I Was 20 / Short Story

I was 20. It was 1914. I enlisted in August. It was a week after my birthday. At 6 foot 4 inches, they signed me up before a medical. The pride, honour and excitement I felt for being able to serve king and country overwhelmed me. I had convinced myself that I would fight to defend the Mother Country. The land my grandfather spoke so kindly of. And that this was fitting, even admirable. Looking back, it’s all bullshit.

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My eyelids were frozen shut as I crawled out from underneath someone’s leg. Sleeping close together kept you warm. I used my fingernails to carefully peel back my eyelids revealing the black cover of early morning. A sliver of light just peeking over the horizon as dawn broke. The sergeant came around asking for volunteers while we were eating breakfast. Said they needed a patrol group; a group of men sent out into no man’s land to establish how many enemy positions were still manned. Most of the men were avoiding his gaze; they knew that a patrol in full daylight was a death sentence. I agreed to go in exchange for an extra 2 packets of cigarettes. 

“And for the privilege of serving England and all her glory!” Macca exclaimed as he also volunteered, his voice brimming with sarcasm. The twenty men who overheard the conversation sniggered.
“Mate, if I was here for the bloody Brits I’d be dead as a maggot. Bloody hopeless that lot. I wouldn’t do that patrol for a million dollars!” One of the men explained before turning back to his game of cards. This caused another round of laughter.

It was midday when we started up towards the frontline. The distant humming became steadily louder as we approached the trenches our men occupied. On the way we passed through what was left of a forest. Blown to pieces, there was only a smattering of trees left. And men, what was left of them, lying everywhere. Looking around there were dead men in the trees, missing legs. Others, uniforms burnt off, were naked. The putrid smell, a mixture of vomit, blood and burnt flesh, was enough to leave three of our men on their knees, vomiting. After confirming that none of them were alive, we pressed on. It was late afternoon when we reached the frontline and began our patrol. As planned, we crawled forward as a group as far past the trenches as we dare before each going separate ways. Keeping my head down, I inched forward. Slipping away from the others I crept forwards, bullets flying over my head. I watched a small shell whistle down and strike a hundred metres away from me. The force was enough to blow me forward along the ground and straight down into a shell hole. Overwhelmed by a mindless panic, I screamed. A long, piercing scream that didn’t belong to me. Alone and vulnerable, sweat was pouring from my face and hands. As I rolled over a heavy weight landed on me, pushing down on my chest and legs. I couldn’t think, I made no conscious decision at all and I realised that I was stabbing wildly. The weight, a body, was jerking as I pushed the blade through. I didn’t stop screaming until I crawled away. The man made a gurgling sound. The gurgling was all I could hear. I couldn’t hear the guns. The smattering of bullets flying through the air, the shouting, the whistling, the clunking, clattering, clinking had all gone. The blood in my veins was pounding so hard it felt as though somebody was squeezing my heart from inside of me. I tried to tell myself that the man, the dying man, wanted to attack my country. That he threatened its freedom. As I sat there, hoping to God that the gurgling would stop, I realised that I was fighting. Not fighting for my country, no. Not fighting for myself, not for my family. Not for my future, or my children’s future. As I killed the man in front of me, I protected the man ten metres behind me. I was fighting for the mate that was standing next to me in the trench. In that moment, I fought for the one that was fighting for me.