The Green Fields of France
A Daisy Isabella Bell Special
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

In my grandmother's formal dining room in what we in the Bell family called “The Old Manor House” there hung an old oil painting of a young man with longish brown hair and crystal clear blue eyes that seemed almost ice cold. He was painted wearing an old fashioned three piece suit. I was five going on six when I first noticed the old oil painting. I remember looking at that picture when I was young and I could not help but think how scared and frightened he looked though the artist that had painted him, and the picture wanted to make him seem heroic, stoic, and bold.

My grandmother, Edith Josephine Bell said that it was the last known painting of one “James Alexander Bell” who at eighteen proved he was a “Real Man” by taking his life savings and boarding a train in downtown Vicksburg. He then had traveled to the fable Northern Lands. There under the cover of darkness he had crossed over the board and gone into Canada and as soon as he was safe across he had enlisted in their armed forces. He then boarded a troop ship in Nova Scotia and then he sailed to Liverpool where he then was put on a troop train that took him to Plymouth and from there another ship to France.

While there in France he was killed, shot through the heart by a German Marksman early on the morning of July 1, 1916. He fell in the opening shots of what became known as “The Battle of Somme”. My Grandmother proudly told me that I'd been named after him and that that was an honor and that I should do everything and anything to bring honor to his name. And that I should never do anything that would bring dishonor for him. For he had died a hero and he had fought and died for “The British Empire.” and since he died so young. It was up to me to carry on his name.

Now all that had gone to hell in a purse when I came out to my family as transgender. When that bit of news broke, my grandmother's sanity or what was left of it had snapped and she started on the warpath. First the old bitch had turned her wrath toward my father, saying if he'd been a real man I would have never turned out like this. She then turned her ire toward mother saying it had been her “Damn Yankee Blood” that had caused me to turn transgender. Finally she blamed her middle son, my uncle who I was staying with at the time in Benton.

Her twisted logic being that me coming out as transgender was fault of the Episcopal Church, and proof that her cherished Episcopal Church had gone 'Awoke' and that if her middle son was a priest worth his salt he would have beaten the “Devil” out of with a broad leather strap the moment such a goddamn foolish notion had ever interned my head. Anyway the suggestion had been that the Potter Family, a family that we'd Bell's once married into either once or twice in the last hundred fifty years would take me and in return I would drop the surname “Bell” and be given the surname “Potter”.

Because the old bitch could not phantom what her gin drinking friends at Vicksburg Country Club would say if they had somehow discovered one of her grandchildren had turned transgender. It was bad enough that my big sister, who I adored, was a tomboy.

Anyway that's how I went from being named “Daisy Isabella Bell” to just “Daisy Isabella Potter.” All of that aside. I decided to visit his grave. I just wanted to see where he had been laid to his final rest. And to see if anything remains of the old battlefield. My native state of Mississippi was filled with battlefields left over from the American Civil War, and as a child and later a teenager I'd walked them all. And I mean only a little over a hundred or so years had passed since the cannons and rifles had all fallen silent across the great Western Front. And in that brief period of time the word as they had known it had turned upside down.

Anyway I took a deep breath as I slowly climbed down from the old carriage the old steam tram was pulling. I swallowed hard and peered out at the vast meadow land that we'd been dropped off in. All around me, I could see tall, lush green grace that seemed to bend with the warm summer wind, and further afield I could see billions of lush red poppies swaying in the breeze. It felt unreal.

I closed my eyes and gently started to wade into the sea of lush, green grass and ruby red poppies. I was thankful that I'd decided today of all days to wear a sundress. The dress was a light flora cotton dress that seemed to swish around me as the wind blew. My golden colored blonde hair was worn down for once and a simple straw sunhat offered some protection from the sun.

I completed my outfit with a simple cloth purse with a daisy sewn onto the front and leather strappy sandals. And then decided to only trust my feet to guide me along the right path. I waded into this sea of lush green grass, this quilt of lush red poppies. The minutes of the day seemed to slip through the fingers of my hand like grains of sand through an hourglass. And then it happened.

I came face to face with a sight that chilled me to a bone. Row upon row of simple white crosses that seemed to extend as far as the eye could see, and clearly beyond the horizon. Each one appeared similar to the other in fact I would say they were almost identical to each other. It took my breath away.

Because I knew each cross represented a once breathing person. A person that had loved, been loved. They had been somebody's son, somebody's brother, somebody's husband, and or somebodies father. They had lives, hopes, dreams, and aspirations. All those things had been snuffed out in a blink of an eye.

Finally after hours of fruitless searching I found his headstone. The epitaph was brief. “Corporal James A. Bell. 1916.” Like I said briefly and to the point. And there I stood, peering at the resting place of the man I'd been named after. A man who was only nineteen when his life was taken from him by a lucky or unlucky shot by an unknown German Soldier.

“What were you fighting for?” I asked as I peered toward the stone. I did not expect an answer. “Cause you know it will happen again don't you? Twenty years after the rifles and cannons fell silent. It started again. And then again, and again.” I paused.

“I know you heard first hand accounts of Civil War battles from the older Bells. I know you wanted to like your dad who fought in the Spanish-American War.. But did you expect it to end here?” I paused again.

“I'm a Bell too. I was named after you, my old name used to be James Alexander Bell.. then I changed it to Daisy Isabella Bell.. then I had to drop the Bell surname and take the Potter surname cause my grandmother flipped her verbal shit when I came out as transgender.” I paused and looked at the stone again.

“You know your sister married a Potter? So I guess.. I don't know..” I paused again. And once more silence filled the air.

“Well the reason I traveled halfway across the world.. is I wanted to ask you a question. James, when you were alive did you ever struggle with the feeling that you'd been born in the wrong body? That when God was putting you together he got your soul mixed up and instead of putting your soul into a girl's body, he put your soul inside a boy's body?” I paused expecting an answer but none came.

“Because that's how I felt most of my life. And I thought that if I died I'd get a factory reset. But I could never get myself off. So I took to fighting. I fought every bully that ever crossed my path. I even fought the biggest, baddest mother fucker at Benton Academy, some brute of a boy called 'The Beast'.”
I paused again and looked down at the stone, expecting a response.

“Anyway when the war broke out. Did you see this war as a chance to get a factory reset without really doing it yourself? Or did you figure if you somehow managed to earn a medal for bravery you'll put those desires behind you? And prove once and for all you are a real man?” Silence again.

“But I learned to live with myself and accept myself..” I paused again.

I then stood up and walked over to the stone and without thinking I bent down and placed my freshly glossed lips upon it. Yes I kissed the tombstone. It just felt right. It was not a romantic kiss, more of a good-bye kiss. Because I knew the chances of me ever returning here to this hollow place was slim. And ninety years down the road I knew I wound myself resting under the broad oak and willow trees that grew on the banks of the Yazoo River.

I would find myself resting in the shadow of Saint Mary's with the rest of the Potters.

And with that I stood up and walked away. I walked away from those lush, green fields, and those millions of bright red poppies and as I walked I felt a tear roll down my face.

The End.