The gunfire rang in my ears and bullets flew past my face as I ran through the dark forest. Branches flew past on either side, a few leaving small scratches. I threw myself down by a log, using it to prop up my rifle, and opened fire on the advancing enemy.
I'd been stationed here for about three months now, and battles like this happened at least once a week. Men died, and more were brought in to take their place. Those who didn't die in battle died in spirit, soul, and mind.
My rifle clicked empty, and I quickly reached down to my waist and grabbed another magazine from my belt, shoving it in quickly to reload. A tall man with black hair fell next to me and opened fire. It was Corporal Andrews.
"Where's Douglass?" I shouted over the gunfire.
"Gone," was all Andrews said.
My heart sank. I knew what that meant. Douglass was dead. Douglass and I had been through training together, and we'd known each other for all the years since then. He was like a brother to me. And now, just like that, he was gone.
I forced the thoughts and memories from my mind, continuing to shower the enemy in heavy lead bullets. It was times like this when I hated my job.
How many lives had I taken? How many brothers had I killed? How many fathers? Sons? Husbands? I didn't know, and every night I prayed to God that I would never find out.
After so many years, you become emotionless about your job. The people you shoot are no longer real, live people; they're just moving targets. Seldom do you have thoughts about how many lives you're taken, but when you do, it cuts down right to your heart and soul.
These are the thoughts that will torment a soldier for the rest of his life. These are the thoughts that will lead to a soldier's suicide.
I wouldn't be honest if I said that thoughts of suicide never crossed my mind. They did. Often. Nearly every day, to be honest with you. The life I live here in this war is hell. But I overcome them because I know that I must live so that I can fight for my country.
I did my best to keep these thoughts out of my mind for now. I could cry later. Right now I had to do my job, no matter how much I hated it.
We fought on in the dark forest, the flares casting an eerie red light on the battle at hand. When one was almost out and the battlefield would start to darken, another would streak its way up into the night sky, once again lighting it red. Flashes of bright light erupted from the muzzles of our rifles and those of the enemy. The moon and the stars twinkled brightly up in the night sky, as if completely unaware of the immense bloodshed going on down below.
The cries of the dying and wounded were carried to me by the wind, tormented and in pain. It made me grimace. My heart twisted in remorse; I was the cause of some of their suffering. I'd heard them every night for the past several weeks, whether I was awake or in my dreams. I woke myself up often with my own terrified cries.
My concentration was broken when I heard a sharp cry next to me. I turned to see Andrews holding his side. Blood covered his hand.
"I'll be okay," he said upon seeing the shock on my face. He even managed to give me a weak smile. After a moment or so, he turned back and continued shooting as if nothing had really happened.
It wasn't long, however, until he was on his back, crying in pain. He'd been shot again.
"Andrews!" I dropped my rifle and knelt down beside him.
"Jackson, do me a favor man," he said.
I was silent.
He took out his wallet and opened it to a picture, handing it to me. "Tell my wife and kids that I love them, will ya?" he said, fighting to speak. "The address is on the back."
"No. No! Come on, man! Hang in there! You'll make it!" I said, holding him upright with my arms, but even I couldn't mask the fear in my voice.
"Please!" he pleaded, coughing up blood.
Deep down, I knew he was going to die there on that battlefield that night, among with only the Lord knows how many others. With tears in my eyes, I nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell them," I choked.
"Thanks," he whispered, smiling weakly. I watched helplessly, unable to do anything, as the life drained from his eyes. He fell limp in my arms.
Another hero fallen. Another brother gone.
With tears in my eyes, I laid him down to rest, pausing afterwards to regain my composure. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I picked up my rifle and continued to fight. Hate consumed my heart.
They say that hate will destroy any man on the battlefield. I prayed to God that it was not the same for me.
I felt the impact of something hit my chest, but of course, with all the adrenaline running through my veins, I disregarded it as anything of importance and kept my rifle up. It wasn't until the searing, burning pain set in that I realized I'd been shot.
Before I could react, I had two more bullets in me. I fought to keep my breathing under control. It hurt so terribly bad. I screamed. I cried. I swore. I prayed. Then I fell silent.
Finally I picked up my rifle and kept shooting. The recoils hurt, each jolt of the rifle sending even worse jolts of pain throughout the entirety of my body, but I fought to do my job and help my people.
Finally another bullet struck me and I fell back, landing face to face with my dead comrade Andrews. My vision blurred, then dimmed to black. I fell unconscious.
