Following in His Footsteps

The animalistic cries of enamored tourists and New Yorkers alike flooded the mind of a single young man. He firmly shut the apartment door behind him and moved up the stairs to his room.

“I’ve told you to treat the tenement door better!” cried of one of his neighbors. She continued, “you just wait until I-”

Her screams were reduced to muffles as the young man entered his apartment; this time, gently closing the door.

Groggily, he moved to the apartment’s windows and mechanically shut the shades one after another. Then he walked to his coffee machine and took a long swig from the pot, resting it down on the counter. The young man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed his coat on a single, dust-bitten rocking chair.

Hung on the wall was a photo: it showed a young man who boasted a grey-green uniform. The top rim of his hat was elongated, and a metal ring circumvented it. Beneath the main coat, there was a shirt of lighter coloration, accompanied by a tie that had the same tone. The young man stared longingly into the eyes of the one who was portrayed on the wall. He fought desperately to secure his gaze but couldn’t seem to form the connection. The one within the photo seemed to look somewhere beyond, somewhere above the young man who stood before the photo.

Carefully, the young man unhinged the photo and placed it face down on top of his refrigerator. He winced for a moment, before letting his fingers release the photo’s frame.

“I understand; you’ve made it clear.” The young man closed his eyes and shook his head, “I’m not worthy.”

He walked backward and turned on his heel toward a door which was positioned just past the kitchen. The young man opened the door, kicked off his shoes, and dropped onto the bed. He stared out the ajar door, not letting his gaze give way. ‘If I can’t follow you, then what do I do?’ he pondered. The young man strove to be just like him: such valor, such bravery, such selflessness. He had been properly recognized, awarded the military cross for his actions. Yet now he was face down, deemed too holy to be seen by the ordinary person. Unperturbed by the sounding voices which resonated from exuberant souls, he gradually declined into silence.

He awoke with a crash yet felt no pain. The young man wondered why this was so. He slowly got up, supporting himself by leaning against the wall of… someone else’s house. It was much older. The walls were enshrouded with finely detailed patterns and the floors draped in velvet. The young man’s head turned on a swivel. He observed other things which had been neatly assorted around the hallway. It was lit with candles, providing just enough light so that he could make out a wooden table. It was decorated in uniform patterns that extended off the table’s legs. On top, there was a small tea set. He gazed upon it for a split second, then moved on, down the corridor.

Soon, the young man found himself in front of a rather large pair of doors. Both were like the tea set, engraved and patterned with sincerity. The clean-cut corners and shimmering handles gave the young man the impression that he’d stepped into royalty. Then, a noise: it was distant, but not too far. He went to push the doors open and fell forward, straight through the door.

The young man went wide-eyed; he looked at his hands, and then the door. Then, remembering the distant voice, he stopped and listened for a second. There it was; it seemed to be repeating or reciting something. Getting up, the young man was able to admire the ornate designs which surrounded him.

After glancing around he pressed on, walking to another door which was very similar to the one he’d slipped through before. He went to touch the handle, then retracted his hand slightly. He took a deep breath and slowly inched his hand closer. The young man’s jaw dropped, and eyes widened. His hand seemed to melt straight through; following his hand the young man walked forward. He moved through without a twinge of resistance; yet when he went to pass through the walls he was met with concrete opposition. He pounded on the walls; no vibration, no reverberation, only containment. The wall felt like glass, an ever-present impassible force that could not be felt. ‘Am I a ghost?’ the young man wondered. He examined himself, finding that nothing about him had changed. Without a reasonable answer, he continued towards the chanting voice. Soon he met a final door, the voice seemed to be just beyond. It said, “-bravery had been placed within us. We pressed ahead, the drum of guns giving music to the battlefield. Pits of mud-”

The young man walked through, wondering who it was that had been chanting for so long. After passing through he noticed someone sitting by a fire which had been reduced to warm coals. He sat staring at a worn sheet of paper, reciting a set of words repeatedly. The young man drifted toward this individual. ‘Could this really be him? It couldn’t; he’s been dead for years. But he looks so… similar, it couldn’t not be him. How is this happening? What am I doing? What is he reading?’ The young man peeked over his shoulder and read,

One charge-a man, a face

Torn by a bullet rolled in excrement

Shallow bravery had been placed within us

We pressed ahead, the drum of guns giving music to the battlefield

Pits of mud swallowed the dead

Filling their empty stomachs with silt

‘Over there- machine gun opening fire!’

A volley of bullets came our way

Shredding men, our ranks, damaging morale and slowing our pace

A few brave ones stepped forth, only to be torn in the enemies’ wake

I sat in a pit of mud, waiting for the time to move

I hurled a grenade at the gunner

There was silence; then a thundering explosion

I stepped out from behind my pit, continuing toward the final objective

Both sides fought hard, but numbers won the day

The enemy fell back, giving us the trench

We secured it and hunted down any stragglers

For a moment, I leaned against my gun

Then it came

‘Gas, Gas, Gas!’ an officer called

Fumbling for a moment, I pulled on my mask

A green mist poured over the trench walls

It scorched my skin, I pressed the mask hard against my face

A man was gasping for air, only to taste the green mist

He staggered, croaked, then keeled over onto his knees

We had completed our objective

But at what cost? How many eyes would never see another sunrise?

How many mothers would receive a letter from his majesty?

The consuming wrath of war had ended so many

Left to rot in the gray fields of malice

What was the price of a mile?

Then, he looked straight into the young man’s eyes.

He was awoken.