The Forgotten Village
Young Evelyn hadn’t
set out to be a war reporter. In early 1940s, women seldom did so, but young
Evelyn was different. She was a budding journalist, eager and ambitious yet
confined to writing human interest stories for the morning daily. She had grown
up in a household where current events and world affairs were freely discussed
over dinner. Often she would hear the stories of the Great War and chafe at the
limitations placed on her by the virtue of her gender. She yearned to cover the
stories that mattered, stories that shaped the world.
In pursuit of this cause,
she repeatedly applied for overseas assignments but was only met with
rejection. “The front line is a cruel place, one not for a woman” she’d often
hear the editor say but her tenacity knew no bounds. She was driven by a belief
to tell the war-bound tales from where the bombs fell and lives were torn
apart.
Her breakthrough,
however, came unexpectedly. An older correspondent, tom Anderson, was critically
injured in a bombardment at the frontline and the paper needed someone to take
his place on short notice. Seeing that nobody was willing to sign-up for the
associated risks, Evelyn seized the opportunity, pressing the case with such
intensity that she finally broke down her editor.
“You are there to
observe and report, nothing more” was the last piece of advice that the editor
gave as he hesitantly handed over the assignment to Evelyn, who knew better
than to take his advice. She wasn’t going just to observe. She was going to
immerse herself in the reality of war, to see what others refused to see…
***
When she first arrived
in London, the reality of war hit her—the smell of smoke, the rubble of
bombed-out buildings, the worn faces of people who had endured too much.
Amidst this chaos she
managed to befriend Mister Anderson, a seasoned war correspondent, with a
deep-seated compassion under his gruff exterior. Under his mentorship, Evelyn
learned the ropes of war reporting—the logistics of embedding with troops, the
delicate balance of maintaining objectivity while becoming intimately connected
with the people whose lives she was documenting. She was ambitiously preparing
for another breakthrough, driven by an insatiable need to understand the human
cost of war at the front. It took months of persistence but she was finally
assigned to cover an American unit heading into the heart of occupied France.
It was a rare opportunity for a woman, and she knew it.
The soldier were
however wary of her at first; after all she was an outsider, a civilian and
woman. But that couldn’t deter young Evelyn, who proved herself through sheer
grit, enduring the same hardships they did—sleeping in foxholes, eating
rations, and marching through mud-soaked fields.
And that’s how found
herself in the cold, quiet village on that fateful morning, standing at the
edge of something she could never have prepared for.
***
The cold morning air
bit into Evelyn Harris’s skin as she stepped out of the armored car. The sky
was a flat gray expanse, the sun obscured by thick clouds that seemed to mirror
the somber mood of the soldiers around her. They stood at the entrance of a small
French village, one of many scattered across the war-torn countryside. A heavy,
unnatural silence hung over the village, more oppressive than the cold and more
depressing then the gloomy weather.
Evelyn wrapped her mud
stained coat more tightly around her--- a futile gesture against a chill that
had nothing to do with the weather. She followed Captain Reynolds, who walked
with a steady and deliberate pace, his each step echoing in stillness against her
heart pounding discreetly within her chest.
“Stay close. I have a
bad feeling about this one” Captain Reynolds said, his voice low and gravelly
marked by a cautious edge that made her pulse quicken.
The squad moved
through the narrow streets, their boots crunching on the frozen ground. The air
seemed thick with the acrid smell of smoke and a lingering stench of gunpowder
however it mingled with something else- a faint yet unmistakable stench.
As they rounded a
corner, the source of smell became horrifyingly clear. Evelyn’s stomach
churned, her breath catching her throat as a heart-wrenching scene unfurled
before her. The village square, once the heart of the community, was now a
scene from a nightmare. Bodies lay scattered across the cobblestones—men, women,
children. Their lifeless forms were contorted in unnatural positions, some
still clutching each other, as if seeking comfort in their final moments.
“Oh my god” the words
escaped her in a choked gasp.
Captain Reynolds
stopped beside her, his face a mask of grim determination with his fists
clenching at his sides. He ordered the soldiers to check for survivors, but
there was an understanding that none would be found.
Evelyn meanwhile
fumbled with her notebook and made a futile attempt to anchor herself in the
routine of reporting, but the horror before her made it impossible to focus.
Her pen hovered above the page, but no words came.
One of the soldiers,
Private Sam Harris, reported back with a grim expression. “Ma’am I found this
in the rubble” his voice thick with emotion. He was holding something- a doll,
dirtied and torn, with its glass eyes staring blankly ahead.
Evelyn’s hands
trembled as she took the doll from him. Her eyes oscillated between the doll
and the small body lying nearby- a little girl not more than five. She felt
tears welling up in her eyes but she blinked them back. She had to hold it
together and document this horror for the world to know.
“W-why? Why would they
do this?” Evelyn felt a sob rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down.
Reynolds looked at
her, his eyes reflecting a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion.
“Retaliation, maybe,” he said, his voice flat. “Or maybe just because they
could. Sometimes there’s no reason that makes sense.”
Evelyn nodded numbly,
unable to tear her eyes away from the little girl that lay peacefully before
her. She knelt beside the child, her hand hovering over the girl’s forehead but
couldn’t bring herself to touch her for she seemed eerily at peace, as if she
were merely sleeping, unaware of violence that took her.
Hesitantly, she pulled
out her camera, her hands still shaking as she took a few photos, each click of
the shutter a painful reminder of the reality she was capturing. She had seen
death before, of course, on the battlefields, in the field hospitals—but
nothing like this. Nothing so cold, so deliberate...
They spent hours in
the village, gathering what little information they could. There were no
survivors, no one left to tell the story of what had happened. The soldiers
moved silently, their faces set in grim lines. There was nothing to be said, no
words that could ease the weight of the tragedy before them.
As the afternoon sun
dipped below the horizon, casting grim shadows across the village, a deep and
bone-weary exhaustion settled over her. Her mind was numb and her body was
heavy with grief and horror.
Back at the camp, Evelyn sat alone in her tent, her
typewriter in-front of her. The blank page stared back at her, a daunting
expanse of white. She just couldn’t muster up the courage to convey the
enormity of what she had witnessed, to make the world see the faces of the
innocent lives lost.
Meanwhile Capt. Reynolds entered her makeshift workspace. He
had sensed her desolation; after all she wasn’t accustomed to seeing the
brutalities of mankind like they all were as soldiers.
“How do I write this?” She asked sensing his presence, her
voice breaking “How do I make anyone understand?”
Reynolds placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of
solidarity that felt more like a lifeline. “You write it because you have to,”
he said softly. “Because if you don’t, no one will ever know. Those people
deserve to be remembered.”
Evelyn nodded, tears spilling over despite her efforts to
hold them back. “I’ll write it,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I’ll
make sure they’re not forgotten.”
Her resolve struck an odd cord inside her as she began to
type; her words flowing raw and unfiltered. The emotions and images of the day
poured out of her as she wrote of the village, the smoke and death, the
lifeless bodies of children who would never grow up. Above all she wrote of the
life of the soldiers along her, their quiet, stoic grief and Captain Reynolds,
who kept going for the sake of the lives that depended upon him. She watched him, lost in thought, his
eyes distant, scanning the desolate plains. Within her conscience, she felt a
deep reverence for him—a man whose burdens were incomprehensible, his grief
unparalleled, yet who pressed on for the sake of those who still depended on
him.
The next morning, Evelyn’s article was dispatched back to
New York. It was published within days, the front page haunted by image of the
doll she had found in the rubble. Beside it, the headline posed an unsettling
question: “For whom do these men fight if there are none left?”- beneath
which lay a photograph of Captain Reynolds’s platoon.
-The
End
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