Bruar's Rest

the land.’
    If ever prophesy had come to pass, then here it was before his eyes, unfolding in graphic detail. As his thoughts darkened, he pulled his wet tunic collar under his chin to cover his exposed throat. When such devil-painted artistry first spread itself before him, it brought a newly consumed plate of broth from his stomach pit. But a belly has no memory, and now he could stand a lot before it made any difference; he was conditioned to carnage.
    Arras in France saw his first steps of war; his virginal battle. Marching at the rear of the 51st Highland Division, he watched how stealthily death took his prey. Seventy proud Highland pipers played into the hungry jaws of the enemy, drowning a mighty roar of artillery until only one kilted musician was left standing. Earlier their crescendo of earth-shattering sound stirred young recruits into battle; a battle that lasted three days and bravely held the town, but at what a cost!
    Amidst bombs and dead bodies, Bruar felt compelled in the aftermath to retrieve the silent bagpipes, and lay them by the sides of the fallen pipers. He’d no idea what set belonged to which piper, but it only seemed right that each should not go into the other world without their beloved music. Officers called him a damn fool, but to him, a Highlander, it seemed only proper to salute the pipes.
    Time stopped during the battle of Arras, but not death; he was as active as he’d ever been, piling up the corpses. Bruar shivered and thanked God he was spared.
    During a march to Ypres, his battalion merged with a small division of Cameronians, and it was then he discovered the fate of his only brother. Familiar as he was now with death, the details were not important; only the fact that it took him quick was something to be thankful for. After Arras, remnants of the brave 51st were attached to other regiments; he found himself amid English lads, the King’s Liverpools.
    A screech of shell fire brought him back to the present, and his bumpy journey in the transport lorry. The shelling halted the convoy for a short while. When it was deemed safe again, a shout to continue came down from the top of the column, and for the next stretch of dusty miles his thoughts wandered home. He saw his young wife and imagined reaching out to touch and kiss her. How beautiful she was! He prayed that she’d never witness scenes such as these, hoped when he got back they’d spend hours in the purple heather just talking. He wanted to tell her that sometimes, when night approached, with hundreds of Very flares illuminating the battle sky, he’d call to her saying that the heavens of Europe had their own Northern Lights. The transport vehicles would also be a talking point. She’d never seen a lorry—cars, yes, but not monsters that roared and billowed smoke. He had loads to share with her when he got home—if he got home.
    A loud explosion far off turned the sweet thoughts sour. He opened his eyes to the sight of another piece of burned flesh, a horse this time. An innocent beast doing chores now lay sprawled and twisted around the cart it had been pulling, torn by man-made hurricanes of unimaginable force, its grave dug by the power of the bomb. The sight of the animal cut through his thoughts and he cursed the war over again.
    After what seemed an eternity the lorry came to a grinding halt. Fed up, tired and coughing incessantly, the driver shouted, ‘Journey over, get off, boys.’
    The bone-weary soldiers jumped down from the mud-spattered vehicle, glad to be back on solid ground, and were lined up for inspection. The driver repeated his orders in case any lad had fallen asleep, but the lorry was empty.
    From within a busy group of men a sergeant stepped forward and rapped orders. ‘Follow me, boys, into your trench for the night. Tuck is being served at the Ritz.’
    All eyes turned to a massive pot, boiling away, filled with God alone knew what. It was covered by a khaki tarpaulin; a stink from it crowded their nostrils. They were starving, though, and soon bellies were filled and satisfied.
    Entering in single file, they each found a spot in the cold damp earth. Some had capes, while others shared them. A voice called in the dark, ‘That’s an hour passed, Jerry will be finished his supper and wanting to play.’ No sooner said, when a squeal of explosives followed by a blinding flash sent everyone downwards. There was a moment of silence, then the screams of pain. Bruar’s column was so