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Through Love and War; Winter Contest 02
Topic Started: Jan 16 2006, 02:09 PM (170 Views)
Makokam
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Apostate
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Through Love and War



The cold chill of winter sweeps up my back sourly as I stand here with these other ‘volunteers’ as we bravely march to battle for death or glory, whatever comes first I suppose. The Commander continues with his speech, a bully of a man with all the right traces of one who was teased a bit too much as a kid. I doubt there’d be much mourning over the loss of him, hell I even suspect that the lucky few of these bastards to survive will rejoice after seeing him gutted open. I know I will. Laughing in heaven I’ll be, with a nice pint of Guinness. Just the thought of a cool pint is enough to send a man wishing he was back home rather than fighting this bloody stupid war.

It’s hard for me to believe that I’m here; I never enlisted and would never have even if the Queen herself held a gun at me to do so. No matter what people would’ve called me back home but here I was, neither for King nor Country either, Britain’s already a dump anyway and the Royals can go stuff themselves.

War is a game that great fat men wearing monocles guffaw and joke about before sending another battalion to their deaths. I’d rather stick to Trivial Pursuit myself. It never really matters to them, we’re the ones that do the dieing so that they can drink another whiskey and spin tales of how their mighty soldiers are winning the war to some ponce in a likewise silly suit who does the exact same.

That sounds just like something my father would say, “We a’do the diein and thae dae the lieing!” Poor old sod him, lost his leg when he was only 14 in the first Great War. And here I am another corpse for another war for something else that’s bloody stupid.

Oh I’d agree that Hitler needs to be stopped, no way in hell we should allow that murdering bastard to be loose, killing everybody that isn‘t part of his so called ‘Master Race‘. But when you’re here staring across No Mans Land you start to think otherwise. There’s a certain kind of fear you get when you look at Death straight in the face, just to see him grinning back at you. No matter how the officers or the bloody newspapers wrap it up; when you die, you’re dead. It might get called a sacrifice, a noble assault or whatever but you’re dead and that’s all there is to it so you better get used to seeing the Reaper looming over you at any moment. I find myself reminiscing to back home; the pub where me and the lad’s went every Saturday night, the School Yard football pitches where we’d all have our tournaments every two weeks (before this ruddy war started mind you) and then back to her, smiling down at me as she kisses me goodbye as I go to work.

I wonder what she’s up to right now; I can just see her with a brush in her hands combing that sleek black hair of hers. Or maybe she’s quickly grabbing her socks to rush down to the shelter, bombs flying everywhere over Clydebank an all. I can only pray that she’s alright, I’d rather much be there with her than listen to this piece of bacon belch his orders at us but that‘s life I suppose, they called for us and we answered ( Obviously no one heard me answer ‘No‘).

When I first got into this bloody war, I thought that it’d be a rare sight for me to see battle with all the talk of the Allies winning victory after victory and with it all being wrapped up and finished before Christmas. It’s only when you get out here you can see the real propaganda the Governments peddling. My arse if we’re winning the war, you start to wonder which Christmas they meant when you find yourself getting shifted elsewhere for the ninth time and the final blow is seeing your friends dieing on the battlefield. That right messes with your sense of victory that, a sight that I‘ve come to know well throughout these past few years.

I try to remember when I was first sent out, somewhere near Belgium I recall. Can’t really remember the names of these places these days, when they’re all littered with blood and bullets you tend to have your concentration on other things, like shooting that bugger with the grenade. But it was my first real taste of what the war could do to a man this place, sitting in the truck with all these others from all over the country. The smell of vomit and piss was awfully strong, and you just had to feel sorry for these poor guys, myself included.

“Where about are you from mate?” A voice sitting next to me asks in a heavy London accent, a boyish tall blonde haired guy that looked like your friendly pub owner just down the road. The type of guy that grinned all the time, even when he was smashing the heads of a couple of drunken louts who just couldn’t take the hint that it was closing time. I’d been there myself a few times, and those barkeeps know just how to get you to unconscious, but no so hard that’d you’d not be able to return tomorrow night.

“Clydebank in Glasgow, just a wee bit North of the border from all you English lot.” I joke; the guys face splits into a great grin. A marvellous sight to see in this grubby truck full of misery and rat shit I thought at the time. It’s not long before the both of us are laughing and joking about all the little differences (and some of the larger similarities) we both had. It’s fun, I feel like I’m back home sitting in the Bounty Inn with Kenny an’ Steve and all the other lads, It was hard to think that we were about to march bravely with chins held high (as the British do naturally, well at least according to the piece of piss propaganda that passed for News).

The Londoner’s name is Paul and he works, or worked, as a butcher (although he did tell me he had ran a pub part time with his parents for a few years ago) but here he was, same as me, getting dragged into this war for no more apparent reason being that he could at least still hold a gun and run. He points to my wedding band as the truck starts to slow down a little, a mask of fear rippling through some of the younger boys with the smell of urine stinking throughout the air.

“Who’s the lucky woman?” Paul asks as I look closer at the ring, an heirloom belonging to her Father as he wore it throughout the first Great War. I grin broadly as I remember how she had stammered and fumbled to place it on my finger at our small wedding, blushing furiously as our friends and family giggled amongst themselves at how my clumsy ways must already be affecting her.

“I wouldn’t say she’s all that lucky, I mean she married ME pity’s sake,” Another grand laugh from Paul,” But she’s the only real reason I’m sitting here.” I finish quietly, smoothly running a finger around the ring. He nods knowingly, and produces a small brown wallet from his jacket pocket. Inside were a stack of family pictures, all grinning and laughing including a time worn picture of a younger Paul in a suit kissing a woman with wavy brown hair.

“My wife, Katie, and my three kids; Jamie, Keith and Susan. That’s why I’m here, I am not gonna let any of my family come to harm either.” He said proudly, staring down at the pictures as he suppressed the emotion building up within.
It was strange, watching this huge tower of a man almost close to tears but I felt I could relate well enough, along with perhaps a lot of those fighting in the trenches. Love can do strange and fantastic things to people, and so here we are fighting for the right to love, fighting for those we love. I smiled warily, as if I had found a piece of a puzzle and was able to see a better view of the bigger picture.

Then the truck exploded.

I remember the flames, shrieks of pain and horror piercing through the fiery wall that was left of the transport. Through gritted teeth I bore the searing agony that seethed throughout, eyes straining to see through the crimson blaze that scorched and licked at me as if I was a toy. Screams of the tortured young boys etched their way into my mind, every bellow of untold torment another carve in the rock that was my psyche. I could do nothing but weep as my fingernails dug into the ground, searching for the aid that was rushing to the remains of a unit that hadn’t made it to the battle field. And then I found it, a singed wallet alight with fire and blood. I never saw his body; I don’t think I needed to. I simply knew that, clutching the wallet of a man I had barely known for a few hours, this war would cost us all far too much.

And here I am now, two years since that damn German mine killed Paul and the others. Two years of blood and bullets slowly shaping me into a bitter carcass of my old cheery self, watching the little friends I’ve made during the years slowly dwindle until all that remains is me, a dead comrade’s wallet and my wife’s wedding ring. But maybe that’s all that I need, all I need is the memory of those I’ve lost, the memory of those I love to push me onwards. To keep fighting in this seemingly endless war. I think about it for a while and what seems like hours, running a finger over the blood-spattered gold band, picturing that smiling face as I return home safely into her arms.

That’s why I’ll live, I won’t die for petty politics, I won’t die for some twisted news article and I won’t die failing my love. I’m going to live, no matter what happens. Ill live for her, live to return the wallet to Paul’s wife Katie and I’m gonna live making sure that no one will harm those that I hold dear.

A brief tap on my shoulder tells me that it’s time to go over, and I nod slightly in acknowledgement. As if some great weight has been lifted from my shoulders, no longer a broken husk as I feel again, more than I have in years. My gun in hand I take my place on the low step, eyes peering over No Mans Land no longer seeing the bloody battlefield littered by the corpses of both sides. No longer can I see the craters left by the mortars and bombs. I see a chance, a chance to do my part to protect what little piece of the world that’s mine. I won’t give that up.

The order comes, without fear and without hesitation I step over the barbed wire and I smile.
THIS is my side, THIS is the demiltarized zone, and THAT is your side.

"Good and Evil" is too complicated. I prefer, "Us and Them".
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Xantarcube: *Throws Makokam down on the bed*

Dalmar: Dalmar runs from no man! ... Bees, on the other hand...

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Join the Dark Side

If you ever wonder what to do in life, ask What Would Jack Bauer Do, because what Jack Bauer would do sure as hell will get things done faster than what Jesus would do.

 
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