Know this, that the tale I am about to recount is fantastic. There is no other word for it. As the reader you will look upon this story as a work of fiction, utter fantasy. I must accept that, though it pains me to do so, you will dismiss it as I had upon hearing it the first time. It is a tale as incredulous in content as it is epic in scale, a saga that puts to shame the tales of the heroes of old. Yet as doubting as I was, and admittedly still am, I have no reason to believe that its author could not attest to its validity. I had known him for many years and his honesty and clarity were cornerstones of his character. To hear him lie was unheard of. He was, as always, an advocate of truth. In my more feverish nights as a writer where I may have lost myself to more disparate thoughts he provided a well of crystal clarity from which to drink. He was a man of logic and a man of reason as upright and sensible as I feel adequate to put into words. His mental health was impeccable and his only vice was a fondness for peaches. I tell you this so that it may dissuade you from your opinions, that you may approach this with an open mind and accept it. For I found his story to give a grim and ominous prophecy, one that will, given that you can read the entire text, shake the core of your very being much as it had mine.

We sat in a small pub in the heart of Birmingham. On the face of it, it was simple and unassuming. A place in which I had always passed on my trips from here to there but had never chanced to go inside. Café’s and coffee shops had always been my haunts. However this changed when I met my friend Stuart, a regular there who had returned from his recent military service in Afghanistan. I will indulge more on that later, or perhaps explain it in his words, but I feel I must first say more on the location. Its walls were modestly coloured, a comforting tea-stained brown and cream. Which was accented at its edges by mahogany skirting that emulated the deep brown ceiling and floorboards. We sat in oaken chairs so worn that they held the warmth of a thousand previous sitters, welcoming the next. Our elbows rested on a rough but equally charming oak table that groaned only so slightly from our weight. Up above our heads a ceiling fan on either side turned lazily as dim bulbs illuminated us, and emulated halos around our heads.

There he sat before me, not an especially large man but quite so that, had I not known him, I would probably have found him intimidating. He had his hair cut short enough so that it only just brushed the tips of his ears (as adverse to my shaggy mane) and his face showed the mark of a man who had not had the chance to shave in weeks. He was a soldier by trade as by now you may have guessed. Yet he had not yet been completely hardened by war, which given later discussion will be rendered incredible, having a warm and endearing smile on his face. 

‘I died in battle, John.’ He said, the grin on his face stripping away all the severity of his words. It seemed only a passing memory that he delighted in recounting, and as he spoke there was a look on his face that I might have mistaken for delirium. I gave myself a second to make sure I’d heard him correctly. 

‘I think the man before me would beg to differ, Stuart.’ I replied, assuming that clearly he was joking, or mixed up his choice of words. Stuarts face fell, the soft grin turning to a thin sharp frown. 

‘You don’t believe me’ He said, his eyes staring into the pits of my irises. So pale that they shone out from his dark face, blue eyes on a black man were a rarity, Stuart’s were almost white. I began to feel uncomfortable. I felt some strange danger hiding in wait. 

‘Oh I do’ I stammered, ‘or that I believe you meant to say ‘I nearly died’. But I wouldn’t believe that my oldest friend had died in the war, and went on to come home and ask me out for a pint.’  

Stuart sighed and leaned back in his chair. His penetrating gaze turned from me and instead looked out the window to the Birmingham street, and the passers-by. It was raining now. 

‘I meant what I said John. But I can’t blame you. Even I think it sounds stupid. But I died out there in bloody sand.’ Stuart stopped speaking, and I felt the atmosphere of our conversation fall. He sat there staring out the window, lost in thought. And I dared not speak and disturb him from it. I wondered at what scenes my friend was witness to in his own head. What horrid memories the heat of war had planted there. He took a deep breath, and started speaking.

‘We were in a convoy, me and the squad I was assigned to. I barely remember what we were doing now; it all seemed so long ago. Our Bomb-guy went ahead before us to check for landmines and hidden explosives. Richard I think his name was. He was generally great at his job. The best, we called him the bloodhound, there wasn’t anything we didn’t think he could sniff out.’ A faint smile passed his lips ‘I miss his stupid jokes.’

‘What happened?’ I said, hating the bluntness of it, the simplicity of asking him to continue. I felt like a vulture now, pecking at a wound. 

‘Well I guess Bloodhound missed a charge. The convoy we were in went head over tail. I was fine then, I’m not sure who else got out after me but someone did. We drew our guns to face the ambush that had been set up for us. I managed to wound a few of them. But sooner or later I felt the bullets bite into my legs. Imagine being burnt and stabbed at the same time, that’s kind of how it feels. I don’t know, I lack the way with words you have John, I’m a fighter not a writer.’ He grinned dryly

I gave an unconvincing smile back ‘and I‘m a writer not a fighter. Is this when you died?’

Stuart nodded slowly ‘I think so. I blacked out and felt my…I don’t know, mind, soul, consciousness whatever, be ripped from my body. I couldn’t feel my arms, legs, or anything. I just ‘was’. I even forgot who I was. I was the soldier, nothing more.’

‘And presumably you were revived at some point by medics in your squad?’ I said, wanting to know how the story ends. Stuart shook his head again. ‘No John, I’m not done.’ He pointed to the ale in my hands ‘you might want to neck that while you can, this is where it gets weird.’ I nodded and finished my drink. My head began to buzz, but I was still lucid. I gave a gesture for him to continue.

‘Well alright, I’m going to go metaphysical here so bear with me. When I was separated into my, I guess I was kind of an astral form, I wasn’t me anymore. Not totally. It was like the name Stuart Rankin had no meaning to me, where I was born didn’t matter, I forgot my family and friends and had a mind only on my rank. I knew myself only as ‘the soldier’ and I knew I was on this planet to fight.’

‘So it was like you were boiled down to one aspect of your character?’ I said, only just about following him. 

‘Yeah I guess. But then the hallucinations started.’ He cupped his head in his hands on the table. 

‘The hallucinations?’ I waved to the pub lord and asked for a drink for Stuart. 

‘As the Soldier, I couldn’t see anything. It was just black. Or more than that even, all I could see was a black mist swirling in front of my eyes. Then there was a brilliant flash of white, like I’d just been hit in the head. And I was in a war again.’ He paused, obviously wanting me to ask him which war. I took the bait, not knowing what to expect. 

‘Where were you Stuart?’ I asked, leaning forward in anticipation. 

‘France, 59 AD. I looked through the eyes of a Centurion as he was killed by Gaelic warriors. Stabbed right in the chest.’

‘That’s a powerful imagination you have there Stuart’ I said, he must have been dreaming it. 

‘No man, I felt it. That was more than imagination.’ He looked at me again with those pale blue eyes ‘It was a memory. I’m sure of it. I felt the blade writhing in my guts and I could smell the sweat of the warrior. The sound of iron meeting iron echoed in my ears and in my heart burned a hatred for those barbarians like I’ve never felt.’ He paused, breathing heavily; I had never seen him so riled up before. It was as if bloodlust had risen in renewed vigour in his veins. He darted his eyes at me and took a moment to regain his composure. 

 ‘Anyway it didn’t last long,’ he said, calming down ‘There was another flash and I was somewhere else, somewhere later, another battle in another war. This next one was 772 AD, I was a Saxon in York and I spoke in Old English. I don’t even know what I said. But it seemed to get my men riled up. We didn’t win though, I took a spear through the eye in that one, the all-father would have been proud.’ He gazed at me again, his eyes wide and wild ‘Don’t you see John? Different lives, different wars. I fought Turks and Zulu, Germans and Vikings.  I was a warrior in every damn crusade. I was a boy in more than a few and a man in most. I fought in. he paused and a sob of incredulity passed out from between his lips. ‘God, I fought in world war two. I had a name. Jason Turnpike.’ His sad eyes looked up at me ‘I googled the name when I got back. Found the family, found the brother who watched him die. I was blown up by a shell. I wasn’t dreaming. It was real John! Every life was real!’

The patrons began to stare at us, Stuart became frantic, I couldn’t take it anymore, and He had to be insane. ‘Stuart! For god sakes get a hold of yourself!’ I punched him in the shoulder, it wasn’t hard but it was enough to startle him into being quiet. He regained composure ‘Thanks John, you always knew how to shut me up.’ 

We sat in silence. A bar worker brought us our pints and hurried off, trying to be as little involved with us as possible. I couldn’t blame the poor girl. ‘John you have to believe me’ Stuart whispered ‘It isn’t just me, I saw men fighting with me in Afghanistan who I fought with in Normandy.’ 

‘So what are you saying?’ I asked furiously ‘That you have a billion past lives like some fucking time lord? That-’

‘That we have no free will?’ Stuart interrupted, a dark grin on his face again. ‘That we have ultimate destinies that play out endlessly, every life ending the same, at-least for me. We have callings that we feel compelled to act upon. You became a writer. Don't you think that you may have once been one of the literary greats? Homer, Milton…

‘Maybe even Shakespeare?’ I added sarcastically. It seemed to go over Stuart’s head as he nodded. ‘Quite possible. I however am born a soldier to die a soldier. I am the Eternal Soldier, Destined to fight as long as there are wars to fight in. Until now. I was brought back to base camp and patched up. They said I was dead for an hour. A Remarkable procedure. But I’m the first in the chain of my lives not to die in combat.’

'What do you think it means?’ I asked, pulling on my jacket to leave as quickly as I could. 

‘I dunno John, maybe it’s just not my time yet, maybe I’ll get called back, or maybe things aren’t as concrete as I think. There was another vision, that i cant be sure about.' He looked at the glass in his hands. 

'What' I asked, 'You saw into the future?'

Without a sound, stuart looked up from the glass, fixing me again with that penetrating icy blue stare. Slowly but surely, he nodded, his face grim.

'I didnt see too much, I could feel the gun in my hands, I could tell i had this damn exosuit on, you know like the one's they're developing, Damn thing locked down and i couldnt move. I was buried under what felt like a ton of rubble. Then all i heard was an ear shattering explosion, i went deaf then, but i could still feel the heat.' He started shaking like a war vet suffering PTSD. 'Oh God John the heat, it was only for  half a second, but i still feel it now when i get too warm. That war, whenever it is, Is bad. Really bad. ' Suddenly Stuart leapt forward in his seat and grabbed my collar. 'I have to stop it john! i have to!  Don't you see?  This is why i didnt die! God’s chosen me to stop it! You can;t let them send me back!' He was Mad, i was sure of it. Without thinking i punched him in the face, I knew it would take more than i could dish out to floor a former marine, but It was enough to startle him into letting go. I ran straight back to my flat and locked the door behind me. We didn’t speak for weeks after that. Then a few months later I heard Stuart had been called back, and was killed in action. I remembered his tale then, and shuddered. And every so often I have the most vivid dreams pertaining to a Mr Poe and a certain black bird outside his window.