Big, heavy rain drops fall from the sky as we march back towards the front in silence after a couple of days of rest. Miller is walking next to me, and I can spot Jackson, Cook, Smith and Elliott in the very front of the lines. Walking in between myself and the rest of my friends are a few new recruits, filling out the gaps of dead soldiers. I don't have to give them more than a short glance to know that they are all fresh out of training. They are all young boys, who aren't prepared for the destruction they will meet at the front. From experience I know that their eyes are still filled with excitement of serving their country, their uniforms are still clean and their skin is bruise-free, but only for a while longer. The excitement will disappear with the scream of the first shell, and we will find them staring into thin air paralysed with fear. Their uniforms will soon be stained with mud, blood and ashes. Their skin will soon no longer be youthful and rosy, it will be adorn with blue, purple and green bruises and their cheeks will become hollow. They will suffer just like the rest of us, and the war will rob them of their futures.
I visited the church a couple of times during our days of rest in the small French town. During those days Kelly, Ellis, Ward, Holmes and several more soldier from my company died. All those soldier who had fought so bravely alongside me, who had enlisted to fight for king and country but instead fell victims to a war that never seemed to end, were now gone. Of all deaths, one weights heavier than the rest of them. That is the death of Jonathan Price, who I spend the most time next to when he lied wounded in one of the many beds in the church. We grew up together. We went to the same school, same class. We enlisted together, and we fought together. Now he's gone, and I can't help but to think of his poor mother and younger sister who soon will get letter saying that he is dead, and he is never coming back. The letter will probably provide them with the lie that Jonathan fought bravely until the end. The letter will tell them that he died a hero's death as he fought for the country he loved, but I know the truth.
They amputated Jonathan's leg, yet whenever I sat by his side he complained about a constant pain in his left foot; a limp that wasn't a part of him anymore. Over the course of a couple of days, he became worse and worse, until it reached its peak two days ago. Jonathan didn't get the quick death most of us wish for. It took hours, all consisting of him groaning in agony and crying over the loss of his own life. Every once in a while he whispered silent prayers, silent promises and silent apologies until his eyes fell shut, fresh tears still running down his pale, cold cheeks.
I know the truth. Jonathan was no hero, not when he was in the trenches and not on his deathbed. He was not fearless, and he was not brave. He was just another victim of this war.
Astrid had come by Jonathan's bed a couple of times, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. We had exchanged a few words over the span of a couple of days, but she was always caught up in work. Whenever she had help one soldier, there was another one needing her attention. And it didn't matter at what time of the day I showed up, Astrid was always there taking care of another soldier. It seemed like she never left.
The sun has gone down when we reach the front. Explosions lights up the sky along the front. It's our shells, turning the German trenches into nothing but a pile of mud. And as I move through the trenches to our front lines, I can feel the ground vibrate beneath me. I don't have to ask anyone what is going on. All I have to do is wait, wait as we bomb the German front until there are no more trenches to hide in. And then we will run, and the Germans will run, and we will die.
I don't get any sleep. Instead I watch the explosions on the opposite side of no man's land. Something makes them feel so far away, so distant from where I am standing, but they are close. They are so close that their sound is deafening, and they are so close that they make the whole world shake.
A row of explosions light my surroundings good enough for me to spot a German soldier just a couple of meters in front of me. It's an all too familiar and common sight here. The soldier's bloody corpse lies tangled up in our barbed wire, which has torn open his flesh; delivering a feast to the trench rats.
The artillery fire goes on throughout the night, and as the explosions stop and dawn gets closer, we wait for the command that will make us leave the trenches and run into no man's land. Beside me I have nothing but familiar faces; Smith, Cook, Murphy, Miller, Jackson, Allen, Scott and Elliott. It provides some calmness to know that if I die, I will die among my closest comrades and friends, and not among strangers and new recruits. So when the command comes I sprint into no man's land with some of the best soldiers I know by my side.
The sight is limited due to a combination of smoke, from the bombardment, and a fog that swept in during the early hours of the morning, but nothing can stop us now. Bullets flies past me, and grenades explode around me as we get closer to the German lines, but nothing can stop me. It's as if a switch has been turned on inside of me. I am, in this moment, an animal whose instinct is to attack and kill. All my strength is focused on the offensive; to get to the German lines and kill.
We are no longer the same. We are now filled with hatred, and we blame the Germans for everything that has ever gone wrong. We blame them for the suffering, for the death, even for the lice and rats. Everything is the German's fault. And my only purpose right now is to kill, to make them pay.
Miller and Murphy have fallen, but I keep running. A grenade explodes a few meters in front of me, and Jackson's legs are torn off. He manages to grab my leg and begs me to help him, to get him back to our trenches, but I don't stop. I leave him behind.
In an offensive, all compassion disappears. We are as emotionless as the dead earth we run upon, and as we run, we hardly recognise our own as they lie dying on the ground.
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Where Death Sings
Historical Fiction// A Wattpad Military Fiction Featured book \\ The year is 1916, and war rages across Europe. Death walks among men, and he favours no one. Violence haunts the young boys in the trenches. There is no glory to be found in the wasteland along the wes...
