Aight folks, this seems to be a reasonable gibberish thread, prepare for the longest post ever written. Ehm:
Everything was in order. The bolt was locked, the stok planted firmly against my sholder, and the rear sight right next to my eye. They said blasters were too expensive for us. We were, after all, just "Liners". Instead we were given these primitive, but charmful "lead sluggers".
In the distance i saw a man running across the mud-covered field. Clutching his rifle. It was quite clear he belonged to the Garland's by the way his coat extended out, flapping in the air as he ran. I knew i had to do something, for if the marshal found out i had spotted a Garland, yet not acted upon my oppurtunity, i would be sent to the Mudgrounds, or worse.
I leant my head against the back of the gun, so i could see him through the sight. And sure enough, through the two small metal rings, there he was, still running across the field.
I aimed high, several meters above his head, and i squeezed the trigger. The stock punched my shoulder, i saw a flash, and heard a loud "bang". The smell of gun powder filled my nostrils. The man kept on running, but after a few meters he jerked, slowed down, and fell to his knees. Impossible, i thought. I coudn't have hit him, i aimed several meters above him. But sure enough, he fell to his knees, and then also on his elbows, crawling for a few seconds, until he collapsed. Now my hands numbed, my body fealt as if i had been thrown in a tub of ice-water. The pain in my swollen foot stopped, the ringing in my ears from the bang of the discharging round seized. All was quiet.
Suddenly, like a hammer hitting my eardrum, i heard the mans scream. High-pitched, and filled with anxiety and fear. His voice shaked with pain. I didn't dare to watch him lay there, so i pulled in my rifle, and jumped down in the trench.
That night was the longest one in my entire life. I could hear him scream in the distance, though i couldn't make out what he was screaming, for the darkness of the night felt like a cotton wall between me and him, dampening the sound of his tormented cry. I could hear his voice echo in the night. It slowly went from a scream of mostly pain and helplessness, to a cry of desperation. I covered my ears, but the high-pitched wailing of the wounded man kept on echoing within me.
Eventually the screams dampened, and the breaks between them became longer, until the night became quiet again, as quiet as it had been all those years ago, before the war had started.
That morning i was awakened to the sickening sound of the trumpets, and the marshals call for us to "take positions". I immediately felt sick, and stumbled up from my bed mat. I clutched my stomach, walking over to an old, rusted bucket that had been left in the trench by the diggers. I lunged my head over the edge of the bucket and heaved. Yellow vomit mixed with small bits of pork splattered the bottom of the old bucket, contrasting with the shiny grey and brown finish of the metal.
I always felt sick when i heard the the trumpets loud song, and the marshals call, today was no different. When i had recovered from the cascading, i stood up, feeling a bit better. I looked around the trench, it was still the same mess of mud, planks and left over tools as it had been the day i arrived. In some places, spades were planted into the ground, as if someone had been digging, but randomly decided to stop.
The walls stood about two meters tall, but the height varied heavily depending on the surrounding terrain. They were scattered with planks to keep the mud from collapsing back in, and small rooms carved into them, only just large enough to fit a bed mat, a rack for supplies and personal belongings, and a small stand for us to put our rifles on. They were very compact and almost completely square, their walls covered with planks to keep the mud out. The ceiling also had planks, but most of them had been overtaken by dry mud that had slipped through the cracks. A musky smell filled the noses of anyone who entered these rooms.
On the planks above the rooms, were numbers, indicating who the rooms belonged to. Mine had the numbers "209-181" written on it. The "181" was for me, the "209", was for the poor fellow who had previously occupied it.
When i arrived the marshal showed me the room, and told me it would be mine for the time i was here. He then proceeded with taking out his knife, using it to draw an "X" over the "209", and added "-108" after it.
I had tried to make the room my own, by lodging a wooden stick in between two exposed planks in the ceiling, and then hanging my hand-lamp on it. It gave it some character, as opposed to many others, who simply placed their lamps on the floor of their rooms.
Those who were lucky had their rooms located along the high walls, they did not have to bend down while in their refuge.
My room, however, was situated in a segment of the wall that was slightly shorter, so my ceiling was low, as most were.
Along the trench walls, on the ground, ran a stepping platform, so one could step up to see, and rest his rifle over the edge.
In certain places along the wall, there were ladders, and even makeshift stairs, constructed by loose planks gathered from the ground or from the walls themselves.
When i was done inspecting the trench, i went back in my room, grabbed my helmet and my rifle, along with some rounds, and i walked out to go to my firing position.
As i walked i felt the skin of my left foot rub against the leather of my boot. Every step i took with that foot was plagued with pain, but not so severe as to hinder me from walking.
A few days ago we had to leave the trench after information of incoming mortar strikes reached us, so we quickly packed only the most necessary equipment and headed off towards a neighboring trench. We marched the entire day, and arrived at the trench late at night. There we stayed for one day, and headed back early in the morning. When we were nearly back at our trench, i slipped in the mud, and when i tried to save myself from falling by slamming my foot down in front of me, i felt a snap and heard a crack. A sharp pain streamed up my leg and i fell to my knees. After a few minutes, and some painkillers, i forced myself up. I could walk, but the foot hurt like hell everytime i supported my weight on it.
We made it home late at night, and found that there had been no mortar strike. It would be an understatement to say that our marshal was pissed off. He immediately called for the radio operator and proceeded to contact our headmarshal. He yelled at him through the radio throughout the night, complaining over the long journey we had taken, and that it was for a false alarm. It was quite enjoyable hearing his angry screams, and i could hear the giggling of my mates in the neighboring rooms.
My foot became swollen, but the pain stopped, but now my left boot was a bit too small for the increased size of the foot. Now the skin on my foot always rubbed on the inside of the leather, and had started to form blisters.
When i got halfway to my position, reality hit me like a bucket of ice-water, i remembered what i had done. The picture of the man jerking and falling down flashed before me, and i fealt the kick of the gun, and heard the bang, as clear as it was yesterday. I stopped, leaned against the trench wall, and dropped my rifle. I was about to faint, and the screams of the tormented man echoed within me.
I just barely avoided fainting when Charles, the man occupying the room opposite mine, came up to me.
"You alright, mate?"
He said. slamming his hand on my shoulder.
I looked up at him, and saw him inspecting my face.
"Holy shit, mate, you look as pale as a klansman. What's wrong?"
I shook my head, adjusted my helmet, and straightened out.
"Nothing, just some morning sickness."
I replied.
"Are you pregnant or something?"
He jokingly said, smiling.
"You know how I can't stand the sounds of those trumpets, Charlie, ever since the siege they make me feel sick to my stomach."
I said to him as I bent down to retrieve my rifle from the ground.
He nodded, and gave me a friendly pat on the back as he started walking back to his position.
"Yeah, I can't stand the damn trumpets either, I'll choke the damn marshal after we've won the war."
He yelled as he was stepping up on the firing platform, laughing along with some other soldiers which apparently also disliked the marshal, and his constant calls for us to get up in the morning.
The rest of the walk to my position was filled with thoughts on what I had done. I had shot and killed a man who had never wronged me. And I even made him lay there, twisting in pain and agony for the last moments of his life, calling for someone to help him, or for someone to just kill him, so he would be spared another minute of the pain and anxiety he was feeling.
I did not care for the pain in my foot, I could only think of the poor man, and his family, and the horrible scream that had plagued that night, reminding everyone who could hear it, of the horrors of war.
When I arrived at my position, I stepped up on the platform, and brought up my rifle against the edge. The feeling of the rifle in my hands was sickening. The very thought of holding the tool that had caused so much suffering for a man disgusted me. Yet I held it there, ready to be fired. I was taught to do this, since the day I enlisted, to the day I was issued a spot at the front line. It was ingrained in me, and I followed my training as by autopilot. Some credit has to be given to the inventors of this system, for if an untrained man had done what I had just done, i doubt they would even be able to get up the next morning.
Even though from the outside, I was concentrating on spotting the enemy at the horizon, internally, I could only focus on the horrible act I had committed.
After three hours standing there, contemplating. The trumpets signaled that it was time for lunch. I pulled in my rifle, and stepped down. An other soldier immediately came and took over my spot.
I slowly made my way to my squads cooking spot. Adam, who we called "Merlin", had just heated up ten portions of soup for the squad, and was giving them out when i arrived. As i passed him, he gave me a can of hot, steaming soup and greeted me. I sat down next to Charles, placed my rifle besides me, took of my helmet and grabbed a spoon from the makeshift table in front of us.
We had no chairs, so we each sat on upside down steel buckets. To my right sat Charles, stuffing his mouth full of Merlin's tasty soup, one of few pleasures we had in the trench.
To the left of me sat Noah, a thin and pale, dark haired guy with round glasses. He was the gunner of our squad, hence, he carried the bulky machine gun that had proved very difficult to haul through the thick mud we had to march through before we got here. To the left of him sat the squad leader, Michael. He was older than most of us, and had had more experience in combat, proved by the large scar that ran accross his right cheek. He had well combed, brown hair and thick eyebrows. He was a bit short, but very well trained. Opposite us stood Fats, he was tall, big and bald. He could be described as a large child, but not in a bad way. He was often happy, and enjoyed sweets. He also enjoyed food, which had left it's traces on his body type. Though fats loved both Merlin's soup, and the chocolate bars we gave him if we found any, the thing he loved the most must had been Barky, the squads tracking dog. She was a large labrador with golden yellow fur. Sometimes Fats spoke about his wife at home, and we often wondered who he loved the most, his wife, or Barky. He played with her, shared his soup with her and even let her sleep next to his bed mat when it was raining, so she wouldn't have to be outside and get wet. Then there were Merlin himself. A tall, light haired guy with good manners and witty replies. He was the squads cook and moral support. Some of us even saw him as the unofficial leader.
Among the others in the squad were Marc, he didn't speak much. He was of medium build, with very short, dark hair, and square glasses. Whenever a conversation sparked in our squad, Marc was the last person to say something, if at all. We barely knew what his voice sounded like. He sat alone against the wall with his can of soup, sipping away at it. Ron and Ken, who were brothers, sat to the right of Charles, chatting with each other. They were both redheads, and had a strong connection.
When i was assigned to the squad, an other man, Cody, was with us, instead of Ron. He was very talkative and friendly, he often spoke of the time before the war, and how he wished he had been around at the time.
One day, before we got to this trench, we were staying at a bunker complex, along with three other squads, and we had been given orders to stay there and guard the complex until the 23rd regiment could arrive to establish a more permanent settlement.
After four days, our supplies had been heavily diminished, and there was no trace of the 23rd regiment. We began to worry, and Cody was certainly the one who worried the most. On the fifth day we counted our rations, and calculated they would last us three more days, if we conserved them. Cody, who was a liner like me and Charles, frequently left his post and went inside one of the bunkers. Sometimes he sat there for hours, not doing anything. Once Ken tried to enter his refuge in the bunker to ask him what he was doing, but it was of no use. He just sat in a corner, hanging his head, shaking. Perhaps Cody was not suited for the harsh environment of frontline warfare. Even though not a singly bullet had been fired, the mission had taken its toll on him. Probably the week long march, the days filled with fear of soon being without food coupled with the fact that he hadn't seen his friends or family in well over a month, was too much for him, and left him depressed and filled with anxiety.
On the eighth day, at noon, Merlin had cooked up the last of the rations, and we bitterly chewed them down, hoping that the 23rd would arrive soon.
Suddenly a loud bang sounded in the distance, and our assigned marshal screamed at us to get in position. Then the loud trumpets sounded with the signal indicating that we ware under attack. My heart felt like it had stopped. Then it raced, and i could feel the adrenaline being pumped through my veines. I started breathing heavily, filling my lungs with cold air. I did not feel frightened, instead i was filled with a fealing of joy and excitement. It was, after all, the thing i had been training for for two whole years; combat.
We each ran to our positions, me, Charles, Merlin and Fats, the liners, ran to our positions against the wall at the edge of the complex. We tucked in against it and rested our rifles over the edge. Aiming down our sights at the incoming force marching over the dried-out mudgrounds. We were shocked to see how many they were. And how calmly they seemed to navigate towards us. We could see the faint flashes from their rifles, and heard the bangs of the rounds being discharged. We heard bullets strike the wall and ground on which it stood, kicking up dirt. We lowered our heads as far as we could to avoid being hit by the flying pieces of lead. Every once in awhile a blaster bolt streamed above our heads with it's characteristic "crackle" sound. I'm surprised none of us were hit. After a couple of minutes we gathered enough courage to lean over the edge and fire back at them.
When i aimed down the sights, through the two metal rings of my rifle, and prepared to fire. Something stopped me from pulling the trigger. I halted for a moment, and i readjusted my aim. I aimed high, and shot of two rounds towards the incoming regiment. I did not know whether or not Charles, Merlin or Fats also aimed high, but i did not care at that moment. I followed routine, i did as i had been tought to do. I aimed, fired, reloaded and aimed again. But always aiming high.
After we had depleted our ammunition we had to head back to the main bunker, were we had stored the rest. I counted loudly for myself and to my mates.
"Three, two..."
We raised ourselves sligtly from our crouched position by the wall, preparing to lunge towards the bunker.
"One. Go!"
We pushed ourselves up and back from the wall and ran for the bunker.
As we ran through the complex, between many of the smaller bunkers, our boots slamming against the dusty grounds on which it was situated, i could hear Chalres breathing heavily besides me, Merlin and fats behind me. We heard bullets whistling over our heads and blaster bolts crackling through the air, sometimes hitting the walls of the bunkers, leaving large, black burnmarks.
When we finally got to the bunker, we ran through the entrance to search for the ammo crates.
We knew they were situated in the middle room, up against the eastern wall. And sure enough, there they were.
When we went up to them, we saw Cody sitting besides them, in his usual position, but now shaking more violently than we had ever seen him. Charles walked up to him, and grabbed him by his coat, bringing him up to his face.
"What the fuck are you doing in here!"
He shouted at the poor man.
"Can't you hear we're under fire! You're supposed to help reload the machine gun! Noah is working his ass of out there, mowing down the Garlands and reloading the damn thing by himself!"
Charles shook the man angrily, but eventually stopped, and threw him down on the ground. Cody crawled back into his usual corner, crying and shaking with fear.
Charlie went over to the corner opposite Cody, and picked up the rifle that was laying there. He then walked over to Cody, and slammed the rifle down in his lap, screaming.
"Now you take this damn rifle, and you do your goddamn jobb!"
Cody just tucked up more against the wall and started crying even louder. The patter of the bullets hitting the building and the mortars striking the grounds around the complex got progressively worse, and Cody was getting more and more frightened.
"It's of no use, Charlie, the man's scared to death and needs help, and no amount of screaming will get him to go out there deliberately."
Merlin said and walked up to Charles, putting his hand on his shoulder. Charles took a long look at the broken down man, and then turned around to face Merlin.
"Alright, if he can't muster enough courage to stand up for his squad, he might as well stay here until the war is over."
He said, and went over to the ammo crates.
He started to look through the crates, looking for the "520 Proelium" rounds that our rifles fired.
Suddenly we heard a loud whistle, then a bang that shook the entire building, we felt a shockwave running through our bodies,and saw how the room filled with white stone dust.
I remember waking up, not long after the bang, laying on the floor. Not much time had passed, for the dust in the room was still in violent motion from the blast. I rubbed my eyes, and stood up. I heard Charles screaming.
"Mortar! Evacuate! We can't last in here for long, we'll choke to death!"
I could hear him and the rest of the squad cough and stumble around looking for an exit. I was blinded by the dust, and it felt like my lungs were burning. Then i felt a hand on my shoulder, and i heard Fat's rumbling voice.
"We need to get -cough- out of here!"
He helped me up, and we stumbled around until we felt a wall, then we went along it until we finally found an exit.
When we got out of the bunker, i had regained some of my sight, and we saw Merlin and Charles sitting outside.
"Where's Cody?"
Fats asked.
"Screw Cody, that dog doesn't deserve to live!"
Charles yelled.
I rubbed out the final frfagments of stone dust from my eyes and sat down besides Merlin. I looked up at Fats, who miraculously had managed to carry one of the 520 Proelium crates out with him.
After we had recovered fully recovered from the blast, we loaded up our rifles, and carried what was left in the crate over to Noah, who was situated at his firing position by some sand bags.
Noah had had to fire, exchange barrels and reload all by himself when Cody, who was given the extra responsibility had been gone in the bunker. Needless to say he was less than pleased when we finally showed up.
We explained what had happened, and i guess that changed his mind a little, because his face expression softened when we told him about how Cody had been sitting there crying, and how we had to leave him inside trapped along wih the toxic fumes.
It didn't stop Noah from remembering his training, though. He kept on firing at the open, dired out mudlands scattered with Garland soldiers, some standing, some mowed down by the awesome power of sustained automatic fire.
Merlin stayed with Noah as a co-gunner, and the rest of us, Fats, Charles and me, went back to our positions by the wall.
With replenished ammunition we resumed fire on the Garlands, but i always aimed high. I did not want to have a dead man on my conscience.
Soon the plain mudland was scattered with dead or wounded soldiers, ad the few who remained mobile started retreating, some carrying their wounded mates back with them. They ran back towards the mountains in the distance where they had come from, leaving some of their mates to die in the baking sun.
We had suffered some casualties, but my squad, except for Cody, was intact.
It was only about fiteen minutes after the Garlands had disappeared from sight, that the shock of what had just happened hit me. The immense danger i had just been in. All the men who had fell, on both our side and on theirs. But the worst fealing of all, was the fact that we had left one of our mates alone in the bunker to shoke to death on the toxic stone powder.
I fealt sick, and i stumbled up from where i was just sitting and recovering from the battle. I went to the back of one of the bunkers, and vomited in a dried out bush. I hated myself for not helping Cody to get out, i whished i had had the courage to just yell out his name through the smoke, so he could have heard me, and i could have helped him out. But that opportunity was long passed now, and i had to try and forget what had happened to me.
I never found out what had happened to Cody, since i was too afraid to ask the cleanup party that were searching through the bunker for survivors, but i could only imagine how horrible of a death it must have been.
Later that evening, the 23rd finally arrived. Bringing news about how the war was going on the southern front.
Their headmarshal explained that ehy had ran into a Garland regiment, and was forced to take a longer route to avoid a battle, hence the delay.
Our marshal gave him a thorough verbal lashing, calling him every word in his vocabulary arsenal.
Who could blame him, he had had to defend against an entire enemy regiment, with only one block of men, and had lost several talented soldiers in the process.
The headmarshal of the 23rd apologized, and offered the regiments extra supplies as compensation. Our marshal grudgingly agreed, and asked to borrow the the regiments radio to contact our headmarshal for further orders.
We were given orders to march to the northern trenches, and fortify our position there with the rest of our regiment.
When we arrived at the northern trenches, five days later, and met up with the regiment. Our squad leader Michael told the headmarshal that we had lost our co-gunner, and asked for a replacement.
Ron, Ken's brother was chosen as his brother was already in the squad. And that's the story of how we became the squad we are today.
As i sat there, chewing down Merlin's soup, which mostly consisted of potato and bits of pork mixed thoroughly with water. Though it was simple, Merlin's culinary skills, coupled with the fact that it was the only warm food we had, made it taste like it came from a five star restaurant, warming both our bodies and our minds. I watched the others, and saw how happy they were to finally get some food in their bellies. But nothing could cheer me up this day, not even the playful pant of Barky as she was begging for me to share some of my soup with her.
My mind was heavy with thoughts of what i had done, and it would take many days until i could finally recover to my usual mood.
I couldn't get down more than one third of the soup, so i placed down the can to Barky, who immediately ran up to it and started emptying the contents with joy.
I sighed, grabbed my rifle, put on my helmet and stood up. I walked over towards Noah, who had just finished his soup and was on his way to his room to get some rest. I stopped him just as he was about to enter.
"Hey, Noah, can you help me with something?"
I asked
Noah adjusted his glasses.
"Yeah, sure. Is your gun malfunctioning or something?"
He replied.
"No, it's not that, it's something else. Can we go inside?"
I said. He nodded and we went in his room and closed the curtain behind us.
Since Noah was the gunner, he had a slightly larger room carved out for him, a so called "gunnery-room", where he could store more ammunition and the heavy machine gun along with it's tripod.
He sat down on his bed mat, and I sat on the small stool he had been issued by the grand marshal to sit on while performing maintenance on the machine gun.
I leant my rifle against the wall behind me, took off my helmet and placed it in my lap.
"Remember back in the complex, when we had to wait for the 23rd, and the siege started?"
I asked quietly.
"Yeah, those were times man, those were times..."
He answered with a tone of joy in his voice, nodding.
"Well, remember how you had to shoot down like, hundreds of people..."
I didn't get to finish my sentence before Noah interupted me with a brisk voice:
"They're not people."
I was stunned by his sharp tone, and slightly confused over what he said and why he said it in such a harsh way. So i looked at him with questionably.
He continued:
"The Garland's are not people, they're animals. Have you already forgotten who started this war, and who brought "The Day Of A Thousand Suns" upon this world?!"
He rose up from his bed mat, and looked angrily at me.
His voice ringed with passion as he proclaimed his stance on the Garland's. It was clear he hated them with his whole body. I couldn't help but thinking that he had been indoctrinated by the military to think this way, just to make him a better soldier.
I looked at him for a few seconds, and i saw the fire in his eyes. It scared me a bit, to see a man get so religiously infuriated with an entire people.
I rose up, turned around and fetched my rifle.
"Alright, whatever, sorry i asked."
I said quietly as i put on my helmet and pushed the curtain aside to walk out.
I fealt his hand on my shoulder. I turned around and faced him.
"Hey, listen, i'm sorry for my little outburst, please, what was your question?"
It was clear he was sorry for how he had yelled in my face, and had calmed down. I closed the curtain and sat down once again. He also sat down again on his bed mat. I took off my helmet again and started speaking:
"Well, i was going to ask how you coped with mowing down so many men, but maybe it's not so hard to kill those you hate."
He sighed, and began speaking:
"Ok, look, I hate the Garland's more than anyone, but i've got to tell you, my mind has not been clear from guilt for one second for what i did at that complex. But you have to realize, that they get what they deserve; they started this shit, and now they're paying for it."
I took in what he said, and i replied:
"But if they deserve it, why do you feel guilt, and how do you cope with it?"
"It's in our nature to feel guilt, Carl, but you have to learn to ignore that feeling, and swallow it. And never think about it again."
He replied.
I looked down on the ground, and tried to take in what he just said, but it was tough. I couldn't find it within me to just ignore what i had done, and i fealt even more guilt when I tried to.
I was starting to feel sick again, and I excused myself as I ran ouf of the room to the nearest bucket and proceeded to throw up what little of Merlin's soup I had gotten down earlier.
After five minutes of collecing my thoughts by the bucket, I rose up and adjusted my helmet. I grabbed my rifle and started walking over to my position. I had listened to what Noah had said, and subconsciously, I guess I had already started to suppress the memory of my action the previous night. The punch of the stock against my shoulder, the flash from the muzzle, and the horrifying scream of the man had already started to fade from my mind.
That night i went to sleep thinking of the man i had killed, and his family. How much pain had i coused them? The last thought that ran through my head was a wish that i could meet his family one day, and ask for forgiveness for taking away their father, husband and son. Then my eyes closed, and i drifted off to the land dreams. Where no guns had ever been fired, and the war had never started, and there had never been "The Day Of A Thousand Suns".
I was awakened by the sound of the marshals's trumpets, and his voice yelling at us to get up and take position.
I opened the curtain of my room and was immediately blinded by the bright sun. After my eyes had adjusted to the light i looked down the trench, where i saw the rest of my squad beginning to make their way to their positions.
I went in and got my rifle and helmet, then I headed off to my firing position. I did not feel sick enough to throw up, besides, I didn't have any substance in my stomach left to expel. My foot hurt when i walked, the skin constantly rubbing against the inside of my boot, and the pain was starting to become unbearable. But so far, i could ignore it sufficiently to focus on my task.
I walked past Charles' position, where he stood, joking with Ken and Merlin, who had their positions next to him. He turned around, waved at me and and yelled:
"Feeling better today, old chap? Period's a bitch, ain't it, huh?"
The others laughed audibly.
"Oh, speak for yourself, Charlene."
I replied jokingly.
Charles just laughed and turned back to look over the edge towards the horizon.
I continued to walk to my position, silently cursing my swollen foot as I went along. Then I arrived, and I stepped up on the platform, threw up my rifle over the edge and leant my face against the back of it, looking through the two metal rings at the vast, muddy terrain. The only detail contrasting with the dark-brown mud was a few dried-out trees in the distance, and the occasional metal pole wrapped in barbed wire.
We had seen no activity for days, other than a few lone Garland's on their way from a losing battle fought in the east. As far as I'm concerned, we had shot every last one of them trying to cross our line of sight.
After a few hours, the trumpets sounded for my squad to go to lunch, so i made my way to our cooking spot.
I arrived early, and got my soup. I sat down on a bucket next to Fats. He ate with joy, and with his mouth full of soup, he started speaking to me:
"I love this soup, it's almost as good as Caroline's beef stew."
I could hardly understand him, with all the soup in his mouth, but knowing Fats, one could make out what he meant when he mumbled.
Later came Charles and Ken, along with Marc and Ron. Charles sat down on my right side and took off his helmet.
"Ahhh, finally some food in my belly! I've been waiting for this all day!"
He said in a loud voice.
Merlin came over with a can of soup and gave it to him, along with a spoon. The others each took a can and a spoon, and started eating. It wasn't long until Barky came running, after she had fealt the smell of food. She sat down next to Fats and me, staring with large eyes at him. Waiting for him to pour up some soup in her iron bowl, that Merlin had made for her from an old can.
After a long period of silence, Ron started speaking.
"You guys heard that we're moving to a forward trench?"
We all looked at him, and Merlin replied with:
"What?! Where have you gotten that from?"
Ron put another spoon full of soup in his mouth, chewed it down and continued:
"It's true, I spoke to Michael last night. He said that the headmarshal had ordered our block to move forward."
"Why should OUR block have to move forward, and not the rest of the regement?"
Merlin said, sounding slightly angry.
Ron swallowed down yet another spoon of soup and calmly continued:
"Apparently the 25th regiment had been hit by repeated mortar strikes, and needs reinforcements. Looks like we got the short straw."
Merlin, who had gotten a bit riled up over the whole situation, now reclined back to his bucket, mumbling something about wanting to "strangle the damn bastard".
Now came Michael, he was sometimes a bit late, because he often had to speak to the marshal just before lunch, and if he was in a talkative mood, it could take a while. He went over to the pot, and scooped up some soop in a can. Then he took a spoon and sat down on the bucket next to Merlin.
"Is it rue?"
Merlin said quietly when Michael had just sat down.
"What?"
Michael asked.
"Are we advancing to a forward trench?"
Merlin replied.
Machael nodded, sighed and said:
"Yes, unfortunately. We have been given orders to join up with the 25th, as they need reinforcements. We're going in two days, so we have time to pack."
Fats spoke up, his mouth still filled with soup.
"But, the closest trench is 15 barils from here, it would take us, like, i don't know, one and a half week to get there."
He said, sounding somewhat concerned.
Michael immediately replied with:
"Yeah, but unfortunately it's an order from the headmarshal, and we must follow it, so i suggest you guys just shut up and accept the situation."
It was clear that Michael did not like the situation any more than anyone else on the squad, and tried to just not think about the long march that was ahead of him.
Silence fell over our squad. The usual small talk between us, mainly consisting of Ron and Ken's brotherly arguments, Fats talking to Barky, and Charlie telling some funny story about the neighboring squads was missing. The only thing that was the same was Marc's silence, he was always silent.
Not even Merlin's witty comments were heard, only the slow putter of the boiling soup.
We each hung our heads slightly, and i again remembered, for a brief moment, the sound of the man i had shot, his screams echoing inside of me. I though about the man, and his family, and the sorrow i had caused them, it made me hate myself. It would still be a couple of days before I could completely shut off the memories of the man and his screams, but until then, I had to deal with those crippling thoughts.
When the marshal again called for us to get in position, we all stood up, and tried to forget about the task that was ahead of us, and instead focus on our current objective; to guard the great expanse, and shoot stray Garland's who were retreating.
We all went to our positions, stepped up on the platform, and threw up our rifles on the edge of the trench.
I was starting to worry about if I would even be able to walk the distance to the forward trench, for my foot was starting to hurt more and more, even when I was standing still on the platform it hurt.
The the sun was beginning to set, the trumpets sounded for the poor soldiers who had the night shift to step in, allowing our squad to return to our rooms, and get some sleep.
I dropped my rifle from the trench edge, and jumped down from the platform. A sharp, intense pain streamed through the skin of my foot when i landed on the mud-covered ground, as if it was being held over fire. But I stayed standing, and slowly I began shuffling back to my room.
Man, that was a long post.
I just wanted to see if it was possible to post this monstrosity.
Everything was in order. The bolt was locked, the stok planted firmly against my sholder, and the rear sight right next to my eye. They said blasters were too expensive for us. We were, after all, just "Liners". Instead we were given these primitive, but charmful "lead sluggers".
In the distance i saw a man running across the mud-covered field. Clutching his rifle. It was quite clear he belonged to the Garland's by the way his coat extended out, flapping in the air as he ran. I knew i had to do something, for if the marshal found out i had spotted a Garland, yet not acted upon my oppurtunity, i would be sent to the Mudgrounds, or worse.
I leant my head against the back of the gun, so i could see him through the sight. And sure enough, through the two small metal rings, there he was, still running across the field.
I aimed high, several meters above his head, and i squeezed the trigger. The stock punched my shoulder, i saw a flash, and heard a loud "bang". The smell of gun powder filled my nostrils. The man kept on running, but after a few meters he jerked, slowed down, and fell to his knees. Impossible, i thought. I coudn't have hit him, i aimed several meters above him. But sure enough, he fell to his knees, and then also on his elbows, crawling for a few seconds, until he collapsed. Now my hands numbed, my body fealt as if i had been thrown in a tub of ice-water. The pain in my swollen foot stopped, the ringing in my ears from the bang of the discharging round seized. All was quiet.
Suddenly, like a hammer hitting my eardrum, i heard the mans scream. High-pitched, and filled with anxiety and fear. His voice shaked with pain. I didn't dare to watch him lay there, so i pulled in my rifle, and jumped down in the trench.
That night was the longest one in my entire life. I could hear him scream in the distance, though i couldn't make out what he was screaming, for the darkness of the night felt like a cotton wall between me and him, dampening the sound of his tormented cry. I could hear his voice echo in the night. It slowly went from a scream of mostly pain and helplessness, to a cry of desperation. I covered my ears, but the high-pitched wailing of the wounded man kept on echoing within me.
Eventually the screams dampened, and the breaks between them became longer, until the night became quiet again, as quiet as it had been all those years ago, before the war had started.
That morning i was awakened to the sickening sound of the trumpets, and the marshals call for us to "take positions". I immediately felt sick, and stumbled up from my bed mat. I clutched my stomach, walking over to an old, rusted bucket that had been left in the trench by the diggers. I lunged my head over the edge of the bucket and heaved. Yellow vomit mixed with small bits of pork splattered the bottom of the old bucket, contrasting with the shiny grey and brown finish of the metal.
I always felt sick when i heard the the trumpets loud song, and the marshals call, today was no different. When i had recovered from the cascading, i stood up, feeling a bit better. I looked around the trench, it was still the same mess of mud, planks and left over tools as it had been the day i arrived. In some places, spades were planted into the ground, as if someone had been digging, but randomly decided to stop.
The walls stood about two meters tall, but the height varied heavily depending on the surrounding terrain. They were scattered with planks to keep the mud from collapsing back in, and small rooms carved into them, only just large enough to fit a bed mat, a rack for supplies and personal belongings, and a small stand for us to put our rifles on. They were very compact and almost completely square, their walls covered with planks to keep the mud out. The ceiling also had planks, but most of them had been overtaken by dry mud that had slipped through the cracks. A musky smell filled the noses of anyone who entered these rooms.
On the planks above the rooms, were numbers, indicating who the rooms belonged to. Mine had the numbers "209-181" written on it. The "181" was for me, the "209", was for the poor fellow who had previously occupied it.
When i arrived the marshal showed me the room, and told me it would be mine for the time i was here. He then proceeded with taking out his knife, using it to draw an "X" over the "209", and added "-108" after it.
I had tried to make the room my own, by lodging a wooden stick in between two exposed planks in the ceiling, and then hanging my hand-lamp on it. It gave it some character, as opposed to many others, who simply placed their lamps on the floor of their rooms.
Those who were lucky had their rooms located along the high walls, they did not have to bend down while in their refuge.
My room, however, was situated in a segment of the wall that was slightly shorter, so my ceiling was low, as most were.
Along the trench walls, on the ground, ran a stepping platform, so one could step up to see, and rest his rifle over the edge.
In certain places along the wall, there were ladders, and even makeshift stairs, constructed by loose planks gathered from the ground or from the walls themselves.
When i was done inspecting the trench, i went back in my room, grabbed my helmet and my rifle, along with some rounds, and i walked out to go to my firing position.
As i walked i felt the skin of my left foot rub against the leather of my boot. Every step i took with that foot was plagued with pain, but not so severe as to hinder me from walking.
A few days ago we had to leave the trench after information of incoming mortar strikes reached us, so we quickly packed only the most necessary equipment and headed off towards a neighboring trench. We marched the entire day, and arrived at the trench late at night. There we stayed for one day, and headed back early in the morning. When we were nearly back at our trench, i slipped in the mud, and when i tried to save myself from falling by slamming my foot down in front of me, i felt a snap and heard a crack. A sharp pain streamed up my leg and i fell to my knees. After a few minutes, and some painkillers, i forced myself up. I could walk, but the foot hurt like hell everytime i supported my weight on it.
We made it home late at night, and found that there had been no mortar strike. It would be an understatement to say that our marshal was pissed off. He immediately called for the radio operator and proceeded to contact our headmarshal. He yelled at him through the radio throughout the night, complaining over the long journey we had taken, and that it was for a false alarm. It was quite enjoyable hearing his angry screams, and i could hear the giggling of my mates in the neighboring rooms.
My foot became swollen, but the pain stopped, but now my left boot was a bit too small for the increased size of the foot. Now the skin on my foot always rubbed on the inside of the leather, and had started to form blisters.
When i got halfway to my position, reality hit me like a bucket of ice-water, i remembered what i had done. The picture of the man jerking and falling down flashed before me, and i fealt the kick of the gun, and heard the bang, as clear as it was yesterday. I stopped, leaned against the trench wall, and dropped my rifle. I was about to faint, and the screams of the tormented man echoed within me.
I just barely avoided fainting when Charles, the man occupying the room opposite mine, came up to me.
"You alright, mate?"
He said. slamming his hand on my shoulder.
I looked up at him, and saw him inspecting my face.
"Holy shit, mate, you look as pale as a klansman. What's wrong?"
I shook my head, adjusted my helmet, and straightened out.
"Nothing, just some morning sickness."
I replied.
"Are you pregnant or something?"
He jokingly said, smiling.
"You know how I can't stand the sounds of those trumpets, Charlie, ever since the siege they make me feel sick to my stomach."
I said to him as I bent down to retrieve my rifle from the ground.
He nodded, and gave me a friendly pat on the back as he started walking back to his position.
"Yeah, I can't stand the damn trumpets either, I'll choke the damn marshal after we've won the war."
He yelled as he was stepping up on the firing platform, laughing along with some other soldiers which apparently also disliked the marshal, and his constant calls for us to get up in the morning.
The rest of the walk to my position was filled with thoughts on what I had done. I had shot and killed a man who had never wronged me. And I even made him lay there, twisting in pain and agony for the last moments of his life, calling for someone to help him, or for someone to just kill him, so he would be spared another minute of the pain and anxiety he was feeling.
I did not care for the pain in my foot, I could only think of the poor man, and his family, and the horrible scream that had plagued that night, reminding everyone who could hear it, of the horrors of war.
When I arrived at my position, I stepped up on the platform, and brought up my rifle against the edge. The feeling of the rifle in my hands was sickening. The very thought of holding the tool that had caused so much suffering for a man disgusted me. Yet I held it there, ready to be fired. I was taught to do this, since the day I enlisted, to the day I was issued a spot at the front line. It was ingrained in me, and I followed my training as by autopilot. Some credit has to be given to the inventors of this system, for if an untrained man had done what I had just done, i doubt they would even be able to get up the next morning.
Even though from the outside, I was concentrating on spotting the enemy at the horizon, internally, I could only focus on the horrible act I had committed.
After three hours standing there, contemplating. The trumpets signaled that it was time for lunch. I pulled in my rifle, and stepped down. An other soldier immediately came and took over my spot.
I slowly made my way to my squads cooking spot. Adam, who we called "Merlin", had just heated up ten portions of soup for the squad, and was giving them out when i arrived. As i passed him, he gave me a can of hot, steaming soup and greeted me. I sat down next to Charles, placed my rifle besides me, took of my helmet and grabbed a spoon from the makeshift table in front of us.
We had no chairs, so we each sat on upside down steel buckets. To my right sat Charles, stuffing his mouth full of Merlin's tasty soup, one of few pleasures we had in the trench.
To the left of me sat Noah, a thin and pale, dark haired guy with round glasses. He was the gunner of our squad, hence, he carried the bulky machine gun that had proved very difficult to haul through the thick mud we had to march through before we got here. To the left of him sat the squad leader, Michael. He was older than most of us, and had had more experience in combat, proved by the large scar that ran accross his right cheek. He had well combed, brown hair and thick eyebrows. He was a bit short, but very well trained. Opposite us stood Fats, he was tall, big and bald. He could be described as a large child, but not in a bad way. He was often happy, and enjoyed sweets. He also enjoyed food, which had left it's traces on his body type. Though fats loved both Merlin's soup, and the chocolate bars we gave him if we found any, the thing he loved the most must had been Barky, the squads tracking dog. She was a large labrador with golden yellow fur. Sometimes Fats spoke about his wife at home, and we often wondered who he loved the most, his wife, or Barky. He played with her, shared his soup with her and even let her sleep next to his bed mat when it was raining, so she wouldn't have to be outside and get wet. Then there were Merlin himself. A tall, light haired guy with good manners and witty replies. He was the squads cook and moral support. Some of us even saw him as the unofficial leader.
Among the others in the squad were Marc, he didn't speak much. He was of medium build, with very short, dark hair, and square glasses. Whenever a conversation sparked in our squad, Marc was the last person to say something, if at all. We barely knew what his voice sounded like. He sat alone against the wall with his can of soup, sipping away at it. Ron and Ken, who were brothers, sat to the right of Charles, chatting with each other. They were both redheads, and had a strong connection.
When i was assigned to the squad, an other man, Cody, was with us, instead of Ron. He was very talkative and friendly, he often spoke of the time before the war, and how he wished he had been around at the time.
One day, before we got to this trench, we were staying at a bunker complex, along with three other squads, and we had been given orders to stay there and guard the complex until the 23rd regiment could arrive to establish a more permanent settlement.
After four days, our supplies had been heavily diminished, and there was no trace of the 23rd regiment. We began to worry, and Cody was certainly the one who worried the most. On the fifth day we counted our rations, and calculated they would last us three more days, if we conserved them. Cody, who was a liner like me and Charles, frequently left his post and went inside one of the bunkers. Sometimes he sat there for hours, not doing anything. Once Ken tried to enter his refuge in the bunker to ask him what he was doing, but it was of no use. He just sat in a corner, hanging his head, shaking. Perhaps Cody was not suited for the harsh environment of frontline warfare. Even though not a singly bullet had been fired, the mission had taken its toll on him. Probably the week long march, the days filled with fear of soon being without food coupled with the fact that he hadn't seen his friends or family in well over a month, was too much for him, and left him depressed and filled with anxiety.
On the eighth day, at noon, Merlin had cooked up the last of the rations, and we bitterly chewed them down, hoping that the 23rd would arrive soon.
Suddenly a loud bang sounded in the distance, and our assigned marshal screamed at us to get in position. Then the loud trumpets sounded with the signal indicating that we ware under attack. My heart felt like it had stopped. Then it raced, and i could feel the adrenaline being pumped through my veines. I started breathing heavily, filling my lungs with cold air. I did not feel frightened, instead i was filled with a fealing of joy and excitement. It was, after all, the thing i had been training for for two whole years; combat.
We each ran to our positions, me, Charles, Merlin and Fats, the liners, ran to our positions against the wall at the edge of the complex. We tucked in against it and rested our rifles over the edge. Aiming down our sights at the incoming force marching over the dried-out mudgrounds. We were shocked to see how many they were. And how calmly they seemed to navigate towards us. We could see the faint flashes from their rifles, and heard the bangs of the rounds being discharged. We heard bullets strike the wall and ground on which it stood, kicking up dirt. We lowered our heads as far as we could to avoid being hit by the flying pieces of lead. Every once in awhile a blaster bolt streamed above our heads with it's characteristic "crackle" sound. I'm surprised none of us were hit. After a couple of minutes we gathered enough courage to lean over the edge and fire back at them.
When i aimed down the sights, through the two metal rings of my rifle, and prepared to fire. Something stopped me from pulling the trigger. I halted for a moment, and i readjusted my aim. I aimed high, and shot of two rounds towards the incoming regiment. I did not know whether or not Charles, Merlin or Fats also aimed high, but i did not care at that moment. I followed routine, i did as i had been tought to do. I aimed, fired, reloaded and aimed again. But always aiming high.
After we had depleted our ammunition we had to head back to the main bunker, were we had stored the rest. I counted loudly for myself and to my mates.
"Three, two..."
We raised ourselves sligtly from our crouched position by the wall, preparing to lunge towards the bunker.
"One. Go!"
We pushed ourselves up and back from the wall and ran for the bunker.
As we ran through the complex, between many of the smaller bunkers, our boots slamming against the dusty grounds on which it was situated, i could hear Chalres breathing heavily besides me, Merlin and fats behind me. We heard bullets whistling over our heads and blaster bolts crackling through the air, sometimes hitting the walls of the bunkers, leaving large, black burnmarks.
When we finally got to the bunker, we ran through the entrance to search for the ammo crates.
We knew they were situated in the middle room, up against the eastern wall. And sure enough, there they were.
When we went up to them, we saw Cody sitting besides them, in his usual position, but now shaking more violently than we had ever seen him. Charles walked up to him, and grabbed him by his coat, bringing him up to his face.
"What the fuck are you doing in here!"
He shouted at the poor man.
"Can't you hear we're under fire! You're supposed to help reload the machine gun! Noah is working his ass of out there, mowing down the Garlands and reloading the damn thing by himself!"
Charles shook the man angrily, but eventually stopped, and threw him down on the ground. Cody crawled back into his usual corner, crying and shaking with fear.
Charlie went over to the corner opposite Cody, and picked up the rifle that was laying there. He then walked over to Cody, and slammed the rifle down in his lap, screaming.
"Now you take this damn rifle, and you do your goddamn jobb!"
Cody just tucked up more against the wall and started crying even louder. The patter of the bullets hitting the building and the mortars striking the grounds around the complex got progressively worse, and Cody was getting more and more frightened.
"It's of no use, Charlie, the man's scared to death and needs help, and no amount of screaming will get him to go out there deliberately."
Merlin said and walked up to Charles, putting his hand on his shoulder. Charles took a long look at the broken down man, and then turned around to face Merlin.
"Alright, if he can't muster enough courage to stand up for his squad, he might as well stay here until the war is over."
He said, and went over to the ammo crates.
He started to look through the crates, looking for the "520 Proelium" rounds that our rifles fired.
Suddenly we heard a loud whistle, then a bang that shook the entire building, we felt a shockwave running through our bodies,and saw how the room filled with white stone dust.
I remember waking up, not long after the bang, laying on the floor. Not much time had passed, for the dust in the room was still in violent motion from the blast. I rubbed my eyes, and stood up. I heard Charles screaming.
"Mortar! Evacuate! We can't last in here for long, we'll choke to death!"
I could hear him and the rest of the squad cough and stumble around looking for an exit. I was blinded by the dust, and it felt like my lungs were burning. Then i felt a hand on my shoulder, and i heard Fat's rumbling voice.
"We need to get -cough- out of here!"
He helped me up, and we stumbled around until we felt a wall, then we went along it until we finally found an exit.
When we got out of the bunker, i had regained some of my sight, and we saw Merlin and Charles sitting outside.
"Where's Cody?"
Fats asked.
"Screw Cody, that dog doesn't deserve to live!"
Charles yelled.
I rubbed out the final frfagments of stone dust from my eyes and sat down besides Merlin. I looked up at Fats, who miraculously had managed to carry one of the 520 Proelium crates out with him.
After we had recovered fully recovered from the blast, we loaded up our rifles, and carried what was left in the crate over to Noah, who was situated at his firing position by some sand bags.
Noah had had to fire, exchange barrels and reload all by himself when Cody, who was given the extra responsibility had been gone in the bunker. Needless to say he was less than pleased when we finally showed up.
We explained what had happened, and i guess that changed his mind a little, because his face expression softened when we told him about how Cody had been sitting there crying, and how we had to leave him inside trapped along wih the toxic fumes.
It didn't stop Noah from remembering his training, though. He kept on firing at the open, dired out mudlands scattered with Garland soldiers, some standing, some mowed down by the awesome power of sustained automatic fire.
Merlin stayed with Noah as a co-gunner, and the rest of us, Fats, Charles and me, went back to our positions by the wall.
With replenished ammunition we resumed fire on the Garlands, but i always aimed high. I did not want to have a dead man on my conscience.
Soon the plain mudland was scattered with dead or wounded soldiers, ad the few who remained mobile started retreating, some carrying their wounded mates back with them. They ran back towards the mountains in the distance where they had come from, leaving some of their mates to die in the baking sun.
We had suffered some casualties, but my squad, except for Cody, was intact.
It was only about fiteen minutes after the Garlands had disappeared from sight, that the shock of what had just happened hit me. The immense danger i had just been in. All the men who had fell, on both our side and on theirs. But the worst fealing of all, was the fact that we had left one of our mates alone in the bunker to shoke to death on the toxic stone powder.
I fealt sick, and i stumbled up from where i was just sitting and recovering from the battle. I went to the back of one of the bunkers, and vomited in a dried out bush. I hated myself for not helping Cody to get out, i whished i had had the courage to just yell out his name through the smoke, so he could have heard me, and i could have helped him out. But that opportunity was long passed now, and i had to try and forget what had happened to me.
I never found out what had happened to Cody, since i was too afraid to ask the cleanup party that were searching through the bunker for survivors, but i could only imagine how horrible of a death it must have been.
Later that evening, the 23rd finally arrived. Bringing news about how the war was going on the southern front.
Their headmarshal explained that ehy had ran into a Garland regiment, and was forced to take a longer route to avoid a battle, hence the delay.
Our marshal gave him a thorough verbal lashing, calling him every word in his vocabulary arsenal.
Who could blame him, he had had to defend against an entire enemy regiment, with only one block of men, and had lost several talented soldiers in the process.
The headmarshal of the 23rd apologized, and offered the regiments extra supplies as compensation. Our marshal grudgingly agreed, and asked to borrow the the regiments radio to contact our headmarshal for further orders.
We were given orders to march to the northern trenches, and fortify our position there with the rest of our regiment.
When we arrived at the northern trenches, five days later, and met up with the regiment. Our squad leader Michael told the headmarshal that we had lost our co-gunner, and asked for a replacement.
Ron, Ken's brother was chosen as his brother was already in the squad. And that's the story of how we became the squad we are today.
As i sat there, chewing down Merlin's soup, which mostly consisted of potato and bits of pork mixed thoroughly with water. Though it was simple, Merlin's culinary skills, coupled with the fact that it was the only warm food we had, made it taste like it came from a five star restaurant, warming both our bodies and our minds. I watched the others, and saw how happy they were to finally get some food in their bellies. But nothing could cheer me up this day, not even the playful pant of Barky as she was begging for me to share some of my soup with her.
My mind was heavy with thoughts of what i had done, and it would take many days until i could finally recover to my usual mood.
I couldn't get down more than one third of the soup, so i placed down the can to Barky, who immediately ran up to it and started emptying the contents with joy.
I sighed, grabbed my rifle, put on my helmet and stood up. I walked over towards Noah, who had just finished his soup and was on his way to his room to get some rest. I stopped him just as he was about to enter.
"Hey, Noah, can you help me with something?"
I asked
Noah adjusted his glasses.
"Yeah, sure. Is your gun malfunctioning or something?"
He replied.
"No, it's not that, it's something else. Can we go inside?"
I said. He nodded and we went in his room and closed the curtain behind us.
Since Noah was the gunner, he had a slightly larger room carved out for him, a so called "gunnery-room", where he could store more ammunition and the heavy machine gun along with it's tripod.
He sat down on his bed mat, and I sat on the small stool he had been issued by the grand marshal to sit on while performing maintenance on the machine gun.
I leant my rifle against the wall behind me, took off my helmet and placed it in my lap.
"Remember back in the complex, when we had to wait for the 23rd, and the siege started?"
I asked quietly.
"Yeah, those were times man, those were times..."
He answered with a tone of joy in his voice, nodding.
"Well, remember how you had to shoot down like, hundreds of people..."
I didn't get to finish my sentence before Noah interupted me with a brisk voice:
"They're not people."
I was stunned by his sharp tone, and slightly confused over what he said and why he said it in such a harsh way. So i looked at him with questionably.
He continued:
"The Garland's are not people, they're animals. Have you already forgotten who started this war, and who brought "The Day Of A Thousand Suns" upon this world?!"
He rose up from his bed mat, and looked angrily at me.
His voice ringed with passion as he proclaimed his stance on the Garland's. It was clear he hated them with his whole body. I couldn't help but thinking that he had been indoctrinated by the military to think this way, just to make him a better soldier.
I looked at him for a few seconds, and i saw the fire in his eyes. It scared me a bit, to see a man get so religiously infuriated with an entire people.
I rose up, turned around and fetched my rifle.
"Alright, whatever, sorry i asked."
I said quietly as i put on my helmet and pushed the curtain aside to walk out.
I fealt his hand on my shoulder. I turned around and faced him.
"Hey, listen, i'm sorry for my little outburst, please, what was your question?"
It was clear he was sorry for how he had yelled in my face, and had calmed down. I closed the curtain and sat down once again. He also sat down again on his bed mat. I took off my helmet again and started speaking:
"Well, i was going to ask how you coped with mowing down so many men, but maybe it's not so hard to kill those you hate."
He sighed, and began speaking:
"Ok, look, I hate the Garland's more than anyone, but i've got to tell you, my mind has not been clear from guilt for one second for what i did at that complex. But you have to realize, that they get what they deserve; they started this shit, and now they're paying for it."
I took in what he said, and i replied:
"But if they deserve it, why do you feel guilt, and how do you cope with it?"
"It's in our nature to feel guilt, Carl, but you have to learn to ignore that feeling, and swallow it. And never think about it again."
He replied.
I looked down on the ground, and tried to take in what he just said, but it was tough. I couldn't find it within me to just ignore what i had done, and i fealt even more guilt when I tried to.
I was starting to feel sick again, and I excused myself as I ran ouf of the room to the nearest bucket and proceeded to throw up what little of Merlin's soup I had gotten down earlier.
After five minutes of collecing my thoughts by the bucket, I rose up and adjusted my helmet. I grabbed my rifle and started walking over to my position. I had listened to what Noah had said, and subconsciously, I guess I had already started to suppress the memory of my action the previous night. The punch of the stock against my shoulder, the flash from the muzzle, and the horrifying scream of the man had already started to fade from my mind.
That night i went to sleep thinking of the man i had killed, and his family. How much pain had i coused them? The last thought that ran through my head was a wish that i could meet his family one day, and ask for forgiveness for taking away their father, husband and son. Then my eyes closed, and i drifted off to the land dreams. Where no guns had ever been fired, and the war had never started, and there had never been "The Day Of A Thousand Suns".
I was awakened by the sound of the marshals's trumpets, and his voice yelling at us to get up and take position.
I opened the curtain of my room and was immediately blinded by the bright sun. After my eyes had adjusted to the light i looked down the trench, where i saw the rest of my squad beginning to make their way to their positions.
I went in and got my rifle and helmet, then I headed off to my firing position. I did not feel sick enough to throw up, besides, I didn't have any substance in my stomach left to expel. My foot hurt when i walked, the skin constantly rubbing against the inside of my boot, and the pain was starting to become unbearable. But so far, i could ignore it sufficiently to focus on my task.
I walked past Charles' position, where he stood, joking with Ken and Merlin, who had their positions next to him. He turned around, waved at me and and yelled:
"Feeling better today, old chap? Period's a bitch, ain't it, huh?"
The others laughed audibly.
"Oh, speak for yourself, Charlene."
I replied jokingly.
Charles just laughed and turned back to look over the edge towards the horizon.
I continued to walk to my position, silently cursing my swollen foot as I went along. Then I arrived, and I stepped up on the platform, threw up my rifle over the edge and leant my face against the back of it, looking through the two metal rings at the vast, muddy terrain. The only detail contrasting with the dark-brown mud was a few dried-out trees in the distance, and the occasional metal pole wrapped in barbed wire.
We had seen no activity for days, other than a few lone Garland's on their way from a losing battle fought in the east. As far as I'm concerned, we had shot every last one of them trying to cross our line of sight.
After a few hours, the trumpets sounded for my squad to go to lunch, so i made my way to our cooking spot.
I arrived early, and got my soup. I sat down on a bucket next to Fats. He ate with joy, and with his mouth full of soup, he started speaking to me:
"I love this soup, it's almost as good as Caroline's beef stew."
I could hardly understand him, with all the soup in his mouth, but knowing Fats, one could make out what he meant when he mumbled.
Later came Charles and Ken, along with Marc and Ron. Charles sat down on my right side and took off his helmet.
"Ahhh, finally some food in my belly! I've been waiting for this all day!"
He said in a loud voice.
Merlin came over with a can of soup and gave it to him, along with a spoon. The others each took a can and a spoon, and started eating. It wasn't long until Barky came running, after she had fealt the smell of food. She sat down next to Fats and me, staring with large eyes at him. Waiting for him to pour up some soup in her iron bowl, that Merlin had made for her from an old can.
After a long period of silence, Ron started speaking.
"You guys heard that we're moving to a forward trench?"
We all looked at him, and Merlin replied with:
"What?! Where have you gotten that from?"
Ron put another spoon full of soup in his mouth, chewed it down and continued:
"It's true, I spoke to Michael last night. He said that the headmarshal had ordered our block to move forward."
"Why should OUR block have to move forward, and not the rest of the regement?"
Merlin said, sounding slightly angry.
Ron swallowed down yet another spoon of soup and calmly continued:
"Apparently the 25th regiment had been hit by repeated mortar strikes, and needs reinforcements. Looks like we got the short straw."
Merlin, who had gotten a bit riled up over the whole situation, now reclined back to his bucket, mumbling something about wanting to "strangle the damn bastard".
Now came Michael, he was sometimes a bit late, because he often had to speak to the marshal just before lunch, and if he was in a talkative mood, it could take a while. He went over to the pot, and scooped up some soop in a can. Then he took a spoon and sat down on the bucket next to Merlin.
"Is it rue?"
Merlin said quietly when Michael had just sat down.
"What?"
Michael asked.
"Are we advancing to a forward trench?"
Merlin replied.
Machael nodded, sighed and said:
"Yes, unfortunately. We have been given orders to join up with the 25th, as they need reinforcements. We're going in two days, so we have time to pack."
Fats spoke up, his mouth still filled with soup.
"But, the closest trench is 15 barils from here, it would take us, like, i don't know, one and a half week to get there."
He said, sounding somewhat concerned.
Michael immediately replied with:
"Yeah, but unfortunately it's an order from the headmarshal, and we must follow it, so i suggest you guys just shut up and accept the situation."
It was clear that Michael did not like the situation any more than anyone else on the squad, and tried to just not think about the long march that was ahead of him.
Silence fell over our squad. The usual small talk between us, mainly consisting of Ron and Ken's brotherly arguments, Fats talking to Barky, and Charlie telling some funny story about the neighboring squads was missing. The only thing that was the same was Marc's silence, he was always silent.
Not even Merlin's witty comments were heard, only the slow putter of the boiling soup.
We each hung our heads slightly, and i again remembered, for a brief moment, the sound of the man i had shot, his screams echoing inside of me. I though about the man, and his family, and the sorrow i had caused them, it made me hate myself. It would still be a couple of days before I could completely shut off the memories of the man and his screams, but until then, I had to deal with those crippling thoughts.
When the marshal again called for us to get in position, we all stood up, and tried to forget about the task that was ahead of us, and instead focus on our current objective; to guard the great expanse, and shoot stray Garland's who were retreating.
We all went to our positions, stepped up on the platform, and threw up our rifles on the edge of the trench.
I was starting to worry about if I would even be able to walk the distance to the forward trench, for my foot was starting to hurt more and more, even when I was standing still on the platform it hurt.
The the sun was beginning to set, the trumpets sounded for the poor soldiers who had the night shift to step in, allowing our squad to return to our rooms, and get some sleep.
I dropped my rifle from the trench edge, and jumped down from the platform. A sharp, intense pain streamed through the skin of my foot when i landed on the mud-covered ground, as if it was being held over fire. But I stayed standing, and slowly I began shuffling back to my room.
Man, that was a long post.
I just wanted to see if it was possible to post this monstrosity.
