly, or risk catching his death out in the forest. Henry took in a deep breath and drew his hands down his face. The night stars shone faintly, and the forest around him seemed still and lifeless. Even the moon evaded him, concealed by a crop of wispy clouds. 
Cold sweat ran down his forehead, blurring his vision. Through ragged breaths, he lifted his foot and set it down on the wooden block in front of him. Shadows danced across the trees from the light of a cheap lantern.
Raising the hatchet, he paused, paralysed in the cold as snot dripped down his nose. This was it. Decision time. No more waiting. 
Before he had a chance to reconsider, Henry brought down the hatchet upon his ankle.
For an incredibly short moment, there was no pain. The hatchet had sliced through to the bone with a meaty thud, and blood gushed out in a sickening spray that stained the wood red, as well as the hatchet. Henry's muffled cries of agony were barely stifled by the piece of leather in his mouth. He bit down hard, water pooling in his eyes, his face contorted into a twisted expression of immense pain. Tearing the hatchet out of his mutilated foot, he tore his gaze away from the grim sight, choking and spluttering. He felt vomit rising in his stomach. There was no going back now.
Another scream, another chop. A foul noise of crunching bone echoed through the forest. Marrow and blood spurted out of the wound, now mixed with splintered bone fragments. He had overestimated the effect of the aspirin. The pain was unlike anything he had experienced before.
The butchered remnant of Henry’s foot hung loosely by a small strip of skin and muscle. The hatchet swayed back and forth in his palm as he struggled to keep his grip. Waves of exhaustion passed through his body, coaxing him more and more into passing out with each second. But he would not give in. Not after how far he’d come. 
With a final whack against the wood below, the disfigured corpse of Henry’s foot flopped limply onto the dirt. He threw the hatchet at the ground in triumph, grabbing the sheet of metal from the flames beside him with a pair of cooking tongs. Immediately, he pressed it against the bleeding stump of his leg.
Searing pain shot through his extremities for the last time as the last few drops of blood landed on his shoes. Dropping the tongs, he spat out the leather and fell back into the leaves, wheezing and coughing. The bitter taste of copper permeated his cheeks, like he had ingested a mouthful of pennies.
The wound was cauterised. Henry had finally done it. After a few more minutes spent recovering on the ground, he rolled onto his side, gradually pulling himself off the muddy surface of the forest. The night was as cold as ever, but Henry’s wound still burned like a wildfire.
A curious owl silently swooped onto a tree branch above him as he wrapped the bandages around his stump, wincing and mumbling to himself. His vision was blurred, and the trees seemed to bend and contort around him. The odour of his decomposing foot was nearly as bad as the pain itself. He could barely stomach looking at it.
Finished with the bandages, Henry picked up the tongs once more and grabbed his detached foot, shards of bone protruding out from the top. He tossed it in the fire along with the dented, bloodied block of wood, covering the blood on the ground with a sheet of leaves. No evidence. Just a simple pile of debris in the woods. Time to head home. The fire would burn itself out in the coming rain.
Grabbing the crutches he had brought with him, Henry leaned on a nearby tree for support, leaving a bloody handprint. The forest looked gloomier than ever before as he set off back through the foliage, his mission complete.
Three loud thumps at the door jarred Henry from his sleep. He rose out of bed, grabbing his crutches and yawning loudly. A brief stretch, and he was in his dressing-gown, heading for the front door.
Standing on his doorstep was a tall man in a khaki army uniform, with a rounded hat and several colourful medals adorned on his jacket. He was old, in his 70s, it seemed, and had a well-groomed moustache lying above his upper lip.
“Hello there, chap,” he said in a cheery voice. His face wrinkled as he cracked a wide smile.
“H-hello officer. Is there anything I can do for you this fine morning?” Henry replied, leaning across the half-open door.
“Yes, just one thing. As you already know, our great nation is currently in the midst of fighting the evilest enemy we have ever faced: the Germans.”
Henry nodded, his eyes still caked with early morning crust.
“The United Kingdom has never been in greater need of strong, able young men to help on the front lines. To aid this requirement, the act of conscription was introduced just last week, meaning all males between the ages of 18 and 41 must take up arms in the name of the King. Is there anything preventing you from recruitment in the British forces?”
Henry tried his best to put on a glum face.
“Actually officer, as much as I would love to protect the women and children of our great nation...”
He pulled the door open fully, revealing the healed stump of his right leg. The officer raised his eyebrows.
“That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there, son. But I think I have some news you’ll be pleased to hear.”
“Oh?”
“We've just received a new batch of prosthetic limbs from the doctors down south to help with the war effort. Come down to the recruitment tent in town sometime today, and we’ll get yours fitted on for free! How does that sound?” 
Henry froze in the doorway.
“Are you ok, my boy? You look a little pale…”
“I…I…I have a daughter,” Henry stammered.
“Then surely you have a partner to look after her while you’re gone?”
“N-no,” Henry continued. “She got a nasty flu last winter and passed away. It's just me and Elizabeth now.”
“Sorry to hear about that. Not to worry, though! We have carers arranged to protect the little ones in the event of an emergency. I imagine you’ll be dropping her off as soon as possible, dear sir!”
All Henry could do was watch, his heart sinking as the man turned on the spot and walked towards his polished Ford. Just before he got inside, the officer called out again:
“Unless, of course, you refuse to be recruited. And be thrown in jail consequently. People around here don’t take kindly to objectors, sir. Neither does the government. I hope you make the right decision and do what is best for your country.”
The officer climbed inside his car and drove onto the leaf-strewn path back to town.
Stunned, Henry closed the door. He slumped down against the wall, dropping his crutches in defeat.
“Daddy, who was the man at the door? He looked old.” Elizabeth remarked, suddenly appearing in the landing.
Henry turned to her, meeting her innocent gaze. She was wearing the dress he had bought her for her 9th birthday, her plaited ponytail shining in the sunlight.
“He was old, honey,” Henry replied through an empty smile. “Very old.”
“I heard you talking about the war. Are you going to fight, Daddy? Even with your poorly leg?”
“No, princess. No, no, no, no, no. I would never leave you here all alone. I’m staying right here with you.”
“But won’t you go to jail, Daddy? Like all those other bad men in the newspapers?”
Henry stared at the floor, a lump rising in his throat.
“I have an idea, sweetheart. Let’s listen to a story!”
Henry reached over to a nearby drawer, pulling out something long and metallic that Elizabeth couldn’t quite make out.
“An elephant and its child live near a river. On the other side of the river, a fight breaks out among the other elephants and the crocodiles that live there. The other elephants want all the elephants to join the fight. But the elephant doesn’t want to go, because it has a child to take care of that it might not ever return home to. Should the elephant join the fight and abandon its child?”
There was a long pause.
“Why are you crying, Daddy?”
“Sweetie, it’s…I’m not…just answer my question, please.”
“I want mummy. Where is she? You said she was in a better place.”
“She is in a better place, Elizabeth. Up there in the sky.”
“But she isn’t in the sky. She’s outside, in the ground. I saw her buried there.”
More silence.
“How did you find-”
“You killed her, didn’t you, Daddy?”
Henry struggled to form another sentence.
“No…God, please no…I didn’t…I couldn’t…”
“You did. I heard it in the middle of the night. She screamed. And then a loud bang hurt my ears. It was out in the forest.”
“Come here, princess.”
Henry wept like a baby as Elizabeth hugged him warmly.
“…Sally…what have I done, Sally…”
Tears trickled onto Elizabeth’s shoulders.
“Are we going to be with Mummy, now Daddy? Up in the sky?”
“Yes. Yes, honey. We’re gonna be with Mummy now, ok? We’re gonna be a family again. I love you. I love you so much. Close your eyes for Daddy.”
Elizabeth did what she was told, and the forest animals scattered as two successive gunshots rang through the air.
File:"Way of the War" Narration 2
File:"Way of the War" Narration 3
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Category:Dismemberment
Category:History
Category:Military
Category:Cornconic
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