September 2, 13910 – With tremendous help from Twilight, not only have we found what year it is, but now we know how far in time I should travel. Based on Celestia's age of 11,865 and using the dates of 2063 to 1918 (which equals 145 years), I would need to be sent back 12,010 years. Twilight said that if I'm going to be sent home, it must be done in the right place at the right time. Which means I need to be where England used to be and sent on the right day of November the 11th.
So, I'm still stuck in Equestria for the time being. For now, home will have to wait for about two months. Twilight said that since I've been fully cured of my shell shock, it would be good for me to take some sort of holiday. Fair enough I suppose, it's been way too long anyway. But as of today, I have some thinking to do.
September 5, 13910 – To my dear Lucy,
I do not know if you would get this journal at all. I do not know if this book will lie in the mud for months or if this will be found right away or never to be found at all.
I am writing to you out of hope. I hope that somehow this will be given to you, so it will give you hope knowing that I'm on my way home.
No doubt by now you will know that I haven't been on the front, but you might already have read my journal to find that I've recovered from my shell shock in another world, in another time. If this reaches you, I want you to know that I'm safe. That there's no more need of you to worry if I would come home in one piece. Lucy, you have a reason to dry those tears of yours.
Though strange as this world that I'm in my seem, it is quite peaceful. More peaceful then humanity ever could be. Almost near Utopian. But as much as I'm tempted to stay here, the memories of you always come back to haunt me. Even while I was recovering, in those moments where my mind goes still, there you be. I know that in my past letters I haven't gotten the chance to say this but, thank you.
Thank you for the letters you sent, thank you for all you had to do to secure our happiness, thank you to remind me to smile among the death and gloom of the war. But above all, thank you so much for loving me. You are the reason why I'm still alive. You are the reason for me to keep on fighting despite the shock. For you are the reason for coming home, though time and space.
This world I'm in maybe beautiful, but I'd rather stay in a world of chaos and darkness to be with you than to stay in a happier world without.
Know this, my Lucy, I'm coming home, I'll see you in November.
Until we meet again,
forever yours, your eternal friend, with all my soul in me,
– James Tinwhool.
Somme, France. September 5, 1916.
Up and down the Western Front, there was nothing but chaos. For the British, the usual order to fight the Germans was business as usual.
Lieutenant Michael McAuthor threw his grenade over to the other side. A few seconds later, it went off along with a few screams of the enemy soldiers. He peaked out over the trench to confirm that he had indeed hit his target.
Suddenly, there was a bright flash overhead, McAuthor ducked back down; thinking that the Germans had returned a favor. Instead, he felt something tumble over his back and flopped onto the wooden planks of the trench. Looking down, he saw that the thing that tumbled was a book. It was one of those journals that every soldier was given before they reported in this forsaken country.
McAuthor took a moment to kneel down to pick it up, flipping the book open to see who it belongs to. Private James Tinwhool, 24th Royal Infantry, UK. The Lieutenant pocketed the book and went on fighting for hours.
When things became peaceful enough, McAuthor flopped onto his cot exhausted from the fierce fighting. He lay on his back to gain a moment of peace from the battle that day. He felt the pockets of his trench coat when he felt something that he’d nearly forgotten about.
“Let’s see who the sorry sod is,” he muttered as he took the journal out from the pocket and opened up to the last entry. The Lieutenant paused when he read the date of the last entry, September 5, 13910.
Confused, he flipped the book back and saw a few drawings amongst the writings. “What kind of a journal is this?” McAuthor asked himself. He flipped to the front of the journal, in which it describes last year. Mostly about the war, James's wife, and a few drawings here and there, but all that suddenly changes when it reached late June.
McAuthor skimmed through the book at that point, several pages in, he concluded that whoever this Private was, he was, as the Lieutenant put it: “He’s gone completely around the twist.” He couldn't help but think about what was going on inside this poor man’s head when he wrote this.
Getting up, Michael left his cot to search for the other Lieutenants of the 24th Royal Infantry, asking if any of them knew who James Tinwool was.
“He was in my party,” Lieutenant Justin Canton said when he was asked about the soldier. “Went missing before all of this, why?”
“I found his journal,” McAuthor replied.
“Oh really? Did you find something of his? My chaps couldn't find anything except for his weapons, where did you find it?”
“It fell on me,” Michael gave the journal to his fellow officer. “But I suspect that you never found the man?”
Lieutenant Canton shrugged, “Nothing. It’s like he fell off the face of the earth.”
“And lost his mind along the way,” Justin asked what he meant by that. “I took a look at the bloke’s journal, and I think that the day before the battle, he had completely lost his mind.”
“Really,” Canton asked, opening the book, “How so?”
“He writes about unicorns.”
Justin looked up, “Unicorns?”
“Oh and that’s not all. He wrote about being in a town filled with talking ponies and dragons, and about spewing nonsense about the future.”
“Is that so…?” Canton asked, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Perhaps, since things have been so gloomy lately, maybe I ought to read this to my men. After all, I've heard that a good laugh tends to boost one's morale.”
“It truly is the oddest thing I've ever read. But the last entry was quite touching though.”
“Oh?”
“A love letter to his wife back at home. If I would suggest, perhaps once you’re done with that, then maybe you’d do the honorable thing and make sure that his wife gets it. After all, I think that a wife should know what’s become of her husband in this place.”
“I suppose so… Thanks for the book.”
Once Lieutenant McAuthor has been dismissed, Canton opened up to a random page in the journal. After reading a bit, he couldn't help but laugh in amusement. “The war will be over in a few years,” he smiled, shook his head, and put the journal in his pocket: “If only that were true.”
Requiem for WWI
By CrackedInkWell.
Grant them eternal rest,
General of the sky and
Commanders of the earth.
Have these men who swam
in rivers of mud where
rats and corpses thrive find rest.
Give them peace from the
bushes of barbed-wire,
of the raining bullets and
shrapnel from the clouds of
mustard.
No more shall they worry
about running into legions of
bayoneted riffles while stepping on
a triggered mine.
Never again shall the frost,
the mud,
or the lice make them
sick.
Let them forget the song
of flamethrowers that sang them
the gospel of cindered corpses.
Free them from their shaking
bodies because of their shaken
minds.
Liberate them from a nightmare
without end that your generals
and your country calls glory.
For they have seen gore
and horror than those in
the underworld should see in
eternity.
Grant them eternal rest,
for after all they have done,
they need it.
Amen.