I just finished reading "The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak. Really great book, I'd recommend it to all of you WWII fanatics out there. He had this writing style that I found interesting and I wanted to try it out myself. So here's my little version with Band of Brothers.
* * * Two Things You Should Know * * *
Before Continuing
1. I am tired
2. I am curious
You now know two facts about me and how I feel about my job. There have been many souls since the beginning of time, all having to meet me at one point. Old, young, man, child – they were all the same to me. It was all so tedious, so tiring, but more so when there were wars. Oh, how I dreaded the wars! Men colliding with bullets, bullets colliding with men! I never understood humans and their ways of solving problems. It was a silly game they played. There were winners and losers but it made no difference. Either one would find his way to me sooner or later.
My most interesting encounters happened during the Second World War, as man called it. Millions had died during that period – Americans, Russians, Germans, everyone suffered. I remembered it all: the beginning, the middle, and the end. The only souls I could recollect so easily were those of the Americans. Many died that faithless Sunday morning. One morning had caused them all to be dragged into the war, towards me.
So many souls on that day, so many. Planes droned in the distance, bombs whistled through the air, and shrieks shrilled as I picked them out. I felt like a little child in a candy store, wandering around and looking at the vast variety of sugary goodness. There were red ones, the hot-headed men who refused to die but did; the blue ones, the relaxed men who didn't mind my presence; and the yellow ones, the young innocent men who didn't deserve this.
And after the whole incident many men asked to no one in particular, "Why them? Why not me?" or the infamous "Was it my fault?" Surely, those were directed at me. I had no answer.
Then they were ordered across the ocean to an unholy place by the name of Omaha Beach. More bullets, more colliding, more blood, more souls.
There was the freezing hell called Bastogne. Not many bullets but instead sickness. The souls were cold. They longed for warmth. They only found me.
That was the tiring part.
The curiosity came later.
I had met a particular group of men. A band of brothers, I decided to name them. They called themselves the Screaming Eagles. They did indeed scream when we met, but there were few encounters. Many managed to avoid me until their time came decades later, though that Speirs fellow was brave enough to look me in the eyes and run off unscathed.
They were an interesting group of souls. They intrigued me and so in my free time or before they were finally called forth, I would observe them. I was with them everywhere. I followed them, from the low ranks to the higher ranks. I watched them do their daily deeds: eat, sleep, kill, rest, kill some more. They were so delicious to one's eyes and mind. I couldn't resist.