Speculative Screenplay - Dulce et Decorum Est

EXT. – OPEN FRENCH TERRAIN - DUSK
CAMERA on the muddy earth.  A soldier’s boot comes abruptly into view, splashing into the mud.  It leaves at a walking place, followed by another one.  The third foot to enter frame isn’t even wearing a boot.

PAN SLOWLY across the sight of MORGAN’S COMPANY, on the march across the drizzly, darkened terrain.  The men are all in a miserable state.  They are disheveled, unshaven and dirt-smeared.  Uniforms are torn and muddy, and some men are missing helmets or boots.  They trudge bowed over, almost stumbling through the sludge.  The look on everyone’s face is that of blank fatigue and despair.

A coughing fit sounds out here and there, and a few soldiers murmur what could either be curses or prayers.  The only other sound is the splat of boots on mud.

MORGAN’S VO
Nobody thought of winning anymore.  There were no more songs about marching into Berlin.  There were no more songs about marching home.  That was all extinguished, buried beneath the mud of the trenches.  All we wanted was a moment’s peace, a bit of rest.

The faint, whistling noise of gas-shells slowly fades in, coming from somewhere behind the column.  The men don’t notice it at first.  Then, we see alarmed realization appear on a WATCHFUL OFFICER’S face.

MORGAN’S VO (CONT’D)
And even that was denied to us.

WATCHFUL OFFICER
Gas!  GAS!

The cry is repeated throughout the line.  The men are suddenly shaken out of their apathy: they almost explode into motion, taking off helmets and fumbling for the gas masks at their belts.  With clumsy haste, they pull the bag-like masks on.  

MORGAN looks around at his comrades, whose faces are now hidden from view.  We hear the muffled sound of his quick breathing through the mask.

Suddenly, there is a MAN’S strangled shout to the side.  TOMMY, bare-faced, stumbles out of line.  He has somehow lost his mask, and without it, he is completely vulnerable.  He coughs violently, repeatedly, each fit worse than the last.  He falls to his knees, reaching desperately and half-blindly for his comrades.

EXTREME CLOSE-UP of MORGAN’s mask-covered face, where we can see the tiny, warped REFLECTION of TOMMY’S writhing form on the lens.

EXT. - OPEN FRENCH TERRAIN - DUSK
CUT to TOMMY lying on the back of a moving, shaking wagon.  He appears barely conscious, but is obviously suffering greatly.  Around him, the COMPANY is back on the move

Each of TOMMY’S ragged breaths brings forth the gargling of liquid in his airways.  Dark blood trickles slowly from the corner of his mouth.  Between his eyelids, almost shut, only the whites of his eyes are visible.

MORGAN and SAMUEL walk behind the wagon, now unmasked - they have passed out of the gassed area.  SAMUEL face displays a mixture of grave concern and desperate hope.  MORGAN simply looks dejectedly at the ground.

Faint shouts filter in from the front of the line.  The two men look up.

SAMUEL:
We’re there.  
(To TOMMY)  
Tom, we’re there.

COMPANY SOLDIER
(Offscreen)
Stretcher!

The call is echoed off in the distance.

SAMUEL:
Just hold on.  They’ll fix you up.  Just hold on.

CLOSE-UP of TOMMY, whose head rolls slowly to the side.  He gives no indication that he’s heard.

QUICK FADE TO BLACK

MORGAN’S VO
It took three days for Tommy to die.

EXT. – BRITISH TRENCH - DAYTIME

SLOWLY FADE IN.  
MORGAN sits with his back against the trench wall amidst his FELLOW SOLDIERS.  Nobody speaks, movement is minimal.  SAMUEL, in particular, sits closed off from the rest of the world, staring blankly ahead of him.

CAMERA passes the soldiers, one by one, as MORGAN speaks.

MORGAN’S VO (CONT’D)
In that, he was lucky.  We’d heard of some lasting ten or more, slowly wasting away with eyes blinded and lungs rotted.
(BEAT)
The worst of it all was that we barely felt a thing.

Morgan takes a weathered booklet out – his book of war poems – and leafs through it at random.  On the dirty, crumpled paper, we can catch close-up glimpses of the words of the patriotic poems, the occasional illustration of brave British soldiers and the wicked Kaiser.

MORGAN’S VO (CONT’D)
We went to war knowing we could lose our lives.  Not expecting it, no, but knowing it all the same.  None of us thought we could also lose our souls.

CLOSE-UP of Morgan’s expressionless face.  His jaw clenches subtly.  His fingers, holding one of the pages, tighten their grip.  Then, he rips it out.

MORGAN’S VO (CONT’D)
We played no game out there.  We won no glory.

Morgan systematically tears the booklet to pieces.  CAMERA on the scraps of paper as they flutter  to the trench floor.  The muddy water soaks into them, slowly obliterating the writing.

MORGAN’S VO (CONT’D)
And, in dying for king and country, we tasted only bitterness.

FADE TO BLACK