Where Death Sings

nine // friedhelm

A fog has swept in over the deserted and war-torn land in-between the trenches as the sky starts to change colour above us. I'm lying pressed to the ground to avoid exposing myself to the English men. The night's inferno has left our trenches in a pile of dirt and body parts. There's hardly any cover left.

   Paul is lying next to me, his side pressed to mine. Maximillian is peaking over the edge of the remains of our trenches with Siegfried by his side, their rifles pointing towards no man's land. Just like they are ready with their rifles, Paul and I are too. Even though we are lying down, our hands have a firm grip around our rifles, ready to push ourselves up to our feet and shoot. All four of us know what's coming; an attack.

   I rest my cheek against the cool and wet ground. My upper body is moving slowly as I breathe as calmly as I can. The wait is the worst. There is something about the strange, uncomfortable feeling lingering in the atmosphere before an attack, it predicts what is coming. It knows exactly what the consequences of an attack are, and how Death will sweep his hand over our trenches and pick us up one by one. And as the moment of the attack draws closer, we lie in silent and wait for the killing, the death, the suffering, and the total and absolute lack of feelings the attack will bring. We let the thought of our own deaths linger in our minds for a while, and prepare ourselves for the possibility. We give our mothers a thought, and hope that they don't have to grieve our deaths. Then we promise ourselves to live, to get through one more attack, to avoid a few more bullets, to breathe for a few more days. And we whisper to ourselves that we will kill every English man who comes our way, because they have robbed us off our lives and our chances of returning home.

   I realise that Paul is looking at me with his clear, blue eyes. His skin in pale, almost grey, and his warm breath brushes against my cold skin whenever he exhales. He's waiting as well, he knows very well that Death favours no one, and that today might be his last. In a few minutes, or a few hours, his body might lie face down in the dirt, bloody and cold. Or he doesn't end up dead, and I do instead. Maybe it's my body that collapses as a bullet rips trough my flesh, and I am left bleeding out on the cold and battered earth.

   "Are you okay?" I ask Paul.

   "Other than almost getting blown to bits during the night, I'm fine." Paul replies and tries to smile, but it seems forced.

   I give Paul a nod before I push myself up on my elbows and look at Maximilian who is still peering out into no man's land.

   "Do you see anything?"

   "No." He replies and looks over at me. "Nothing yet. I'm telling you, they are a bunch of cowa–" the next seconds Maximilian's body collapses onto me and Paul.

   "Scheiße!" I exclaim as I crawl out from under the dead body. I know that there is nothing I can do, he is already gone, so I leave the boy behind without a second thought. I crawl over to the edge of the trench. As I look into the land of torn earth, silhouettes appear in the fog. At first that's all there is, silhouettes, but then they begin to evolve into soldiers. They get faces, uniforms, weapons; they become humans before my eyes.

   The next second, my surroundings erupt into a sea of chaos. Bullets are flying past me and grenades tear up the already scarred earth, and wounded soldier fall screaming to the ground.

   We get an order to retreat to our reserve trenches almost immediately. And we do. We slowly start to retreat, occasionally throwing grenades to prevent the English men's quick advance, but they are quickly starting to catch up with us and we can't retreat any faster without exposing ourselves too much.

   I look over my shoulder only to spot two of our soldiers raise their hands over their head, surrendering. They both collapse a moment later, and their lifeless bodies slump to the ground with their rifles still in a firm grip. I turn my gaze away from the fallen soldiers and try to pick up the pace.

   A grenade suddenly goes off somewhere near me, and I tumble to the ground. I push myself up from the spinning ground, but another explosion send me diving into the dirt again. I don't get up this time. Something is wrong, I know it. I can't feel any pain, but something tells me that I won't leave the spot I'm lying in on my own.

   My body feel heavy as it lies pressed to the wet ground. I won't be able to keep my eyes open for much longer, and I don't know if I want to; because all I can see is that a few English soldiers have broken through our lines. And I am left with one last thought before my eyes fall shut.

   So, this is how it all ends.