Baldroy: The Last Man Standing
It's amazing how much hatred men can build up against people they're never met if they try hard enough. I know nothing about the people I've been fighting for the last three years but I hate them alright. I hate them so much that I long to wipe the whole lot of them of the face of this pathetic little planet if only so I can go home to America and feel something other than fear for my life and the uselessness of sitting in a shallow hole in the ground waiting to get my head blown off. Most of the men I'm in charge of use prostitutes whenever we're released into the towns nearby the battlefields. I used to but the momentary blast of stale pleasure they bring is so false I've stopped. They'll never fill the void within my stomach that was left when I murdered my peacetime self the first time a bullet I fired made contact with someone else's flesh and killed them. I'm not who I used to be and I'll never be that person again. Nothing's going to change that.
I'm proud of myself for working my way up the ranks and becoming a sergeant, though. I'm only in this position because of my skill. I wasn't born into a rich posh family or anything like that; I'm just good at being in the army. The qualities I have make me the perfect soldier and example to others: detached, strong, able to follow orders. That's why I'm a sergeant now, in on the plans of attack, master, teacher and father to my own platoon of men, the highest position in the ranks. The downside is that I seem to spend all my time telling teenage boys that everything's going to be alright and then watching them charge into battle and die.
Anyway I'm being briefed on what we're to do in our next attack along with all the other officers by the Sergeant Major. He says we're to attack through a weak point in their line which I've been saying for weeks is a trap.
"But sir," I venture, "That's obviously a trap."
I regret saying it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. The Sergeant Major turns to me with venom in his eyes and I almost think he's about to send me for a court martial right there on the spot for contradicting him. I feel I should take it back but I don't. I know I'm right.
"It's not a trap, Sergeant. These people are too stupid to think of such a thing. Do you really believe what you suggest or have you simply lost your nerve?" The Sergeant Major says, giving me a withering glare.
It feels as if he's stabbed me. I know he disapproves of a commoner like me being in a senior position but still the unfounded accusation that I'm a coward makes my eyes sting.
"No, Sir." I spit.
The boys know something's wrong when I join them before the battle.
"Sarge?" Says Jones, staring up at me from beneath the brim of an overlarge uniform hat which falls down over his eyebrows. It was the smallest size we had.
"You're upset." Wilkins joins in, pausing in the meticulous polishing of his bayonet to clench his trembling hands into fists in an unsuccessful attempt to still them.
"Something bad's going to happen isn't it? What's going to happen?" Morris asks, struggling to light a match on the damp-soaked wall of our barricade for the limp cigarette hanging from his grey lips.
I strike one of my own matches on the side of my boot and light Morris's cigarette with it, "Here," I say, sitting down in the middle of the three of them, "Nothing bad's going to happen. We'll be alright. It'll all be just fine. Anyway, we've got three minutes until we're up o let me have a look at your rifles. I don't think I need worry about yours, though, Wilkins."
"Don't leave us, Sarge, will you?" Jones implores me.
"No, no, of course not. I'll be with you men all the way."
It's time. I lead all my men for the charge into the heat of battle. As we reach the so-called 'break' in the line we're ambushed from all sides. Grossly outnumbered. Swords clash, people die. I sprint as fast I can through to the open ground, slashing my sword into people's bodies as I go. I keep looking around me to ensure Jones, Wilkins and Morris are keeping up with me as I promised but the battle is completely chaotic and soon I realise I can't see any of them. As quickly as it began the fight seems to die away. The ground is saturated with blood and mud, the air smells of cordite and my feet catch on corpses. I suddenly realise I'm the only one left from either army. Everyone else is dead.
Out of habit I find a shell hole to sit in and light a cigarette. I take a deep drag and allow the comforting fire to fill my lungs. I can see the bodies of Jones, Wilkins and Morris. Yet more people I've failed. They're huddled together on the lip of the crater I'm in, their limbs tangled and their bodies' slick with too much blood. I can't tell where one of them ends and another starts. Anger fills my body and I want out. I've had enough. I want to scream and shout and hit things at the injustice of it all. Instead I sit in a hole surrounded by the dead and smoke.
I see the body of the Sergeant Major lying nearby and say, "Are you listening to me now, you bastard?" My voice sounds empty and hollow. I feel that way, too. I've seen so much, too much and this is the final straw. There's an immovable lump in my throat and my hands are shaking so badly I can hardly hold my rifle on my knees.
"What a mess." Sighs a posh English voice from behind me.
I jump so much I bite down hard on my cigarette the tobacco explodes onto my tongue.
The adrenaline pumps through my veins and I pull myself out of the shell hole, ready to avenge the deaths of today. Of this whole damn war. I find myself staring down my bayonet at a weedy-looking man in a suit with a severe face and frightening eyes. He smiles.
"So are you friend or foe?" I manage to stammer. My mouth feels like it's stuffed with sawdust.
"Oh neither, I assure you."
This cryptic response unnerves me and my rifle visibly quivers in my hands, the bayonet clattering in its loose port, "Just, just what exactly do you mean by that?"
"You can put that thing down, don't worry. Bullets can't stop me." The man growls a low laugh from the back of his throat.
I drop my weapon without thinking that he might me lying. I can tell he's not but I can also tell he won't hurt me.
"I'm here to offer you a job, actually."
I'm to be a cook in a big house in England with a young Lord and two other servants, not counting Sebastian; the mysterious man and butler, to keep me company. I'll be paid enough to buy all the cigarettesI want and have a bed and meals for free. It's perfect. There's nothing for me in America; I do have friends there, family even, but none of them would recognise me. It's a new dawn, I'm a new person and I'm about to start living a new life. It should feel good to have somebody else in charge for a change.