Their funerals were yesterday. There were tears, and lost looks. Julies band director and the school principal stood side by side near the minister. They both looked haggard. The toll of this dieaster would run far. I doubted anyone in the school was untouched, hell I doubted anyone in the town was untouched. Things like this just didn't happen, not in Greensboro anyway. The lever that would lower Julie into the ground was right in front of me. The minister nodded. I knew what I was supposed to do, but I couldn't. My hands wouldn't move. I watched as the minister stepped up beside me and slowly lowered her into the ground. At the last moment I peeled the wedding ring from my hand. The one her mother had placed there nineteen years ago. The one I had worn even after the divorce four years ago. I looked around one last time, hoping to see Donna rushing up. She wasn't there. Not for Julie's sweet sixteen, not for her graduation, not even now. I had forgiven her for it all, at Julies. He had taken their shillings (and photograph) without fuss, a line of similar couples were waiting in a queue for their likenesses to be captured. They had returned a few days later to collect their squares of paper bearing stiff unemotional portraits. There had been no time, nor the money for many attempts at an artistic pose or to adjust an expression. They had married hastily, within the week. A borrowed wedding gown for Agnes, just a few friends and their immediate families present to witness the miserable event. Now he had been sent to Belgium to prevent the Kaiser from invading England and bayonetting all of the nation’s babies. So here he was in a poorly built trench with wooden planks that were both holding the sides and lying in the mud so that the men could walk more easily, together with a disparate bunch of men who were mostly from the same city. They were replacements for men who had been killed in the same spot — men who themselves had been replacements for other men.
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