Forgotten, but not Forgotten.

Prologue: for this writing, I was inspired by the forgotten war veterans who lived through the aftermath of war with mental traumas, while other people looked down on those who lived through the war yet admiring those who were Killed In Action.

Throughout the streets, gas lights flickered, the dark fog of night barely disguising a hunched shadow dragging his leg along. Glaring women shielding their children from the man. “Come children! You’ll catch your death of cold!” The stump of his left leg, and his right eyelid drooping down onto an empty socket was visible from all angles.

Youngsters gathered round. “I dare you to go up to him!” “Are you crazy! I’m not! He fought in the war!” Though he wore his Distinguished Service Medal, the man’s limbs no longer belonged in society, as his thoughts trailed into the past.

Inside a whispering enclosure of trees, two Australian soldiers sat in their foxhole. Josh waved to the other, Hugo.

“After all this is over” - he nodded to his rifle - “I’m thinkin’ of taking up the paintbrush and canvas. Whata ‘bout you, Hugo?”

Hugo smiled. “My dad wants me to take over the family shoe making business, but I wanna go to school, and write, of course. Oh, and I’ll take you as my illustrator!”

Josh laughed, raising his eyebrow. “Really? Well, I bet one month’s salary that your writing won’t make no sales without me! Ya know—”

His sentence dropped, however, for in the distance, a crunch reverberated around the forest. They clutched their rifles, standing up, their M1 Steel Pots shielding their eyes. They were met with an apparent silence. “Fire!” Machine gun and rifle bullets whipped through the trees, tearing into the Australian Armed Forces.

Hugo’s eyes darted up to see dark silhouettes advancing into the nearest foxholes. “German paratroopers!” The paratroopers were advancing in their signature blotched green and buckled uniforms, their all-round olive helmets bouncing on their heads. Empty magazines struck down, Hugo and Josh’s bruised hands jamming the locks of their weapons, as the sky whistled with shells.

Hugo threw himself into the snow. “Flak 88s! Get down!”

Yet Josh fell too late. With a tink, a thick red fog burst from the back of his head accompanied by a shard of metal, his face frozen with a fleeting moment of surprise. “No!” Hugo tugged at his comrade, wiping his ashen face with his sleeve. “Josh! Get up!” He tousled Josh’s bloodied uniform, finding his dog tags. After all their campaigns, the stories they made and memories of laughing lay covered in a blanket of snow. A flash of crimson, a bang, and Hugo plunged into darkness.

A train screeched against its own metalwork, as Hugo’s eyes drifted open. The sound split Hugo’s ears, as his hands shot up to cover them, his nerves twitching. His legs doubled over as his eyes spun forward: banners from Victory in Europe Day still hung from the city balconies. Repats, welcome! Hugo looked down from the banners and onto the street.

Hugo had just stepped into a shop when a shopkeeper waved him away. “Clear off, it’s closing time.” Hugo trudged away to hear the shopkeeper welcome a line of men dressed in suits waiting into his shop. A man came up to Hugo, eyes fixed on the medal. 

“Pretty medal you have. I'd pay for it. Name your price.”

Hugo’s fists clenched, teeth baring into his lips. “Go to hell.”

Every eye stared at Hugo as he hobbled into his house, where a phone call awaited Hugo. “Hugo speaking.”

“This is the Department of Veterans’ Affairs here to address your special request.”

Hugo’s muscles tensed. However, with every passing moment, the ghost of a scream flickered: they had refused Hugo’s request for increased healthcare. Hugo’s hands dropped the telephone, sinking onto his knees. The only true friend left was that of his service pistol, a memento of his military service.

Hugo, deprived of any sleep, stared at his revolver, looping it around his fingers. His Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down, his breath trembling. His eyes were swelling with tears. As morning light cracked through crevices, a red-eyed Hugo peered out. His eyes rolled over his company’s photo frame by the window. They were all smiling, sunlight seeping through the gaps, caressing the picture. Hugo could hear the company soldiers’ voices, laughing and talking. Hugo rested his eyes, the faintest of smiles curling around his lips, as he pulled the trigger.

His death was nothing to the world, and the world to him was no more.