MOMENTO MORI

 

Sentient may have delivered Major Richard Blaine to an arena more dangerous for him than a gladiator in the Colosseum.

MOMENTO MORI

“Remember thou art but mortal.”

 (In the ancient parade of the Roman Triumph, a public slave would stand behind the honored general in his chariot repeating this phrase. Sadly, Caesar ignored its wisdom.)

 

I looked at the grandness of the briefing room, filled with its illustrious, self-important men and thought dark thoughts.

Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of some noble cause may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under quarreling politicians than under omnipotent moral “Surists.”

The ambitious politician’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated.

But those who throw our lives away for the good of a cause torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.

During this terrible war, many orphaned babies in France were being cared for in overcrowded hospitals.

Though adequate food and physical care were provided, the mortality rate was astonishingly high—until it was noted that the babies who died had the least personal attention.

When all the infants started being given attention, the death rate dropped dramatically.

Human nature requires more than just food, shelter, medication, and exercise for survival. Love provides a cushion for the hard knocks of life and a reason for living.

The haughty expression on these generals’ faces shouted that this lesson was lost on them.

Perhaps that was why they called the men under them “troops” and not “soldiers.”

Soldiers had faces. Troops were faceless. Easier to throw them to the wolves.

The men under them were just chess pieces.

Churchill was sitting here, looking stunned and angry. Sentient had a way of doing that to you. Beside me, Bradley looked much the same.

As a child, Churchill had toy soldiers made of ivory as his family was of the highest elite. I frowned. Now, his toy soldiers bled real blood. Did he realize that?

‘St Paul’s School is just outside London. This is the most significant meeting in your civilization.’

Sentient’s laughter in my mind was mocking.

‘This gathering of the primary leaders: military, civilian and monarchical of the European theatre. They are here to address for the first time to all, the plan to invade France in less than three weeks’ time.’

Her mind-snort was so harsh, I was surprised it didn’t flutter the rich wall hangings.

‘A confederacy of Dunces. They have heard of this ill-advised plan before but have never seen it presented by the principal commanders for each and every part. They are much too impressed to ask needful questions.’

My hair was again ruffled by invisible fingers. ‘That is why you are here … to represent the cannon fodder.’

Bradley whispered a bit laconically as if he shared Sentient’s viewpoint.

“St Paul’s School was where Bernard Montgomery attended as a boy and is now 21st Army Group’s operational headquarters for the invasion.”

 ‘This ancient assembly hall, a large two-story room in an opera house configuration with center stage was chosen by Montgomery for this event.’

Sentient mind-sighed as if on the verge of tears or brittle laughter.

‘This briefing is a microcosm of your pathetic species. Attendance was strictly controlled by MPs with lists of the permitted august personages ranking from King George VI to Division Commanders of all Allied forces.

‘Bah, no lesser lights allowed! See how the dark narrow oak and walnut benches curve around the room in tiered step backs to near the ceiling. The seating protocol was rigidly but politely enforced with stars literally ascending to the heavens. The less stars on the shoulder, the more celestial the seating.’

I felt my left chest patted by invisible fingers. ‘Which is why I transferred all your medals from your pillow to your chest.’

I looked down and mind-groaned, ‘They will just love Rommel’s Iron Cross on an Allied Dress Uniform.’

Sentient chuckled. ‘I know. Especially that Frog-Faced Eisenhower.’

I looked over to Bradley. He, too, was in his dress uniform. ‘Fancy rig, General. I guess Sentient wanted you to attend after all.”

“Why aren’t they all jumping up and pointing at us?”

“Sentient has eased us an onion skin back in time, sir.”

“Me, I understand. What does she want you here for?”

“There are a lot of pompous men here. She thinks it’s time for them to hear from the cannon fodder.”

“Eisenhower will execute you for this.”

“You’re sending me on the first wave to Omaha Beach. What worse could he do than that?”

I shrugged. I looked about the huge chamber.

Division commanders were in the topmost rows with ground Corps commanders and senior Air and Naval personages scattered between them and the first two rows at center stage. General Patton was on the second row with General Bradley to indicate the ranked array.

General Bradley?

I don’t know who looked more shocked, Eisenhower or Bradley. I would have hated to live off the difference.

Eisenhower barked, “Bradley? What are you finally doing here?”

Bradley overcame his shock and shrugged. “You wanted me. I came.”

Eisenhower growled, “Who let you in?”

Bradley smiled coldly. “Sentient.”

Admiral Ramsey, sitting beside Eisenhower, frowned, “Who?”

Going pale, Eisenhower husked, “Later.”

I smiled drily. I just bet it would be later. Much later.

Montgomery had created a huge map of the invasion dimensional model on the floor. There was a small walking space on the sides of the model for presenters to use.

On the edge of the stage, seated in leather chairs, were the King, Churchill, Eisenhower, Montgomery and the most senior Air and Naval commanders along with Alan Brooke, the British Chief of Staff. Most of the attendees were intently smoking, but barely speaking.

My nose wrinkled at the harsh sting of the nicotine in the air. I guessed being back in Time still left me vulnerable to smells.

Lucky me.

Glaring at Bradley, Eisenhower slowly rose from his chair, walked to center stage, hesitated for a moment and began to speak. He did not have to wait for silence and attention. On his facing the audience, there was a sudden collective hush of anticipation.

The invasion had begun.

‘Let the callous donkeys bray.’

I felt my hair brushed back from my forehead. ‘Then, the Cannon Fodder will have his say.’

At that moment, I would rather have been in the Roman Colosseum facing off against gladiators.

At least then, I would have had a sword.