The earth had not stopped shaking for a week. You couldn’t hear or see the guns firing, but by Heaven you could see the result. Over 1500 artillery pieces bringing down the full wrath of the Allies upon the German hordes. No mortal men could take those blows and stay standing. They had been assured.
He stood in the foul, muddy trench, his feet soaking, his body freezing. Even the rum could not block out the cold. He watched the sun creep into the morning sky, in its great glory. A whole galaxy of stars and planets, more than grains of sand on the beach, and here on small, puny Earth, the humans were fighting. Why? What did the insignificant troubles of the humans matter? Who did this madness help? The noise of the guns faded further into the horizon.
The first wave of men stepped up to the parapet. Their bayonets were fixed. Steely resolve in their eyes, surpassing the metal of their weapons. Did they want to fight? No. Would they fight? To the last man. A single, solitary note filled the air. Joined by another, and another. They clambered out of the trenches, walking towards their glory. The first great day of Kitchener’s new army.
But he did not go. He stood waiting in the second wave. Waiting for the triumphant calls of his friends, the surrender of the enemy.
A rifle cracked, and a cry rose up. A man had fallen. Then again. The whole orchestra was going to join in. The machine guns opened fire, and the roar of their artillery filled his ears.
When he was young, he had gone to a concert in Munich. They had played Mozart, and it was beautiful. How could the same people have conducted this? This was not angelic. It was the inferno, illuminated with the screams of dying friends.
He could not do it. Could not climb the mountain ahead of him. They were about to sound the note again. His eyes grew wide; he turned his back on his dying friends. He ran. He ran so fast, so far. Away from the horror and the noise.
They did not follow him. He would be dealt with later. After the victory. They rose up, over the top to meet the foe. But he hid. In the darkness, and the damp. The noise was still there, though. The screaming was terrible now. Those alive now envied the dead and blackened corpses of their friends. The misery of the world had crowded into that one place, smothering it in despair. All hope was crushed, all love extinguished, while the flames of Hell licked higher.
He remembered the faces, the names, the lives of the people out there dying for their country. But that wasn’t what they were dying for. It was for there friends. He had let them fall into the abyss.
The rum hadn’t helped; but the fires of the damned dried his soaking feet, and warmed his chilled body. He lifted his head high. Ran back to join those poor, brave sods. The honour was not dying for your country or for glory, but for falling with these ordinary men, marching towards the Devil himself.
The third wave was stepping up onto the parapet. He joined them, picking up his discarded rifle. No one spoke. This was their last safe moment on Earth, and before meeting Beelzebub, they said goodbye to God.
It felt like the war would be over soon. The wait was eternal. Perhaps the notes they would hear would be the victory songs? But it was not to be. The whistles sounded. They went towards the enemy, and he was among them. He looked at the sun longingly for a moment, and marched onwards with his company.
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