I always wanted to be a soldier, but my parents would rather I be a priest. This is my crusade.

The year is 1917, the world is at war. And I always wanted to be part of it. However, I am the last son of the last son of the last son of a great priest. Religion runs deeper in my blood than the familial bond. I nonetheless spent much of my youth trailing after the local soldiers, playing with wooden sticks and watching them drill.<br><br>But by the time I was 16 my parents, my grandparents, my aunts, my uncles, my family friends, the local reverend, and the parish council had convinced me that enlisting was a mortal sin. So I join the church.<br><br>I throw myself into my role, even joining the choir. Every Sunday I sit and watch as boys younger than me walk past on their way to fight for our freedom. Not being one for hymns, I made one up for myself:<br><br>“Dear lord, I pray that I shall see<br><br>The blood of the wicked,<br><br>Just as I shall be<br><br>Free of this church.<br><br>Hallowed be thy mane,<br><br>Thy will be done, but not by me,<br><br>On earth as it is in heaven,<br><br>But I will be in hell.<br><br>Give us this day our daily bread,<br><br>With butter and bacon,<br><br>And forgive us for we are weak,<br><br>For you are a dick.<br><br>Lead us not into temptation,<br><br>But deliver us from evil,<br><br>For thine is the kingdom,<br><br>Forever and ever,<br><br>Amen.”<br><br>It doesn’t exactly have the same ring as the original, but I suppose that’s what I get for being an atheist. Twice a week, I see a chaplain friend of mine and we go for a walk in the graveyard, while I tell him of my desires to go to war. And twice a week he reminds me that the lord is a harsh mistress. It rains a lot in England, and the mud is hellish.<br><br>By 1918, I’ve had enough. So I steal the church funds and run away. I go to the train station, buy a ticket to the nearest port where troopers are leaving for the front, and board the ship. My god, it was a shitshow. I hid in a lifeboat at the top of the mast. I got seasick and hungover. The only food I had was a bottle of holy wine my family insisted was to be “blessed by the lord”, but I think the “holy” part may be a lie. <br><br>I chickened out and asked a sailor to let me down, but they wouldn’t. I thought I was dead. But I survived, and as we ported in France the only thing I could think of was to get in and out as quickly as possible. I didn’t care what I had to do, where I had to go or who I had to kill. I only had one goal:<br><br>To serve.