Bullets rang from above and whizzed overhead. Somewhere over to the right another man was shot down. Damn, how many did that make? A young man by the name of Matthew Scott was knelt down in the trenches, rifle lined up as he let loose another round. There was another shot but this time the young brunette felt a force go through his left shoulder. When he looked down it felt as if everything went into slow motion. In his uniform he found a hole, but it didn't stop there, the hole traveled all the way through his shoulder, blood trickling out of the wound. Next came the pain. He cried out and dropped down further into the ditch, rifle hanging to him by the strap. As he writhed in pain he managed with shaky hands to take the roll of cloth out of his pocket and stuff the hole, slowing the blood flow. Then, everything went black.
Who knows how long it was until he woke again. All Matthew knew, is that everywhere he looked, he saw death. Everyone. Dead. He stood there in the waist deep trench, clutching his shoulder, looking around in shock. They were all gone. Dead and gone. He just couldn't comprehend it. He pulled himself out of the trench and wandered through the battlefield. He couldn't stay here. If he wasn't dead now he soon would be. France. He had to make it to France. That was his only hope now. So he began, walking through the lightly snow dusted, bloody ground and to, what he thought, was northwest. Three days. That's how far he traveled without rest. That's the furthest he could go without stopping for sleep. "Sleep is for the weak" Matthew murmured to himself as he trudged on through the wooded area. But, alas, everyone needs sleep, even Matt, so, he chose a thick area of trees, and curled up, silently praying to an unknown God that he would wake in the morn.
When Matthew woke, he did so with a jump. Litterlally. He tilted his head to get a view of where he was, he was about to open his mouth to speak when a woman next to him pressed a finger to her lips. The American remained silent under the burlap material that covered him and perhaps twenty others. From the other side of the burlap he heard voices,both speaking a language that he only assumed to be German. He ran his gloved fingers over the smooth wood of his gun, the indent of bullet that went through his shoulder giving him an odd sense of comfort. The conversation outside ended and the cart they were in gave a sudden jolt. A few minutes in the cover to the cart flew back giving him the first clear view of the driver, a man maybe his age with blond hair pulled back into a short ponytail and cloudy green eyes.
(And That's where I'm going to end it for this chapter. I hope you guys like it so far and want to further read it. With love- A)