Disclaimer: I do not own All Quiet on the Western Front, nor any of the characters. Only the plot of this story is mine. All Quiet on the Western Front belongs to Erich Maria Remarque.
Summary: Tjaden, the last survivor in the group, reminisces about his friends and their special bond while helping out a younger soldier during a bombardment. By "bond" I mean esprit de corps. Oneshot.
A/N: This was my end of unit project for English. Yup yup. I personally find AQWF rather depressing. Oh, and for those who don't know, esprit de corps is like…you know when you go through a life or death situation with someone, you feel a connection to them? Literal translation is "spirit of company" or something like that. That was the theme I was writing about. Tjaden is slightly OOC, but I couldn't help it. I didn't read parts of the book so I couldn't portray his personality with exact precision. Wow a lot of "P" words…alliteration! Damn, I've had too much language drilled into me…XP…tell me what you think! Oh and the reason this was submitted under 1984 is because there was no option for AQWF and no "other"! Can you believe that?! Fanfiction should AT THE VERY LEAST have an "Other" option!
Closer Than Kin
The ground shook with the shock of countless shells falling upon it. Several explosions left bits of what were once impromptu shelters hurtling through the air, becoming weapons themselves. Men took cover or ran, all their reason lost in the animalistic urges of the front. The air was heavy with the smell of blood, shells, dirt, and war. The bombardment had lasted for almost an entire day and showed no signs of letting up.
Tjaden gripped his bayonet and made ready to run to the next place of cover. He waited as a machine gun's line of fire flew over his trench and leapt from under the shelter. He ran quickly and low to the ground towards another similar shelter. As he ducked inside, he felt a tremor go through the earth as a grenade landed in his last shelter. The uncanny soldiers' instinct had saved him again.
Sighing, he crouched and leaned back against the wall. They were saying the war would be over soon. They also said that Germany seemed likely to lose. The other countries were very angry. Tjaden really didn't care one way or the other. The front was the only life he knew how to live. He had nothing to look forward to when returning home. His last leave had been right after Paul had died. The short trip had pained him to no end. Sometimes he wished an enemy soldier would hit his mark and kill Tjaden there and then. At least, if he was dead, he could rejoin Paul, Kat, Haie and the others.
Tjaden took a sip from his water bottle. Carefully, he stretched out his legs and examined the worn boots he wore. They were Kemmerich's boots, the ones he gave to Müller before he died. Müller in turn gave them to Paul, who passed them on to Tjaden. Four different owners, several months in action, and they looked ready to fall apart.
A grenade exploding nearby called Tjaden out of his reverie. He shook his head clear and sat alert. A loud groaning reached his ears. This was nothing new. One always heard people sounding out their last painful moments before slipping into the soft welcoming arms of eternal slumber. It happened all too often these days.
But for some reason, this particular cry twanged a string in Tjaden, and he found himself leaving the shelter into the shellfire. He must have finally lost his mind, he thought. He was going to die just like Berger chasing after that damned dog. He reached the source of the cries: a young boy curled into a ball his hands covering his helmeted head, while shivering violently. Shell shock.
"Come on boy! Get up!" Tjaden shook the boy to get him moving. When the boy didn't move Tjaden lifted him onto his back and jogged back to the shelter. "What the hell do you think you're doing out here where a piece of shrapnel can stick you through any second?" Chance seemed to be in their favor, for they avoided being hit by anything.
Tossing the boy on the ground, Tjaden checked him for any injuries. Finding none, he handed him a piece of bread. Tjaden then sat back and watched him. He appeared no older than fifteen or sixteen. Barely old enough to know love, let alone fight in a pointless, bloody war. The boy was still shaking, but it seemed to have subsided somewhat. He was sickly pale under the trench grime and his eyes were open impossibly wide. The pupils darted to and fro frantically. Tjaden moved over next to him and draped an arm around his form comfortingly.
"Hush now. This isn't so bad. I've lived through much worse. It'll be over soon."
The boy shut his eyes and spoke through trembling lips, "This is hell."
Tjaden burst out in laughter at that statement. Hell. That was one way to put it.
"Aye, hell, boy. And much worse than that!"
The boy had calmed down a bit more. Tjaden stayed by his side as the war raged on around them.
After a few hours, Tjaden felt a familiar sense of foreboding. It was that same sense that had saved his life innumerable times. It was time to move.
"Come! Follow me, boy!" Tjaden grabbed his bayonet and crawled outside.
"B-But it is dangerous out there! We could be killed! They'll get us with the machine guns! The planes will-"
"Shut up and follow me!" Tjaden yelled. "A soldier is always in danger at the front."
"But they taught us to stay under cover-"
"Right at this moment, forget all the nonsense those idiots taught you and listen to me! Those busybodies may drill you to perfection in fancy salutes, but none of that means a rat's bum up here. Here, all you need to know is when to duck!" So saying, the older soldier grabbed the younger one's arm and dragged him out. Together they ran for the edge of the ditch and clambered up and over. The two soldiers slid along on their stomachs through the deadly rain of shells until they felt the dip of the next ditch. Quickly they rolled into it. A tremor behind them signaled the destruction of their previous cover.
The boy was wide eyed and shell shocked once again. Tjaden shook his shoulder and pointed to an outcrop a little way away, the noise being to loud for words. The boy nodded and tried to stand, but gasped and fell forwards. He had been hit with a shell in his achilles' tendon. Tjaden pulled the boy's arm around his shoulder, supporting him as they headed toward the outcrop.
The bombardment continued for who knew how long. Tjaden treated the boy's wound as well as he could, but it was useless. He tried to call out for a stretcher, but he himself could barely hear his voice. That foot was as good as gone. They moved position several more times. Tjaden sometimes tossed grenades towards the enemy line of fire as they came to close. Tjaden helped the younger, inexperienced soldier, telling what to do, where to go.
In their moments of relative peace Tjaden reflected on how, so long ago it seemed, Kat had been the same to him and his friends. Tjaden, Kropp, Paul, Haie, the rest had been fresh, ruddy faced youths eager to win themselves renown and women. They dreamed about the glories of war and all the speeches given to them about being the Iron Youth, defenders of their country's honor. During their first bombardment, their disillusion quickly evaporated. Kat, their company commander, was the one to teach them true warfare. He taught them how to fight, to find shelter, to survive against the odds. He had been like a father to them, no a brother. Theirs was a bond none could compete with.
Tjaden smiled as the memories came pouring back. He saw Kat, telling them to forget what they had learned in boot camp, like he had told the boy earlier; Kat, and the others, and their day of playing cards in the field of red poppies; Kat coming back, his arms laden with food; Kat on the front, shooting at the enemies; Kat's funeral; Tjaden, Kropp, Leer and Paul flirting with the French girls from across the water; their excitement over the poster of the girl and sailor; cooking dinner while under attack. The images flew past his eyes and he smiled sadly.
These were the people who truly knew him. They were those he loved most dearly. He would remember them for the rest of his life, even if that life had but a minute left. They were his companions, his friends, even if they were dead. Yes, they were close, closer even than his kin.