The Quarrel
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: Forgiveness comes in many forms - and sometimes when you least expect it...
_____________________________________________________________________
The ten days of constant bombardment stopped. The third battle of Ypres was about to begin.
Major John Higgins, Royal Marines, glanced around the dug out, labelled by the troops, The Ritz. The dull light from the solitary lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom as he faced his officers. He spoke slowly and precisely, “It’s time.”
With faces as dismal as the morning sky, the group walked out of The Ritz into the pouring rain.
Everyone waited in an unearthly silence. John removed his pistol as the shrill of hundreds of whistles signalled the advance. Bloody marvellous, he thought, every Hun for miles will know we’re coming. The scene would be the same in the miles of sodden trenches as officers led their men into no man's land. As a rolling wave, the mass of infantry advanced into the storm of bullets.
With the aid of a mirror on a stick, John looked left and right. The next line was ready. Through the drifting smoke he saw the wounded crawling in the mud, screaming, dying. Bewildered men stood and staggered until cut down by the next swathe of bullets.
The whistles blew again and with a haughty, “Come on chaps,” John led his men over the top.
Twenty miles east of the Devil’s Bowl in Sussex stood a Tudor farmhouse, John’s home. Mentally, he prepared himself for the hostile greeting. He knew very well that his father, a life long pacifist, hated the fact that he was in the military. The autumn night closed in and the distant storm clouds scudded across the sky.
Greg, John’s father, opened the door and on seeing him went to close it.
“Father, please.” John’s right foot prevented it shutting. “It’s time we settled our differences.”
Greg glared at his son. “I suppose you’d better come in but you can’t stay.”
John followed his father into the large comfortable lounge.
Frustrated by the bitterness, John knew that time had not begun to heal the wounds.
With an almost imperceptible shrug, Greg asked, “Why are you here? May God have mercy on you.”
John felt angry. “I know you don’t see it the way I do. Sometimes I think we talk a different language but this is the war to end all wars.”
The farm dogs barked noisily and scratched on the kitchen door knowing John was there.
“And what’s that ribbon on your chest?” asked his father.
Thinking it the wiser option, John played his medal down. “It’s a Distinguished Service Order. They gave it to me as a reward for doing my duty.”
“What do you know about duty? Your duty is here, with me, on the farm.”
“You’ve no idea what it’s like. No army has ever served in such conditions, the freezing mud and relentless rain. We fight for peace and I’m proud to be part of it.”
Greg seemed disconcerted, thrown off guard. “Your mother, God bless her, believed the same as I and for the life of me, why you want to go and try and get yourself killed I’ll never know. I have friends in high places who could arrange your discharge. This farm needs a younger man. It needs you.”
John searched his father’s face for something, a glimmer of acceptance, anything.
“Are we winning this war?” his father asked grudgingly.
John answered without hesitation. “Winning, no one’s going to win. The world will run out of soldiers before that happens.” He groped for words. “It’s such a bloody waste, we gain no ground and good men die in the process.”
“John,” Greg said defensively, “you can try and prove me wrong on every aspect of this war,” his voice faltered, “but I have always thought that the men who love war were glory hunters. Maybe I’ve been wrong, it’s good, brave men who give their lives, men like you. I can’t change what I believe, that would take more time than I have.” He shivered as cold surrounded him. “I’m glad you came. Keep in touch when you can. I’d like that.”
The deluge began with a crash of lightning; the lounge lights dimmed, went bright and finally went out.
“Damn this weather. Don’t move. I’ll get some candles.”
With a taper from the fire, he lit three candles and placed them around the room. As the last one nestled in its holder, there was a hammering on the door. Greg muttered something under his breath and moved to open it. The rain lashed at the wearer of a post office uniform, his cape barely protecting him.
“Telegram, sir. You need to sign for it.”
Greg looked at this soaking wet boy then at the piece of paper. “I think you have the wrong address.”
“It says Mister Higgins, Tudor Farm. This is the farm and I know you’re Mr Higgins.”
Greg signed and watched the lad push his bike down the muddy track. In the village these accursed bits of paper entered too many homes. He closed the door and turned. “John,” he said, “the army have made a mistake.”
He stopped, the flickering candles shone on a quiet, empty room.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Forgiveness comes in many forms - and sometimes when you least expect it...
_____________________________________________________________________
The ten days of constant bombardment stopped. The third battle of Ypres was about to begin.
Major John Higgins, Royal Marines, glanced around the dug out, labelled by the troops, The Ritz. The dull light from the solitary lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom as he faced his officers. He spoke slowly and precisely, “It’s time.”
With faces as dismal as the morning sky, the group walked out of The Ritz into the pouring rain.
Everyone waited in an unearthly silence. John removed his pistol as the shrill of hundreds of whistles signalled the advance. Bloody marvellous, he thought, every Hun for miles will know we’re coming. The scene would be the same in the miles of sodden trenches as officers led their men into no man's land. As a rolling wave, the mass of infantry advanced into the storm of bullets.
With the aid of a mirror on a stick, John looked left and right. The next line was ready. Through the drifting smoke he saw the wounded crawling in the mud, screaming, dying. Bewildered men stood and staggered until cut down by the next swathe of bullets.
The whistles blew again and with a haughty, “Come on chaps,” John led his men over the top.
Twenty miles east of the Devil’s Bowl in Sussex stood a Tudor farmhouse, John’s home. Mentally, he prepared himself for the hostile greeting. He knew very well that his father, a life long pacifist, hated the fact that he was in the military. The autumn night closed in and the distant storm clouds scudded across the sky.
Greg, John’s father, opened the door and on seeing him went to close it.
“Father, please.” John’s right foot prevented it shutting. “It’s time we settled our differences.”
Greg glared at his son. “I suppose you’d better come in but you can’t stay.”
John followed his father into the large comfortable lounge.
Frustrated by the bitterness, John knew that time had not begun to heal the wounds.
With an almost imperceptible shrug, Greg asked, “Why are you here? May God have mercy on you.”
John felt angry. “I know you don’t see it the way I do. Sometimes I think we talk a different language but this is the war to end all wars.”
The farm dogs barked noisily and scratched on the kitchen door knowing John was there.
“And what’s that ribbon on your chest?” asked his father.
Thinking it the wiser option, John played his medal down. “It’s a Distinguished Service Order. They gave it to me as a reward for doing my duty.”
“What do you know about duty? Your duty is here, with me, on the farm.”
“You’ve no idea what it’s like. No army has ever served in such conditions, the freezing mud and relentless rain. We fight for peace and I’m proud to be part of it.”
Greg seemed disconcerted, thrown off guard. “Your mother, God bless her, believed the same as I and for the life of me, why you want to go and try and get yourself killed I’ll never know. I have friends in high places who could arrange your discharge. This farm needs a younger man. It needs you.”
John searched his father’s face for something, a glimmer of acceptance, anything.
“Are we winning this war?” his father asked grudgingly.
John answered without hesitation. “Winning, no one’s going to win. The world will run out of soldiers before that happens.” He groped for words. “It’s such a bloody waste, we gain no ground and good men die in the process.”
“John,” Greg said defensively, “you can try and prove me wrong on every aspect of this war,” his voice faltered, “but I have always thought that the men who love war were glory hunters. Maybe I’ve been wrong, it’s good, brave men who give their lives, men like you. I can’t change what I believe, that would take more time than I have.” He shivered as cold surrounded him. “I’m glad you came. Keep in touch when you can. I’d like that.”
The deluge began with a crash of lightning; the lounge lights dimmed, went bright and finally went out.
“Damn this weather. Don’t move. I’ll get some candles.”
With a taper from the fire, he lit three candles and placed them around the room. As the last one nestled in its holder, there was a hammering on the door. Greg muttered something under his breath and moved to open it. The rain lashed at the wearer of a post office uniform, his cape barely protecting him.
“Telegram, sir. You need to sign for it.”
Greg looked at this soaking wet boy then at the piece of paper. “I think you have the wrong address.”
“It says Mister Higgins, Tudor Farm. This is the farm and I know you’re Mr Higgins.”
Greg signed and watched the lad push his bike down the muddy track. In the village these accursed bits of paper entered too many homes. He closed the door and turned. “John,” he said, “the army have made a mistake.”
He stopped, the flickering candles shone on a quiet, empty room.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.