A Rich Man’s War

A Rich Man’s War

The men who wanted war never smelled it. They sat in cosy offices warmed by polished wood and quiet agreement, tracing borders with clean fingers, moving lives with the slide of a pen. They spoke of strategy as if it were a game, of honour as if it were theirs to spend. War, to them, was something to be chosen, something to be craved, because it gave them power without risk. Down below, the craving did not exist.

Jonah was a labourer before he was a soldier. His hands knew brick dust and splinters, not rifles. When the notice came, nailed crooked to the boarding house door, the words were neat and official. They did not mention hunger, or fear, or how a body feels when it realises it has been sent to die.

At the station, officials shook hands and posed for photographs. They spoke loudly about courage. Jonah noticed none of them were boarding the train.

The poor men stood shoulder to shoulder, coats thin, boots borrowed, futures already spent. Some joked to hide it. Some prayed. Most stared at the ground. Silence was all they could afford. On the front line, war showed its real face.

It was mud and waiting, cold that lived inside the bones. It was learning names just in time to lose them. It was discovering that bravery often looked like terror that still moved forward.

Letters arrived from the capital filled with praise. The big wigs spoke of progress and sacrifice, a word that never cost them anything. Each speech ended in applause. Each one sent more men forward. Men in cosy offices chose a bloody war they did not fight. No, it was the poor sods who were sent instead, used like toys on a board.They did the deeds, they carried the weight, they paid the price.The big wigs never helped at all.

They ordered. They signed. They sent men to a death sentence. A move made, a box ticked, a victory claimed. Game on, game won, until the bodies piled high enough to call it success.

When the war finally ended, the officials declared victory. Glasses were raised. Memoirs were written. They spoke of hard choices as if they had made them with their own flesh. Jonah came home with fewer men than he left with, and less of himself. There was no parade waiting. No speech for the nights that never ended. The world had already moved on.The offices stayed warm. The chairs stayed full. The board was cleared. The pieces forgotten. And somewhere, quietly, the next war was already being born.