by Ida B
This is war and this place is death. (WWII)
|They aren’t getting up. They aren’t pushing themselves to their feet and walking away. Why aren’t they running to cover or trying to advance? Have they fallen asleep? Under enemy fire, have they fallen asleep?
He laughs sardonically at that, no longer able to pretend just for having imagined that anyone could close their eyes here without being either a narcoleptic or a casualty. The blood everywhere doesn’t help him. Neither does the constant crack bang boom of enemy fire or the screams as men fall to men who move on to be felled themselves by yet another man, another <i>human being</i>.
This is war and this place is death. Or Hell. It sure feels like Hell to him as he watches a brave scout jerk back and topple into the mud with a splash. He thinks he remembers having a drink with that man just before deployment. That was a nice fellow if it really was him. He shakes his head and steadies his gun on a comrade’s chest and takes aim, praying for forgiveness even as he cocks the trigger, catches the slight recoil in his shoulder and watches the enemy fall.