He continued to push forward; blank expression on his face as if he had already passed.
He looked to his right. Byrne was walking on covered in a red blanket of his allies. Like zombies they continued to march. Vacant eyes. Blank expressions. Still marching.
Stephen watched the others make the attempt over the wire. Some caught up in it and never to be retrieved. No time to stop. The death of his friends became a past memory and nothing more. He took his turn facing death as he climbed over the vicious barrier.
“Stephen!” It was the voice of Byrne. He had been engulfed in the cluttered chaos of carcasses and coils. Should I help, Stephen thought… no. He continued as if he had heard nothing. As if he had saw nothing. As if he was programmed to complete one goal and nothing else.
A graveyard of bodies, the only thing stopping him from the enemy line. A cemetery of his gunned down allies. 50 yards. 40 yards. 30 yards. “Bang” a bullet found Stephen’s arm. Yet he felt no pain. As he continued on, he glanced down at his arm dangling beside him. 20 yards. “Get down!” Stephen followed the order.
“Stephen is that you”, a familiar voice pierced the sound of gunfire. As Stephen glanced down, he saw a man. Masked in mud, his friends, and himself. His lower half a mangled mess of limbs and organs. It was Captain Weir. A rush of reality entered Stephens body. “Ca-captain… J-Jesus. Jesus”. Stephen tried to hold back tears. “You’re gonna be okay”. Stephen knew his words were lies.
The rush of reality was supressed by the sounds of machine guns and snipers. He got up and continued. His body persisted forward while his mind was left with his dying friends.
10 yards. 5 yards. He made his way into the trench. A clutter of men too dishevelled to recognize their own allies. Stephen watched as a German was brutally slaughtered by two British soldiers. His intestines slowly emerged from his open stomach. The British soldiers persisted as the man screamed and cried.
“Ahhhhh”, a German ran at Stephen. Without thinking he tried to grab his gun only to remember his arm was injured. Stephen grabbed his pocket knife with his other arm and forcefully imbedded it into the enemy’s chest. The enemy dropped. Now, just another body among the chaos.
“Gas!”, the hum of gunfire and screaming was halted. Everyone dropped. Stephen struggled to find his gas mask in the mud. Him and an enemy locked eyes. The German masked with a face of terror, as the realization that his gasmask was gone hit him. Stephen silently watched as the boy struggled for air. His lungs begged for air as he attempted to yell for help. Within a minute he had become another statistic of the war.
Written by Matt Hayward
Comments