Days of War

Days of War

The underground trenches were narrow and dark, the living conditions
damp and uncomfortable, day morphed into night. The sounds of gunfire
rang day and night, hour after hour.

Above ground, the surroundings were horrific. Soldiers fire at one
another, not knowing who or what they shot, only the enemy. The scenes
were clouded in smoke, once cleared a dozen or so men lay there, blood
streaming down from their pale faces, lying there on the ground,
staring into space or shouting, yelling crying for help, no one came,
no one ever came, no one ever wanted to risk their lives to help dying
men. This was war.

* * *

When I was fourteen years of age, England declared war on us. I
remember when soldiers came to our neighbourhood crowded between twenty
or so people and told exciting stories of battle and I used to envy
them, I had always sought for adventure and dreamt of joining the army.
I wanted to escape the scarcely thrilling life of which I was leading.
So at 16, when war was still fierce and shortages of men posed as a
real threat, me and my best friend, Ludwig joined the German army. Not
to fight for anything we believed in, no, hardly anyone fought for the
homicide of Jews. We fought to add a little sparkle to our dull lives,
we fought because of hatred of the English. Why did we hate the
English? Because everyone did, because we were born knowing English
bad, German good.

We spent one month at training camp, they put us into the harshest
conditions imaginable and during my time there I learnt how to kill and
avoid been killed. On the last day we were handed a dagger and a pistol
and told that tomorrow we would be sent to France where a battle was
taking place.

* * *

I could hardly hide the look of anticipation and excitement dawning
upon my face as I got out of the army lorry and looked unto the
battleground. Sounds of gunfire echoed to my ears. The commander then
led us to the underground trench, we were given a machine gun and told
to prepare for battle on Tuesday.

* * *

Three months later

The battles are intense, and chances of winning the war are improbable.
For the last 3 months I have undergone every source of pain, every form
of suffering. My family were killed during a blast by a British fighter
jet, I was notified of this by a short telegram during the last week.
This week I have walked barefooted for thirty-six miles. I saw the
truth now for the first time. This was war. No excitement, no fun, just
torture... and guilt. I had killed three men and images of my murders
replayed again and again on my mind. I could not forget the agonizing
cry as my dagger sank through their hearts nor the look on their face,
nor the look on their faces when their lives were sucked out of them.
Most of all I could not forget that I was a murderer. That I had taken
the lives of three men without taking my own.

It was not regret that I felt for the three men, if I had not killed
them, I would have been dead. It was guilt I felt, guilt that somewhere
I had left a woman widowed and her children fatherless. Ludwig was my
only friend now, my sole companion. I relied on him more that I relied
on myself, my purpose in this war is to protect him, that we would
return to Germany as honourable soldiers as well as best friends.

* * *

Six days later

Two hours ago, me, Ludwig and several others were leading a march to
the south coast of France. During the march we were lost in the middle
of a forest. I told them to stay where they were and that I would find
where we are. After walking just a few hundred metres, I heard an
explosion and quickly turned. A bomb had detonated where the soldiers
were standing. I ran back and tried to calm the troops who was far away
enough not to have been affected by the blast and moved towards the
casualties. There Ludwig laid, as soon as I saw him, the blank
expression on his face, I knew that every ounce of life was gone, and
there was nothing I could do, that he was dead. I led the soldiers to
the nearest German camp and request to be alone. I sat there staring
and thought. In the space of four months, I have lost my family and
best friend and it was because of this war. This war with a cause I
never believed in. Then why was I fighting for it? If Hitler believed
in decapitating Jews, why wasn't he in the war? Why wasn't he fighting
in the front line for the things he believed in rather than making
those who didn't fight for him? If it weren't for the war I would still
have a family I would still have a best friend, I would still have a
life. And now in the space of four months, I've lost everything.

The End

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