Musings of a World War I Veteran
written by: Oseremen Iwayemi
November 11th is supposed to be a happy day for us as a nation. A day that brings renewed hope and peace. Alas, it is not for me. It has never been. Each year it drags me back to shadows—memories carved in grief and loss. While the world remembers with pride, I remember with pain and sadness. I sometimes wonder if it will ever be a happy day for me or if it is destined to remain a wound that will never heal.
I can still smell the gas, the cold, the awful stench of dead rats which were as big as cats, the fear, and the dead bodies of innocent men who sacrificed their lives knowingly or unknowingly. I remember how sleeping at night was next to impossible because I thought I would die at any minute. We all thought we would die at any moment because we could be struck at any time. As I ponder all these, I wonder and ask myself, was this war really worth it? Could it have been avoided in the first place? My eyes fill with tears.
I still have little control of my legs. They have a mind of their own and shake whenever they want to. The doctor concluded that some nerves in my brain are not connected properly anymore due to constant exposure to explosion sounds. I look at the framed picture across the room. This time, my tears trickle down my face and fall to my lap. Dickson, Grant, Charles, and I are laughing in the picture. We had our whole lives before us, but thought becoming soldiers would be better. I am the only one remaining out of the four. The war took them away from me and their families. My wife, Andie, is not here. She is with our children at her mother’s house. I may not be who I used to be anymore, but I am forever grateful to God that my family did not lose me. But what about the other families who lost their loved ones? Dickson should not have died the way he did. He inhaled too much gas, and one day, he did not wake up from sleep. We still do not know what happened, but I believe the gas played a major role. Grant got an infection that ate him up from the inside. He could not even be given a proper burial for fear of infecting others. Then Charles….oh, he was such a sweet soul. He dropped dead beside me after he was hit. I am alive, but this war hit me hard.
Any unexpected sound startles me, including the doorbell. My body automatically goes into flight mode. The other day, the neighbour’s dog barked like it always does, but for every bark, my heart skipped a beat. This is not good for my heart, but I believe it will get better. I am trying not to get too startled by these sounds. I constantly remind myself that these are normal sounds and I should not be afraid of them.
I turn on the radio, and the radio presenter is talking about the wreaths that were being laid at the tomb of the unknown soldier. This is one of the things done to commemorate the end of the war. I can never bring myself to go there again after I went the first time. It was too painful. The ceremony brought many unpleasant memories, and there was only so much my heart could take. I thought about all the men we lost in our troops and the ones we also killed. I thought about the bodies that could not be brought back to their land. The pain their families felt, and how these men were robbed of this beautiful gift called life. It was too much for one man.
The solemn music from the radio flutters into my ears. The face of my commander, Bill Cordon, visualises before me. He was like a father to us in our troop. As the war went on, I saw him lose a part of himself whenever we lost men to the cold, or, should I say, the fiery hands of death. One day, two years into the war, he took ill, and three days later, he was gone. He was a great soldier, strong inside and out. I believe it was not the sickness that took him, but the loss of hope. He felt he had failed his country and us. He had given up in his mind already, probably because the pain was too much to bear. Whether we want to admit it or not, the war took many people from us. Beautiful women are now widows, and children are fatherless. Some soldiers are widowers as well. They returned and discovered death had taken their wives away. Their wives worked in the munition factory making bullets and weapons for us at the war front. Working with harsh chemical materials affected them, and they lost their lives in the process.
The more I think about these things, the more downcast I feel. Staying home alone at the moment is not good for me. So I switch off the radio, wear my hat, and head out with my walking stick. Outside is bright and sunny. The people who pass by have poppy lapels on. Some smile and some are sad. The war was never worth it. No matter what, the war was never the answer. War is never the answer. I believe none of us will ever want to experience such again. For me and my comrades, the war was a nightmare. Every day, we longed for the fighting to stop.
To the soldiers we lost, thank you for your sacrifice. To the ones like me still living, thank you for your sacrifice as well. However, I speak for myself and maybe others to tell you that I am a broken man because of the eternal damage this war caused. I wish none of you younger ones would ever be broken like me. War can never fix a nation. All it leaves in its path are broken people, not just the ones at the war front, but those who were not there as well.
- Musings of a World War I Veteran - November 11, 2025
- Memories of Midnight - July 28, 2021
