WWI Short Story
June 1, 1918. The German army has pushed all the way to the woods of Belleau. All the men are sitting in the bushes; cigars and cigarettes hang from their dry lips. “Sargent,” I say, “is this not one of the greatest things you have ever seen? A bunch of men waiting to die, in honor of their countries, it’s invigorating.” The man turns to me and nods in agreement. A bell rings, signaling dinner, and all the men grab their mesh tins. I grab my food, find a tree and sit down. Some of the other men gather together to talk, all of them laugh and make jokes. Just as my stomach twists in knots and I feel my face turning red from the transition from envy to anger, but that is no place for a Lieutenant. They need to see me as a leader and not as their equal.
Just as I find my fists balling up, my only comrade, Lieutenant Benjamin Kurt sits down beside me. Benjamin is a witty, reasonably tall man, with a crooked smile. He is the only reason I am still alive. Without Ben I would have nothing to fight for, he is my greatest comrade. We hardly ever talk, for there isn’t much to say to each other. We have both fought together and seen some of the most gruesome things men could see, after that, you just understand each other. We sit in silence eating our food until Benjamin speaks.
“It’s a shame isn’t, that all these men have to die for such a silly, pointless cause.” I shake my head and just look down at my food. Benjamin and I are such good comrades, we know exactly how to push each other’s buttons. I was raised to think that war is the greatest honor a man can have, and I still believe that to this day. My father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather all died in war. I think it is the most honorable way to die, and I hope to one day go the same way as well. Benjamin on the other hand, thinks that I am crazy. He wants to get out of the war and start a family, I guess this is what makes us so different, yet we are so close.
As dusk comes, a light breeze brings in the sharp scent of gunpowder. With the morning battle approaching, I turn into my tent and immediately fall asleep.
The morning after, we trudge along the road, the mud caking our boots, heavies our steps. The battlefield is only a mile or two away and we arrive quickly. Sounds of gunshots ring out. Men run about like animals, fighting, stabbing and throwing punches at each other. Ben and I exchange a look towards each other. Hand-to-hand combat is not something that you commonly get to experience in war anymore, and I love it. Fighting another man, just you and him, is the most awakening feeling in the world. I order my men to charge into the battle, and at once we all sprint forward. Some cry out a battle call in order to prepare themselves for what is coming. Ben and I sprint into an open area of the woods, bayonets at the ready. Men drop around us like flies. Necks are being slit and bayonets are being stabbed into men’s abdomens. One man comes running toward us at full speed, his bayonet raised. Simultaneously, we aim or guns and shoot. We watch as the man’s skull explodes with the contact of the two bullets. Benjamin turns to me, his crooked smile spreads across his scarred face. Though Benjamin hates war, even he cannot deny that there is something special about hand-to-hand combat. Something about being so close to death makes you feel so alive. My face must have had a solemn look to it, because he acknowledges me with a laugh.
“Look up, it can’t get much worst than what we have seen before.” His comment lifts my lips to a grin.
“I could see how that would be true, seeing how we have seen it all to hell and back” I reply. “I’m just not sure if that is much of a consolation.” I can see the pitiful amusement in his eyes.
“Just think, in 15 years, these will be the good old days.” His comment is too much for himself and it sends him into a fit of laughter. All around us men’s necks are being sliced open, arms are being blown off, and yet somehow Benjamin finds a way to have a laughing fit in the middle of it all. He stands up wiping tears away from his eyes, still softly giggling to himself. He opens his mouth to speak but instead of words, a soft gurgling escapes. He looks down and holds his stomach with his hands.
I look to see a small red spot growing, spreading across his uniform and soiling his clothes. A sharp metal piece pokes through the fabric. Slowly Benjamin falls to his knees, and the small metal piece slips back into his body, and slides out the other end. From behind Benjamin, I can see a scrawny horror-struck solider. He has a boyish face that is smudged with dirt. The American uniform that he wears is baggy and lengthy for his bone-sunken body. He stares at Benjamin with a look of regret and terror etched onto his face. He is young, at most the age of nineteen; it is an age where everything is still new. The boy sees me staring at him and quickly sprints away into the battle. I hear the gurgling again, though this time more defined, and I snap back into reality.
I drop to my knees and sit beside my comrade. The red spot has grown in his shirt. My hands grope for my handkerchief, placing it carefully on Benjamin’s stomach, he moans and I quickly pull away. My eyes catch sight of my hands and my body goes into shock. They are dyed with the hot sticky substance of blood. I look down at my comrade again, but my mind cannot comprehend what is happening. The red seeping through the clothing, the sharp metal piece, the gurgling. They are all things that I have seen before, things that have become routine to me, and yet I cannot understand. My brain tries and tries again to interpret what is happening, but I continue to fail. In war I have seen these things before with men dying, and then, my thinking comes to a stop. Benjamin has been stabbed. Benjamin is dying. How could the shock have blocked something so obvious, something that I had seen countless times before? My comrade is dying, and there is nothing I can do about it. Gradually the idea begins to sink into my head. Benjamin, the man I had fought with for three years would not longer be with me. No longer would I have a friend to eat with, no longer would I have anyone who understood me as well as he did, or to joke around with. There is strong smell of blood, gun power, and dirt in the air; inhaling it in sickens me. I crawl over and place Ben’s head in my lap. He manages a muffled laugh as he looks into my eyes.
“Looks like I took your dream to die in war, huh?” His voice is hoarse, and I pour the remnants of my water down his throat to sooth him. A tear slides down my face but I smile. “I think I’ll have plenty more opportunities for that.” We sit in silence for what seems like hours. Men run around us. The wounded fall and the victorious continue on. It is a wonder that I have not been stabbed.
After awhile Ben begins to shake and stutter. I hold him in my arms trying to calm the poor man from his pain. It has been quite some time since he has been stabbed and I suspect that the shock is starting to wear off. He attempts to speak again, choking out the sound of my name.
“C-C-Christophe. C-Christophe” The sound of his voice is pleading, and it echoes in my head. Again and again he repeats my name, until I never want to hear it again. I rock him back and forth in my arms soothing him. He continues to say my name, but his words grow ever more fragile. Gently his voice dies down to a light whisper of wind, and he is gone.
I lay his body down on the damp cool earth. The summer sun has begun to sink in the sky, casting shades of oranges and pinks over my head. Reluctantly, I scrape at the leaves and dirt at my sides, decorating the wound that disturbs the serenity of Benjamin’s eternal sleep. I just need something to separate him from the hundreds of dead soldiers that scatter the field. The leaves are just something to make it so that his is not just another one of the hundred of dead men on this battlefield. I finish my work and close my eyes. Tears steam down my face and I quickly wipe them away. Already his body feels cold and foreign to me.
“ Here lies the body of the great Lieutenant Benjamin Kurt. May he rest in peace.” I stand and try to hold myself together as I walk away. Ben, my only comrade, is gone forever. Thought feels empty within my mind. There are so many emotions, but only one is obvious to my conscious. It is anger; anger toward the man who killed my only comrade.
My vision is blurred with rage. Every American solider that I see becomes him, with his boyish face and his sloppy clothes. They are all him, and they must all pay. With my rage bubbling, I give into instinct. I chase after the first American solider that I see, my bayonet at the ready. I pounce on him, tackling him to the ground. His gun roles away, leaving him without a fighting chance. I pin his arms down with my knees putting all the pressure of my body onto him. I point my bayonet down at his neck. For a moment I pause and the blood lust escapes from my mind. The man beneath me looks terrified. Why should I kill him? This man has done nothing to harm me, it seems unfair that I should try to harm him, but then my vision goes red again and I picture the man-child stabbing Ben. The craving for blood returns and I raise my weapon once more.
“For Benjamin!” The words sound distant when I say them, as if they are spoken by another, but without hesitation, I plunge forward. Blood splatters from all sides of the blade. It splashes against my clothes leaving a souvenir of my killing. I pull out the blade and watch hungrily as the solider drowns in his-own blood, each gasp sending a shiver of satisfaction up my spine. The man takes his last breath and I am filled with a sense of deep satisfaction, but soon after I get up from the limp, lifeless body; it is gone. I wish to feel that fulfillment again, the need to kill.
No longer am I Christophe Martins; I am an animal. The next man I go after is easy prey. He has been shot in the leg and I can easily catch up to him. I reach him and shove him to the ground. The man stares up at me with his pitiful eyes and begins to beg for mercy, but it is no use. I drive my bayonet into his heart, twisting the blade causing it to delve deeper and deeper. With the adrenaline of killing coursing through my veins, I am on a rampage. Every opposing man that I see is the man-child, his boyish face taunting me. I stab at every man I can get my hands on, leaving a trail of death in my path. I even get out the small blade I own to slit some men’s throats. I get a minor tear in my left shoulder, but I don’t care. My body is completely numb to pain, so much that I could stab myself and I wouldn’t feel it.
As the sun disappears behind the horizon and the moon begins to rise, my body begins to grow limp. I find two of my men and tell them to send out the order to return to camp immediately. I trudge back to my tent leaving the ongoing battle and the men I slayed behind me. Just as I reach my tent, the recognition of all that has happened comes flooding into me. I stagger into my tent, my legs shaking uncontrollably. The sounds of shells have died down, but I can still hear the constant roar of men attacking each other. I can feel the rush of blood coursing though my veins. I launch myself towards my bed and collapse while doing so. I grab for the covers trying to pull myself up, but its no use. Could this be from fear? No, never, I could never fear something as great as war. It is possible though; I have seen men defile their trousers from the fear of shells. I push the thought out of my head. Those men are weak; they don’t understand how spectacular war is. It is an honor to be fighting for my country.
I attempt to stand, but it is useless, the shaking has spread throughout my body and I am an uncontrolled heap on the floor. A terrible thought passes through my head; what if this never stops? Men will think of me as the pathetic Lieutenant who was too weak to control his body. What would Benjamin think if he were still here? Anger instantly boils within me when I think of disappointing Benjamin. He was my only comrade in the war. I could not disgrace him with my childish ways. My body calms and the shaking begins to die down. The last thing I would want to do is shame my comrade in his afterlife, and the pressure to maintain pretenses is what keeps me together. I stand and brush off my uniform. The pressing of the wrinkles soothes my every breath.
With a heave, I fall into bed, not even bothering to remove my blood stained uniform. Within minutes, sleep falls upon me and I am whisked away into a whirlpool of nightmares.
My eyes snap open and I am greeted with the lonely sight of darkness. I sit up and my clothes cling to my body, sopping with my sweat and tears. Without concern, I walk out of my tent to see a light fog rolling through the campsite. The hazy blue-grey sky signals that the sun is approaching the horizon. Most of the men are already mulling about eating sloppily from their mesh tins. Their uniforms, torn and dirtied from the previous weeks’ battles, hang limply on their bodies.
The date is June 6th and for five days now, the Americans have been trying to push us out of the woods. I hear a few men talking about the rumors spreading around. A younger man with a thick bushy mustache boasts to his comrades,
“I hear the Dirty Dogs are planning to attack us through the north, across the wheat field.”
My ears prick up at this comment, and a rush of excitement flows through me. If my men were able to take out the Americans before they reach us, we would be hailed as heroes.
I gather my men and pile them on the nearest EV/4. We drive until we see the golden waves of the wheat field, the wind moving them in unison like the roles of the ocean. My men and I hop on to the solid ground and begin to set up our machinery. With the high wheat shielding our presence, we will easily be able to mow down any American that comes near.
Once the machine guns are assembled and the jugs of cooling water are moved, my men and I sit and wait. Sitting and waiting is tedious work and the harsh glow of the summer sun is not making it any more bearable. Sweat drips down every inch of our bodies and every small snap of a twig or brushing of grass makes us hold our breath in preparation of our enemy. After hours of sitting with nothing but boredom clouding our minds, we finally hear it; the scratchy sound of heavy boots clomping over the dried wheat. My men brace themselves and I order them to shoot at first sight of an American uniform.
I, myself, slip into the field of wheat sideways as to not be shot down by my own men. Crawling through the slick blades, I make my way toward the sound of the approaching men. I can hear them talking, speaking in a tongue that is unfamiliar to me. Quickly, I cover myself with the broken blades of wheat as a small group of men march past my head. I hear their footsteps fade away and cautiously rise to my knees.
I’m about to let go a sigh of relief, when I feel it: It begins as a sharp pain poking the center of my back. Slowly it progresses, I can feel the hole being torn into my flesh. It’s as if time has slowed. I look down and my mind recognizes the moment; a sense of déjà vu melting before my eyes. There, poking through the filthy, stained fabric of my uniform is the sharp tip of a bayonet. My body slides forward and the dampening weight of the metal is removed from my stomach. I feel my face smash against the hard, unforgiving earth. I stare forward and see a muddy, worn out pair of boots staring me in the eyes. A splash of red drips from the sky and lands on one of them, soiling the leather even more. Slowly, they stomp away and I am left alone with my own thoughts.
Time speeds up again and I can feel the throb of my heartbeat pressing into the sides of my stomach. Unlike Ben’s death, I am completely aware of what is happening. Over the years, longing and preparing for this moment, it has finally come. I have dreamed about how it would happen; how honorable it would be when my family heard the news. Now I lay here, with my face in the dirt, alone and dying and I didn’t even get to see the face of my killer. Maybe Ben had it right all along. Maybe war isn’t as honorable as I thought it would be. Many men have died in honor in honor of there country, but is it really that justified? Even if this statement is true, it does not matter. I’m a dying man, alone, with no one to share my wisdom with.
I had wished for an honorable death in war and now that wish has been granted and I cannot complain. My body is numb to the pain, and yet, I can feel a pool of blood forming around my mutilated body. I take in the world with its glowing light and its sweet smelling air. The sound of shooting rings through the air, but I can no longer hear it: It’s just me and the earth. With a final breath, I close my eyes and I let go.
Just as I find my fists balling up, my only comrade, Lieutenant Benjamin Kurt sits down beside me. Benjamin is a witty, reasonably tall man, with a crooked smile. He is the only reason I am still alive. Without Ben I would have nothing to fight for, he is my greatest comrade. We hardly ever talk, for there isn’t much to say to each other. We have both fought together and seen some of the most gruesome things men could see, after that, you just understand each other. We sit in silence eating our food until Benjamin speaks.
“It’s a shame isn’t, that all these men have to die for such a silly, pointless cause.” I shake my head and just look down at my food. Benjamin and I are such good comrades, we know exactly how to push each other’s buttons. I was raised to think that war is the greatest honor a man can have, and I still believe that to this day. My father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather all died in war. I think it is the most honorable way to die, and I hope to one day go the same way as well. Benjamin on the other hand, thinks that I am crazy. He wants to get out of the war and start a family, I guess this is what makes us so different, yet we are so close.
As dusk comes, a light breeze brings in the sharp scent of gunpowder. With the morning battle approaching, I turn into my tent and immediately fall asleep.
The morning after, we trudge along the road, the mud caking our boots, heavies our steps. The battlefield is only a mile or two away and we arrive quickly. Sounds of gunshots ring out. Men run about like animals, fighting, stabbing and throwing punches at each other. Ben and I exchange a look towards each other. Hand-to-hand combat is not something that you commonly get to experience in war anymore, and I love it. Fighting another man, just you and him, is the most awakening feeling in the world. I order my men to charge into the battle, and at once we all sprint forward. Some cry out a battle call in order to prepare themselves for what is coming. Ben and I sprint into an open area of the woods, bayonets at the ready. Men drop around us like flies. Necks are being slit and bayonets are being stabbed into men’s abdomens. One man comes running toward us at full speed, his bayonet raised. Simultaneously, we aim or guns and shoot. We watch as the man’s skull explodes with the contact of the two bullets. Benjamin turns to me, his crooked smile spreads across his scarred face. Though Benjamin hates war, even he cannot deny that there is something special about hand-to-hand combat. Something about being so close to death makes you feel so alive. My face must have had a solemn look to it, because he acknowledges me with a laugh.
“Look up, it can’t get much worst than what we have seen before.” His comment lifts my lips to a grin.
“I could see how that would be true, seeing how we have seen it all to hell and back” I reply. “I’m just not sure if that is much of a consolation.” I can see the pitiful amusement in his eyes.
“Just think, in 15 years, these will be the good old days.” His comment is too much for himself and it sends him into a fit of laughter. All around us men’s necks are being sliced open, arms are being blown off, and yet somehow Benjamin finds a way to have a laughing fit in the middle of it all. He stands up wiping tears away from his eyes, still softly giggling to himself. He opens his mouth to speak but instead of words, a soft gurgling escapes. He looks down and holds his stomach with his hands.
I look to see a small red spot growing, spreading across his uniform and soiling his clothes. A sharp metal piece pokes through the fabric. Slowly Benjamin falls to his knees, and the small metal piece slips back into his body, and slides out the other end. From behind Benjamin, I can see a scrawny horror-struck solider. He has a boyish face that is smudged with dirt. The American uniform that he wears is baggy and lengthy for his bone-sunken body. He stares at Benjamin with a look of regret and terror etched onto his face. He is young, at most the age of nineteen; it is an age where everything is still new. The boy sees me staring at him and quickly sprints away into the battle. I hear the gurgling again, though this time more defined, and I snap back into reality.
I drop to my knees and sit beside my comrade. The red spot has grown in his shirt. My hands grope for my handkerchief, placing it carefully on Benjamin’s stomach, he moans and I quickly pull away. My eyes catch sight of my hands and my body goes into shock. They are dyed with the hot sticky substance of blood. I look down at my comrade again, but my mind cannot comprehend what is happening. The red seeping through the clothing, the sharp metal piece, the gurgling. They are all things that I have seen before, things that have become routine to me, and yet I cannot understand. My brain tries and tries again to interpret what is happening, but I continue to fail. In war I have seen these things before with men dying, and then, my thinking comes to a stop. Benjamin has been stabbed. Benjamin is dying. How could the shock have blocked something so obvious, something that I had seen countless times before? My comrade is dying, and there is nothing I can do about it. Gradually the idea begins to sink into my head. Benjamin, the man I had fought with for three years would not longer be with me. No longer would I have a friend to eat with, no longer would I have anyone who understood me as well as he did, or to joke around with. There is strong smell of blood, gun power, and dirt in the air; inhaling it in sickens me. I crawl over and place Ben’s head in my lap. He manages a muffled laugh as he looks into my eyes.
“Looks like I took your dream to die in war, huh?” His voice is hoarse, and I pour the remnants of my water down his throat to sooth him. A tear slides down my face but I smile. “I think I’ll have plenty more opportunities for that.” We sit in silence for what seems like hours. Men run around us. The wounded fall and the victorious continue on. It is a wonder that I have not been stabbed.
After awhile Ben begins to shake and stutter. I hold him in my arms trying to calm the poor man from his pain. It has been quite some time since he has been stabbed and I suspect that the shock is starting to wear off. He attempts to speak again, choking out the sound of my name.
“C-C-Christophe. C-Christophe” The sound of his voice is pleading, and it echoes in my head. Again and again he repeats my name, until I never want to hear it again. I rock him back and forth in my arms soothing him. He continues to say my name, but his words grow ever more fragile. Gently his voice dies down to a light whisper of wind, and he is gone.
I lay his body down on the damp cool earth. The summer sun has begun to sink in the sky, casting shades of oranges and pinks over my head. Reluctantly, I scrape at the leaves and dirt at my sides, decorating the wound that disturbs the serenity of Benjamin’s eternal sleep. I just need something to separate him from the hundreds of dead soldiers that scatter the field. The leaves are just something to make it so that his is not just another one of the hundred of dead men on this battlefield. I finish my work and close my eyes. Tears steam down my face and I quickly wipe them away. Already his body feels cold and foreign to me.
“ Here lies the body of the great Lieutenant Benjamin Kurt. May he rest in peace.” I stand and try to hold myself together as I walk away. Ben, my only comrade, is gone forever. Thought feels empty within my mind. There are so many emotions, but only one is obvious to my conscious. It is anger; anger toward the man who killed my only comrade.
My vision is blurred with rage. Every American solider that I see becomes him, with his boyish face and his sloppy clothes. They are all him, and they must all pay. With my rage bubbling, I give into instinct. I chase after the first American solider that I see, my bayonet at the ready. I pounce on him, tackling him to the ground. His gun roles away, leaving him without a fighting chance. I pin his arms down with my knees putting all the pressure of my body onto him. I point my bayonet down at his neck. For a moment I pause and the blood lust escapes from my mind. The man beneath me looks terrified. Why should I kill him? This man has done nothing to harm me, it seems unfair that I should try to harm him, but then my vision goes red again and I picture the man-child stabbing Ben. The craving for blood returns and I raise my weapon once more.
“For Benjamin!” The words sound distant when I say them, as if they are spoken by another, but without hesitation, I plunge forward. Blood splatters from all sides of the blade. It splashes against my clothes leaving a souvenir of my killing. I pull out the blade and watch hungrily as the solider drowns in his-own blood, each gasp sending a shiver of satisfaction up my spine. The man takes his last breath and I am filled with a sense of deep satisfaction, but soon after I get up from the limp, lifeless body; it is gone. I wish to feel that fulfillment again, the need to kill.
No longer am I Christophe Martins; I am an animal. The next man I go after is easy prey. He has been shot in the leg and I can easily catch up to him. I reach him and shove him to the ground. The man stares up at me with his pitiful eyes and begins to beg for mercy, but it is no use. I drive my bayonet into his heart, twisting the blade causing it to delve deeper and deeper. With the adrenaline of killing coursing through my veins, I am on a rampage. Every opposing man that I see is the man-child, his boyish face taunting me. I stab at every man I can get my hands on, leaving a trail of death in my path. I even get out the small blade I own to slit some men’s throats. I get a minor tear in my left shoulder, but I don’t care. My body is completely numb to pain, so much that I could stab myself and I wouldn’t feel it.
As the sun disappears behind the horizon and the moon begins to rise, my body begins to grow limp. I find two of my men and tell them to send out the order to return to camp immediately. I trudge back to my tent leaving the ongoing battle and the men I slayed behind me. Just as I reach my tent, the recognition of all that has happened comes flooding into me. I stagger into my tent, my legs shaking uncontrollably. The sounds of shells have died down, but I can still hear the constant roar of men attacking each other. I can feel the rush of blood coursing though my veins. I launch myself towards my bed and collapse while doing so. I grab for the covers trying to pull myself up, but its no use. Could this be from fear? No, never, I could never fear something as great as war. It is possible though; I have seen men defile their trousers from the fear of shells. I push the thought out of my head. Those men are weak; they don’t understand how spectacular war is. It is an honor to be fighting for my country.
I attempt to stand, but it is useless, the shaking has spread throughout my body and I am an uncontrolled heap on the floor. A terrible thought passes through my head; what if this never stops? Men will think of me as the pathetic Lieutenant who was too weak to control his body. What would Benjamin think if he were still here? Anger instantly boils within me when I think of disappointing Benjamin. He was my only comrade in the war. I could not disgrace him with my childish ways. My body calms and the shaking begins to die down. The last thing I would want to do is shame my comrade in his afterlife, and the pressure to maintain pretenses is what keeps me together. I stand and brush off my uniform. The pressing of the wrinkles soothes my every breath.
With a heave, I fall into bed, not even bothering to remove my blood stained uniform. Within minutes, sleep falls upon me and I am whisked away into a whirlpool of nightmares.
My eyes snap open and I am greeted with the lonely sight of darkness. I sit up and my clothes cling to my body, sopping with my sweat and tears. Without concern, I walk out of my tent to see a light fog rolling through the campsite. The hazy blue-grey sky signals that the sun is approaching the horizon. Most of the men are already mulling about eating sloppily from their mesh tins. Their uniforms, torn and dirtied from the previous weeks’ battles, hang limply on their bodies.
The date is June 6th and for five days now, the Americans have been trying to push us out of the woods. I hear a few men talking about the rumors spreading around. A younger man with a thick bushy mustache boasts to his comrades,
“I hear the Dirty Dogs are planning to attack us through the north, across the wheat field.”
My ears prick up at this comment, and a rush of excitement flows through me. If my men were able to take out the Americans before they reach us, we would be hailed as heroes.
I gather my men and pile them on the nearest EV/4. We drive until we see the golden waves of the wheat field, the wind moving them in unison like the roles of the ocean. My men and I hop on to the solid ground and begin to set up our machinery. With the high wheat shielding our presence, we will easily be able to mow down any American that comes near.
Once the machine guns are assembled and the jugs of cooling water are moved, my men and I sit and wait. Sitting and waiting is tedious work and the harsh glow of the summer sun is not making it any more bearable. Sweat drips down every inch of our bodies and every small snap of a twig or brushing of grass makes us hold our breath in preparation of our enemy. After hours of sitting with nothing but boredom clouding our minds, we finally hear it; the scratchy sound of heavy boots clomping over the dried wheat. My men brace themselves and I order them to shoot at first sight of an American uniform.
I, myself, slip into the field of wheat sideways as to not be shot down by my own men. Crawling through the slick blades, I make my way toward the sound of the approaching men. I can hear them talking, speaking in a tongue that is unfamiliar to me. Quickly, I cover myself with the broken blades of wheat as a small group of men march past my head. I hear their footsteps fade away and cautiously rise to my knees.
I’m about to let go a sigh of relief, when I feel it: It begins as a sharp pain poking the center of my back. Slowly it progresses, I can feel the hole being torn into my flesh. It’s as if time has slowed. I look down and my mind recognizes the moment; a sense of déjà vu melting before my eyes. There, poking through the filthy, stained fabric of my uniform is the sharp tip of a bayonet. My body slides forward and the dampening weight of the metal is removed from my stomach. I feel my face smash against the hard, unforgiving earth. I stare forward and see a muddy, worn out pair of boots staring me in the eyes. A splash of red drips from the sky and lands on one of them, soiling the leather even more. Slowly, they stomp away and I am left alone with my own thoughts.
Time speeds up again and I can feel the throb of my heartbeat pressing into the sides of my stomach. Unlike Ben’s death, I am completely aware of what is happening. Over the years, longing and preparing for this moment, it has finally come. I have dreamed about how it would happen; how honorable it would be when my family heard the news. Now I lay here, with my face in the dirt, alone and dying and I didn’t even get to see the face of my killer. Maybe Ben had it right all along. Maybe war isn’t as honorable as I thought it would be. Many men have died in honor in honor of there country, but is it really that justified? Even if this statement is true, it does not matter. I’m a dying man, alone, with no one to share my wisdom with.
I had wished for an honorable death in war and now that wish has been granted and I cannot complain. My body is numb to the pain, and yet, I can feel a pool of blood forming around my mutilated body. I take in the world with its glowing light and its sweet smelling air. The sound of shooting rings through the air, but I can no longer hear it: It’s just me and the earth. With a final breath, I close my eyes and I let go.