#i love u all happy 1917 day and to anyone who’s replied to my posts

[softschofield]

on this day, the 6th of april, 103 years ago, two things happen - one that will echo down through history, and one that will be forgotten. one that brushes against millions of lives, one that no one but three and a little nameless, nothing village will ever notice. one that is blinding in its importance, cheered for and wept over and reviled; one that is small, silent, insignificant. two things happen, and history won’t remember one: a country enters the war to end all wars, and a meaningless boy dies in the countryside.

it’s friday. blake is going home on monday.

in the early hours of the morning, when the world is still icy and black and lit stark by flares, german boys sit huddled in their trenches, murmuring and laughing and thinking of home - softly, gently. officers walk down the lines and tap men quietly on the shoulder: let’s go. and silently, in the pre-dawn cold, they do.

at the same time, in the empty darkness before sunrise, an orderly wakes general erinmore. he lights a candle, sits up in bed, wraps a dressing gown around himself; the room is dusty and close and dim. “sir, the planes have spotted something over the new german lines. it’s regarding the second devons.”

and in the hours before dawn, erinmore sits at his desk, with a map sprawled before him, and listens. “can we send them a message?” “they cut the phone lines, sir” “can we send a cavalry runner?” “the land is impassable, sir” “do any of the officers have a son? a nephew? a brother?” “there is one, sir”

across the channel, scho’s wife wakes up to gentle honey light in their bedroom. blake’s mother wakes up alone to the sound of birdsong and sheep. both of them imagine the morning across the channel, the morning in france - what it looks and smells and feels like. wonder at whether the sun shines, wonder at whether the flowere are starting to bloom, if there are any flowers left at all.

blake’s mother checks off another day - three to go, and her boy will be home. she smiles at the thought, and with the smile comes tears. three days and he’ll be back in her arms, drinking tea at the kitchen table. three days. she gets out of bed to clean the house; she wants it to look nice for him. she’s still smiling. blake smiles, too, as they finish their breakfast and wander over to doze against their tree. three days. he pulls his helmet over his face, still smiling.

it’s morning when they set off. it’s still morning when he dies. and it’s still morning, not even midday, when schofield begins to inch across the ruined bridge.

that night, and into the cold, black, rainy morning of april 7th, while schofield lies unconscious upon the steps of a lockhouse, blake’s body lies before the felled orchard with the stars and the moon above him. a breeze stirs the leaves of the cherry trees and makes them rustle. they’re already beginning to brown and wilt. soon the stones will rot into the soil. the night feels empty, quiet, lonesome. the grasses on the hillside whisper. it’s peaceful. cold. forgotten. ghosts haunt the still, silent orchard.

the family that lived there is long gone. the little girl who was born there, whose doll was abandoned in the chaos, lies in the lowest drawer of a dresser, in a warm cellar where a fire crackles soft and golden. another orphan murmurs to her through the night.

the next morning, at six o’clock, a boy with shellholes for eyes stops an attack and leans against a lonely tree before the rising sun. it’s peaceful. quiet. empty. warm. blake’s mother wakes up smiling and checks another day off. and blake’s body begins to rot with the cherry stones.

every year, the ghosts live it again, tread the ground where the trenches and the ruins used to be. they don’t know the world has changed; they don’t know that world is dead, and that at the end of it they will die as well. again. over and over and over. till their hearts have been broken for the thousandth time. and then next year, they live it all again.

#1917 #mine #april 6th was yesterday for me but shhh #i was fucked up all day about it #but honestly? the way i lived it? quietly in love with life? the scho who came home from the war #and healed in the sunshine would have been proud #and i am living my life for scho and scho ONLY #♡ ♡ ♡ #i love u all happy 1917 day and to anyone who’s replied to my posts #or added things in the tags or reblogs or sent me an ask: i see you. i adore you. i love you so much #all i could think after midday was ‘blake is dead by now’ #and i was trying to play the film in my head so i could know whereabouts scho was throughout the day #and right now bc it’s midday on the 7th where i am #scho is walking back to the east surreys #and i love them. and i weep #and also - with the whole three days thing - the convoy boys would start fighting #the battle of arras in three days as well