A rather trying war
March 20th, 1917
Diary of Effie Browntrout
It was so good to see Branwell on his brief leave from his new duties training in the Saysquacks. He is so proud of his furry charges, and I am so proud of him. His good cheer and energy seem to fill in the weighty silences and a deep darkness he wishes to mask. I do not know what horrors he has witnessed, for he will not openly speak of it except to torturedly admit that war can be “rather trying at times.” Also rather trying is his relationship with his father. When I speak Horace’s name, Branwell mumbles well wishes, but his eyes speak an unabashed hatred. When I press, he insists all is well and I am not to worry. It drives me to the point of madness. How can my husband and son both we on the same side in war and be at war with each other?
The damned army is so full of secrets. They will not tell Branwell nor I where his father is or what he is doing. All we know is that Horace is fighting and training hard in the desert with an eccentric British officer. What he’s doing there and when he might return are classified information. I do know that he is with Stanley the Saysquack and the one thing I can trust is that he and that wooly Saysquack are thick as thieves, and will keep each other safe. Stanley was like a son to us even before this dreadful war — even when he did drop scat at the dining room table.
I am not telling Branwell of my decision yet because he would worry and insist I do otherwise, but after his visit is at an end I shall join the Nursing Corps. If I cannot get news of my family, then I shall at least contribute to the war effort in any way I can. My sister Cordelia has agreed to look after Charlotte, our four-year-old daughter, whilst I am away. It was a difficulty decision, but easier to make knowing that my darling girl has an excellent rapport with her Auntie ‘Dely and they will get on well whilst her daddy and I am away.
March 29th, 1917
Diary of Captain Horace S. Browntrout
After what I have seen, I do not know how we can fight these creatures. I see now why the anti-unicorn brigades disappeared. These hardy devils resist bullets (at least, smaller caliber bullets). They are cunning. They behave with a malevolent intelligence far above and beyond their equine brethren. If we are to destroy them, or even slow them down, our quest must focus on finding some other unconventional means to stop them. Major Lawrence has said that there is scholarship regarding their origins. Perhaps it would give us a clue as to their weakness. Apparently these important texts have been missing from the Ashmolean Museum for some time. I fear they may be in enemy hands. Lawrence has informed me that as the Arab Revolt is ramping up, they can afford no further distractions with my training or the loss of men chasing unicorns. Therefore, Stanley and my training is officially at an end. We will be returning to France soon with new orders. Beyond that, I have been told nothing.
March 30th, 1917
Letter from Captain Horace S. Browntrout to Captain Branwell Browntrout
Dear Son,
Since I do not know when, where or if this letter will ever find you, forgive me if my words are pointed and unclouded by the usual pleasantries or rosy preamble.
One day you will see that glory can be won in places beyond the battlefield, and that there is an equal portion of honor to be had in living as there is in dying. Sometimes living is the hardest of all battles, especially when facing the spectors of the comrades who fell before us. But their very deaths urge us to go forward and live! That is what I am about.
It is true that I strenuously objected to your joining the armed forces until the last possible moment. You are living out my worst fears and nightmares everyday, just by being here, my only begotten son, in this brutal and senseless carnage. If it doesn’t kill you, it will forever change you. It already has.
But where we part ways is not on the “what” of the matter, but on the reasons why I object. You, clinging to the last vestiges of a childish sulk, believe I mean to “hold you back” to “teach you a lesson” –in essence to humble and humiliate you. That assumption could not be further from the truth.
I had you transferred off the line, that you may live another day, that I may delay your hideous and inevitable death by even one more hour I would do it all over again. I knew you would be angry, but I thought your anger would be dissipated by the mature wisdom to see that you had already witnessed more than a fair share of combat, of suffering and death. You are no stranger to sacrifice. In the blink of an eye, you will be back on the line once again, once again at death’s door. Is a Father to be faulted for delaying his son’s mortal coil by a split second?
You said in bitterness you would maintain the façade of our relationship for the sake of your Mother. Do that. Also think of her when you think on why I chose to save your life. Also, if you can spare a moment in between draughts of the bitter poison of the memory of me you imbibe, meditate on this: I always felt you were destined for something greater than a bullet to the brain in No Man’s Land. I don’t know exactly what it is that lays dormant, hidden deep inside you, waiting to bear fruit, but I would be happy for both of us to live long enough to find out.
The gift of life is given but once. Do not squander it on so base and abstract a notion as glory. Take it from one who has chased glory and neglected duty his whole life, there is more comfort to be found in the latter than in the former. Your duty is to stay alive, if not for me, then do it for your Mother.
As for the Saysquack, I believe you are misinformed and your efforts to train them were in vain. I am sure they behaved admirably and all make fine soldiers, but they are merely going through the same training every enlisted man attends when signing up. I have absolute assurances from well-above High Command that no Saysquack will see combat. As to their fitness, we must disagree. They may posses the strength and the body mass needed for rough conditions, but their constitutions are peaceful and brook no trade with violence. I have seen them do “battle” on the Olympic Peninsula. No amount of training could prepare them en masse for a war of this type. The results would be a blot on the conscience of the British psyche. I beg you do not abet such a doleful enterprise and if you have any say in the matter, use your influence to ensure that our placid anthropid friends remain untouched by the horrors of this orgy of destruction.
Whatever transpires between us, you are well-spoken of, and no temporary ill will can ever sever our connection. I am and shall always be,
Your Father
Like what you’re reading? Subscribe to my newsletter: https://dashfire.substack.com/
Care to read a hilarious account of Theodore Roosevelt hunting Bigfoot? Find it here: https://www.amazon.com/Squabble-Titans-Recollections-Roosevelt-Rainforest/dp/B097X4R4LN
