Rise

September 15, 1916.

We had waited only a few moments. The front two trenches had been taken, we were to defend this point, and fall back if need be. We inevitably had to fall back. We all grabbed our gear and moved as fast as we could to the trench behind us to prepare for a counterattack as fast as we could. Within moments of being in the trench, I was ready at the ladder to charge alongside the few other squads into battle, almost to certain death against those metal beasts the British threw at us. I could not tell you what it was, I didn't know what it was, other than death in a physical manifestation. It tore men limb from limb, crushed them and separated them into two. I noticed a small rectangular opening at the front of the weapon, possibly where the driver was. I was going to attempt to burn them out.

I looked to the charge leader, his arm raised. Right as it began coming down, I leaped out of the trench and began sprinting across the mud and dirt. Bullets flew around me from the metal beasts in front of me, but I remained undeterred. I locked onto one of the weapons and ran at it as fast as possible. I used its front as a ramp to get up to the driver's front window. My flamethrower laid at my hip, and I released the flame release and burnt the inside of the beast's crew to ash, to a distant memory and an early grave. The rest of my fellow Sturmann came after myself, advancing in front of me.

I looked to the front and watched all the British soldiers rise to defend the trench. I ran across the top of the beast and down just to the top of the trench, unleashing the flames into the trench below. Men's eyes widened, screaming, crying, begging. I dropped into the trench and promptly turned to my left and continued to unleash hell upon my enemies. One optimistic soul came from behind me and hit me in the back of the head. I grunted angrily and whipped around. I smashed his face with the handle of the flamethrower, knocking him to the ground, to which his face would be pushed deeply into the mud by my boot. I turned around and continued my flame dance.

Peter dropped into the trench soon after my flame extinguished. I nodded to him and signaled that he move further down the trench towards enemy lines, and I moved along horizontally, burning everything in my path. It was the same routine, burn everything, burn the bunkers, burn the men, the ammo, everything. Everything must be turned to ash or a corpse. I moved at a brisk pace down the trench, hoping to clean up the British quickly. I had walked for a few moments, stopping in my tracks upon hearing the groans and pleas of a soldier behind me. I turned, his hand being held out to me for mercy. I felt slight remorse, not enough to save his life. I pointed the flamethrower and swept back and forth across his body and helped him meet his maker.

Before I had finished my handiwork, a poor brave soul had charged me, screaming the entire way over to me. I turned and knocked his bayonet downwards as he jumped attempting to drive it into my back, driving it into the mud instead. He took no pause and immediately grabbed the knife from his holster and slammed it into my knee after he had knocked my flamethrower out of my hands and I had bent down to retrieve it after being slammed in the head by his fist. I screamed out in agony and rage, rotating my torso to slam my fist into his dense skull, followed by grabbing the knife from out of my knee and throwing it into the head of the man I had not finished ending.

He steadied his balance, and stood there momentarily. He was studying me, watching me, learning me. My eyes darted all over his body for all the vital points as to where I could hit him. The place I settled on was his jaw. After the short moment was over, my fist came up from below his vision and knocked him into the air and back into the ground, then I snatched my flamethrower from the dirt and pointed it at him. He responded in kind and kicked my knee, causing me to stagger. He then leaped to his feet and grabbed my head and thrusted it into the wooden lining of the trench. Someone yelled out into the trench at the boy, I did not know what he said though. I placed my hand on the wood to stabilize my balance, only to have my hand pinned to the wall with a knife the boy had shoved through the palm of my hand.

I screamed out again in pain, and ripped the knife out of my hand and threw it into the mud.
My breath was heavy and filled with pure rage and vitriol. I was going to kill him. I turned around, throwing my fist into the place where he should have been. The coward had fled and climbed out of the trench and had most likely made it back to friendly lines by then.

"No! I had him! I will kill him!" I screamed out in anger, pacing back and forth trying to organize all the thoughts running through my head.

I had never let anybody who fought me get away alive before. I could not believe I did. I was rage-full and disappointed. His life was within my grasp, about to be broken and put as another number in this war, but he slipped away. I was going to kill him, whether I went down alone, or I brought him with me.