Photo by Stijn Swinnen on Unsplash
Proctor and August. The brothers Thring. Identical twins except for their eyes; one pair blue, the other pair green.
Sitting side by side. At a pub. The Brothers-in-Arms.
Each holds a small black box. One turns left. The other turns right.
‘Marry me?’ Proctor asks Jan.
‘Marry me?’ August asks Jen.
Two sisters. Two “I will’s”. Two brides-to-be.
Remnants. Remnants of proposals asked.
***
Two brothers at a port. Uniformed. Kit bags in arms. Soldiers off to a great war.
Broken hearts. Tears and unspoken fears as embarking nears.
‘Goodbye, sweetheart,’ the brothers say.
‘Goodbye, my love,’ the sisters call. ‘Promise you’ll return in one piece.’
‘We promise.’
Remnants. Remnants of lives torn apart.
***
Dearest Jan,
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Darling Jen,
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Remnants. Remnants of love letters redacted in parts.
***
Two infantrymen. Trenched brothers. Comrades-in-arms.
Mud. Mites. Malnutrition. Mustard gas. Military mayhem.
Christmas Day. The middle of no man’s land. Twin brothers meet twin brothers, enemies, Jerry and Gerry.
A temporary truce. Shared gifts. A friendly game of football.
At sunset, hostilities resume. Goodwill is lost.
Remnants. Remnants of civilities from a once peaceful past.
***
Two siblings sombre at the Somme. News arrives. The war is over. Armistice. They hug. Brothers in each other’s arms.
‘Hooray! We’ve survived!’ they shout.
They jump in the air.
‘Hooray! We’re homeward bound!’
They jump in the air again.
‘Hooray! Back to our brides!’
They jump in the air a third time.
When they return to Earth, they land on a mine.
Remnants. Remnants of a bomb blast.
***
Two soldiers. Unconscious. Unarmed. War-wounded.
Casualties of a not-so-great war.
Proctor wakes to pitch dark, lips parched.
‘August?’ he whispers. ‘You there?’
‘Yes,’ a voice whispers.
‘Where?’
‘To your right. Next to you.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so. Bit sore and sorry and numb on your side. You?’
‘Same. What’s left of me, anyway.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Yes, thank God.’
Remnants. Remnants of brotherly solace passed.
***
‘Private Thring,’ a voice says in a disarming light, ‘can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know you’re in hospital?’
‘No.’
‘You stepped on an explosive. We’ve patched you up. Put you back together again, the best we could. You’re lucky to have survived. You’re on the next boat home. Anyone special waiting back there?’
‘Yes.’
Remnants. Remnants of the maimed in plaster cast.
***
Two women stand arm in arm at a train station. Joy fills their hearts as they each clutch a crumpled letter in one hand and a waving white handkerchief in the other.
‘Our boys are coming home!’
A train arrives with a squeal of steel and a gush of steam. A soldier steps from a distant carriage, waves and hobbles towards them.
‘Proctor?’ Jan says, unsure.
‘Dearest,’ he says.
‘August?’ Jen says, uncertain.
‘Darling,’ he says. ‘Here we are, home again, all stitched up and back in one piece as promised.’
He removes his sunglasses and reveals war-worn eyes. One blue, the other green.
‘And, sweethearts, please call us Proust.’
Remnants. Remnants of Thrings Past.
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