"It was Hell on Earth... The year was 1916, and we were in the trenches on the Western front in France. I was an American volunteer, and we, as in one of the many armies of the Entente, were getting ready for what seemed like the end of an offensive. The Somme. One of the bloodiest battles of the entire war as far as I know. Hell, I don't even know if the war is still being fought. I've been gone for so long. But anyways, where was I?", the man said, trying to recollect his memory.
"You were talking about your involvement in the battle of the Somme.", said a voice. The voice sounded young, high pitched. Curious. Even afraid. The voice of a teenager. A father telling his story to their child.
"Ah, yes, now I remember. The whistles blew, and the first battalion charged. Then the second. Then the third. And then it was my turn. My turn to either get captured, or get mowed down into mush and left to rot in the mud..." The man's thoughts focused on what had happened when he got out of the trench. He was charging with his fellow soldiers. His rifle in hand. Ready to die and be released from this Hell that he was trapped in. The peace he wanted desperately was so close... But it never came. The enemy soldiers, the Germans. Or Jerries, as the Brits called them, rushed towards the man and his fellow battalion and attacked. Bayonets clashed, stabbed, sliced through flesh and bone. Bullets zipped by and hit some anywhere and everywhere. The head, straight through the skull, brains blown out. The chest, resulting in a collapsed lung or two. Maybe even hit the heart. The arm, or the leg, you get the picture. Nothing would kill him, or maim him. "My gun jammed. So I tried using my bayonet. Took out a few Krauts. Maybe two or three. In the chaos around me, I threw it away, pulled out my sidearm. An M1911. Used up my ammo on at most five or six. Then in the rage I felt when I noticed most of my comrades around me were dead or dying, I tackled one and began beating him mercillesly. I-I think I remember bashing his skull in with a club, hard enough the damn thing broke in my hand. Stabbed the poor bastard in the heart... Come to think of it... That was one of the things I regret most in my life..." He looked at his hands. They were shaking.
"Then what happened, Dad?" asked the girl.
"Then the sound of whistling came... Both sides were firing an artillery barrage... You'd have to hope to God you got lucky and didn't have a scratch on you... Which thankfully I didn't. I even saved someone else from that. When the smoke cleared, I noticed that it wasn't a friendly that I saved. It was the enemy. The enemy I swore to kill with every chance I get. I think he had the same shocked expression as me. Until he friends got both of us. I surrendered. Had to, unless I wanted to die. In truth, I did... Still do. But the part of me that doesn't, makes me wanna stick around and see what happens next. They took me to their side. The guy I saved thanked me and tried to get his Commander to bring me back to my side of No Man's Land. But it was too risky. And do you really think they would care about one little soldier? Fuck no. So they interrogated me a little, until they realized I didn't know a damn thing." The events flashed right before his eyes. Just like one of those films back home.
"Where the fuck are you taking me? Damn you Krauts! Do your worst!"
"Verschlossen Amerikaner. Wir haben einen Nutzen für Sie schließlich. Sie werden nicht in den Gefängnislagern, oh nein sein. Statt dessen werden Sie um uns kämpfen." (Shut up, American. We have a use for you after all. You won't be in a prison camp, oh no. Instead, you will be fighting for us.) The Kommadant told the other two soldiers to put on a uniform for one of the Stormtroopers. An elite infantry unit meant to hit enemy trenches in surprise attacks. He was brought to the front of the line with a few other soldiers who were captured. He looked at one soldier.
"Hey, what's your name?" he asked to the soldier.
"Waller. Private Edward Waller. What's yours?", asked the soldier in a British accent.
"Jack. Jack Murphy... Hey you got any kids? A family?"
"No why? Do you?"
"Yeah, I have a kid, but he's with his uncle for the meantime. But good for you, cause if you make it out of this, then no worries for you."
Gas masks were put over their faces so up close, if they got that far, couldn't be seen by friendlies. Additionally, their hands were tied so they couldn't surrender. The whistle was blown, but only the captured pows charged. The friendly battalion, thinking they were the enemy, started shooting, and one by one, fell into the mud. One of which was Edward Waller, whose knife fell out of the uniform. Jack grabbed it from behind his back and started to cut the rope binding his hands together. When he got them free, a friendly soldier charged at him with a bayonet attached to his rifle. Pinning him down, Jack tried to get him to stop, but the soldier was having none of it. Flipping him over so Jack was on the ground, the soldier grabbed the knife he was carrying and tried to plunge it into Jack's neck. Jack was pushing back with all his strength, and suddenly, the air turned yellow... Mustard gas. The soldier above him tried to quickly kill Jack, but Jack pulled the gas mask off of the soldier's face revealing a young boy. Maybe only fifteen or sixteen years of age. The kid stood up, dropping the knife, he scratched at his face. He screamed in agonizing horror. Focusing on trying to stay alive, the boy tried to reach for Jack's gas mask. But Jack stopped his hands, struggling to get the pain to subside, Jack pulled out the pistol from the boy's holdster, and shot him in the head. The gas cleared, and it began to rain. Jack took off the mask and screamed out into the heavens. Tired, he fell back onto the mud. There was whistling, which got louder by the second, but Jack was too tired to move. He had accepted it. His peace would finally arrive, and all it would take was a few short seconds.