We Will Remember

Bullet

The bullet whistled past his ear and dug into the mud wall of the trench behind him. He couldn't glance back to see how close he was to the bullet because he knew that he'd be a sitting duck for those who attacked him. He didn't want to be killed turned away from the enemy, like a coward. That was the one thing this camp couldn't tolerate - cowards.

Don't be a coward.

He peered above the top of the trench, nose squashed into the earthy, bloody scent of mud in battle. His gun followed to the top, barrel just above the top. It couldn't be any higher or the snipers would see. It couldn't be any lower or the gun would bump into the wall and somehow kick back into himself. He definitely wasn't the luckiest of souls, so he decided not to risk it. He decided that the spot he had chosen was perfect. He aimed, he fired. Missed. Great, now they'd know where he was in the trench.

Duck.

He ducked back down inside the trench that was his home for the past six months. Six months in a dank, dark, stark pit in the ground. He knew he could afford the time to look around the room. His room. He sighed, knowing he would be spending a lot more time here.

Yep. Of course.

There was the gas lamp, standing underneath the wooden bench which people would kneel on in order to shoot. Also underneath the bench was that bucket. The one which we all had to pee in. Great. And there was his gun. His beautiful Vickers machine gun, gleaming with silver-grey pride amidst the brown mud. He wished he could be anywhere but here, but he had to carry on. His motto: Shoot people, then get out. He hoped by shooting people, he'd get out the trench quicker. He hoped. It was unlikely, but he had to keep the option in mind.

Always.

He touched the Bible in his front pocket, hoping it would bring him luck. He needed all the luck he could get. He knew that in the trench, there was no luck. You were in a war, for heaven's sake. Things couldn't get any worse. They couldn't.

He hoped.

He rised up and got back onto the wooden bench. Back into a crouch. Back into the killer mode. The side that could murder. His hunter side. He could only let it out with his rifle with him. He wouldn't risk it with his baby in sight. The little girl which he would give everything in the world if he survived.

If.

He had to survive. To kiss his wife again, and kiss her like it was the last thing he would ever do. He would rock his babe to sleep, hoping that she recognised his war-scarred face. Scarred because of them. The Nazis. The little idiots with the most deformed man in the lead. Hitler. Adolf Hitler.

Ugh.

But that didn't matter. All that mattered was the now, and the family. So he got up and shot.

Again and again and again and againandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagain...