Kyle Broflovski
KIA Aged 19
Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori

It was the last line that angered Kenny the most. That lie, repeated so many times down the line of uniform graves. Kenny and Kyle had watched as the graves had stretched for mile after ominous mile, growing every day. They had watched as all their old friends were blown to pieces, or found hanging by their own belts, unable to take it anymore. They watched as people they had known their whole lives had become another dot in the unending line.

Cartman had died in the first year. His body was in too many pieces to send home. Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori.

Stan was next. He lasted three years, and then one day he just went out and never came back. Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori.

Kenny and Kyle had clung to each other, as their worlds blew apart around them. In the barracks, next to Kyle, Kenny could close his eyes and ignore the hard floor of the trenches. He could pretend his childhood friends hadn't been killed, he could imagine himself back in south park. Back before this whole mess happened. The people in charge could call it "the first world war". To Kenny and Kyle, it would always be "this whole mess"

They had only been 16 when they joined, blinded by the slogans, genuinely believing that their country needed them. That line had been said then, for the first time. Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori. And they had believed it.

They only had 16 years of life. Kenny didn't class the training, being sent off and living in the trenches life. It was dirt. Kenny realised that being a soldier wasn't the story that he had been told, it wasn't being a hero and being home by Christmas. Being a soldier meant killing people; it meant wiping blood you knew was innocent off your blades. It meant hearing the same line over and over again until he wanted to collapse whenever he heard it. Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori.

That line, that hated line, was now on Kyle's grave. Kenny almost groaned, like an animal in pain. It said nothing about Kyle. It said nothing of the way he could turn the worst situation of their lives into a joke. It said nothing of how he could always win any competition; drink anyone under the table, even Kenny. It said nothing about how he could write beautiful poems about the darkest things, how he would always laugh at himself when he showed them to Kenny. But Kenny knew. Kenny knew how much they meant to Kyle.

Everyone thought Kyle would be the first to go. The young Jewish boy had always been frail; people assumed the harsh conditions of the trenches would finish him. But Kyle was strong, stronger than anyone. Kyle had been the only person to not let the war change him. Kenny had. Kenny had felt himself become numb, become someone who was capable of shooting a man who was begging for his family. Kenny had killed him without a second thought. It was how things went. This was a war, things were different. Kenny knows now that everyone he has killed will be staring, and cheering when he goes to hell.

Kyle had been strong in other ways too. The thought of home had never sent him into a crying wreck. Kenny had once asked him;

"How can you do it? Remembering"

"If I don't remember, what am I fighting for?"

"What was I fighting for?" Kenny wonders, the question on his lips coming out in a cloud of breath. It curls up into the sky. Kenny thinks about the question travelling, reaching the minds of everyone who was ever in this mess.

"It's May Ky. It's been over six months now." Kenny feels stupid, talking to a stone. But Kyle would have wanted to know. "The poppies stopped blooming after you were gone"

Kenny used to love the poppies. They were the only beautiful thing in his life. Now they only remind him of Kyle.

Kyle, turning round, shouting something intelligible.

Kyle, gripping his arm and pushing him down.

Kyle, falling forward as the red spread across his chest.

His best friend, bleeding to death in the poppies, gasping for the air that he couldn't get.

"if I don't remember, what am I fighting for?"

Kenny remembers. But he still doesn't know what he was fighting for.

They had said those words at Kyle's funeral. Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori. That time, Kenny broke. He screamed, screamed all the things he wished he had said before. Now it was too late, the lie had been told, and all his friends had died because of it. Everyone was too happy, the war was almost over, and no one except Kenny had really known Kyle.

Kenny reaches into his pocket, and pulls something out. Kyle's final poem.

Six feet under, though still alive
Immersed in rain, shots and blood
Men crying to Moses, God, or Allah
United by pain

Is this equality?
when no one can go lower

When we have a machine threat
that is when we realise that we are all human

I have lost all brothers but one
the rest killed and forgotten
killed by the words that they gave with the gun
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori

I fight not for my country or king
not for pride, nor any of those things
I fight, I stay, and I survive, for spring
when the poppies bloom

A note of joy in this dismal world
a hope, a chance, a memory
the red, across this field unfurled
the colour of life

Of all the things we will never tell
the fear, the very stink of death
hearing the final tolling of the bell
the hope is the most shameful.

If I should ever die
let it be among this hope
and, my final brother, do not cry
just fight, stay, and survive
for spring
for when the poppies bloom.

"You got your wish Kyle." Kenny murmurs, placing the poem on the grave. Then, he turned and left. The war was over, and it was spring. Unseen by Kenny, the wind lifted the poem, gently whirling it towards the west, sending the final thoughts of Kyle Broflovski along the unending miles of unmarked graves.

This is in memory of everyone who gave their lives in WWI. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori means "it is sweet and right to die for ones country"

thank you abrainiac and CBA to get an account for reviewing "Leaving"

In Memoriam